Redeeming the Reclusive Earl - Virginia Heath Page 0,8
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...’