A Grand Tour (Timeless Victorian Collection Book 2) Page 10

  She nodded. “Understanding the reasoning behind it does not excuse my rudeness.”

  “Then I will accept your apology on one condition.”

  Miss Doyle tipped her head. “Condition?”

  “Well, two conditions actually.” He grinned. “No, make that three.”

  “Three conditions? That seems rather excessive.” Her expression softened.

  He took his hand from her arm and held up a finger. “First of all, you must accept my apology as well.”

  “You’ve no reason to apologize.”

  “These are my conditions, Miss Doyle.” Ken waggled his finger in reprimand, but he smiled to show he was teasing. He grew serious. “I apologize for not taking your concerns more seriously. I’ve spoken with my charges, and I will do better in my responsibility toward them and the young ladies they associate with.”

  She gave a small smile and a curt nod. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”

  Ken raised a second finger. “The next condition is that you and I become friends again. I have spent the past days worrying that you were angry with me and I wouldn’t have the opportunity to see you again.” He spoke lightly, but he hoped she could hear the truth in his words. He had missed her, missed their conversations and banter, missed the feeling of victory when he learned something new about her or when her eyes twinkled in a shy smile, exactly as they did this moment. The smile was accompanied by a pink color in her cheeks that was very attractive.

  “I should like that. To be friends.”

  “My friends call me Ken,” he said matter-of-factly, keeping an innocent face even though his bold words bordered on impudence.

  Her eyes went wide. “Is that the third condition?”

  He shook his head and raised a third finger. “The third condition is this: If you and I ever find ourselves at a ball again, I should really like to dance with you, Miss Doyle. Or may I call you Eleanor?”

  A blush exploded on her cheeks. This time, his words had been presumptuous, but the shyness in her smile had given him a surge of confidence, and he’d been unable to help himself.

  She looked down at her hands, then across the stadium, and back to a clump of grass, as if her gaze didn’t know where to settle. “Professor, I . . .”

  “Ken.” He grinned, feeling satisfied. He quite enjoying flustering the proper woman, but he knew he shouldn’t push her too far into discomfort. He offered his arm. “Tell me, friend, what is your impression of the Roman Colosseum?”

  “Magnificent. More than words or drawings can convey.” After a brief hesitation, she took his arm, and they continued in the same direction, toward the arrangement of stones.

  Bodkin and some of the young people were walking around the edge of the arena. Adrian sat beside Lillian, who was sketching something or other in her book. Reassuring himself that their charges were behaving, Ken continued the conversation. “I agree wholeheartedly,” he said. “This place, this city, is so steeped in history, sometimes I feel as though the very stones can talk.” He felt silly speaking so romantically, but he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable, and here, in this place, with this woman, it felt right.

  Eleanor looked up at him and smiled wistfully. “I feel that way, too. So many famous stories and important events happened in this very spot. But then, there were also regular people—parents, friends, children. And I want to know about them, as well.”

  He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. She understood perfectly.

  When they reached the stones, he saw they were indeed covered with inscriptions. Some contained just parts of carved letters while a few were filled with writing.

  An attempt had been made to put a long collection of words in order. He imagined the text must have, at one time, circled the stadium, declaring the supremacy of one emperor or another or proclaiming the latest Roman victory. He found a few completed words among the fragments. One stood out: invictissimi, meaning “never defeated,” a favorite among the Romans, and a date.

  “Fifth century,” he muttered. “During the reign of the corulers.”

  Eleanor crouched down, making notes in her book as she studied an inscribed block that was nearly complete, save for a broken corner.

  “Ah, Miss Doyle, you’ve found quite a treasure,” Bodkin said.

  Ken had been so intent upon the carvings, he hadn’t noticed Signore Celino and Bodkin approach.

  “Sì, this stone is very important,” the guide said, crossing himself. “It tells of the great tragedy that befell Christian martyrs under the reign of the emperors.”

  Eleanor frowned, looking at the man, then back at the stone. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if she’d changed her mind about speaking.

  Ken rolled his eyes. The stone most certainly said nothing of the kind. Roman stonecutters didn’t carve tragic tales that never happened. The stone likely told of an emperor’s latest conquest or praised a powerful senator who sponsored a winning fighter.

  The guide clicked his tongue, shaking his head sadly. “A pity, is it not, Miss Doyle?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said. “A pity.” She looked at him for a moment, then stood and moved away to another stone.

  “Oh, I think you may have upset her,” Bodkin said, his voice filled with concern. “Ladies can be sensitive about these things.”

  Ken didn’t think Eleanor had been upset by the story. She had seemed more bothered by the guide’s inaccuracies, but was it because she didn’t believe the stories of Christian martyrdom? Or had she read the tablet and been bothered by Signore Celino’s incorrect interpretation? He shook his head. It must be the first. Ken had never known a woman to understand Latin, so she couldn’t have read it. He joined her, speaking low so the others couldn’t hear.

  “Eleanor? What is wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing is wrong.”

  “You look upset.”

  “No, I’m not upset. Just a bit confused.” She gave an unconvincing smile and turned back to look at a different stone.

  Ken walked back to read the first tablet she’d been studying, finding it difficult to interpret. There was no punctuation or spaces between words, and the carver seemed to feel a need to conserve space by cramming as many letters as close together as possible. Ken concentrated, finding words he recognized and making a rough translation. He’d been correct in his initial assumption. The tablet made no mention of Christian martyrs. Signore Celino must have known exactly what tourists wished to hear and not have bothered to learn the actual translation.

  In his periphery, Ken saw Eleanor turning the pages of her notebook. She read for a moment, then looked back at the stone, frowning. He walked toward her, but she didn’t notice. She looked back through her notebook, turning the pages quickly, as if searching for something.

  “Eleanor?” he asked.

  She blew out a breath, brows pulled together tightly. Clearly, she was frustrated.

  “What is the matter, my dear?” Bodkin said, coming to stand beside her.

  She looked between them. “I . . .”

  “Go ahead, Miss Doyle.” The plump man patted her arm and gave an encouraging lift of his brows. “Tell us what is bothering you.”

  Eleanor took a deep breath and pointed to the engraving. “It says here that the patrician, Decius Marius Venantius Basilius, funded the repairs of the arena after a dreaded movement of the earth during the Theodoric reign. Does this refer to the great earthquake of 443? Because as I understand it, Valentinian III celebrated his twenty years of rule in 444. Theodoric the Great would not rule until eighty years later.”

  The three men stared at Eleanor Doyle. Ken’s mouth actually dropped open like an actor in a comedic performance.

  She flipped through the pages of her notebook. “Perhaps there was another great quake.”

  Bodkin stepped close and looked over her shoulder at the notes in her book, then down to the inscribed stone. “My dear, do you read Latin?” He sounded utterly flabbergasted, which was how Ken f
elt. Not only had she read the words on the inscription, she was fitting them into historical context.

  Eleanor nodded, looking like she’d been caught doing something illegal. “I do.”

  Bodkin waved Ken closer. “Is she correct?”

  Ken studied the inscription, running his fingers over the letters. He read the words and found it was just as she’d said—all of it. “She’s correct.” He looked up. “Eleanor, I had no idea.”

  She blushed. “You know my father, sir. Are you surprised he insisted I learn Latin?”

  Bodkin laughed. “Miss Doyle, what a delight. A woman who reads Latin. Capital. As far as your question, I’ve no idea about earthquakes or anything of the sort. And I imagine Signore Celino doesn’t either.”

  The guide shrugged apologetically.

  “But luckily,” Bodkin continued, “the expert on the matter is right here. The historic society often consults Ken about emperors and the workings of the Roman Republic. I’m sure he can answer any question you might have.”

  “Oh, I had no idea,” Eleanor said.

  Ken shrugged, feeling his own blush. “Well, I wouldn’t say any question.”

  “Come, sir, you’re far too modest.” Bodkin leaned toward Eleanor. “He’s writing the definitive work on Julius Caesar as we speak. Knows more about the man than Julius’s own mother.”

  Ken imagined Aurelia Cotta would take offense at the claim, but he didn’t correct his friend.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to your question, Eleanor,” Ken said. He looked toward his book-filled satchel. “But, if you’re interested in doing a little research, I imagine we could find out.”

  Eleanor shifted on the picnic blanket and turned a page of the old volume resting in her lap. She couldn’t remember enjoying a day more than this one. A breeze carried the scent of freshly turned earth, and birds chirped in the trees above. The group had set up a picnic luncheon on a shady patch of grass, and while the others ate and visited, she and Ken searched through his books for mention of a second Roman earthquake. She couldn’t have been more delighted in the conversation or the company.

  Over the years, she’d come to realize her father’s pleasure in a daughter’s accomplishments had been an anomaly. Men typically didn’t care for a woman’s thoughts on topics they considered out of her realm of concern. She’d learned to remain quiet instead of correcting an instructor, even when he was unquestionably wrong, and found her proficiency in ancient language to be a hindrance when it was discovered. The talents her father praised her for became a source of shame. Eleanor had been called unladylike or a bluestocking often enough that it was easier to feign ignorance.

  But today, that had all changed. Ken had been impressed with her skill, not threatened by it, and when they discussed ancient texts, he’d spoken to her as an equal, and she felt a swell of pride that had been absent since her father’s death.

  She sighed contentedly and pushed the heavy book from her lap. She’d been reading long enough. She looked around the partially excavated site to locate the other members of her party who had dispersed around the wide space while she’d been engrossed in the book. A short distance away, Mr. Darrington, Mr. Curtis, and Mr. Reid walked with Rosalie alongside a line of uneven columns.

  Eleanor stood and stretched, then walked to where Lillian sat beneath a tree, sketching a broken piece of statuary. Bodkin was reclining on the grass beside the younger girl, complimenting her artistic skill. His praises were so convincing that Eleanor wondered whether he was the kindest man on earth or simply a terrible critic of art. Bodkin moved to rise when she approached.

  “No.” Eleanor held out her hands. “Don’t get up. I’m looking for Ken. Do you know where he is?”

  Bodkin grunted as he pulled himself into a sitting position and squinted, looking over the hills of the site. “Can’t have gone far now, can he?”

  Eleanor gazed across the space as well, looking between broken columns, past muddy pits, and over rocky mounds. Since the unification of Italy a few decades earlier, the new government had turned its thoughts to preserving its ancient history, and in spite of protests, archaeological work had begun on the hill that was once home to the Imperial palace and the area below where the Forum had stood.

  “Is that him over there?” Bodkin pointed toward a distant figure in the center of the site.

  “I believe it is,” she said. She bid the pair farewell and crossed the uneven ground toward Ken, taking care not to disturb anything that may be important to the restoration of the ancient site.

  Ken held an open book, consulting it as he walked around a particular area in the Forum. When she drew near, she slowed and then stopped, waiting a small distance away, not wanting to disturb his concentration. He lifted his gaze from the book and looked around as if to get his bearings, then walked in a different direction, but eventually stopped, shook his head, and returned to the same area.

  Finally, Eleanor’s curiosity won out. “Looking for something?”

  Ken spun, his frown of concentration turning into a smile. “I suppose I’m just trying to figure out this map.” He nodded toward the book and held it toward her.

  She stepped beside him and looked closer. She recognized it right away. It was a copy of the Forma Urbis Romae, a stone map commissioned by Septimus Severus. Eleanor knew the stone carving had been severely damaged in the middle ages, and a large part of it was lost. This version depicted the original map, but it appeared someone had attempted to complete it. She wondered what drew Ken to this particular spot, and tried to find it on the map, but between the speculative images on the paper and the very few landmarks around them, fixing their location was difficult.

  She handed the book back to him. “I’m sorry. I’m a terrible map reader.”

  “You, Eleanor? I didn’t realize there was anything you did not do well.”

  She searched his face for mockery, but it appeared he was paying her a sincere compliment. Her heart warmed. “I also darn socks very poorly.”

  “Ah.” Ken shut the book with a snap. “You should have probably told me that sooner.” He winked. “That seems something a person should know right away when they begin a new acquaintance.”

  Eleanor wanted to laugh at his teasing, but ever since his words inside the Colosseum, she felt something different when he spoke to her. She didn’t know whether his way of speaking had changed or just her perception. His words felt more somehow—even the simple ones—and she didn’t quite understand the reason. It left her feeling unsettled and at the same time warm and dreamy. She fingered the strap of the reticule on her wrist, thinking of something to say in order to turn the conversation away from herself.

  “This entire day, you’ve not spoken once about Julius Caesar.” She pretended to be offended. “I was told you’re a leading expert on the topic.”

  Ken sat on a large block, stretching his legs in front of him. “What would you like to hear about him?”

  Eleanor settled onto the remains of a brick wall near him. “Why don’t we begin simply? What is your opinion of the man?”

  “I’ve studied Caesar for nearly a decade, so you can imagine my opinion can’t be summed up in a few simple sentences. Perhaps if you had a few hours . . .”

  “Then tell me your view on the classic question: Was Julius Caesar a hero or a villain?”

  He grinned. “I’d say the answer is extremely complicated.”

  Ken seemed to be enjoying himself, which she found odd. If he was such an expert on Julius Caesar, why was it so difficult to get him to speak about it? Perhaps he knew once he began, it would be difficult to stop.

  “What is your estimation, Eleanor? Hero or villain?”

  She raised a brow.

  “Ah, let me guess. You read Shakespeare’s rendition, were moved by Mark Anthony’s famous speech, and consider Julius Caesar to be the evilest of villains.”

  She nodded. “That is all true. I do think him a villain, and I have read Shakespeare’s play. But I
’ve also read Suetonius, Tacitus, and Plutarch.”

  “Plutarch.” Ken smiled, shaking his head. “I should have known Professor Doyle’s daughter reads ancient Greek as well as Latin.”

  She shrugged, though she felt flattered at the admiration in his voice. “That is neither here nor there.” She twisted around to face him. “The question concerns Julius Caesar, the murderous dictator who brought about the fall of the Roman Republic.” She spoke the words as a challenge.

  If Eleanor hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she’d have thought it impossible for Ken’s grin to grow any wider, and yet that’s exactly what happened.

  “All of that is true,” he said, looking like someone had just handed him a Christmas gift. “But you must understand him in the context of his time. He was an unparalleled military commander who treated his soldiers well and increased their pay. He created jobs, improved roads, and fought for the rights of the plebeians at a time when the government was mainly controlled by the wealthy, who gave little thought to the lower class.”

  “He started a civil war and sold millions into slavery,” Eleanor countered. “He seized power from a democratically elected senate and tried to make himself into a god.”

  Ken nodded. “All true. By today’s moral standards, he would be considered a homicidal monster, but he was a product of his time. The world then was ruthless, and violence was a political tool, and Caesar wielded it better than anyone.”

  “He overthrew his own country and declared himself dictator for life.” Eleanor crossed her arms.

  Ken nodded. “But Caesar didn’t attack Rome to gain personal wealth or power. He already had both. He did it to further the cause of the Populares, the party that largely supported the labor class, and to prevent the more conservative Gnaeus Pompey from taking power.” He moved his hands as he spoke, becoming more animated. “Julius Caesar was a champion of the people. A self-made man who was ferocious in battle, yet forgave his enemies.”

  “I agree with that,” Eleanor said. “But a tyrant should not be forgiven just because he lives in a world where tyranny is acceptable.”