Mrs. Wells gave her the tiniest of nods as if she didn’t truly wish to admit as much.
“Don’t be too cross with him,” she called to Tess as she headed out toward The Black Swan.
Tess offered a wave and a smile and then gritted her teeth the whole march to the village public house. She’d had this talk with Tristan many a time. Young ladies were drawn to him like bees to a field of wildflowers, caught up by his effortless charm and handsome face. Their protective brothers and fathers weren’t nearly as susceptible to his charm.
Music wafted on the breeze the closer she got to The Black Swan, and when she strode inside, heads turned her way.
“Miss Hawthorne!” Mr. Cardwell shouted, cutting short whatever he’d been playing on a battered piano in the corner and then starting into a rousing little ditty, as if to please her.
“Tess,” Old Tom the publican called, “we’ve missed that pretty face of yours.”
“There’s my girl.” Alice, the barmaid who Tess had known since girlhood, gave her a wink and a grin. “Thought London might snap you up and not give you back.”
“Not a chance.” Tess returned her wink. Then she spotted Tristan and groaned.
Her brother was, to put it mildly, in his cups. He was sitting at his favorite table and yet swaying as if on a ship at sea. A smile spread across his lips, and he lifted bleary green eyes and a tankard toward her.
“Sishter dearest, what a sweet shurprise.” He waved her over, his arm swinging wildly.
“Aren’t you even curious why I’m back early?”
He frowned as if just realizing that was the case.
“I was dismissed, Tris, and you’ll love hearing why.”
His eyes lit. “Oh, I do love a good story.” He held up a finger as if to bid her to wait. Then he shoved his hand in every pocket—shirt, waistcoat, trousers—and finally frowned as if he’d failed to find some lost treasure. “I’ve something to tell you about too. Must have left it at home.”
“Well tell me about it anyway.” When he lifted his cup, Tess reached for his hand. “Tell me before you drink yourself into a stupor.”
“A letter came. For Father, actually.” Tristan eyed his beer longingly. “The great American titan did not hear of his death, it seems.”
“American titan?” There was only one American they ever discussed in such terms. “Gordon Van Arsdale?”
Tristan tapped the tip of his nose. “The very one. He’s asked for Father’s aid on a dig. Hoping for a hoard for his museum in New York.”
“So we find it, and he takes it. Lovely,” Tess said bitterly.
Tristan shrugged. “He who pays keeps the loot.”
“Whatever’s in those mounds should remain in Norfolk. In England, at least.”
“By that logic, someone should let Elgin and Petrie know there are a few items in England that need returning.”
“Perhaps they should be.” Never mind that Elgin was long dead.
“Good luck with that, Tessie.”
“Let’s say one of those mounds on Fenbridge land gives up its treasures. Imagine how people would flock to Wiggenstow if a museum could be established here.”
“I think it would take a bit more than a few bits and bobs to put our village on the map.” He nudged her elbow where it rested on the table. “We could use the funds Van Arsdale’s offering.”
“Offering to our late father.”
“You know as much as Father did.” He caught her gaze and looked momentarily clearheaded. “And you’ve long wanted to be part of a dig like this. Write him. Offer your services in lieu of Pater’s. Don’t turn him down.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“He sent a check,” he said with a hopeful arch of his brow. The money was needed. Foxdene was let, not owned by their family. Lord Fenbridge owned the property, much as he owned so many other acres in the county.
