Chapter Sixteen
The sun had risen clear, and by midmorning, the ruins behind Penwood Estate were filled with activity. James crouched beside Eleanor over a patch of ground lined with fragments, gesturing with excitement.
“This one matches the rim on the vessel from Dorset,” he said.
Eleanor’s brow wrinkled as she studied where he was pointing.
“But the clay content is entirely different,” she said. “Which suggests local production mimicking imported forms. That alters our understanding of regional trade.”
James nodded.
“Precisely,” he said. “We need to revise the typology.”
Charles stood several paces away with Sophia, the two of them cataloguing markings on tile fragments and making tidy notes in matching journals. Their movements were quick, spare, and familiar.
“This one has definite indications of military storage,” he said. “See the scoring pattern?”
Sophia nodded.
“Supply cache, I should think,” she said. “Mid-second century, judging from the glaze.”
Charles nodded.
“I agree,” he said.
Nearby, Henry knelt in the grass with Beatrice and William, who were listening intently as he described the context of a previous excavation near St. Bartholomew’s.
“It was not the size of the site that mattered,” he said. “It was the unusual grouping of burial vessels. I would be pleased to show my notes.”
William beamed and nodded.
“I would like that very much,” he said.
Beatrice held up her head with intrigue.
“So would I,” she said. “Most clergymen I meet lack both curiosity and precision.”
Henry’s cheeks turned a pale shade of pink as he lowered his chin.
“I am flattered,” he said.
Alexander stood slightly apart, watching.
He observed honest labour, intellectual generosity, and genuine partnership.
He saw it in the easy exchanges and wordless cooperation, and in Henry’s steady confidence.
It stirred something restless in him. For all the harmony within those walls, Alexander could not shake the sense that something else—something ill—lingered at the edges of the gathering.
Rosalind appeared at his side, holding her bonnet in one hand.
“Are you supervising or avoiding?” she asked.
Alexander gave her a small but warm smile.
“Observing,” Alexander said. “But I would not avoid your company, if you have come to offer it.”
She smiled and blushed.
“Let us walk to the hedge line,” she said. “I have no wish to trample anyone’s discoveries.”
They passed through the low field, the grass soft beneath their shoes. The hum of conversation faded behind them until it was almost inaudible.
“I think they make a remarkable group,” Rosalind said. “Even Charles and Sophia, as reserved as they are.”
Alexander nodded.
“They do,” he said. “Which is why what I am about to say must not be dismissed.”
She turned to him, eyes steady.
“Go on,” she said.
Alexander took a deep breath.
“Edmund has been watching Harold closely for two days,” he said. “This morning, when Harold began sketching the ruins’ north-eastern perimeter, Edmund turned pale.”
Rosalind frowned.
“Do you trust Edmund’s instincts?” she asked.
Alexander nodded firmly.
“I do,” he said. “More than that—I share them. Harold’s questions are too broad, his interest too conveniently fixed.”
Rosalind stopped, turning to face him completely.
“You believe he is searching for something?” she asked.
Alexander shook his head.
“I believe he already knows what he intends to find,” he said. “He has spoken only enough to placate suspicion, never more. And I am certain of this—if we cannot fix the crime upon him, Marcus and Catherine will not be the only ones who are robbed.”
Rosalind looked toward the crumbling eastern arch.
“He keeps glancing that way, even when others are not speaking to him,” she said.
He nodded gravely.
“He has asked three different people about storage methods,” he said. “And each time, he has shifted the topic after receiving his answer.”
Rosalind inhaled sharply as she began to understand.
“He is cataloguing vulnerabilities,” she said.
Alexander gave her a knowing look.
“Exactly,” he said.
From behind a small rise near the orchard wall, they could hear Harold speaking, more loudly than they had previously heard everyone else.
“This corner of the foundation must have held something heavy,” he said. “The erosion pattern is too uneven otherwise. Has anyone excavated beneath that central slab?”
They turned to see Marcus raise a hand for Harold’s attention.
“No,” he replied. “It was judged too unstable without proper support.”
Harold rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“It ought to be reinforced,” he said. “There may be storage chambers underneath. Roman sites often include cisterns or subterranean vaults.”
Edmund stood motionless beside a broken pillar, his face pale, his hands clenched.
“He knows,” Rosalind murmured. “He sees it plain.”
Alexander nodded.
“I shall speak with Marcus,” he said. “I believe this is no longer mere theory.”
Rosalind nodded.
“And I shall remain near Catherine,” she said. “In case the performance continues over supper.”
He touched her arm lightly.
“You have a keen mind,” he said. “I value that more than you know.”
Her cheeks coloured, but her voice was steady.
“And you have a good heart,” she said. “Let us use both before someone causes real harm.”
As they made their way back toward the house, Alexander carried with him two certainties: first, that Rosalind was becoming someone on whom he could rely—especially with disaster looming before them. The second was that Harold Fitzwilliam’s designs must be laid bare before it was too late.
***
The air the next morning carried a damp chill despite the sun’s slow ascent above the eastern woods.
Catherine stepped into the breakfast room with quiet composure, immediately sensing the tension coiled in Edmund’s rigid posture.
He stood near the hearth, back half-turned toward the table, his tea untouched and his napkin still folded beside his plate.
His eyes flicked toward the door each time footsteps approached, and his fingers moved restlessly at his sides as though uncertain what to do with themselves.
Catherine crossed to the sideboard and selected a small roll, though she had little appetite.
Marcus sat at the head of the table, speaking softly with James about the drainage systems near the northern excavation trench.
Rosalind and Alexander lingered in the window bay, their conversation too quiet to overhear but marked by occasional glances in Edmund’s direction.
“Edmund,” Catherine said as she seated herself beside Marcus. “Will you take anything this morning?”
Edmund Price shook his head, and only then did Catherine observe the deep shadows beneath his eyes.
“No,” Edmund said. “Thank you, Lady Penwood.”
The formality struck her. In recent days, he had spoken with more ease, complying with her gentle request that all should use her given name. Something had changed.
She looked at Marcus, who returned her gaze with the faintest lift of his brows. He noticed it, too, she thought with growing alarm.
James was blissfully unaware of the disturbance.
“Have you any thoughts on the blackened pottery fragment we uncovered yesterday, Edmund?” he asked. “I should much like to hear your interpretation—especially given your sharp observations earlier this week.”
Edmund looked mortified, as though he had hoped to be rendered invisible by the group.
“I, er, I believe the carbon deposits suggest domestic use,” he said. “But I cannot speak with certainty until further examination.”
His voice lacked its usual steady precision. The statement might have passed for modesty, but Catherine heard the hollowness beneath it. And the exhaustion, she thought. He is not sleeping well. But why is he so nervous? I should think he would be angry and restless, not frightened and jumpy.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the breakfast room. The door opened with a brisk motion, and a footman appeared just outside the threshold, bowing slightly.
“Post from London, my lord.”
Catherine saw Edmund straighten at once. The footman stepped forward, holding a single envelope upon a small salver.
Marcus reached to take it, but the man spoke again, careful and deferential.
“Beg pardon, sir—it is directed to Mr Price. The courier asked for him by name.”
Marcus and Edmund exchanged looks, upon which Marcus gave a curt nod. Edmund stepped forward.
“Thank you,” he said, not free of any tremor as he spoke.
He took the envelope with both hands, but his grip was unsteady. The paper trembled just as his voice had. Everyone was staring then, and Catherine knew it would not be long before someone said something.
Catherine exchanged another glance with Marcus. Beside him, Alexander set down his teacup and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.
Edmund turned the envelope over in his hands. The seal was a formal red, thick and precise. Wax had cracked slightly during transport, but the insignia remained legible.
Catherine could not make it out from her seat, but Edmund seemed to recognise it at once. He left the room without speaking.
Eleanor shook her head sympathetically.
“Poor man,” he said. “He must be awaiting news from his institution.”
William gave a nod of agreement.
“Or about funding,” he said.
Beatrice peeked around her husband with lively curiosity.
“Or perhaps a lady,” she added. “It is always something dreadful. I should not envy any gentleman who receives letters so early in the morning.”
Conversation returned to its natural rhythm, but Catherine’s thoughts did not follow.
Marcus excused himself from the table after a few minutes, with Alexander following with a murmured word to Rosalind.
Catherine remained, though she did not eat. It was hard enough to keep up pretences as she feigned an interest in conversations she did not truly hear without forcing her sick stomach to tolerate a meal right then.
Fifteen endless minutes later, Edmund returned.
His complexion had paled, but his movements were steadier.
He resumed his seat, placed the opened letter beside his plate, and looked toward Catherine—not directly, but close enough that she knew he meant for her to follow his lead on whatever happened next. She hoped she was right to trust him.
“I should like to request a private conversation,” he said at last, his tone measured, directed to no one in particular though his eyes flicked briefly to Marcus, who had re-entered with Alexander.
Everyone else at the table paused. Curiosity mingled with unease in the glances exchanged—save for Harold, whose effort at nonchalance was less than convincing.
His lips twitched toward a scowl, and though his eyes threatened to narrow, he busied himself instead with forcing a new line of talk upon Henry.
Marcus nodded.
“Of course,” he said. “My study will be at your disposal after the meal if you like.”
Edmund stood again.
“After breakfast, then,” he said. “Catherine, I trust you will join us?”
Catherine inclined her head, summoning her most composed smile.
“Certainly, Edmund,” she said.
The meal concluded without incident, though Catherine noticed a muted lull in the conversation.
She had no doubt that the other guests would speculate upon Edmund’s peculiar request and his unsettled manner.
She hoped they would have more answers or a plan when the meeting with him concluded.
Rosalind pressed her hand briefly as they rose from the table, then followed Beatrice and Sophia into the conservatory.
In the study, the morning sun filtered through tall windows, yet Catherine could not shake the chill that had seemed to settle over her the moment she noticed the ring missing.
She took a seat near the hearth. Marcus leaned against the desk while Alexander stood near the window. Rosalind slipped inside, glancing over her shoulder as she made her way to Alexander.
“I told Sophia I was coming to request itineraries for the day,” she said softly. “I do hope no one is terribly suspicious.
Catherine nodded, but she bit back her reply. There is one person whose suspicion is borne of guilt, she thought. I do hope that Edmund has some good news for us.
Edmund entered last, the opened letter clutched in his hand.
“I have some news,” he said, his expression offering no opinions of the relief or answers for which Catherine so desperately hoped. “I believe you all should hear this.”