‘Which leads me to believe this building was either entirely made of wood or, more likely when one considers traditional old English building methods of yore, maybe even wattle and daub. Of course, if that is the case and I am correct in my assumption that this dwelling predates the Roman invasion, it completely contradicts Cassius Dio’s account of the ancient barbarian tribes indigenous to this area, don’t you think?’
‘I think, in order to form an opinion on the fellow, I would first need to know what the blazes Cassius Dio said. Which I don’t, by the way, in case you were wondering. I’ve never even heard of the blighter.’
She smiled and rolled her eyes, totally oblivious to how gorgeous she looked bathed in sunlight. Flecks of copper shimmered in her dark hair where it had escaped its pins. Not that she was really one for pins, preferring to anchor the messy knot to her head with a pencil than spend unnecessary hours ruthlessly taming it with curling irons and fussy styles when she had holes to dig and treasure to find.
There was nothing fussy about the woman stood before him in well-worn breeches and practical shirt and he liked that about her. When she dined with them at Rivenhall, which she had done twice since the first awful meal, she always wore a lovely gown and made more effort with her hair, yet as beautiful as she looked in a dress, it was this Effie he preferred. This one who encroached on his dreams at night and regularly consumed his mind when he wasn’t with her. The one he allowed himself just two hours a day with, at random times, always pretending he and Drake happened to be passing by when he counted the minutes until each casual visit.
Max tried to rationalise his obsession using common sense because the facts were undeniable. Firstly, she was a stunningly attractive woman. Secondly, he hadn’t had a woman in nearly two years so his rampant lust was only to be expected. And thirdly, she was the only woman in his current acquaintance who he wasn’t related to and the only person he had allowed a little into his life since leaving London. Therefore, it was hardly a surprise she had come to feature so much in his thoughts.
However, regardless of all those pertinent and undeniable facts, he had had enough affairs in the past to know there was something unique about Effie which called to him in a way which was entirely different from all those other women. Even his former fiancée, who he was certain he had loved with all his heart.
Yet the way he felt about Effie was different. It wasn’t love. Love hadn’t felt like this. Nor had simple lust. The first had made him want to pick flowers, then parade Miranda all over town so everyone could see how lucky he was to have won the heart of such a sought-after woman and the second was always short-lived and entirely carnal. While he felt lust for Effie, he also felt affection. Friendly affection because he enjoyed her company. That was new, too. He had never had a female friend, aside from Eleanor and as his sister she didn’t count. Max had always been a man’s man. Or maybe he had merely been that because there weren’t any women to befriend in the Royal Navy? In which case, perhaps that explained his bond with Effie?
Her mind fascinated him. Never in all his thirty-four years had he ever witnessed anything quite like it. The way she worked her way through problems by asking herself questions was astounding, coming to reasoned and substantiated conclusions in minutes when most would take hours deliberating such complicated things. But then most people would have to seek out the answers in books and tracking down the exact piece of research in a book was usually a mission in itself. But if Effie had read it—and lord only knew the woman must have read every book on antiquity in existence—then it was already stored in her cavernous head so she did not need to bother.
‘Cassius Dio was one of the great Roman historians. He wrote eighty mighty volumes of the history of the Roman Empire spanning its conception one thousand years before the birth of Christ to the end of the second century. There are other eminent Roman historians, of course, but his work is one of the few which includes their early occupation of our island. He records the Celts as possessing“neither walls nor cities nor farms”.He describes the tribes as aggressive, warlike and nomadic in nature. Hunter-gathers rather than civilised or advanced enough to grow their own crops. In Dio’s books—which are written in ancient Greek, by the way—the Celts are little better than savages who lived in tents without clothes or shoes. But I have always taken issue with that. The English climate is not at all conducive to nudity for at least three-quarters of the year, so unless they were all covered in a thick pelt of hair they would have frozen to death in the winter. And if they were indeed hairy beasties, which not one of the old histories suggests including Dio’s, then the Celts wouldn’t have painted themselves blue because I sincerely doubt the paint they used would cover dense fur that well.’
‘Blue?’
‘They used woad as a dye and painted themselves blue when they went into battle to frighten the other side.’
‘Gracious! And they used paint instead of clothes?’
She nodded emphatically, causing the loose tendril of hair next to her cheek to bounce in a very becoming fashion. ‘I think we can be pretty certain they fought naked because both Julius Caesar and Herodian mention it alongside bold blue tattoos, so I think the paint was used rather like ships use flags...’ Her eyes always sparkled when she spoke about something which interested her, which was most of the time. She had the most expressive and beguiling eyes. ‘To allow others close by to determine which tribe they belonged to.’
Images of naked, patterned, blue men filled his mind. Then a few naked women wandered in. Followed by a naked Effie with a pencil in her hair. ‘Were the ladies nude and blue, too?’
She nodded. ‘If they were fighting, it is entirely plausible.’
‘Well, that would certainly distract the enemy.’ He’d be so dumbstruck he’d be cannon fodder, especially if she was one of the warriors.
The vast wealth of diverse and complicated knowledge crammed into her head was boggling. Sometimes, Max just asked her obscure questions simply to hear her answer. And when she answered, it was never with one simple word. It was long and convoluted, addressing every possible variation and permutation, every existing theory considered, dismissed or upheld with yet more evidence while she argued with herself, until the entire scope of the topic had been explained to him in staggering detail. More often than not, it left him open-mouthed in wonder—but he was always amused, too. There was something about Effie which constantly sailed dangerously close to the ridiculous, which was a place he had always enjoyed. Or at least he had back in the days when he hadn’t been so bitter and twisted and he’d had a sense of humour.
‘Can I ask you a question, Max?’
‘You can always ask me anything, Effie. In fact, I insist upon it. I find your honesty and your undisguised curiosity refreshing.’
‘Then that is a first. Most people loathe it.’
‘Then most people are daft. What’s the question?’
‘Are we friends now? I feel as though we are, but I am never entirely sure. And experience has taught me that if I assume, then I am doomed to be disappointed when my perceived friend starts to avoid me.’ She said it so matter of factly, but his heart wept for her. It was so ill deserved. Effie was a breath of fresh air, not an irritation.
‘I suppose we must be.’
Her delighted smile was like a balm to his soul. ‘That’s nice. And you don’t mind all the questions?’
‘I don’t want you to ever think you shouldn’t ask questions, Effie. You can always ask me anything...’ Which might well open some potentially awkward floodgates. ‘As long as you appreciate I might not always answer them.’
‘That strikes me as very fair. Do you think Boudicca painted herself blue? I am certain I have never read any account to suggest she did.’
‘Perhaps she was so fearsome, she didn’t need to?’
‘Perhaps?’ She shrugged as she considered. ‘Even so—I might do some research tonight just to be sure. It will only keep me awake otherwise.’
As clever as she was, and he sincerely doubted there was anybody on the planet cleverer, she was also chaotic.
Keeping time seemed to cause her a great deal of difficulty—no doubt because her mind had distracted her—and she seemed to struggle with the everyday sorts of decisions which most people did without thinking. But she was reliably late to dinner and, when she arrived, would inevitably have always forgotten something crucial, whether that be a sensibly warm shawl to go home in as she had that first fateful night she had dined at his house and challenged him about his behaviour, the mismatched boots she frequently wore while digging when there were plainly two pairs because some days she wore the brown boot on her left and other days she brought its right friend instead. Or her entire wheelbarrow of tools, as she had this morning. Apparently, she was halfway across the meadow before she realised and arrived at the site after he had ridden past it six times in his quest tohappenupon her casually, looking delightfully flustered but in matching boots this time for a change.
