Anne Barbour (15 page)

She jumped up suddenly in irritation. Really, what possible need had she to make herself over, figuratively speaking, for the benefit of a single-minded scholar, for whose opinion she did not care a button?

Climbing into bed, she snuffed out her candle and addressed herself firmly to her own repose. Which was a long time in coming.

The next several days passed uneventfully. Hilary spent much of her time at the Roman villa in unspoken companionship with James, the hours slipping by like pearls counted on a cord. The highlight of the week was the discovery of a mosaic flooring in one of the larger rooms toward the front of the building.

“Look!” cried Hilary, whose trowel had uncovered the first stone pieces of the floor. “It looks like a woodland scene. Is this not a nymph, dancing?”

“Yes,” replied James, leaving his own excavation in another part of the building. “Perhaps it is a representation of spring.” He glanced around. “I wonder what this room was used for. No doubt part of the living quarters, wouldn’t you say, Rufus?” he asked, turning. Rufus had busied himself in yet another corner of the dwelling, digging out what appeared to be a smithy.

“Mmph,” he grunted. “I’d say it was the triclinium. The dining room, after all, is the most important room in the house. We offer our guests couches instead of shuffling them off to a back room somewhere and making them sit in chairs. Meals last for hours, with conversation and entertainment. So, that’s where people usually install a nice mosaic.” He glanced around. “You know, this is just the sort of place Maia has in mind—for later on. She’s always wanted her own home, and she hankers after a nice villa in the country. She says if we have a son, he’ll need a place to run. When she gets her villa, you can bet the first thing she’s going to do is hire a crafter of mosaics. I don’t know why women set such store by things like that.” He shrugged.

James and Hilary exchanged a smiling glance. Hilary noted, not for the first time, that James was a sight to behold in his work clothes. He had discarded his coat, and toiled in shirt sleeves, a plain nankeen waistcoat, and leather breeches. An impressive set of muscles was observable beneath the skin of his tanned forearms and the worn breeches that covered his thighs. She turned away hastily to examine a small indentation she had discovered in the triclinium wall. She straightened abruptly.

“James! Look here. I believe I have found—yes, it’s some sort of utensil.”

James, hurrying to her side, bent over the object she held cupped in her hand.

“See?” she continued excitedly. “It’s a beaker—perhaps a serving pitcher, for it is incised with a decoration.”

“I believe you’re right. And I’ll wager the artisan who made it was local. A pottery shop was unearthed in Gloucester not long ago, and the wares turned up were very similar to this.”

Rufus, who had come to look over their shoulders, grunted. “Aye, that’s from the shop of young Terentius, in Glevum. I bought some of his stuff to take home to Maia when I came through there several weeks ago. To my mind, the merchandise is overpriced, but he’s made a name for himself among the housewives hereabouts, so of course, she had to have a few bowls and plates with his mark.”

James and Hilary gazed at each other in awe. This was the first time that Rufus had made a direct, physical connection between their own time and the ancient past.

“I can just picture it!” exclaimed Hilary. “The lady of the house traveling to Gloucester—or, rather, Glevum, on an errand—perhaps with her husband, and on the way home they stop at the shop of Terentius. ‘Oh, Quintus!’ she cries. ‘Why—?’ “

“Quintus?” asked James.

“Or possibly Gaius, or Lucius. ‘Dearest, see that beaker there ... No, the one on the next shelf. I must have one. Helena Drusus has a complete set, and, while we certainly don’t need more dishes, I
would
like some little thing, for the wares of Terentius are all the rage, you know.’

“You are being completely absurd.” James tried to infuse his voice with austerity, but could not suppress a smile. “The beaker indicates merely that pottery making was a thriving industry in the Cotswolds and that there was trade among the cities of the area.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, James.” Hilary’s curls bobbed against her cheeks as she shook her head vigorously. “You have the soul of a pedant. You must let your imagination out for a run once in awhile. It would do you no end of good.”

“Imagination plays no part in what is becoming known as the science of archaeology,” James replied in his dryest tone. “That way lies supposition and exaggeration and all sorts of investigative sins.”

“Pooh. It’s what makes scientific investigation such a joy.”

Hilary fell silent, contemplating the beaker, and James became immediately aware of her proximity. For one who gave such an appearance of boyishness, the outline of her body was soft and supple where it pressed against his. And her hair… Though it might put one in mind of an exploding sunset, her curls were silky where they brushed his chin. The scent of her, fresh and sweet with a hint of spice, filled his senses.

In another moment, Hilary seemed to realize the impropriety of their positions. Sliding the beaker into James’s hand she withdrew her fingers and moved away abruptly, a gesture that left him feeling oddly bereft.

He took the beaker to the little shed to record the position where it had been found. Rufus moved to a rock outcropping and sat down heavily, mopping his brow.

“Rufus? Are you all right?” Hilary hastened to his side. This was the third or fourth time this week the soldier had been obliged to give in to a moment’s weakness.

“Don’t know what’s the matter with me, lately. I feel like an old woman.”

Hilary shot a glance at James, who had reemerged from the shed. Observing Rufus, he hurried to sit next to him.

“You do not look at all well,
optima.
Perhaps a doctor—”

“No!” Rufus said adamantly. “I can’t abide quacks and their nostrums. Spare me their attentions. I wish to live to return to Maia.”

“But—”

“No!”

“Rufus,” interposed Hilary. “The science of medicine has improved vastly since your time. Our doctors don’t dose people with frog’s toes and bat’s eyebrows anymore.”

“I don’t care,” said Rufus explosively. “No doctors. Haven’t we spent long enough here today?” he asked, in an obvious effort to turn the conversation. “I’d like to return to the tower.”

“But
optima,
we’ve examined almost every stone of the place, and we’ve found nothing that—”

“I don’t care,” said Rufus again, standing abruptly. “I must keep looking for some clue that will tell me how to get home.”

Moved by the forlorn crack in Rufus’ voice, James assisted the warrior to his feet. The three, with Jasper, piled into the carriage.

Some minutes later, they entered the environs of the ancient tower. James noted once again the curious juxtaposition of the structure within the even more ancient stone dance.

He glanced at the altar stone. It seemed to wait for worshippers of—what? Or, perhaps he should say, whom? The stone lay atop its monolithic supports, polished and smoothed over by the centuries until it could have graced any cathedral in Europe. To his surprise, he observed old Dorcas standing at the far side of the circle. She did not speak, but lifted a hand in greeting. Jasper galloped up to investigate her presence, but at a quiet gesture from her, he stopped abruptly and sank obediently to his haunches, tongue lolling in uncharacteristic submission. Dorcas waved once more and disappeared into the trees.

James frowned. A most curious old character, he mused. Dorcas, the old one. He would very much like a few words with her. At their first meeting, she had called Rufus “Roman.” How could she have known his origin? One would not think her capable of recognizing the language, let alone able to speak it. Even so, how could she have seemingly divined the fact that he was a visitor from an ancient time? In addition, she had actually seemed to recognize the old soldier!

Once again, an investigation of the tower proved fruitless. Scorch marks could be seen on some of the stones, indicating the recent lightning strike.

“And, could these black streaks not be from where it struck in Rufus’ time?” asked Hilary, her fingers splaying over shadowy scars that lay along the same area.

“They could be,” said James dubiously. He sighed. “I just don’t know. Nor do I detect anything that could have led to Rufus’ remarkable transference.”

Rufus, stirring dejectedly on a pile of stones, turned to Hilary. James watched as she struggled with one of the blocks. Rufus bent to help her and Hilary thanked him pleasantly but without coquetry. Most women of his acquaintance, he mused, would have fluttered her lashes instinctively and simpered a pretty thank-you. Hilary, however, merely nodded her head in acknowledgment of Rufus’ ponderous gallantry. He had never known a female so lacking in artifice. Perhaps it came from being raised without a mother to teach her such useful wiles.

Odd, he had thought her awkward at their first meeting, but he perceived now that her movements were delicate and as graceful as those of a young deer. He also noted in passing that the eager movement of her compact body as she attempted to upend stones as large as her head, was provocative in the extreme.

“Are we through here?” he asked irritably. “I cannot see that we are accomplishing anything.”

He turned without waiting to see if Rufus and Hilary followed and walked toward the carriage.

Now
what was the matter with him? thought Hilary. How could the man be so companionable one moment and so prickly the next? She accepted his hand with what she hoped was a gracious dignity and climbed into the carriage.

Actually, she mused, she was enjoying the company of James Wincanon far more than she had anticipated. Over the past week, they had discussed James’s discoveries in such far-flung locations as Cappadocia and Smyrna and his tales of adventuring in those regions had fascinated her. Apparently, James did not confine his investigations to the remote and dusty stones of antiquity, but pursued an interest in the varied lives of those who now inhabited the areas.

She marveled that she had ever considered him stuffy. To be sure, he seemed to have retreated from the joys of life into the ascetic world of the intellect, and he seemed to be a trifle acerbic by nature, but he was so much more. Or, at least he could be if he could be persuaded to emerge from his self-imposed exile from the human race.

Which brought her to another point.

“I heard an interesting piece of gossip this morning,” she began, smoothing down the muslin of her gown where it fell over her knees.

“Oh?” replied James unencouragingly.

“Yes. I ran into Mrs. Strindham in the village this morning, and she told me that she has hired Frederick Selwyn, the pianist, to play at her musicale. It is quite a coup for her.”

“Oh?” repeated James, even more disinterestedly than before.

“Why, surely you must have heard of him. He has performed before the Regent and other members of the royal family. I attended one of his concerts at Covent Garden two years ago. He performed a Mozart concerto and I thought him wonderful.”

She smiled at him with such transparent innocence that James was forced to smile. “I am sure he has the touch of Herr Mozart himself, but I am not going to Mrs. Strindham’s musicale. Lady Hilary.”

“Oh, but I am sure you would enjoy it prodigiously. Miss Sophronia Gibbs has agreed to sing. She lives in Gloucester, but I assure you the quality of her performance equals anything you are liable to hear in the metropolis.”

“No,” said James firmly.

Chapter Thirteen

Mrs. Horace Strindham was quite beside herself. She had hosted a musicale in her home annually for the past fifteen years and could always be assured of seeing her rooms pleasantly full. This year’s crowd, however, exceeded her most hopeful estimations. Every personage of distinction from miles around was here tonight.

She gazed fondly at a gentleman standing near the hearth in her drawing room, for she well knew whom she must thank for this sudden cultural interest on the part of the best county families. What a coup that James Wincanon had been prevailed upon to grace her musicale! With smug satisfaction, she recalled that he had refused invitations to no less than three dinner parties and a soiree, and now to have him appear in her home ... She sighed beatifically.

In his corner of the chamber, ineffectively barricaded by two small tables and a settee, James glowered at the guests who surrounded him. How the devil had he let himself be persuaded to come here? Mrs. Strindham’s musicale was precisely the sort of social claptrap he usually avoided at all costs. Even in London, he rarely let himself be inveigled into such an appearance. He glared across the room at Hilary, laughing with a group of young people.

It was she, of course, with her fiery hair and her gold-flecked amber eyes, who was responsible for his unwilling presence here. How she had accomplished this feat, he did not know, for she had not coaxed prettily, or worn him down with argument. She had merely cocked her head and suggested that he would be missing an evening’s prime entertainment if he stayed home. At least, he thought that’s what she’d done. He snorted. Meddlesome chit. Just look at her. How, he wondered, could someone of her intellectual gifts display such amusement at the bucolic bon mots being purveyed by the gentleman at her side? The man had been introduced to him earlier as a Squire Pendleton, a bachelor of some forty summers. His property, though modest, was, according to Mrs. Strindham, pretty and productive. Look at the fellow, braying at his own wit—and actually laying his hand on Hilary’s arm.

“Why, Mr. Wincanon, you did come!”

The words were spoken in the husky, slightly breathless, and ominously familiar tones of Evangeline Strindham, daughter of his hostess.

“I was sure you would be here,” continued Miss Strindham, peeking provocatively up at him through a feathery curtain of lashes, “for I particularly wanted you to come.”

James grimaced. What a very tiresome young woman, to be sure. Well, by God, he was not going to pick up the hint being proffered so obviously. He glanced across the room at Hilary, who, as though he had touched her, looked up to intercept his unspoken plea. She excused herself from the group with whom she had been speaking and moved toward him.