Chapter 8
Archaeology was dirty, meticulous, and hurt her back. Olive had dirt under her nails, a sunburn on the back of her neck where her hat didn’t quite protect her skin as much as it should’ve, and she’d ruined two skirts by kneeling in the mud.
It was everything she’d ever hoped it would be.
The rest of Friday afternoon was spent preparing the site for digging.
Phineas showed her how to stake out the area using flags and wood and string so they’d have a clear grid to work on.
Luckily, the sphaera could only be along the rear of the building, so they wouldn’t have to excavate too much area.
He’d seemed surprised when she’d picked up a shovel to help remove the top foot or so of dirt, but she’d pointed out it’d get done faster if she helped him. Besides, she’d worn her sturdiest boots and shortest skirt, although she quickly came to realize all the material was still in the way.
Why couldn’t ladies wear trousers? If—no, when—she got to go gallivanting around the world, visiting historical sites and seeing archaeological wonders, she was damn well going to wear a split skirt. Or trousers!
By Zeus, it wasn’t as if she was suggesting she lop said trousers off four inches above her knee or anything! But when she’d asked Mary to purloin a pair of her brother’s pants from his valet, the poor woman had had to go have a lie down.
So for now, Olive was archaeologying in skirts.
Wait, is that the word? Archaeologying? The act of doing archaeology? Archaeolging? Excavating?
Digging. She was digging.
Thanks to the records from the last excavation, they knew the layer of artifacts they were searching for started more than a foot below the current ground level.
It was easy to compare, because the ruins themselves had been cleared down to that level, so they just needed to remove the dirt from the rear of the building.
Well, they called it dirt, but it was closer to mud.
Thanks to the rain they’d had for most of the last week, the ground had only just begun to dry out.
Friday was overcast at best, and the following days contained intermittent sun.
Both of them kept an eye on the weather, not wanting all of their hard work to be swept away by rain.
By Phineas’s calculations, the edge of the ancient riverbed was within a dozen feet of the rear of the building, which would’ve meant the sphaera had rolled even further away.
And if their guess was correct—if the golden ball’s weight had caused it to sink in the mud of the riverbank—the artifact they were searching for was significantly deeper than the rest of the finds.
By unspoken agreement, Olive and Phineas worked past dinnertime on Friday, meaning she wasn’t going to be able to join the rest of the guests for whatever Friday Night Mandatory Fun Lady Dumpkins had planned for them.
Such a shame.
The next morning, the pair of them had left the manor even before the other guests were awake, striding toward the Roman ruins, determined to make progress. Olive had told her sisters of their plans, and they promised to cover for her.
Strangely, when she’d told Ash she’d be excavating by the river, he’d just twitched a brow and asked, “With Mr. Oliphant? Have fun.”
Phineas had indeed proven to be an expert in the field.
He’d not only arranged food and beverages for them that day, but tarps and some folding chairs.
He explained that the canvas was to protect the excavations in case it did rain, in which case the pair of them could take shelter in the old building—little more than a shed—which the previous excavation had used as well.
He stored their supplies, including the extra folded canvas tarps, inside.
Saturday was spent clearing the top layer of soil. Once they got down a few inches, the dirt turned back to, well, dirt, rather than mud. Which was good, because although Olive had started out excited to help, she hadn’t taken into account how heavy a shovelful of mud was.
No one ever said archaeology was easy. At least no one is shooting poison blow darts at you.
The reminder of one of Aberdeen Jones’s adventures made her smile.
“What?”
Phineas’s question had her straightening, her hands pressed to the small of her back as she stretched.
He was standing with his booted foot propped on the shovel, paused in the act of skimming another half-inch of dirt from their grid.
She took a moment to admire him, in his tweed trousers and waistcoat, his collar unbuttoned, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal a dusting of hair on his forearms.
Since he was looking at her expectantly, her smile grew. “I was just thinking this has to be one of the more boring archaeological digs you have participated in, Mr. Jones.”
His smile was lopsided, and he shrugged before bending back over his work. “Most digs are tedious and full of meticulous work if ye want to do it properly. Besides, how could it be boring when ye’re here with me?” He shot her a wink over his shoulder, which made her feel warm inside.
Warm-er, at least. The sun chose that moment to come out from behind the clouds, and Olive had to admit archaeology was bloody hot work at times.
Blowing out a breath, she used the back of her hand to swipe an errant strand of hair away from the sweat of her forehead, then leaned back over her three-foot-by-three-foot section of the grid.
By Saturday afternoon, they were ready to begin the—as Phineas called it— “fiddly work.” This required them to scrape the soil away in quarter-inch increments, using the side of a trowel to ensure if they did find an artifact, they didn’t damage it.
Olive rested on her knees, or sometimes on her side, and a few times even stretched out on her stomach just to give her back a rest. Luckily, Phineas kept her entertained with stories of various digs he’d participated in over the years, including the one in Aberdeen, which had gifted him his dubious sobriquet.
Each time they reached about six inches down, they’d move on to another square in the grid, so the entire area was slowly excavated at around the same pace. Olive hadn’t realized quite how many rulers were involved in archaeology.
Yes, it was hot, exhausting, meticulous work, but Olive couldn’t call it boring. It was the most exciting thing she’d ever done in her life, barring that encounter with Phineas on her desk, which was exciting for an entirely different reason.
Each time her trowel tinged against something, her heart leapt into her throat.
By the eighth time it happened, she was an expert at knowing what to do: switch to a smaller pick and brush, outline the item, determine if it was a rock or artifact, and record it.
But no matter how many times it happened, it was still exhilarating.
By that evening, she’d personally excavated three broken pieces of crockery, what looked to be roofing tiles, and a magnificent example of a Roman era belt, complete with delicate silver scrollwork.
The two of them had rather a lot of fun speculating on why an ancient man might’ve removed his belt while along the riverbank, but otherwise Phineas suggested the river was used as a sort of midden, or trash dump.
By Sunday, their excavation was much deeper than the depth from the previous dig. That made sense since they were trying to find something which would be at a lower elevation, hidden in the river mud.
But as the days passed, Olive began to wonder if they’d find the sphaera after all. She could tell Phineas was wondering the same thing, judging from the number of times he straightened up and propped his hands on his hips as he surveyed their dig site with a frown.
If it was here, they should’ve found it by now.
Rainclouds hung heavy in the sky on the morning when Phineas finally threw up his hands and muttered something in a language Olive didn’t understand.
Concerned, she drew herself to her knees. “What was that?”
Instead of repeating himself, Phineas began to pace, his mud-covered boots covering long strides over the now-cleared excavation.
He was wearing his tweed trousers again, which had been clean at the start of the day, but the jacket he’d been wearing on the day she’d run to find him in the billiards room, was missing.
“Olive, I dinnae think—” With a scowl which turned into a wince, he blew out his breath and turned to face her, his fists propped on his hips.
In this pose, she could well imagine him in some far-off land, his hat shading his eyes as he surveyed his next venture.
“I’m sorry, love, but the sphaera simply isnae here. ”
Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. “If it is not, then I am the one who should be sorry.” In the distance, thunder rolled, but neither of them acknowledged it. “I was so certain it was here.”
Frustrated, she mirrored his pose, then turned to survey the full site. “Look, you can see where the river once turned. The whole town was built right up against the river.”
“Aye. From their notes, the original excavators thought it represented a street, with the buildings only reaching the edge.”
The defeated tone in his voice nearly broke her heart. “Imagine what treasures the riverbank must hold!”
“Nay, lass,” he corrected with a bitter tone. “Things were thrown into the river because they were broken or useless. No’ treasures. Broken crockery, utensils and weapons.”
Thinking he was ignoring the belt she’d found—although there were any number of reasons why that might’ve been in the river—Olive stepped toward him, trying to comfort Phineas as the thunder moved closer. “And sphaerae, which rolled down the roofline to drop into the riverbank.”
Shaking his head sorrowfully, Phineas reached for her. “I’m sorry, Olive. It’s no’ here. Ye cannae deny we’ve dug well below the strata for where it should be and we havenae found any Roman artifacts in the last eighteen inches. We cannae keep hoping.” He sighed and tucked her head under his chin.