His challenge had warmed me... and yet his last comment chilled me simultaneously.
The front door clicked softly, arresting my attention from gathering wool. I laid down the quill just as Father tiptoed down the hall, appearing wanner than he had in some time. He did not pause to see me in the shadows with only the candlelight to illuminate my desk. A sigh escaped him as he shrugged out of his coat. Something like a muttered prayer.
Swallowing my disappointment, I let him shuffle past without calling his name. He was weary of conversation, no doubt, from visiting the parishioners. Earlier this week, he had repaired Mrs.Eacher’s thatched roof. Then he stayed by the bedside of an ill Mr. Claven, who lay near death’s door.
Fever had taken hold of the village again as spring thawed.
I would not worry him with my mounting concerns over my brother. Instead, I resolved to do something about it myself. Taking the jar of ink and a quill, I set out to finish my stack of letters in the hopes of finding Daniel, starting with the Secretary of the Admiralty.
5:Rafe
Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.
LORD BYRON
Morning pierced the slit between the faded velvet curtains, a blade of light cutting through the gloom after the storm. I blinked, still bleary from dreams of rearing horses and the screams of men in battle. A groan escaped me. My first day at Hawthorn Abbey.
For a moment, I lay still, the lumpy bed foreign after nights spent within dubious inns. My uncle’s room, once elegant, was now dust-covered and threadbare. The Jacobean chair by the fireplace seemed to hold the weight of his lonely nights.
I flung aside the covers, keeping my gaze averted from the glass decanters pushed against the desk—a reminder of the Hawthorn vices that had plagued the family for generations. Did no one clean my uncle’s room?
Correction, my room.
The thought of ownership brought no comfort as I took in the decay—cobwebs draped across the vaulted ceiling and heavy beams, wood panels buckling beneath their walnut stain. Pain flared in my calf as I swung out of bed. I paused, rubbing the ache, and a knock sounded at the door, followed by Whittle’s overly cheerful voice.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but would you like breakfast in your room or the solar?”
My stomach rumbled in answer.
“Solar,” I grunted. The flesh surrounding the scar tissue of the bullet wound throbbed as my feet met the cold floor.
“Very good, sir. Shall I attend to you in any other way?”
“No, thank you, Whittle.” I rose, leaning against the bedpost. Blasted injury. I had pushed myself during the journey to arrive as soon as possible and now suffered the consequences. I gritted my teeth. Work remained. And work had always proved an efficient distraction from the turbulent thoughts within my head. Or any discomfort in my body.
Dressing proved agonizing, but I managed well enough on my own, at least until I reached for my boots, thankfully cleaned of the splattered mud the night before. Jamming my swollen leg into the confines of the leather boot brought out a low moan.
By the time I descended the stairs and entered the solar, a simple breakfast waited—sausages, eggs, and tea—while the fire crackled in the hearth. Mr. Whittle’s daughter, Lucy, entered the solar with a fresh pot of tea, her wide smile in place. Her golden hair was carefully curled today, but the image of the red-haired sprite from the day before lingered in my mind. Lucy curtsied, teapot in hand. I raised my hand, declining more tea.
“My thanks to the cook, but I am quite finished,” I said, hoping to ease the look of dismay from her face.
“’Tis no trouble at all,” she gushed as she clutched the pot.
I rose from my chair in haste to escape and hissed as a stab of pain spiked once again through my leg.
“My lord, your leg. Would you like one of my herbal remedies? Old lady Gains swears by my remedies, she does! Says there’s nothing better than my devil’s dung.” She blushed as soon as the words escaped her. “Pardon my language and all.”
I had no desire to try her sulfurous devil’s dung. “I’ll manage. Thank you.”
“Sir, if I may...”
I halted.
She gripped the teapot. “Begging your pardon, but did you hear the strange sounds in the hall last night?”
“No.” Other than my nightmares, which I had no intention of ever admitting. “What sounds, exactly?”
Her cheeks lost some of their rosy hue. “I swore I heard someone creeping past the servant quarters. Feet shuffling and the squeak of a floorboard. I shook so much, I got up and locked the door to my room.”
