Page 47 of A Rare Find

“Liar.” An unfamiliar emotion flashed in their eyes.

“It might change,” she said, and lifted her chin. “You might develop a partiality for archaeological research.”

This time, their laughter burst out sudden and surprised. “So single-minded.”

She nodded curtly. “I will see you Saturday morning.”

As she whipped around, she felt a fleeting caress, soft on her lips. She froze, heart stuttering, but it was only the strand of wisteria. She blew at the bobbing petals, then plucked the strand from behind her ear. Before she left the garden, she cast it away.

14

Living by a volcano was a very bad idea. Far worse than living by the Marsdens, or by a garden water feature filled with nocturnally singing frogs—although Georgie wouldn’t have said so during the wee hours of Saturday morning as sleepless night transitioned into Bloody hell, I’m late to meet the carriage. But after the first stage of the journey with Sir Graham, they had a new appreciation for the particular horrors meted out by mountains of flame. Very, very bad things had happened to the residents of Pompeii and Herculaneum on the twenty-fourth of August in the year seventy-nine anno Domini. Death by incineration. Death by encasement in choking ash. Death by battery of burning pumice stones. At least one chap’s brain had turned to glass in the heat. Georgie almost asked Sir Graham how he knew about the glass brain, but then they pictured him cracking a Pompeiian skull like a hard-boiled egg and decided against it. They didn’t really want to hear an answer to that question.

“Marsden,” said Sir Graham, turning from Georgie at last. “I know you’re not asleep.”

“I am asleep.” Mr. Marsden sat across from Georgie, arms folded, eyes closed.

“I’m driving you to collect your Saxon knickknacks, the least you could do is pay me the courtesy of your attention.”

“That’s not the least,” replied Mr. Marsden, eyes still closed. “This is the least.”

Georgie glanced at Elf, who was seated next to Mr. Marsden. She’d been staring fixedly out the window for miles.

“And they are not knickknacks,” added Mr. Marsden, without stirring. “Saxon antiquities have far more relevance to our heritage than whatever classical bric-a-brac you can lug back from the Continent.”

“One mustn’t neglect the Roman influence.” Sir Graham was a silver-haired gentleman with an impressive nose, and he looked down it, impressively, at Mr. Marsden, to no effect.

“This is an Anglo-Saxon nation,” said Mr. Marsden, eyes closed. “If we are to trace our forebears beyond Albion’s rocky shores, the path leads to the German forest, not the Roman forum.”

“See that line across the moor?” Sir Graham smiled and rapped the window. “That’s a Roman path right there.”

Mr. Marsden did not see, but Georgie leaned forward to look, and therefore, received the brunt of Sir Graham’s information, more than they could ever retain, about the movements of the Roman legions, and their construction techniques, and the masonry layers of their roadways.

At some point, they nodded off, and woke with a start in an empty carriage.

“Are we there?” they asked, stepping down into a courtyard where Elf, Mr. Marsden, and Sir Graham stood blinking in the sun. It soon became clear that they were not there. Sir Graham had decided to stop for refreshment. He continued informing Georgie as he ate and drank—mostly drank—until a squabble with Mr. Marsden diverted his attention, and Georgie was able to slink out of the inn.

Elf climbed into the carriage shortly after them.

“Papa and Sir Graham won’t be a moment,” she said, taking her seat in the opposite corner. She had a wary look on her face, which made their indignation flare.

“I promised I’d behave,” they reminded her. “I’m not about to kiss you.”

“Shhh.” She shushed them with a scowl.

“I can’t even say kiss?”

“Shhh.” She seized one of the quilted silk sleeping cushions, obviously intending to whack them with it, but the cushion was bound to her seat with a ribbon, so the best she could do was wave it menacingly. The menace conjured by silk cushion waving was not much.

Even so, they relented. “Let’s change the subject, then. Why did Sir Graham agree to drive?” They glanced around the carriage, upholstered and lined with cloth of Vesuvian red. “He and your father seem to be at odds.”

She lowered the cushion. “That’s just how they are. They’re friends who dislike each other.” Her cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment, and they recalled her stricken expression that day at Marsden Hall when Agnes had shouted.

You don’t have any friends.

“Or is that a contradiction?” she asked. “They’re on intimate but disagreeable terms. They do each other favors to get the upper hand. What would you call that?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t call it friendship exactly.”