Chapter Sixteen
Cold November winds whipped across the clearing. Alex shuddered, despite her heavy cloak. Digging in this weather was incredibly stupid, but she couldn’t help herself. The last month had been the longest she’d ever known. Only constant activity kept the tears at bay.
She had expected time to ease the pain, but it hadn’t. Blue-devils escorted her everywhere. She no longer cared that her father had found three more men eager to wed her dowry – she’d refused admittance to the first two – nor that he was selling centuries-old silver to cover another disaster at the gaming tables. Even the plight of a tenant whose roof leaked raised only passing sympathy. Perhaps it really was possible to die of a broken heart.
Ironically, the most comforting spot on the estate was this clearing. His ghost might permeate the very soil, but at least those memories were good. She hadn’t entered the family dining room since ordering him away. And the drawing and music rooms echoed with evidence that he’d been courting the fortune. But the villa had been real. They’d become friends and partners here as they pursued the one interest they had in common.
So she spent ever-shorter days here. It reminded her that at least one man had respected her intelligence. It kept her too busy to fall into a decline. And it avoided Sarah.
Thank God, Sarah would be gone in another month. As uncharitable as that thought was, she was heartily sick of her constant chatter. Too much of it concerned Tony. Recalling the good times was one thing. Remembering his lies was quite another. She was tired of hearing about the rift with his father, his love for his mother, or even the improbable claim that he was miserable.
Many of Jon’s explanations were biased – like Tony’s courtship of Sarah. He may have stepped aside once he learned that Sarah did not control his fortune, but he’d assiduously pursued her until the moment she accepted Jon. In all that time, his expression had rarely varied from Jon’s, so she could only interpret it the same way. Jon loved Sarah. So how could he claim that Tony didn’t?
Jon saw only what he wanted to see, as did Sarah. In their own happiness, they ignored the most obvious fact of all. Tony hated to lose, fighting for anything he truly wanted. Why else had he created Torwell? Why had he come to Vale House in the first place?
But he was not fighting now. He’d made no attempt to return. He’d ignored Jon’s pressure, refusing to respond to letters since leaving Linden Park. Jon only knew where he was because Lord Linden had posted one last note before sailing. Either Tony loved Sarah, or he hated Alex. Perhaps both.
If he regretted this break, he would have forgiven her diatribe by now, just as she had forgiven him – mostly. He would have tried to change her mind – battering the door down, kissing her senseless, scrambling her brains until she believed anything he said. She had no doubt he could do it.
And he knew it. With his experience, he could hardly have missed her reaction that day. It was an unwelcome reminder of how he’d stiffened when he realized who he’d been kissing.
She had to accept reality. He hadn’t made even a token effort to change her mind. Instead, he’d arranged a new excavation in Northumberland, moving on with his life. He’d probably forgotten all about her – unless he was entertaining his friends with bawdy jokes about the ungainly redhead who’d thrown herself at him.
“Damn the man,” she swore, whipping up her fury. He must have welcomed an excuse to leave. And now that his mother was provided for, he was probably thanking fate for his lucky escape.
Sarah was all about in the head to think that he cared. The man was an actor so at home with deception that he no longer recognized truth.
Swiping her foot across the ground to clear it of dead leaves, she drove in her spade.
She was a fool to wear the willow for him. The temple would be finished soon. Once her notes were complete, she would decide what to do with it. Aside from the amphora, it had contained nothing her father would value. She’d found no sign of an altar, which might have been swept away, so perhaps she would follow the debris trail for a short way.
She had covered the other trenches, obliterating anything that might encourage a search of the clearing. All she’d left were half a dozen sterile pits strategically scattered around the temple. But perhaps she should bury everything. Come spring, she must leave Vale House. She might never return.
Plummeting temperatures finally drove her back to the house. Her teeth chattered so badly that she actually welcomed Sarah’s company, for it included tea.
“You are making yourself ill, Alex,” Sarah chided.
“I am never ill.”
“Alex!” Sarah’s temper exploded for the first time in years. “Look at yourself. You’ve lost more than a stone because you won’t eat. You haunt the villa regardless of the weather, returning drenched with rain and stiff with cold. If this keeps up, you will die of lung fever before the winter is out. Admit it. No matter how impossible Tony is, you love him. Isn’t it time to abandon your pride and do something about it?”
“You cannot remake the world just because you want everyone to be happy,” she said wearily. “If he cared, I would know.”
“How? You are blind, Alex. Can’t you accept that his reputation is a charade?”
“You convinced me of that weeks ago.”
Sarah paced the drawing room. “But you refuse to consider what that means. Think about it, Alex. How must he feel to be reviled for things he didn’t do, to be shunned as if he had some horrid disease, and to have his name bandied about the country as a representative of the devil? He is intelligent and sensitive. Despite knowing the tales are false and that most were a product of his own invention, part of him must believe he is a pariah. And things like this can’t help.” She tossed the latest
Morning Post
onto her lap.
A small paragraph in the society column was circled. Drawing rooms are agog at Mr. T—— L——’s latest prank. Impersonating a respected scholar adds a new twist to a reputation already beyond repair. A—— T—— must be appalled!
Alex set her cup carefully aside. She had soothed her own pains by finding excuses for his words – he didn’t truly know her; her attack had shocked him into responding without thought; he’d been justifiably appalled at her treatment of Sarah; words spouted in anger didn’t count, so he hadn’t really meant them. When he stayed away, she had cursed him for toying with her affections and stealing a heart he didn’t want. But not once had she considered how her insults had affected him, expecting him to know that she had only been in a temper, so the words meant nothing.
She had flung charges at him without remorse, tossing out anything that might hurt. Just as society had done for most of his life. Just as his own father did. So he’d reacted as he always did when people turned on him, picking up the pieces and moving on, seeking out an isolated ruin where he could lose himself in work. Why would he think about her again? She’d demonstrated that she was just like everyone else, refusing to even listen to an explanation. He would do nothing to reopen old wounds.
I always land on my feet.
Why hadn’t she recognized the agonizing loneliness underlying that cocky grin? He’d even told her –
I thought you were different … what a fool I was.
Sarah must have realized that her words had finally made an impression. “You are so much alike,” she said, resuming her seat. “Unfortunately, two of the things you share are stubbornness and temper. Yes, your last meeting was painful. But forgiveness is possible – provided one of you sets pride aside long enough to make the first move. He loves you. Why else would he flee as far from here as possible? No one of sense would excavate in Northumberland this time of year. He’s killing himself trying to forget you. Jon described him on that trip to Linden Park. He was devastated, so brittle that Jon feared he would shatter. Believe me, Alex. His emotions are firmly engaged. You can sit here and pray that someday he might return – though I would not count on it; his confidence is even more fragile than yours – or you can apologize for being a quick-tempered fool. I know what I would do. But then, I love Jon. I would do anything to make him happy.”
Without another word, she left.
Alex shivered.
Pride. Was that what she was suffering? It didn’t seem possible, for she had often regretted her words. Tony must know that. Jon would have told him.
Assuming he’d read any of those letters he refused to answer. It would just like him to toss them away unopened. He was the most stubborn, irritating man she had ever met.
Or was he?
Sarah’s words gnawed at her mind as she soaked in the warm water Murch always had waiting. She had also been ridiculed most of her life, though nothing like what he had faced. But even Torwell’s reclusive facade would not have protected him from society’s disdain, merely emphasizing his predicament. Torwell could only be respected from a distance. He could not enter the world to which he had been born as anyone but Tony Linden. The moment he met someone face-to-face, his reputation would determine his status – as she had proved.
She shivered, recalling some of the charges she’d flung at his head. Despite knowing him first as Torwell, despite her reverence for Torwell’s knowledge and accomplishments, she had judged him solely by rumor, innuendo, and spite.
Was that why he’d abandoned his last sanctuary by saddling Torwell with Tony Linden’s reputation? Had he quit trying? But all he’d accomplished was to draw censure for a new crime.
She had hurt him badly. Worse even than she’d thought. Perhaps enough that he could never forgive her.
Coward!
He had spoken truly, for she really was a coward. She’d hidden from the world by pushing the world away. It was time for truth. She would never know if forgiveness was possible unless she tried.
Heart pounding, she threw on a wrapper and headed for her workroom. A letter of apology would do no good. He would toss it aside with Jon’s. So she had to approach him in a way he would understand…
* * * *
Tony plodded back to the manor from the most frustrating dig he had ever conducted. He tried to blame the weather – though snow had not yet made an appearance, the frigid wind penetrated even the heaviest clothing, and the ground grew harder every day – but weather had little to do with his blue-devils. Nor did the site, which was fascinating. Only a few coins and scraps of metal were turning up, but the foundations were nearly intact, providing an excellent picture of the encampment’s design.
A picture that meant nothing.
The real problem was himself. Two weeks of working with Alex had ruined him for working alone. He missed their debates. Each new find excited her, prompting speculation about its nature. She was a knowledgeable partner who could fill hours of unproductive digging with stimulating conversation. But most of all, he missed celebrating successes…
He tightened his jaw.
Excavation was a lonely business. Not that he was entirely alone this time. Pembroke had assigned several gardeners to help him, but they had no interest in the work or understanding of what they found.
“Get used to it,” he grumbled, climbing the stairs to his room. The butler would have warm water and a fire waiting.
Pembroke had been shocked to see him – and wary. If the man had not recently married off his last daughter, he might well have barred the door.
It was no more than he’d expected.
They had talked quite late that first night. Tony had set out the basic facts of Torwell’s creation, then described his exploration of the fort during his brief visit fifteen years ago.
“But I thought you spent that week at the Spotted Dog,” Pembroke had exclaimed, naming the local inn.
“Youthful foolishness.” Tony had shaken his head. “I wanted to punish my father. It took a few years to realize that I was only hurting myself.”
Pembroke had quizzed him on the Romans, but by the end of the evening, he accepted the truth. The rest of society would be harder to convince, though, if recent gossip columns were any indication.
But that was a problem for later. Pushing his bedchamber door open, he froze.
“What the—”
A crate sat on the hearth rug, his name on its label. But that label offered no clue to either its contents or its sender. The direction was not written in Jon’s hand, or any other he’d seen.
Cold forgotten, he pried open the top and gingerly removed packing material until he reached an amphora. A letter lay on top. His heart pounded. This hand he recognized.
Mr. Linden,
When I found this, I knew you would wish to examine it. Its survival is astonishing, for it was surrounded by broken stone and shattered roof tile. Judging by the quantity of shards I found, there must have originally been a dozen or more, though only this one remains intact. Perhaps they held ritual wine. I would appreciate your thoughts.
I have reburied the villa, particularly the mosaic. Father has lost consistently since rising from his sickbed, so I dare not reveal its existence. What further security measures would you recommend? If I can deflect Father’s plans for the Season, I hope to search for the temple’s missing altar.
Alexandra Merideth Vale
Pain nearly blinded him. He read the note again, then a third time. Each reading increased his agony. Imagining her burying the mosaic recalled their embrace, doubling him over. Would the memories never subside? Damn her for bringing it all back.
But even pain could not stifle his excitement. He picked up the amphora, running his hands over the surface as she must have done. She’d cleaned it beautifully, but it was too small to have held wine. Perhaps it had contained ritual oil.
But he would speculate later. Holding it nearer the lamp, he turned it between his hands, reveling in its survival, a jewel plucked from a sea of mud.
Survival.
A landslide had buried the villa, crushing the walls, shattering the roof, battering the debris into unrecognizable chips. Yet this remained intact. The violence that had desecrated hearth and home, sacred and profane, had left this untouched.