A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2)

by Anthea Lawson

  “A very good point. And that is why this question cannot have a definitive answer. The time period is a factor, but men are never fully moral nor are they completely evil. A person is complex and fickle and . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “And?” Eleanor prompted.

  He studied her face, his contented grin still in place, his eyes gentle. “Eleanor Doyle, I quite enjoy arguing with you.” His soft voice sent shivers over her skin.

  “Oh.” She wished she could control the heat spreading through her cheeks. The unsettling feeling returned, and she looked around for something to say—something to change the topic or distract them from the way the air thickened around them. Her gaze lit on the book Ken had set on a rock beside his leg, and understanding registered.

  “I know what you’re looking for,” she said.

  He looked startled. “I—Pardon me?”

  “Templum Divi Iulius. The Temple of the Divine Caesar.”

  He lifted the book and nodded. “I am, indeed.”

  “It would lend so much distinction to your work on Julius Caesar,” she said, feeling excited at the prospect. “Finding his burial site would be . . . unprecedented.”

  “Exactly. The excavation of the Forum, I’d hoped, would offer the perfect opportunity to discover the temple’s remains, or at least where it once stood. But . . . ” He waved his hand toward the chaos of the site. “It’s proving more difficult than I’d thought.”

  Eleanor scrutinized the area around them. It seemed that for all the reports of cleaning this area, not much had actually been excavated. Irregular columns rose from the dirt at random intervals; many shallow pits had been started, and then abandoned; shovels, pickaxes, and other tools lay haphazardly around the site. Workers dug in a few locations, though she couldn’t see any rhyme or reason to how the excavation was being carried out.

  She looked farther afield. Of course, there were the triumphal arches, still standing strong after centuries. The temple of Antonius and Faustina had been repurposed over the years and was now a Christian Church, its columns standing at the eastern end of what was once the Sacred Way.

  In one corner of the excavation site was a large collection of column fragments and shaped stones in the process of being reconstructed. Directly in front of Eleanor and Ken was a cleared space with only a foundation and pedestals that had once held columns and statues. Signore Celino claimed this was where the ancient Temple of Vesta had stood, and Ken had agreed with him, based on its proximity to the Imperial Palace.

  “Well, then. What do we know about the temple?” she asked, thinking they should take a methodical approach to the problem.

  “I know what it looked like.” He fished in his coat pocket and drew out a small pouch. “I have a coin with its image, and the Forma Urbis, though the additions are pure speculation, based on what I’ve read.” He exhaled, sounding frustrated. “With so few visible landmarks, it’s difficult even to orient myself.”

  Eleanor took the offered pouch, sliding the ancient coin out into her palm. She looked closer at the profile of Julius Caesar on one side and then turned it over, scrutinizing the image of the temple. Holding something so ancient in her hand felt sacred. “Such a treasure,” she said quietly. “My father would have loved to see this.” She touched her fingertips to the uneven surface of the metal, feeling the well-worn images, then returned it to its pouch.

  “It was a gift from my grandfather,” Ken said with a wistful smile. “He was a historian as well. The way he told stories made them come alive, especially to a young boy captivated by battles and heroic generals.”

  “I think his grandson possesses the same skill.” Eleanor handed back the pouch.

  Ken smiled gratefully, then turned his gaze to the pouch. “I imagine owning something from his own time was part of the reason Caesar became such a fascination of mine.”

  Eleanor understood exactly how he felt about his grandfather. Her father’s love of history had been an immense influence on her own life and career choices. And in a way, she felt as though, in studying history, she carried on his legacy. That somewhere in the eternities, he was proud when she used the skills he’d taught her. She decided in that moment that nothing was more important than finding Caesar’s temple with Ken.

  If she had to dig up every inch of this . . . She stopped herself. A scholar’s way was not to charge in and indiscriminately tear the heart of the empire apart. They needed to use the tools they possessed, the first of which was logical reasoning.

  “Someone must have written about the location,” she said, tapping her finger to her lip. She took out her notebook and scanned the pages, hoping something helpful might stand out.

  Ken turned pages in his own book. “Of course there are records, but they speak only in vague terms. No paced off directions like Captain Flint’s map.”

  “No pirate skeletons helpfully pointing the way?”

  “What I wouldn’t give for even a small x marking the spot,” he said.

  Eleanor turned a page and stopped. “Appian!” She turned the notebook toward him. “Appian of Alexandria wrote about the Forum less than a century after Caesar’s death.”

  Ken nodded, taking the notebook from her and looking at the page. “Yes, I’ve read Appian’s account—the Latin translation, I’m afraid. Ancient Greek is not my strong point. His writing is thorough, exhaustive even, but I don’t believe in this he was more descriptive than any of his contemporaries.”

  “But at least Appian is a starting point,” Eleanor pointed out. “Did you bring his writings?” As soon as she’d said it, she laughed, realizing how ridiculous the question was. Appian’s Roman History covered twenty-four volumes.

  Ken didn’t laugh, however. He stared into the distance and shook his head slowly. “No, but I believe he’s referred to by Herodotus—or was it Fabius?” His eyes grew suddenly bright, and he scratched his chin. “Hmm, if only someone nearby could translate ancient languages . . .”

  Five hours later, a mound directly to the east of the Arch of Septimus Severus buzzed with activity. Somehow Bodkin had convinced the local workers to move their operations to the site, and even the three young gentlemen shucked their coats and set to work. Ken was shoulder deep in a hole, sleeves rolled up, tossing out shovels full of dirt at a steady pace while Bodkin walked to and fro, supervising.

  Eleanor sat on the picnic blanket between the Blakely sisters and a chaotic stack of books that she was trying to arrange into some semblance of order. Loose sheets poked from some of the volumes, and others were stacked open on top of each other. She carefully marked the important pages and made certain their notes were in order should any question arise as to how the results had been determined.

  As soon as they’d fetched all of the volumes to the area, she and Ken had plunged into his research books, studying obscure texts, comparing maps and writings, and making notes of their own.

  Ken was certain a particular grouping of broken columns belonged to the temple of the horsemen Castor and Pollux, and once a spring was located beside it, they were certain. The temple of Julius Caesar should be directly northeast. They went back through, checking and rechecking the readings and maps, and arrived at the same conclusion. Once the decision was made, Ken rushed away to start the excavation.

  Eleanor had spent the last hours alternating between walking among the workers to offer water and refreshment procured by Signore Celino and moving back to their research to see if there was possibly something she’d missed. She felt too nervous to sit for long and found herself pacing or hovering over the diggers, which she didn’t think they appreciated.

  The hours wore on, and the work slowed as the initial fervor died down.

  “Be careful not to break anything,” Bodkin reminded the diggers, picking his way through the piles of dirt. “You never know what might be historically significant.”

  “You’d think something as large as a temple would be easier to find,” Mr. Curtis said, accepting a sandwich of salami
on focaccia from Eleanor.

  Rosalie joined them, twirling her parasol and smiling prettily, as if they were attending a garden party. “Perhaps you could try over there.” She pointed to another section of the site.

  “No, it must be here,” Eleanor said. “Ken is sure of it.”

  Mr. Reid climbed from the hole he was digging and joined them, accepting a sandwich from Rosalie. “Evening is approaching,” he said. “Do we have any idea how deep we need to dig?”

  “Or what we’re looking for?” Mr. Darrington said, rubbing his sore palms.

  “Not precisely,” Eleanor answered. She feared the three were losing their momentum. She prayed they’d continue. Ken wanted this so desperately. “It may be just a foundation or a few bricks. We’ve no idea what is left of the building, if anything.”

  Lillian came toward them, sketchpad in hand. “Then, if nothing is left, what are they digging for?”

  “Well, hopefully something remains.” Eleanor offered a cup to Bodkin. “Some evidence that this is the right location. Please, just a bit longer—”

  “Eleanor!” Ken called from the other side of the mound. “Come quickly!”

  The group looked at one another, then they all hurried across the hilltop.

  The hole Ken had dug was the size of a large sofa and over five feet deep. He squatted down, tossed his shovel aside, and brushed loose dirt from a rock with his hand.

  “Ken?” Eleanor peered over the side. “What is it? What did you find?”

  He motioned her forward, grasping her waist and lowering her into the hole to join him. When he set her down, she held on to his arm to keep steady on the uneven ground. Beneath her fingers, she felt Ken shaking. “Just there.” He pointed to the rock.

  Eleanor bent closer, wondering exactly what she should be seeing. It appeared to be just a large, flat rock. She looked closer, then reached forward, running her fingers over the nearly invisible image carved into the block. A circle with eight rays shooting from it—a star. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Caesar’s comet,” Ken whispered. The comet had appeared during a festival honoring the deceased emperor and became a sign of his divinity—the very symbol that would have been carved on his temple.

  Eleanor’s heartbeat quickened. She looked up, meeting Ken’s expectant gaze.

  His eyes shone.

  “Ken, this is it. You found it.”

  He drew in a shaky breath, his smile wide. “I believe we did.”

  Two weeks later, Ken accepted the glass Bodkin offered and sat back into the soft chair, grateful for the small corner that offered some privacy at the crowded party. Harlan’s aunt, Mrs. Daines, had arrived in Rome a week earlier and taken a very elegant suite on the Via Gregoriana. Tonight, she was hosting a gathering, and as she was a close friend of Bodkin’s, Ken imagined some of the leading scholars in the city would be in attendance. A month ago, the prospect of socializing with such a group would have thrilled him, but tonight, there was only one person he looked forward to seeing. Harlan had requested that his friends, the Blakely sisters and their chaperone be invited, and Ken found himself anxiously watching the doorway as he had a few weeks earlier in the Aberlines’ ballroom.

  In the weeks since their day at the Forum, he’d only seen Eleanor twice. Once at church, and the other when he and his charges had paid a visit, though the young men and Bodkin had seen her and the Blakelys nearly every day. He’d been surprised at how his time had been monopolized, both at the Forum site and with callers who’d come to hear about his discovery. He missed her.

  He raised the glass to Bodkin in thanks, feeling a lump in his jacket—Eleanor’s notebook. In the commotion following the discovery of Caesar’s temple, she’d left it behind with the other books. He’d not meant to read the entire thing, but he had glanced at it in curiosity and found it riveting. Eleanor had a scholar’s mind. Her notes were organized. Questions she sought answers to led organically to further study, all of it meticulously documented. No wonder she’d so easily found the date of the Roman earthquake and her notes on Appian’s histories.

  But what had most fascinated him were her translations. Eleanor had a gift for languages that he’d rarely seen. He himself was considered an expert in Latin, but her grasp of the nuances of the language left his skills with much to be desired. He could only imagine her abilities in Greek were equally impressive.

  A strange paradox had taken place inside him as he’d read her studies. He felt impressed beyond words, pleased at all she’d accomplished on her own with her limited opportunities for education. But Eleanor was quite possibly more intelligent than he, and a small thread of jealousy accompanied this thought.

  Ken turned back to the conversation.

  “Woodman asked me about you,” Bodkin said.

  “Not Professor Miles Woodman? From the Oxford Department of Antiquities?” His chest tingled with excitement.

  “The very same.” Bodkin raised his own glass, nodding toward a man that Ken recognized as the famous dean, and took a drink. “He’s considering offering you a position.”

  In the weeks since the discovery at the Forum, Ken had received numerous speaking requests, as well as employment offers. But Oxford? His mouth went dry. “I’m flattered.”

  “I imagine you could go anywhere you choose now.” Bodkin smiled a genuine smile. This was a man who truly wished the best for people and was pleased for their good fortune. No wonder he was so well-liked.

  “I suppose—” Ken cut off his words when a man approached the seating area. He and Bodkin stood.

  “Signore Romano,” Bodkin said, holding his arms wide and smiling. “I am so pleased to see you.”

  Signore Romano gave a flourishing bow, complete with pointed toe. “Always a delight to see an old friend, Mr. Bodkin.” He turned toward Ken. “And do I have the pleasure of meeting Professor Russell Kendrick?”

  “None other, sir.” Bodkin held a hand toward Ken. “Allow me to introduce Signore Matteo Romano from the University of Naples.”

  Ken’s heartbeat quickened. “A pleasure.” He bowed. “You work closely with Giuseppe Fiorelli at the excavation of Pompeii, I believe.”

  “Sì. That is correct.” He motioned for the men to return to their seats and sat on a sofa across from them. “Professor, I will, as you English say, get right to the point, eh?” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “After hearing of your extraordinary discovery, Signore Fiorelli sent me to meet you and ask if you’d be interested in working on our projects at Pompeii and Herculaneum. Of course, it is not your homeland of England, but the university adheres to the highest standards of education. And one cannot find a more beautiful setting than Campania and the Amalfi Coast.”

  “I am honored,” Ken said. His mind was reeling. This was the very opportunity he’d wished for. “I think very highly of Signore Fiorelli, and of course the excavations are fascinating. I—”

  “No need to make a decision today,” Signore Romano said, holding up a hand. “I am certain you have many other offers, but we hope you will consider ours.”

  “I will,” Ken said.

  Bodkin grinned. “Pompeii, eh? I’ve been to the site. An amazing discovery as ever there was.”

  Signore Romano leaned back into the sofa, crossing a leg over the other. “You are corretta, Mr. Bodkin. It is magnifico. Possibly the most important discovery of our time. And we are searching far and wide for the best minds to study it and bring the ancient world to life.” He waved around his arms as he spoke. “Diggers we can train in a few hours, but scholars, they are more difficult to find.”

  Ken thought of Eleanor immediately. “I know a scholar,” he said. “An expert in Latin and Roman history.” He pulled Eleanor’s notebook from his coat.

  Bodkin’s brows shot up, but he did not say anything.

  Ken flipped through the pages until he found what he was searching for—an entry he’d marveled over: one page in Latin, and on the adjacent page, an unbelievably precise English t
ranslation. “See here. The understanding of the language goes beyond simple word-for-word recognition. The nuances and context—well, you can observe for yourself.”

  Signore Romano took the notebook, nodding as he read, impressed. He turned a page, then another. “Sì. This is exactly what we are looking for.”

  Ken felt a rush of energy. He leaned forward, gesturing to another entry. “And the organization, her meticulous notes and logical thought.”

  “Her?” Signore Romano looked up. He sighed and closed the book. “Professor, is this translator a woman?”

  “Yes. A highly intelligent woman. She—”

  Signore Romano held up a hand, shaking his head. “I don’t doubt she is very clever, but we are attempting to entice sponsors. For that, we must have an impeccable reputation. We cannot decrease the credibility of the program on an indulgence.”

  Ken felt sick. “But you saw her work.”

  “Sì. And if it were up to me . . .” He sighed. “But it is not. I work to keep our benefactors happy, and this would cause too many problems. It would not be taken seriously.” He rose, handing back the notebook.

  Ken stood as well.

  “Please consider our proposal, Professor. Signore Fiorelli will contact you.”

  “Yes, I will.” Ken spoke automatically, his mind no longer on what he was saying. “And thank you.”

  “And it is always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Bodkin.” Signore Romano bowed and departed.

  Ken sank back into the chair, discouragement hanging like a wet rug on his shoulders. He’d thought it would be the perfect solution. And now what? He sighed, feeling sorry for himself. He was developing feelings for Eleanor. In fact, he thought he might be in love with her. But if he remained in Italy and she returned to London . . . The thought of not seeing her again was unbearable. She could possibly find a teaching appointment somewhere in Italy, but not of the same caliber as employment for a major university. And she’d worked too hard to be relegated to a lesser position. He’d hoped if he had something to offer her, she might . . .