Like a spooked filly, her chest rose and fell deeply, her nostrils flaring on the inhale. He could only guess at what might be going through her mind, but he hoped—and prayed—the genuine truths he offered would somehow heal the wounds inflicted by that infernal Richard Trestwell. Blasted jackanapes. If he ever saw that devil again, he’d pop him a good one on the jaw.
“Well.” Eva pulled away. “I suppose you ought to be allowed to have your own opinion, and ... I thank you for it.”
“My pleasure.” He grinned. “So would you like to see what I have been working on?”
She nodded.
He led her to the end of the canvas-covered table. “I have just been cleaning these coins. See the brass tokens?” He poked his finger into the mix, separating the pieces farther apart. “Those are sestertii, the silver are denarii, and there is even a single gold aureus right here.” He picked up the most valuable coin.
Bending close, she examined it. “Is that a good find?”
“Very. This selection of currency shows whoever lived on your land had at least one person of means in residence.” He set the coin down as Eva sidestepped to the next item, her understated scent of newly mown hay lingering in the air. He appreciated she didn’t douse herself in lemon verbena or violet witch hazel, as was all the rage of late. Her tastes were simpler, an attribute he could respect.
“Let me guess.” She ran a light touch along the side of a long-necked vessel. “A water pitcher?”
“Close. That amphora was used for wine.”
Doubt swam in her pale blue eyes. “How do you know it was not used for water?”
“There is residue inside.” Retrieving a metal pick with a hook at the end, he gently scraped the interior ceramic wall. A tiny fleck of brownish-red sat on the tip, and he held it up. “See?”
“Mmm,” she murmured as she studied the speck ...reallystudied it. Did she see the same connections he made when examining such a peek into the past? Was she pondering this tangible link to a forgotten moment in time, a celebration perhaps, when love and laughter had echoed in an ancient Roman dwelling? Every find, no matter how minor, was a bridge to hearts that had beat, lungs that had breathed, so many lifetimes ago.
Eva peered up at him. “It makes one wonder, does it not?”
“It surely does.” He smiled, chest warming that she shared—at least in part—in his passion. “But the best find of all is this.”
He beckoned her with a crook of his finger to the opposite end of the table. “This may seem insignificant”—he waved his hand over a sizeable mosaic chunk—“but the motif in this piece of flooring is important.”
She bent closely, sweeping back a loose wave of red hair in the process. “It looks like ... Is this design part of an anchor?”
“It is.”
A wrinkle creased her brow. “We are nowhere near the sea. I should think the artisan would have incorporated something more fitting for the area, such as wheat fronds or ivy leaves.”
“A valid train of thought, yet the symbol itself has nothing to do with this geographical location. The anchor was used as a key Christian symbol during the time of Roman persecution.”
“But...” Her gaze drifted back to the mosaic. “I thought that fish on the ring was what they used? Or maybe even a cross.”
“Not back then. Think about it; if you are a first-century Christian hiding from crucifixion, would a cross be a comforting icon? I do not think so. No, you would need something more uplifting to remind you to stay strong when facing deathby lions or being set ablaze as a human torch for one of Nero’s garden parties.”
Her nose scrunched. “Like hope?”
“Very good.” He smiled. “Yet even more, you would need faith to believe God saw your trials, cared about them, cared aboutyou. A fish emblem is not going to remind you of the solid rock in which your faith is rooted. One of my favorite verses is in Hebrews. ‘Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast, and which entereth into that within the veil.’ Jesus is that hope. Jesus alone is our anchor.”
“Why, I ... I never thought of things that way. I mean, that trials are good in that they increase faith and are not necessarily a punishment. I guess I have always thought of hard times as a sort of penance, but that wouldn’t be so if—as you say—God cares about them ... about me. I—” Her lips parted with an audible intake of air, as if some great revelation had taken root. Slowly, she shook her head. “I had no idea you were such a theologian, Bram Webb.”
He laughed aloud. “I have been accused of many things but never that.”
She grinned in return. “Well, whatever the case, it is plain to see you take your faith seriously, which is quite a change from the wild boy I once knew.”
“That is because I did not have any faith all those years ago. That came later when I went to live with my uncle. Housing beneath the same roof as a man who takes the Bible seriously has a way of speaking to a hungry heart. At any rate, it is probably a good thing I have tamed a bit, or those historical society members would be frightened off in a heartbeat.” He winked as he reached for a cloth to cover the mosaic.
“What do you mean? What members?”
He smoothed the wrinkles on the canvas before draping the cloth over the mosaic. “Several board members are coming around noon on Friday. Did my uncle not tell you?”
“No, he did not.”
