Page 121 of A Rare Find

“Not without the rest of us,” protested Craven Braybrooke. “It’s the object of the Society to investigate all the remains of antiquity, and this is our very first chance to explore a heathen camp.” His pale eyes burned. “Think of the armor.”

“As secretary, I must record the excavation,” said Mr. Incledon.

“You’ll need illustrations and engravings,” said Stephen Pettigrew.

“We should convene a special meeting of the council at Marsden Hall,” said Hudson Roach. “With your permission, Marsden, of course.”

“You forget I am not on the council.” Papa’s voice was waspish.

“Easily remedied.” Hudson Roach smiled, unperturbed. “We’ll take a ballot. Who would say nay? My God, a Danish camp!”

Elfreda cleared her throat. Her heart thudded in her ears. “And myself?”

“You wish to attend the meeting?” Now Roach was less certain. “It’s unprecedented, but…” He blinked rapidly, tapping his money-horn in time, then nodded. “Just this once, given that it’s a special meeting, convened under special circumstances, in which you played a special role…I don’t foresee any objections.”

He hadn’t even understood what she’d been asking. It was inconceivable—her name on a ballot.

“I will not attend.” The Barrow Prince shrugged his broad shoulders. “As I told you all this morning, I’ve been called away.”

“Deuced mysterious,” grumbled Simon Sykes. “You could tell us the reason.”

The Barrow Prince ignored him. “If you have ever an interest in joining one of my excursions,” he said, turning his hard gaze on Elfreda, “know that I am honored to receive you.”

“My thanks.” Papa tipped his head with amused condescension, intercepting both gaze and invitation. “But I will be some time occupied with my own findings. Speaking of which—” He glanced at the coins on the table, and then up at Elfreda.

“Child,” he said, “bring me my spectacles. I must have left them in my other coat. A maid will show you to my chamber.” He put his finger on a coin and slid it toward Mr. Incledon. “What do you make of this one?”

Elfreda walked out of the drawing room. She walked out of the house. She walked across the lawn to the nearest tree and put her hand on it.

Was she going to cry? Laugh? Something was building in her chest. And she did laugh because the something felt very much like a howl.

All her life, she’d wanted to belong to the Albion Society, badly, for the practical benefits. As a Fellow, she could attend meetings, see exhibitions, hear lectures, participate in excavations, send her own papers to be printed in Antique Monuments.

She’d wanted membership, too, for what it signified. As a Fellow, she would exist, finally, as an archaeologist, on paper, and in the eyes of the world.

That dream had died back there in the drawing room.

She wasn’t a Fellow. She wasn’t ever going to be a Fellow.

Oddly, she didn’t feel devastated. She felt…unfettered. Her new dream would have nothing to do with those men. None of them got to define her, not even Papa.

Georgie had said as much that day at St. Alcmund’s.

Georgie believed in her.

Her sisters believed in her.

Her grandmother believed in her.

She believed in her.

She was laughing, and she was crying. She pushed off the tree and went farther from the house, into the sun. The fresh air filled her lungs, more and more of it. Laughing, crying—it wasn’t enough. She was going to howl. There was nothing else for it. The ground seemed to shake beneath her feet.

It took her a moment to realize.

Hoofbeats.

Hoofbeats were drumming the earth. A rider was galloping toward her up the drive, a rider astride a black hunter, skirts hiked up, slim legs gripping the horse’s sides.