“But you will, sir, once you lay eyes on this—a discovery sure to win awards and bring acclaim to Trinity.” Bram held up the wrapped relic.
Sir George didn’t so much as turn around. “Whatever you have, bring it to the attention of Professor Grimwinkle. I do not have the time for this right now. I should have been in London last evening.”
Bram advanced. If he had to grab hold of the horses’ bridles to stop the man, he’d do so. “Please, sir. Two more minutes will not make a difference. I hold history in my hands. Do not turn your back on it.”
The fabric between the headmaster’s shoulder blades stretched taut before he stepped down to the pavement with a frown. “Two minutes, Webb. That is all.”
Quickly yet carefully, Bram unwrapped the canvas to reveal the stone. “This is not the ideal place to present such a treasure, but if you would not mind lifting the lid, sir?”
Bram held the box steady on his arms while the headmaster removed the cover, and as soon as the man did so, he glanced at the wax tablets, then back up at Bram. “What am I looking at?”
“The covenant of Caelum Academia, proof of the much-debated Roman settlement just outside of Royston—a find no one thought possible. This is evidence the place was more than just a fictional Atlantis.”
Sir George bent over the box, his gaze drifting across the inscriptions carved into the wax coating on the topmost wooden tablet. “Nos exsules Romani,hoc firmo atque inviolabilifoedere ac nova Academia Caeli foedere firmato,a nobis posthacfides,obses,pactum.”
“‘We, exiles of Rome,’” Bram murmured, still hardly believing he held such a treasure in his hands, “‘herewith bind ourselves in this strong and inviolable pact as the new settlement of Caelum Academia. Stated henceforth are our beliefs, our pledge, and our covenant.’”
“Yes, I can obviously read Latin.” Irritation ran thick in the headmaster’s tone as he restored the cover to the box. “Am I to understand you discovered this at the dig you were conducting in Royston?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm.” The man slapped his gloves against the palm of his hand, silent for a moment. “Where are the rest of the relics?”
“What we have uncovered thus far are here in Cambridge. I offered them to the history department, but Professor Grimwinkle failed to act on the purchase. When I returned last night, word was waiting for me that the Fitzwilliam Museum is proposing a fair price for the lot.”
The skin of the headmaster’s concave cheeks rode tight against his bones. “You mean to say you presented the professor with antiquities never before seen, and he turned them down?”
“Like I said, Sir George, this one piece”—he lifted the box higher—“is enough to bring acclaim to the college, but included with the rest of the finds, well, I should say the collection would have given Trinity’s Roman history department no competition in the whole of England—and all because of the determined belief of former Regius Professor Sebastian Pendleton. Once word of this find gets out, I daresay he will be a most sought-after speaker.”
Bram sucked in a lungful of cold air. That was it! He had been right. If Grimwinkle had successfully gotten him and his uncle out of the picture and finished the dig himself, then Grimwinkle would’ve been the one to receive all the acclaim, which was prime motivation for him to have hired Trestwell to end the dig, or at least scare or frustrate him and his uncle away.
“Your uncle will indeed be a most sought-after speaker—but as a representative of Trinity College.” The headmaster’s voice bounced off the college stone walls. “Tell Professor Pendleton he is fully reinstated to his position. As are you. I shall send word to my clerk to draw up the paperwork. And whatever the Fitzwilliam is offering, I will see it doubled. Here.” He pulled out a thick wad of banknotes from his wallet and handed them over. “This is a retainer of good faith, so you know I mean my word. Now, if you will excuse me, I really must be off.”
Bram gaped. This was better than he’d hoped for! “Godspeed, Sir George. Until the new year.”
“Professor.” The imposing man tipped his black hat, then disappeared into his fancy coach.
As the horses’ hooves clip-clopped over the cobbles, Bram carefully rewrapped the canvas around the box. His mission had been accomplished—more than accomplished. He’d vindicated his uncle and restored the man’s pension. He’d collect more money than Eva would know what to do with. And he even had his old job back.
So why the empty hole in his chest?
Tucking the box beneath his arm, he hailed a cab, trying hard to ignore the truth he’d been denying ever since Eva had kissed him. She’d been wrong. Terribly wrong. He hadn’t taken her heart with him here to Cambridge.
He’d left his with her.
In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg’s wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches. And here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too much “lovering” in the story, as I fear they may (I’m not afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March, “What canyou expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?”
“I wish we had a dashing young neighbour.”
Eva glanced up from the opening ofGood Wivesand arched a brow at her sister. They sat curled up in the window seat of Penny’s bedroom, late-morning sun lighting glossy highlights in her sister’s hair and a surprisingly wistful tilt to her chin. “What is this? My little poppet pining for a boy, of all things?”
“Not just any boy.” Penny leaned her head against the thick sill. “A dashing one who doesn’t mind getting his fingernails dirty and has an interest in digging up relics. I liked my time as an archaeologist. I wish the professors and their crew were still here.”
“I thought you liked reading.”
“I do, but I also like...”
Penny continued on, but Eva didn’t hear a word the girl said. She couldn’t. She was too interested in the man riding down the front drive on a chestnut cob.
