The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

He looked up at her, his dark eyes even darker now with excitement. There was no indolent, world-weary nobleman in his look now. Lord Beecham was fascinated, he was exhilarated. He was, in short, thrilled to his toes.

“I’ve found it. I’m sure of it. Look, Helen, just look, and tell me if you don’t think this is it.”

She looked over his shoulder. She hummed while studying the script. “I think so,” she said. “See that strange-looking figure that is repeated many times? It’s identical. What is the language?”

“It’s called Pahlavi. The alphabet developed from the Aramaic, which is why it looked so similar. Pahlavi was the writing system of the Persians around the beginning of the second century B.C. It lasted until the advent of Islam toward the seventh century A.D. The Avesta—that’s the Zoroastrian sacred book—is written in a form of Pahlavi called Avestan. Oh, God, Helen, this is just amazing. To find something like this—” He broke off, gave her a big grin, and clasped her around the waist. He lifted her over his head and swung her around. “We found it. Imagine: Pahlavi, a language so old that it has long been gone from this earth. Just to say the word makes me want to laugh and shout. Think about it: someone actually wrote the leather scroll more than a thousand years ago and we have it here with us, today, in modern times.”

He let her down, kissed her mouth, then immediately released her. He was soon bending over the text before him.

She stared at him for a moment, then looked down at the book with the strange writing that was surely identical to the writing on the leather scroll. He was talking to himself as he trailed his long fingers lovingly over the words.

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Can you translate our leather scroll?”

“I’m going to try my damnedest. It will be difficult, very difficult, because it was the Pahlavi custom to use Aramaic words to represent Pahlavi words. So take our word “king.” It’s shah in Pahlavi, but it’s spelled exactly like the Aramaic word malka. And the thing is, you have to read the Aramaic word and translate it instantly into Pahlavi, and read it as shah. So you’re always having to go back and forth in your mind to find the right words. It makes it very difficult to translate, much less simply read. But I can do it, Helen. Given enough time, I can translate the leather scroll.”

He turned, grinning from ear to ear. “What’s wrong?”

“What if the leather scroll has nothing at all to do with the lamp?”

“Come, Helen, you always knew that was only a remote possibility, despite that you found it on the east coast of England. Why should it? But don’t despair just yet. The fact of the matter is that we know the lamp came originally from the Holy Land. We are in roughly the right geographical area. Whatever it says, it will be fascinating, an incredible find, and you, Helen, you are the one who found it and gave it to the world. When it finally comes out, I can imagine scholars from all over Europe coming here to see it.” He rubbed his hands together, gave her a vague pat on the shoulder, and looked down once again at the parchment pages.

“But why would a Pahlavi scroll be buried in an iron cask in a cave on the east coast of England? If it was brought here by the Romans when they invaded England, why would it not be written in Latin?”

“I don’t know, but we will find out. Don’t worry. Your partner is an able fellow.”

They spent the next two hours searching for more manuscripts that would help Spenser translate the leather scroll. “There,” he said at last, rising and brushing his dusty hands on his riding breeches. “We’ve got three sources. It is more than I expected to find. It will do.”

It was late afternoon when they left the lovely mellow peach brick vicarage, set just behind the old church amid a beautiful wild garden. There were three ladies having tea with the vicar. “The poor man,” Helen said in a low voice. “He is mercilessly hunted. His poor wife died just thirteen months ago, around the same time as his brother and your mentor, Sir Giles Gilliam.”

“I would say that vicar Gilliam is enjoying himself immensely.”

Lord Beecham didn’t lose any more of his guineas to Lord Prith at whist that evening because immediately after dinner Helen told her father that Spenser was her partner and she needed him.

Lord Prith said only, “I understand he is your partner in this lamp business, Nell, but the dear fellow is such an excellent loser at whist.”

“You can filch his guineas when he is of no more use to me, Father.”

“Ha,” said Lord Beecham, but his step was energetic, excitement rippling through him. He couldn’t wait. They’d had only a few moments when they’d arrived back at Shugborough Hall to look at the leather scroll before changing for dinner. They had looked just long enough to be absolutely certain that the scroll was written in Pahlavi.

When Helen left him at eleven o’clock that evening, he was still hunched over the manuscript, sometimes writing, sometimes cursing, sometimes humming with pleasure. She doubted that he had even heard her close the door.

She fell asleep immediately and dreamed she was holding a lamp tightly against her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She squeezed the lamp harder. Suddenly a strange thing happened. The lamp became a man, a large man who was smiling down at her even while he caressed her flesh. The man was Spenser.

She roared upright in her bed, her breath whooshing out. Oh, goodness, she thought. Every detail of the previous afternoon stood out stark and magnificent in her mind. She was shaking with the power of all those details. She swung her legs over the side of her bed.

It was one o’clock in the morning when she slipped into her study to see Lord Be

echam fast asleep, his head on the desktop, not an inch from the leather scroll, the three manuscripts from Vicar Gilliam’s covering the remainder of the desk.

A candle was nearly gutted at his elbow.

There were pages on the floor beside the desk. She went down on her knees and picked up the top sheet. Written in his strong hand was:

From King Faval to his . . ? . . in Alexandria .... .. ? .. a holy man sought to secure my soul for his master . . ? . . the lamp is not real, it is from the other . . ? . . is it a gift from God or the devil? . . . he died screaming blasphemies, he cursed me for his end but he killed himself . . .

“Helen, why are you crying?”

“It is the lamp, Spenser, the manuscript is about the lamp. I’m crying because I’m so happy. It is good or evil? It isn’t real, it is from the other. . . . Oh, goodness, look at all you have accomplished.”