“I know,” her sister muttered.
Caroline enfolded her in a hug. “Then let us say farewell. Know I shall be thinking of you.”
“And I you.”
But what precisely her sister would be thinking, Caroline did not care to contemplate.
A knock came at the door, revealing a footman. “Miss Hatherleigh, your mother wishes you to know the carriage is ready.”
Caroline nodded and then turned to her sister with a smile. “I shall see you in a few weeks.”
“Wonderful,” Cecilia replied, without a whit of enthusiasm.
Caroline shot her a narrow look then shrugged, sweeping from the room to bid her parents farewell. Verity, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen.
“We hope you have a pleasant journey.”
“Thank you, Mama, I’m sure I will.”
“Mary and John Coachman know what to do.”
Mary, Caroline’s maid, and Aynsley’s long-serving coachman—though Caroline was fairly sure his name was Timothy, not John—would provide sufficient chaperonage for the two-day journey.
Her mother clasped her in a light hug before quickly straightening, as if the display of emotion had occurred in a moment of weakness. “We shall see you in the spring.”
Caroline had to fight the flicker of resentment elicited by her mother’s words. She knew why she had to leave—any further association with Ned would be detrimental to her reputation—but it still seemed somewhat drastic and a mite unfair to be sent away. Still, she thought, lifting her chin, smile plastered on, she would simply view this as a brief aberration to her plans and regard this as an adventure. She scooped Mittens from a footman’s waiting arms and nodded.
“Goodbye.”
She was handed into the carriage, and after settling herself, she glanced back at the Palladian mansion that was Aynsley. Its long, imposing frontage—over four hundred feet she’d heard her father boast—glowed golden in the wintry sunshine, the façade speaking to the legacy of the family who had lived here for countless generations. She would return in just over seven weeks, and life would resume as before, and the season—her season to find a husband—would begin. Who knew? She might even have gained some tips from Grandmama on how to get the right man to propose when she finally met him.
The carriage turned out of the drive heading south. She smiled at Mary and squared her shoulders. Let the adventure begin.
Lyme Regis, Dorset
The cliffs towered over the surrounding landscape, menacing, yet promising so much. Above, the sky spat water droplets, remnants of last night’s storm that made this morning’s mission all the more urgent. He had to access the beach before the tide turned, and before the other fossil hunters arrived and scavenged the best finds.
Lyme Regis hugged the coast, protected from the southwesterly winds by the lee of the hill. It was a fascinating locale, where the wealthy came to breathe salt air and the poor tried their best to sell their exotic natural finds. The driver muttered to the horses as the hired cart creaked steadily down the long hill, the steepness of which had necessitated leaving his gig at the top. Ahead, he could see the Cobb, the harbor protected by the curving seawall extending into the English Channel, against which waves pounded endlessly. He drew in a salt-tinged breath, eyeing the dramatic scenery. Anticipation thrummed within his veins. Perhaps today would be the day of dramatic discovery.
Gideon glanced to his left, where the cemetery full of tilted mossy headstones clung precariously to the crumbling Church Cliffs. Beyond, perched the ominous craggy face of Black Ven, a place, so the locals had said, where bad things happened, where a misstep might plunge a man hundreds of yards to his death on the rocks below. But a place where one of the most remarkable relics from the ancient past had been unearthed after years of being locked in layers of shale and sand.
With such finds to be discovered, it was little wonder desperation led a man to do dangerous things. His lips twisted. He knew that only too well. On his previous visit, an encounter with a local had led to discussions of some of the more notorious characters who had visited in recent times. The old timer had nodded, then said in his thick Dorset burr, “Aye, it be said that they know this stretch so well that even when running ashore on blind nights they can tell the location from a handful of pebbles.”
Gideon couldn’t help but wonder at the truth of this. But years of geological study had revealed the variations of so many types of stones and mineral matter that he should not be so surprised. After all, the locals had long sought to gain from the interest their curios evoked. One such collector, a Captain Cury, was known as a confounded rogue, following others as they searched the beach for curiosities, then riding out to the Exeter-London turnpike to meet unsuspecting travelers with samples of “his” finds. His audacity and determined efforts to sell his inferior wares before visitors arrived in town—and had opportunity to see the markedly superior shells and strange stones of less brazen collectors—had made him most unpopular amongst fossilists and the good people of Lyme. He’d heard stories of another man, a Mr. Cruikshanks, who used to traverse the shoreline hunting for curios with a long pole that resembled a garden hoe. Such men, like so many of the other poor, depended on the sale of what the locals called “verteberries” in order to supplement their meager incomes, to keep themselves a few shillings beyond being forced to receive poor relief from the parish.
He felt a moment’s pang. This was why he never felt completely comfortable in searching the cliff shores at Lyme, knowing so many were dependent on selling the curios simply in order to have enough money to buy food or fuel to survive the chilly, damp Dorset winters. Gideon at least had a modest income, and would never have to go hungry, no matter how desperate matters reached. He would always be able to provide for Emma.
But still, the thirst for discovery—the thirst for understanding God’s world—spurred him on. Consumed his dreams. Energized his resources, like nothing else, save the rescue—
“Here we be, sir.”
Gideon nodded, instructed the driver to return in three hours, and forced his thoughts to his present surroundings with their remnants of long ago. After retrieving his equipment, he moved towards the shore and descended to the sand-strewn rocks. Here he began a slow sweep of the beach, carefully examining the stones and debris that had been pried loose from the cliff by last night’s winds and rains.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, his arms had grown heavy. Despite the storm’s promise, this morning’s venture felt like something of a failure, the best he’d managed to find was a few mollusk fragments of such poor quality he’d left them on the beach for some other soul to find and sell, rather than take them and deprive someone of the opportunity to possibly make some coin.
He trudged back to the cart, directing it back to the township, back to where the mouth of the River Lym fed into the sea. A bridge of cottages spanned the river mouth, and it was to one of these he directed the driver. The modest cottage had a table outside, upon which rested numbers of shells and stones, which went by the names of “John Dory’s bones” or “ladie fingers.” To the untrained eye, they simply looked pretty, but Gideon knew they contained the remains of ancient specimens.
Had any new discoveries been made? He nodded to the woman at the door, put his question to her, received a negative reply. His heart eased a fraction, then, recognizing his selfishness, he prayed to overcome his envy. He shouldn’t compare his efforts with others, but sometimes it was hard to remember God’s plans were good for him also. He sighed, looked up. A large and very beautiful ammonite, a “corremonius” in the local dialect, gleamed from the window, its elegant whorls like the spirals of a coiled serpent. No wonder locals called it a snake stone, had even believed it to hold magical power as a talisman against serpents, as well as a cure for blindness, impotence, and barrenness.
A long, pointed belemnite drew attention. Was it any surprise such oddly shaped stones were once said to be thunderbolts used by God, and were known c
olloquially as “Devil fingers,” or—by the more pious—“St. Peter’s fingers”? Ancient tradition held that powdered belemnites could cure the infections afflicting horses’ eyes, could even aid the scourge of intestinal worms. Fossils had always elicited a mix of superstition and science, a place where facts sometimes did battle with his faith. But truly, how could he not concur with those who believed that fossils were God’s inner ornament for the earth, much like God used flowers to adorn the earth’s exterior? Fossils were simply the remains of those creatures swept away in the Great Flood described in the book of Genesis, when “the fountains of the great deep” were broken up. The existence of such ancient relics certainly did not take God by surprise.
“Interested in such things, are ye?”
Gideon glanced at the older gentleman who’d sidled near and murmured affirmation.
The older man smiled a greasy smile and whispered, “They sell much too ’igh, ’ere. I knows where ye can get things for the merest trifle.”
“Do you?” Gideon said politely.
“If ye would be so good as to follow me, I’ll show ye—”
“Thank you, sir, but,” I really would prefer not to have my head split open as you lead me to a den of thieves, “I’m afraid I have an appointment at the Bridge Inn.” Well, his stomach did, anyway, he thought, glancing at his pocket-watch. “And look at that, right now, as it so happens.”
“Is that so?” came the flat response.
“Good day to you,” Gideon said, before turning and walking away at a smart clip. A smile flickered across his face. Really, it would be almost disappointing if he was not accosted by one so-called collector or another. This stretch of coast was lined with thieves and those who would be if the opportunity presented itself. But the poverty of so many was not reason enough to let them gull him so easily.
He reached the Bridge Inn and made his way to the taproom. The room was abuzz with conversation; every so often he heard mention of rocks or excavation or fossils. Something within eased. These were people whose language he spoke, among whom he could both understand and be understood.
He took his nuncheon and coffee to a large table that accommodated far more than the solitary gentleman seated at the end. “Excuse me, sir. Would you mind if I joined you? It appears the other tables are full.”
“Be my guest,” the bespectacled man said, his attention returning to his plate of ham and cheese.
“It’s rather busy at the moment,” Gideon offered, testing to see if the younger man would respond to friendly overtures.
“Amateurs hunting for fossils,” the man said with a sniff, before shoving in a fork of cheddar.
Gideon’s smile twisted. Would he be classified as such by this supercilious gentleman?
“Forgive me,” he said. “My name is Gideon Kirby.” Well, it would be so here, and likely remain so, unless he was fortunate enough to discover the fossil that would demand wider attention from those interested in matters of undergroundology.
He held out a hand which was finally taken and briefly shaken with a muttered, “Peter Wilmont.”
“Do you hunt for such things also?”
Wilmont dipped his head. The art of conversation did not appear to be this young man’s forte.
“Have you seen the creature called the ichthyosaurus?” Gideon tried again. Not that he was desperate for conversation, but in his hunt for fossils, it could be helpful to know what stretches of beach had already been searched by those who knew what to look for, as this young man clearly seemed to think he did.
Wilmont picked up his tankard, took a long swallow, and placed it back down on the table. “I’ve seen the ichthyosaurus many times,” the young man affirmed, first adjusting his eyeglasses and then removing them to polish the lenses. “Truly, it was one of the most wondrous things I have ever seen. Over seventeen feet, with that great skull with hundreds of teeth. One can only imagine what it must have been like to have first come across such a thing.”
“Indeed.”
On his previous visit to Lyme, Gideon had been fortunate enough to meet the remarkable young lady who, together with her brother, Joseph, had found the creature—and several other interesting fossils since. Mary Anning’s family might be poor, but they had a rich collection of fossils, and so he had made a point of visiting the young lady whose self-taught understanding of fossils would put to shame an Oxford-educated man three times her age. Truly, she was one of the most remarkable people he had ever had the good fortune to meet.
She had been polite, but not particularly enthused, and he had soon gathered that she was more concerned about the next great find than she was in answering many of his questions. No wonder. Not if it was true that the price she had been paid for the ichthyosaurus had been a fraction of the amount paid when the buyer resold it to Mr. Bullock, that famous London collector with his Museum of Natural Curiosities at 22 Piccadilly.
“I gather you have seen it also.”
“Yes.”
“I have heard whispers that William Bullock plans to sell it to the British Museum. Now that is a far more appropriate place for such a fine specimen to reside, where it can be studied at length by those who are truly interested in understanding these matters, rather than gaped at by the illiterate masses.”
Gideon swirled the dregs of his coffee. “Do you truly consider that those less fortunate in their attainment of education would not understand such things? Miss Anning herself is widely regarded as having knowledge far superior to anything most men may ascribe to. And this despite her frank acknowledgment that she received virtually no schooling.”
“Yes, well,” the younger man blustered. “That is different.”
“She certainly has a thirst for knowledge that must rival my own. And yours, too, I imagine.”
Wilmont made a noise somewhat noncommittal.
“All people deserve a chance to get to know something more about this marvelous world we live in, and if that be in a museum for the masses then surely that is good. I believe it would be a sorry thing if all those considered illiterate were not encouraged to marvel at God’s wondrous creation.”
“Now you begin to sound like my cousin. He’s always going on about this amazing world we live in and how we should honor its Creator. I have no patience for such things.”
“You do not believe finding fossils adds to our understanding of creation?”
“I consider myself a man of science, and do not care to consider that which can neither be observed nor measured through scientific ways and means.”
Gideon swallowed a smile. The young man’s fervor for scientific discovery put him in mind of his own somewhat naïve approach when his interest had first been piqued. A rare family trip to the seaside had seen the collection of shells, one of which held a particularly unusual and intricate structure, something he later learned was not a shell but the remains of an ammonite, thought by some scandalous men of science to predate Adam and Eve. Father had been horrified, decrying that interest in such matters was scarcely befitting the son of a minister, and hinting darkly that he might withdraw his support for Gideon’s studies of natural sciences and insist he be sent instead to study theology at Cambridge. It was only his siblings’ support that had swayed Father; chiefly James, to whom Gideon still counted himself firmly indebted.
“Your cousin sounds an intelligent man,” Gideon said.
“Well, I cannot complain, I suppose. He has funded me quite generously these past years, and I have been able to find some interesting ammonites to add to my collection.”
As he talked about his time in Europe, and his opportunities to examine recent specimens, and even hear the great Cuvier lecture in Paris, Gideon fought pangs of envy. While he was thankful for the potential of funding from a rich patron, such patronage would also bring obligation, with the expectation that any finds would be presented to him. Gideon was scarcely in the position of being able to fund a personal collection as this young man apparently was.
�
�And who is your cousin?”
“Lord Winthrop.”
He sat back as Wilmont continued sharing, oblivious to the clashing emotions his words had provoked within Gideon’s chest. To learn the floppy haired young scientist was also the cousin of one of England’s wealthiest men, Lord Jonathan Winthrop, was one thing. Word of Lord Winthrop’s philanthropy had reached even Gideon’s ears, and the connections one might make through such an impressive man could be most beneficial. But then he discovered the young man was also in proud possession of a considerable estate in Wiltshire known as Avebury, albeit with no intention to return there soon. “For this fuels my passion as nothing else has.”
Gideon nodded and soon made his excuses, seeking out the great stone seawall alongside the Cobb as envy continued prickling within. He walked the long stretch of breakwater, thinking, praying, as waves crashed beneath him and droplets sprayed across his face. How nice it would be to be financed and carefree, to know that one day an extensive estate awaited him, that he wasn’t burdened with the constant fear of discovery. That he would be free to follow his passions, to follow his heart.
His fingers clenched. Unlike some.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saltings, Devon
“GRANDMAMA. HOW LOVELY to see you.” Caroline tried to inject warmth into her voice, but really, given her grandmother’s decided look of annoyance upon Caroline’s arrival, she could understand why Mama had chosen not to accompany her to Devon.
Her grandmother received the peck Caroline bestowed on her cheek, her familiar scent of lavender lifting from the cool, papery skin.
“Caroline.” Her name was said in the same tone someone might state the month, with nothing in voice or face to suggest her grandmother took any pleasure in Caroline’s arrival. “You remember Miss McNell, don’t you?” She waved an indifferent hand at the gray-haired lady seated in the other chair, her arms filled with a white-furred cat.
A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh Page 4