‘I can imagine... It is vast. Overwhelming, really, to picture you with a house like this. I am looking forward to a full tour later, but I am heartily impressed so far. The parkland looked...’
‘When are you going home, Eleanor?’
‘I have only just arrived. Are you wanting to be rid of me already?’
It would be cruel to tell her the truth after all she had done for him. ‘You have your own life to live, Eleanor. Perhaps it is time you dedicated your time back to Adam and the children rather than worrying so much about me.’
She squared her shoulders, suddenly defensive. ‘My husband is perfectly capable of holding the fort for a few days and my children are having a high old time with his mother who thoroughly spoils them rotten. They want to visit, by the way. Soon. They both miss their favourite uncle.’
‘I am theironlyuncle.’
‘Well, there is that and beggars cannot be choosers, but Thomas and Cecily still adore you. Despite your temporary and irritating belligerence.’
‘How many days are you staying?’
‘I need to satisfy myself that you are happy, Max.’
Happy! It would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic. ‘You need to stop worrying about me. I am a grown man who does not need mollycoddling.’
‘You call it mollycoddling. I call it love. Either way, you are stuck with me until I am satisfied.’ A nicely, typically Eleanor piece of stubborn ambiguity which promised no clear end in sight. She took another sip of her tea and her expression became nonchalant. ‘Miss Nithercott seemsnice.’
‘I hardly know the woman.’
‘But surely you must have noticed she is uncommonly pretty.’
Of course he had. He wasn’t dead. Unfortunately. ‘Is she? It’s hard to tell with her masculine attire and dirty face.’ He sipped his own tea and held his sister’s curious gaze levelly. Eleanor would take any sign of uncomfortableness as proof he was interested. ‘Apparently, the locals have little time for her and her obsessive passion for antiquity.’ Which struck him as a great shame because she was... Intriguing... Unusual... Ever so slightly hilarious. He had never met another soul quite like her. ‘Surely you noticed she is a little eccentric? She spends her days digging holes in the ground, for goodness sake. That is a trifle odd.’
‘I find it fascinating. So many young ladies have little between their ears beyond fluff.’ But not Miss Nithercott. She could calculate the difference between a nautical mile and a standard one, randomly quote Shakespeare and translate both the Angle and the Saxon languages without skipping a beat. Now that really was fascinating. ‘It is refreshing to meet one with a purpose beyond securing a good husband. All power to her, I say.’ Eleanor toasted the bane with her teacup. ‘Especially if she finds big lumps of gold in the mud. It certainly sounds a more exciting way to spend the time than embroidery.’
Or counting the brass knobs on the sideboard.
Chapter Six
Dig Day 764: four shards of pottery. A cluster of broken but cooked bones. One is most definitely the thigh bone of a chicken. Unsure whether the bigger pieces are from a sheep or a cow. Conclusion—my Celts had stew for dinner...
‘Good afternoon, Miss Nithercott!’
Effie had hastily stood and done her best to look presentable the moment she had heard the approaching hoofbeats, but up against the elegant sophistication of the older woman’s riding habit she still came up woefully short. Largely due to the morning’s light rain, which had caused the sticky peat-filled soil to be more adhesive than usual. She tucked her filthy hands behind her back and hoped Lord Rivenhall’s sister wouldn’t judge her too harshly.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Baxter. I trust you are well.’
‘Very, thank you.’ From her seat in the saddle, she gazed past her to nose into the ever-increasing trench Effie had been furiously digging since breakfast. ‘Is this where you found the bracelet?’
‘Indeed it is. Among other things.’ She pointed towards the ruined church. ‘Over there has been very fruitful for finding Roman, medieval and the occasional Tudor artefact. Pre-Reformation, of course, as that is when Henry the Eighth turfed the monks off the land and had the Abbey destroyed. While over here, in my most recent trench, the evidence of human settlement appears much older. From the ancient Celtic tribes which once populated this part of East Anglia.’
‘Like the Iceni, you mean? Queen Boudicca?’ Effie had hoped not to appear surprised, but clearly her face must have given her away as Mrs Baxter grinned rather than appearing mortally insulted at the blatant disbelief at her knowledge. ‘Mr Baxter is in the book business, Miss Nithercott. A bookshop in Bond Street, where the aristocrats can purchase their bespoke leather-bound volumes, and a lending library in Cheapside where the masses can borrow them for a pittance. His library has an extensive historical collection which I have been known to make great use of when the mood takes me. I am all for broadening the mind...sometimes. However...’ she raised her dark eyebrows mischievously ‘...I am also a hopeless devotee of the works of Mrs Radcliffe. I know they are far-fetched and a trifle salacious, but I do love a good Gothic novel. Especially if it has a romance in it.’
‘My favourite isThe Italian.’
‘You read Mrs Radcliffe?’ Now it was the other woman’s turn to look surprised.
‘I read everything and anything, Mrs Baxter, and find much enjoyment in a bit of escapist fiction.’ Back when she still harboured fanciful ideas of love and romance herself, Effie had gobbled up Gothic novels as though they were going out of fashion. But she’d cast them all aside in disgust years ago when she realised they were promising her a dream she was unlikely to ever have. Not when she terrified every man who dared come within six feet of her with her odd brain. ‘Which is your favourite?’
‘The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne—because it ends so happily with a double wedding.’ She sighed wistfully for comic effect, fluttering her hand like a silly dolt with the vapours. ‘As doesThe Italian, so I approve of your choice, Miss Nithercott. You should also know I thoroughly disapprove of all novels which end unhappily because the world can be miserable enough at times, I fail to see why we should be forced to consume more misery in fiction during our leisure time. And because I am a shameless romantic at heart and choose to believe love really does conquer all. Is that why you adore the book?’
It used to be. Before realistic cynicism replaced girlish romanticism. ‘I adore the way the women characters take control. It gives me hope that one day we mere females might be treated almost equally to males.’ The snippiness leaked out before she could stop it.
‘Do you disapprove of men, Miss Nithercott?’ She appeared horrified at the thought.
