“But when they came, they found that none of them could shift her. It was as though God himself had bound her to the seat. For six days and nights she sat, taking no food, no water, and resisting all attempts to remove her. One by one, the menfolk gave up, all except the would-be bridegroom, who insisted he would be master in his own house and that Frideswide would bend the knee to him.”
He paused for dramatic effect. “But on the seventh day, his strength broken, the bridegroom gave in. He promised Frideswide she should do as she wished, and instantly he made his vow, the rock released her and she went happily into his arms. To this day, folk around here believe that if a woman sits upon St. Frideswide’s seat before her intended, she will be master in her own house.”
“And if a woman does not wish to marry?” I asked archly.
He grinned. “Then I believe she does not need St. Frideswide’s help in the first place.” I smiled back before turning to the panorama before us.
“What a marvellous view!” I exclaimed. Sea and sky met at a single dark line on the horizon and the world seemed to fall away as we sat there under the scudding clouds. The wind whipped and gulls cried, diving for fish as the whitecaps rose.
“Before we spoke of St. Frideswide, you asked about a fossil,” Merry said. “It was a Megalosaurus. The largest ever found on this coast—or in the world, I am told.”
“But it was later lost, was it not?”
He nodded. “Along with one of the guests at Tiberius’ house party. An Italian fellow—I don’t remember much of that time. I was very young, you understand. But I remember Lorenzo.”
“Do you indeed? Why?”
He paused as if groping for words. “He was kind to me. He had a sort of toy he used to carry in his pocket—a bit of card tied between two pieces of string. One side of the card had an illustration of a bird, the other a cage. When he spun it between his fingers, it looked as if the bird were actually inside the cage. I thought it magic,” he said with a nostalgic smile.
“A thaumatrope!” I exclaimed. “I had one as a child. Only mine had a butterfly on one side and a net on the other. Quite appropriate, as it turned out, given my chosen occupation. What happened to yours?”
“Oh, it was not mine. He bought it to take home to his little sister. But he was kind enough to oblige anytime I asked him to show it to me. He was generous like that. Always doing things for other people. At least that is what I remember. I don’t even recall what his voice sounded like or the features of his face. But I do recall how he made me feel.”
“And that was?” I prodded gently.
“Important. Fourth sons are rarely noticed,” he added with a rueful smile.
“Neither are orphan girls,” I replied.
“I am sorry,” he said instantly. “I did not know.”
“No need to be sorry,” I assured him. “Children know nothing beyond the upbringing they have. It is only adults who regret what they lacked.” I nodded towards the edge of the cliffs. “You said the fossil and this Lorenzo were lost?” I knew the answer, but I was interested in Merry’s impressions. Children, unburdened by the prejudices of adults, were often keen observers, in my experience.
“Yes, and more’s the pity. Lorenzo was a fossilist. It was he who discovered the Megalosaurus. He would have become quite famous from it, but the poor beast was carried away in the same landslide that took his life.”
“But it was on your father’s land,” I pointed out. “Would he not have received the credit for the discovery?”
Merry shrugged. “Father was not a generous man, but he was shrewd. Lorenzo’s family were wealthy and influential, and Fatherwanted to make use of their influence. He had ties to diplomacy and business. Making friends with the d’Ambrogios was a stratagem, nothing more. Allowing Lorenzo the credit for discovering the Megalosaurus would cost him nothing. Lorenzo was a gentleman and a scholar. He’d never have sold the fossil. He would have donated it for study and published a paper on it. In the meantime, Father would have ever-so-gently made certain the d’Ambrogios never forgot who was responsible for their son’s happiness.” He paused, no doubt intuiting my thoughts. “No, I did not understand that at the time. I was four years old. It was only much later I realised what sort of man Father was. He did nothing that would not bring him a benefit, and every word, every gesture, every kindness had a cost.” Merry broke off suddenly. “I am sorry. One ought not to speak ill of the dead, particularly if the dead is one’s father.”
“On the contrary, my dear Merry,” I said, rising and dusting off my skirts. “The dead are the very best people about whom one may speak the truth. They are far less likely to bring suit for slander.”
He grinned and offered me a hand as we clambered down from St. Frideswide’s seat. I paused at the edge of the cliff path. “How did Lorenzo d’Ambrogio happen to find the beast in the first place?” I enquired.
Merry explained how the creature had been situated within the face of the cliff, a thin layer of black marl, rock, and soil that concealed the skeleton until a sudden storm had caused it to be revealed, as perfect as the day it had lain down to die. He went on for some time in vivid detail, laying out how the earth comprised layers, each formed uniquely in its own epoch and containing a perfect microcosm of its history and its fauna, one atop the other since the beginning of time. It was all information I knew perfectly well—one had only to look a single time at William Smith’s geological map of England to understand the principle—but there is no better way to win a man’s regard than to let him believe he is teaching one something new. Besides, there was somethingadorably schoolboyish about his enthusiasm, so I let him carry on about the fossil until at last he wound down.
“Imagine,” he finished, “it was simplythere, this magnificent specimen of Creation, resting within the stone for millions of years.”
“You know rather a lot about fossils,” I observed. “And you do not seem to have the usual clerical aversion to believing the Earth is considerably older than four thousand years.”
“If the Lord God can make a universe in six days, then he is capable of anything,” Merry said.
“I admire your faith, Merry,” I told him sincerely. “It is good to have something in which to believe.”
“What do you believe in?”
“Science,” I said with promptitude. “But for those who wish to find it, the hand of God may be detected there. One may see the glory of a creator in the artistry of a butterfly’s wing or the perfection of a shark’s design. I have no quarrel with your occupation,” I assured him. “Only with its tendency to inflict itself on the unwilling.”
“I am no proselytiser,” he assured me. “I can scarcely minister to the flock I already have. I could never find it within me to go and collect others.”
