Honey, not vinegar. Honey, not vinegar...
‘With hindsight, I imagine it came as quite the shock to see a stranger digging up your land so early in the morning, so it is hardly surprising we got off on the wrong foot.’ For good measure, she wiggled the basket now resting on her lap before sliding it on to the desk. ‘I brought fruitcake and brandy as a peace offering. A bottle of my father’s finest and one which goes particularly well with our housekeeper Mrs Farley’s famous fruitcake. It is her own secret recipe and she guards it with her life—much to the consternation of the rest of the village who would kill for it. But she baked this one yesterday upon my instruction. Just for you.’
‘That...was very kind of her...and you.’ He practically had to choke out the simple pleasantry through gritted teeth as it appeared to take a great deal of effort—but at least it proved he did possess some gentlemanly good manners and was capable of using them if pushed. ‘But wholly unnecessary.’ She watched his jaw set stubbornly. ‘It changes nothing.’
But changing the subject might give her a few more minutes’ leeway. She beamed as if she hadn’t heard his latest refusal. Pretending not to hear insults or see the pointed looks was second nature to her nowadays and certainly made life easier than chastising herself for being so unnaturally different. ‘What I urgently need to talk to you about is a pot.’
‘A pot?’ As she had hoped, the abrupt and seemingly bizarre change of topic confused him. ‘Why the hell should I care about a pot?’
‘Because this is not just any old pot, my lord.’ Her cheerful smile was met with open hostility. She could feel the anger at her intrusion shimmering off him in waves despite his statue-like, wary posture. But she would persevere regardless. What other choice did she have? It was only her entire reason for being he was determined to deprive her of. ‘This is different. Unique. In the two years I have been seriously digging around the ruined Abbey, I have never seen anything quite like it.’ While she apparently had the floor, there seemed little point in pausing. It would only give him the chance to dismiss her out of hand, when he needed to realise first exactly what it was he was dismissing. Whether he wanted to or not.
‘I discovered it purely by chance yesterday in the new trench I have started on the eastern boundary. I am not even sure what possessed me to dig there when there are still such rich pickings coming out of the ground near the Roman settlement by the western foundations...’
‘Roman? As in Ancient Roman?’ Curiosity was getting the better of him, something which clearly disgusted him as he remembered to follow his question with another scowl.
Beyond the scowl, she could not help but notice the Earl of Rivenhall was a handsome devil in a brooding sort of way, when she had been trying so hard to avoid noticing such pointlessly futile if pleasing aspects of the male form. Two dark brows furrowed in consternation over equally dark hooded eyes. A straight nose, strong jaw. The unfashionably dark and windswept hair only adding to his mysterious appeal. Excessively broad shoulders filled his coat and made him appear almost menacing from her angle in the chair below, although why he was buttoned into such a warm coat, the tall points of his shirt collar swathed in a cravat practically tied to the chin when the weather was unseasonably warm was beyond her.
Then she remembered the scars she had seen only briefly yesterday and felt oddly compassionate towards him. Effie had seen similar scars before on a blacksmith in Teversham. They were caused by burns, which must have been agonising to receive, yet while the blacksmith’s tight, gnarled scars had been on his arm, from memory and the briefest glimpse of them yesterday, Lord Rivenhall’s marred left cheek below the eye had scars which probably travelled down his neck, too. Hence the high collars and the long curtain of hair. And perhaps the open hostility?
She understood what it was like to feel different from others. Most people, in her experience, could be quite judgemental and wary of things they were unfamiliar with—like scars or unusual intelligence. And tactless. As if the person who had the misfortune to be different through no fault of their own was immune to their stares or unsubtle whispers, or, if the people were particularly thoughtless, the insulting words uttered directly to one’s face. In all her years on the planet, she had never quite found a way to truly cope with the phenomenon beyond ignoring it. Perhaps Lord Rivenhall’s natural form of defence to being different was attack?
‘Indeed. This area is teeming with Roman history. We are sandwiched between Duroliponte, the old Roman name for Cambridge, and their English capital Camulodunon—modern-day Colchester. The Abbey was built on the original Roman foundations of what I suspect was once a fort of some sort, judging by the nature of the artefacts I have found. The Normans did that sort of thing a lot and who can blame them? Why waste months digging and laying fresh foundations when there are already perfectly sturdy ones in situ? Colchester Castle and indeed the Tower of London, too, were both constructed on the original Roman foundations and still stand just as strong to this day. They were excellent builders, the Romans. Excellent at everything really. Such an advanced civilisation...’ She was losing him with her impromptu, rambling history lesson rather than charming him. She could see his impatience to be rid of her mounting and she had still not told him what she had come here to say.
‘Anyway... The pot I began excavating yesterday is particularly exciting. Or at least it has the potential to be. So far, it does not have the finesse expected from a piece of Roman or medieval pottery, appearing to have been shaped by hand rather than thrown on a wheel by a skilled potter. It’s rudimentary in construction, practical and lacking in any attempt to raise it from what it was made to be.’ All the Roman pottery she had previously found around the foundations of the ruined Abbey bore intricate painted decoration, carved inlays or raised reliefs. Even the very plainest medieval pottery from the site had turned rims and a glazed finish.
‘Therefore this pot has to be older. Significantly older.’ She paused for effect, offering her most dazzling smile. ‘If I am right, it is an artefact of unprecedented importance because we know so little about the people who occupied our islands two thousand years ago. It needs to be studied by the Society of Antiquaries. Therefore, you need to allow me to dig it up.’
‘I need do nothing, madam. This is my land.’
‘And I would only be digging on the furthest edge of it. The ruins are a good mile from here. Well out of your way and—’
‘No.’ His back was towards her again, his big, vexing, impatient feet already heading towards the door.
‘But...’
‘There is no but, Miss Nitwit. Leave. Now.’
Two years of hard work, everything she cared about, her entire purpose, the only thing she had left was being callously torn away. Unfamiliar panic made her heart race. ‘Really, my lord, if I could just explain...’ She couldn’t allow that to happen. Couldn’t contemplate exactly what she would do without it. Aside from drive herself directly to Bedlam. Her rapid, constant thoughts like an itch she could never scratch. ‘The site is truly of the utmost historical importance.’ And to her personally. It was all she had left. Her future and her sanity. Should she beg? Desperation and fear made her sorely tempted to. Pride made her set her shoulders and apparently took over her vocal cords.
‘Your uncle understood all that. But then he was a reasonable and affable man—not a bully.’ So much for honey. ‘Frankly, and if I might speak plainly...’
Do not speak plainly. Whatever you do, do not speak plainly. Whenever you do, it never ends well...
‘You should be ashamed of yourself for your boorish behaviour both yesterday and today!’ And now she was positively dousing the brute in
