"Indeed?" Uncle Seymour clutched his goblet with the same vigor one of their ancestors' may have clutched a battle axe.
"The estate is sitting on potentially invaluable history."
"It's a grand estate," Uncle Seymour said dryly, "of course history is attached to it."
"But not every grand estate has history that could change the way we think about the Romans."
"They've been dead for centuries."
"No."
"No?" Uncle Seymour raised an eyebrow, and a condescending smile appeared on his face.
"I mean-" Fiona's tongue thickened, and the temperature of the room seemed to soar. Her heart pounded in her chest, the tempo harder and more rapid than any she was accustomed with.
This was when she was supposed to apologize. This was when every rule of convention and etiquette books told her she should excuse herself and ask for forgiveness for her foolishness.
The man was her uncle, and that fact alone should necessitate her respect. He was older, and should be wiser, and he was a baronet. He possessed wealth, where Fiona possessed none. And one day, Uncle Seymour would be moving into Cloudbridge Castle, and Fiona would be spending every day and every evening with him, unless he decided it more fitting to send her off to be a governess somewhere, if she didn't move in with her younger sister.
And yet Fiona could not hold her tongue and did not even think her inability bad. "Surely you've heard of the plans for a British Museum?"
"I heard it was bloody controversial," Uncle Seymour said.
"And yet we're going to have one, for the public is indeed deeply interested in the ancient Greek sculpture that once were part of a great Parthenon."
"Perhaps . . ."
"Surely you must know that Lord Mulbourne would be completely enthusiastic. He's a respected art critic. Why, he would find the finding extraordinarily valuable!"
"Have you discussed this with him?" Uncle Seymour asked.
"No . . ." Fiona sighed. "But I'm sure he would agree that not digging up the land would be a crime. There's so much of value that could be underneath it. Items that would explain how a whole culture lived over here. We owe so much to the Romans. I'm not asking you to tear up the house. Only for permission to remove some trees that could be replanted somewhere else."
"I'm not sure I've ever heard you say so much," Cecil said. "That's fascinating."
"Here, here." Percival grinned and clinked glasses with Grandmother.
Aunt Lavinia shifted in her chair, and Uncle Seymour sent Fiona a thundering glance that might once have affected her, but didn't now.
Uncle Seymour exhaled. "Perhaps you're right and even members of the ton might find some amusement in learning about these people's antics, but I still cannot believe that digging around in the dirt is a respectable pastime for a lady. The only person I know who has done anything similar is Napoleon in Egypt. And my dear niece, I'm sure you understand how difficult it is to support something that that tiny Corsican ruffian might have appreciated."
She stared at him. He'd been disapproving, she'd always expected that, but he hadn't utterly dismissed her. He'd listened.
She relaxed her shoulders. "Thomas Jefferson also has done archaeological work."
"Colonist." Aunt Lavinia shrugged.
"Former colonist," Percival corrected.
"That's not in the man's favor." Uncle Seymour shook his whole head with such vigor that his carefully coiffed hair became frazzled.
The man's valet would soon be added to the list of people disappointed in Fiona.
She sighed. "But you will consider the project?"
"Absolutely not. I will not condone any such venture. Digging up the apple orchard, indeed."
"But there might be treasures-"
Uncle Seymour shook his head. "The past is the past, Fiona. Better to look toward the future. Just like our country is doing. We're the greatest country in the world, with the fastest growing innovations. It's a great time to be British, my dear. No need to think about the past. Certainly not about some long-dead Italians."
Fiona's shoulders slumped. It would have been so wonderful, so amazing if Uncle Seymour had truly seen fit to agree to the project.
The clang and clatter of knives and forks being scraped over the plates pulled her away from her musings. She bit into the fish. Each flake was dry, despite Cook's liberal use of buttery sauce to embellish it.
"Did you see the Elysian marbles?" Cecil asked.
Fiona shook her head. They'd been brought over to London with much fanfare, but Fiona hadn't received an invitation to see them.
"Good thing then," Aunt Lavinia said. "Garish barbaric pieces of stone."
"Beautiful carvings of stone," Percival said.
Uncle Seymour shrugged. "Don't see what all the fuss was about. It was a crime that some of the critics reviewed it so highly. An absolute crime."
"Some of the Greeks said that it was a crime that they were hauled from the country," Percival said.
"Typical thing for the Greeks to say. Still whining now, even though we've just saved Europe from ruin." Uncle Seymour shook his head. "The country has limited its accomplishments to ordinary things for the past two thousand years."
Fiona glanced at Percival, who retained a polite smile, though his face was becoming distinctly more flushed.
Uncle Seymour shook his head firmly and then directed his gaze to Percival. "It's a wonder that you're going to marry this woman."
Percival set his fork down and narrowed his eyes. "I trust you will not insult my fiancée further."
"Well, I-er," Uncle Seymour stumbled over his words, unaccustomed to having to defend himself.
Fiona smiled. And then her heart became heavy.
This amazing man was here, declaring to all her family his place as her fiancé, and none of it was true. Not in the least.
For as charming as he might be, defending her to her relatives, he was no more hers than a vision was. Less hers in fact, for a vision she could call upon from time to time in her mind. When Percival left, it would be forever, and she'd need to spend the rest of her life explaining to her family how she'd let a magnificent man like him amble away, without admitting that she'd never been able to have him in the first place.
The necessity of the project soared. The apple orchard belonged to Uncle Seymour, and the man did not want it dug up, even though he'd never expressed a passionate partiality for apples before.
Once Grandmother died, Uncle Seymour and his wife would move in. She'd been imagining she would be allowed to spend her life occupied with the recording of the objects she discovered in the apple orchard. She'd allowed herself to daydream that she might research the Romans in Britain, in her wilder dreams even contributing papers on the subject, just like a man might do.
But Uncle Seymour's opinion had been firm. Her only hope of swaying him now was Lord Mulbourne, and Madeline was not inclined to be agreeable to anything concerning her. If only the baron did not occupy himself so much in London.
The man was an expert in art, unlike his wife, who seemed to consider herself only an expert in fashion, though she was also unusually gifted in putting other people down, an impressive trait in the gossipy world of the ton.
"Come now, eat up!" Uncle Seymour said.
Fiona gazed down at her plate. At some point the footman must have changed it. Dark meat slathered in gravy perched in the center of the plate.
"Aren't Rosamund and her new husband supposed to take you to Harrogate tomorrow?" Grandmother sipped her drink and changed the subject.
"Oh, I despise Harrogate," Fiona said.
"Pity," Grandmother said. "She and her husband are planning to arrive here shortly after dawn."
"It's on the way. They can go without me." Fiona shrugged. She wouldn't give Percival an opportunity to escape. The man seemed far too intrigued by the conversation.
The room was silent. Finally, Percival cleared his throat. "Now tell me, who is Rosamund?"
Fiona's heart sped, and her mind raced for an excuse for her supposed fiancé's question.
"Her sister." Uncle Seymour set his knife down and fixed steely eyes on Percival. "How curious you do not know the name of her only sibling."
Fiona forced a laugh. "Our romance was very quick, and he's never met her."
"Ah, yes. That Rosamund. I've heard many tales of them. Playing with dolls. Having tea parties outside. And going to Harrogate." A smile flickered across Percival's face as he said the last word, and his eyes gleamed.