Dagenham smiled and, together with Melissa, scanned the activity around the stable as proud parents converged and villagers offered their congratulations to all the children involved. Then Dagenham choked on a laugh. Blindly, he reached for Melissa’s arm, but instead of encountering her sleeve, his hand found hers—stilled for a second—then his fingers gripped, and she gripped back as he pointed to the side of the stable. “Look! The sheep are making a break for it, and the goats are chivvying them along.”
The sudden bleating and baaing was greeted with hoots, laughter, and not a few cheers as various children set off in pursuit of the sheep, lambs, goats, and kids. Duggins and the calves looked stoically on.
“Come on!” Jamie said. “We’re missing the fun!” He, George, and Lottie pelted down the slope and flung themselves into the game of “catch the animals.”
Most of the crowd had grown up on farms; the adults allowed the chase to continue just so far, then stepped in and assisted the assembled children to secure the runaway beasts.
Once that was done and calm again descended on the green, the women collected their children and beasts and started moving away, while the men set to, breaking down the stable and gathering all the paraphernalia of the day.
Callum glanced at the clouds massing over the wooded hills. “It looks like that snow is rolling our way.”
Henry squinted at the clouds. “I doubt it’ll reach us until evening—at least not to snow.” He waved at the green, with the snowy blanket now trampled and far from pristine. “But by morning, I predict all this will be untouched and gleaming again.”
Callum looked at Honor and smiled. “That was definitely entertaining. I’m going to help dismantle the stable. The more hands, the faster the task will go.”
She smiled encouragingly. “I’ll come, too—I can help gather the pennants.”
Henry, his friends, and Melissa and Mandy followed Callum and Honor down the slope. Soon, they were all lending a hand, either with breaking down the wooden framework of the stable or, for the ladies, gathering and packing into baskets the fabrics that had formed the sides and front swags of the stable tableau, the guy ropes that had anchored the structure, and the red and green pennants some enterprising soul had looped about the roof.
“The pennants are also new,” Melissa informed Mandy and Honor.
“They did add a splash of Christmas color,” Honor said.
Working with Dagenham, Callum had just loaded the last of the long framing timbers into Farmer Tooks’s dray and was walking back to join the others when he spotted Professor Webster stumping slowly through the snow toward the spot where the remaining crowd had congregated. Webster was patently searching for Honor; he looked rather lost.
Now isn’t the time.
Not while they were surrounded by others and Honor was present as well. Callum lengthened his stride, then broke into a jog; there were enough people between him and Webster and Webster and Honor to make the action safe enough. He fetched up beside Honor and, uncaring of who saw it, grasped her hand and squeezed, bringing her swinging to face him and immediately gaining her complete attention.
He adopted his most relaxed and charming smile. “I’ve just remembered something—I need to get back to the library.”
Her answering smile was understanding. “Of course.”
He hesitated for a second, and so did she, then her smile deepened, and she turned her hand in his and lightly squeezed his fingers. “It’s the middle of the day—I’ll be fine walking back to the cottage. I’ll see you next time I get to the library.”
Remembering her folder on the library table, he nodded. “Until then.”
He forced himself to release her hand without giving in to the impulse to raise it to his lips. He stepped away and saluted her, then turned and, his back to the remaining crowd, walked swiftly up the slope toward the rear corner of the vicarage garden wall.
The light was poor and, if anything, was worsening with the approaching storm. Even if Webster—whose eyesight was fading with the years—glimpsed Callum’s retreating back, it was unlikely Webster would realize it was him.
Callum paused at the corner of the wall; he’d noticed a shortcut that gave access to the churchyard, from which another path led to the Grange. Screened by the wall, he risked a glance back.
Webster had found Honor and was speaking to her, judging by his gestures, with some urgency. Neither Webster nor Honor was looking Callum’s way, yet he felt a pointed stare boring into him. He scanned the increasingly empty expanse of the green. Beyond where the stable had been, his gaze locked on Lady Osbaldestone, who appeared to be waiting for her grandchildren to say their goodbyes to the village boys and girls.
Her ladyship’s eyes were trained on Callum.
He didn’t need to guess to know what message her challenging stare was intended to convey. He had to tell Honor the truth, and soon.
He considered that prospect and, after a moment, nodded, once, to her ladyship, then turned and walked away.
Therese watched Callum vanish around the rear of the vicarage garden, no doubt on his way back to Dutton Grange.
She shifted her gaze to Honor and watched that young lady take her uncle’s arm and lead him toward the lane and their cottage.
Therese had witnessed Callum and Honor’s brief exchange before he’d beaten a hasty retreat. She hoped his nod meant what she wanted it to mean.
Before she could dwell further on the matter, her younger grandchildren came racing up.
“Grandmama!” Jamie’s eyes were alight. “Can we go sledding?”
George pointed up the rise that lay between the green and the lake. “The others say the downward slope is nicely covered—perfect for sledding.”
Lottie grasped Therese’s hand. “Please, Grandmama—we’ll be good.”
“We promise not to go anywhere near the lake.” Jamie fixed her with a pleading look, matched by George and Lottie.
Therese glanced up as Melissa and Mandy—accompanied by Dagenham, Henry, and the other young gentlemen—came up. She arched a brow at the group. “Are you intending to go sledding as well?”
They assured her they hoped to make an afternoon of it.
Therese returned her gaze to the younger three, who hadn’t abated their hopeful looks one jot; it took effort not to laugh. “Very well.” The cheering nearly deafened her, and she held up a staying hand. “There should be several sleds in the manor stable—you may ask Simms to fetch them out. But only after luncheon. Mrs. Haggerty’s been cooking plum puddings all morning, but has made time to prepare a tasty meal, so we must do it justice.” Therese looked at Henry and his four friends. “That includes you, gentlemen. I will be delighted if you will consent to assist us in consuming Mrs. Haggerty’s offerings.”
“Oh—good-oh!” Henry said.
The others—all of whom had partaken of Mrs. Haggerty’s cooking in the past—beamed their acceptance.
Therese smiled at her grandchildren, then waved the group on. “Come—it’s time we returned to the manor.”
As she fell in beside Therese, Lottie sang, “Because the sooner we finish eating, the sooner we’ll be able to sled!”
Therese laughed and walked on.
Callum spent the following day in the Dutton Grange library with his nose buried in books.
The village had been almost snowed in by the storm that had struck the previous evening. Callum was grateful for the roaring fire in the large fireplace at his back; Hendricks came in now and then to feed and encourage it back to a blaze.
Despite his apparent industry, Callum was making slow progress. Too often, his mind would stray, and he’d find himself dwelling on the difficulties of confessing all to Honor.
Regardless, he steeled himself and waited for her to appear. When the clock ticked on, and Mrs. Wright appeared with sandwiches and then returned to remove the empty plate, and Honor had still not arrived, he wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed…
Perha
ps he’d been wrong—overeager—in imagining there was anything between them, in thinking that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Perhaps, contrary to what Lady Osbaldestone believed, Honor didn’t think of him in any personal way.
Presumably, even Lady Osbaldestone was wrong occasionally. Perhaps this was one of those times.
If Honor didn’t care for him—if there was no chance of him having a future with her—then there was no reason for him to confess anything, was there?
Callum considered that conclusion for several long minutes while, behind him, the newly stoked fire popped and flared.
Everything, he realized, depended on the answer to one question: Did he truly wish to pursue Honor Webster? Regardless of what she might think of him or feel for him, that was the critical—the defining—issue.
He was a trained scientist; it was second nature to evaluate even such personal matters in a logical fashion. He focused on elucidating what he wanted his life to be like and the qualities he therefore required in a wife. Neither question was one he’d pondered before, but now…
It was impossible to avoid the conclusion that, for a gentleman-scholar-explorer such as he, Honor would make a superlative helpmate.
She already understood many of the pressures that shaped his life.
She’d already been exposed to the field in which he worked.
He knew she’d already amassed insights into the arena of his endeavors, one few ladies ever entered.
On a personal plane, she engaged him as no other lady ever had. She and he shared likes, dislikes—shared a common view on many subjects—and she understood his fascination with ancient objects and customs.
She was the wife he hadn’t even got to thinking about.
Yet now…he doubted he would ever find a better candidate to fill the role.
Add that to the way he felt about her and the way she made him feel—for instance, when she smiled at him spontaneously and that smile lit her eyes…
Viewed objectively, the only fly in the ointment regarding him and Honor was her relationship to Webster and his own past with the professor.
That was the one hurdle…
He blinked as his mind served up the notion that, in fact, Honor’s relationship to Webster might not be a negative but a positive in disguise.
Callum sat straighter and let the book he’d propped before him fall flat on the table, disregarded. “If Webster and I were to reconcile…”
That had been his hope in going to Oxford; he’d intended to try, yet again, to speak with Webster and fully explain his approach regarding what Webster stigmatized as “selling” artifacts. Yes, he negotiated a sale, but only as a middleman; he never claimed ownership of the artifacts in question. Indeed, he didn’t think of them as his in any way; he saw himself as a temporary caretaker, one who shouldered the responsibility of seeing any artifact that came into his hands appropriately housed and displayed for all the populace to view and learn from.
If he could repair his relationship with Webster, then marrying Webster’s niece would be… “Nice.”
Surely one day soon, he would succeed in opening Webster’s eyes to the reality that Callum’s path was the way of the future in their field.
And when he did…
His thoughts went around and around, spinning out into imagining a life with Honor, one in which he and Webster had made their peace and, possibly, were working side by side again.
If he was asked to describe his most-desired future, that would be it.
But what should be his first step? His first step toward such a future.
Should he try, again, to speak with Webster?
If he did and, as had occurred several times in the past, Webster refused to listen, what then?
Should he, instead, speak first with Honor? Once he’d confessed to the connection between him and Webster, how would she see him? He had no idea what Webster might have told her about him—no notion of in what colors Webster might have painted his erstwhile student and acolyte, Callum Goodrich.
Given he had no real certainty over how Honor saw him—him, the man, Callum Harris as she thought he was—then telling her that he was, in fact, Callum Goodrich held significant risk.
He sat for long minutes, staring unseeing at the book before him, before accepting that, as of that moment, he couldn’t make up his mind what to do.
How to proceed.
He shook himself—tried to shake away his confounding dilemma—and with a conscious effort, refocused on the book before him and the question he was researching.
Given all the references he’d found, he was now willing to state that there had been a merchant’s compound, very likely including a substantial villa, in the immediate area.
Together with the discovery of the three Roman coins, that meant there was a very real possibility of buried treasure—of Roman artifacts buried in the vicinity—just waiting to be found. A hoard that, almost certainly, would prove entirely worthy of all efforts to unearth it.
Callum sat back and stared at the books before him. Distantly, he heard the strains of the organ and the voices of the choristers singing in the church, the sounds of the carol practice whipped toward the Grange on the icy wind that rattled the shutters.
The choristers were applying themselves, with dedication, for the greater good.
He could do no less.
Callum dragged the next book into place before him, opened it, and settled to the task of scanning the entries and reading every single reference he could find to the local Roman compound.
Chapter 10
Callum kept at his self-appointed task, doggedly working through all the tomes in the Grange library that referred to the Roman occupation of the area in any way whatsoever. He was losing hope of finding any clue to the exact location of the merchant’s compound, let alone the villa built within it, but he accepted that if he didn’t comb through every last book, he would always wonder if he’d stopped too soon and missed the vital passage.
He now knew a great deal more about the merchant; Silvesterius Magnus had been an importer-exporter, bringing in wine, oils, salt, other condiments, and fabrics via ships coming into the protected harbor near Clausentum and, subsequently, distributing the goods to all the major Roman towns in the region.
On the other side of the ledger, Silvesterius Magnus had exported Welsh silver, wool sourced from the midlands to the southwest, and curiously, various herbs peculiar to England and Wales.
Callum had found enough detail to have pieced together a picture of the merchant as a wily and solidly successful man. That some of his household treasures might lie buried somewhere around Little Moseley remained an intriguing possibility; everything Callum had learned had only increased the potency of the treasure’s allure.
He paused to straighten his spine. Stretching his arms above his head, he wondered how the others—his crew of searchers—were faring. He’d met them that morning while walking to the Grange; they’d told him they intended to drive around the surrounding lanes, looking for any signs of digging or disturbance of the soil, and they would stop and ask at all the nearby farms as well, in case any of the farmhands had noticed anything out in the fields.
Callum lowered his arms and looked at the dwindling pile of books he’d yet to examine. “I sincerely hope they’re having better luck than I am.”
Jaw firming, he drew the next book to him, opened it, and started to read.
The minutes ticked by. The clock had just chimed ten times when the door opened, and Honor came in, clutching her folder to her chest.
Callum smiled and started to rise.
Smiling in return, she waved him back to his chair. “Good morning.” She hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure I won’t bother you?”
Resuming his seat, he grinned. “You started working here first—it is I who should ask if I will bother you.”
She colored slightly and shook her head. “You won’t.”
Callum considered her light b
lush. Was she lying? He watched as she set the folder containing the professor’s papers and her notes on the other end of the table. When he’d returned to the Grange after the pageant, the folder had been on the table where he’d left it, but contrary to his hopes, Honor hadn’t returned to work on the references and footnotes during the afternoon; he’d been left to slog through the books without distraction. But she must have come to the library after he’d left—perhaps to work through the evening—because the folder had been gone when he’d arrived yesterday morning.
Knowing how pedantic Webster was about his footnotes and references—and his propensity to keep changing them until he’d set the final period to his paper, and even after that—Callum wasn’t surprised to see a frown lay siege to Honor’s brow as she settled in the chair opposite and focused on the various lists and notes she’d spread before her.
He returned his attention to the book he was scanning and left her to her laborious task.
He whittled the stack of books yet to be perused to one last tome. He breathed in and, drawing the book to him, glanced down the table.
Honor’s brow was now deeply furrowed, and the set of her lips and chin proclaimed her frustration.
Callum studied her tense movements and deduced that she was attempting to order the professor’s currently unordered references. Callum had sat precisely where she now was, staring at a slew of random citations and wondering how to tame them. He knew the solution—the best and easiest way forward.
But if he spoke…
He hesitated, and engrossed in her struggle, she heaved a sigh, dropped the pencil she’d been using, propped her elbows on the table, and closing her eyes, massaged her temples.
“There is a relatively easy way of listing such references.” The words were out before caution could claw them back. When Honor’s eyes flew open and met his, Callum let his lips twist in a self-deprecatory grimace and admitted, “I’ve sat where you are myself.” He searched Honor’s eyes and saw hope blossom. “Would you like me to show you?”
Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3 Page 16
