“Perhaps it was your parents.”
She shook her head with surprising vigor. “Nay, they both deny it. No one sleeps harder than my father. I believe we’ve got a ghost or two haunting the halls. The sounds started several weeks before you arrived. I fear they’re a bad sign of what’s to come.”
“Miss Whittle,” I gentled my voice, wishing to set at ease the daughter of the woman who had offered a quaking boy similar comfort. “I shall investigate the abbey today, and if I find anything ominous, rest assured, I will not let it stay.”
Her wobbling smile brought one of my own. Before the conversation could turn to spirits, I hobbled back to my chamber as quickly as I could, where the desk awaited—still cluttered with decanters half filled with the brandy my uncle had favored.
I rummaged through disorganized papers and odds and ends in hopes of finding something to satisfy Mr. Talbot’s demand to rectify the estate’s finances. At last, I stumbled upon some records and several small leather-bound books. After flipping open the cover of the first, I suspected I viewed my uncle’s handwriting.
1798
My brother begged me to leave for London and abandon this godforsaken land. Our mutual friend, Cunnington, assures me that the list of Covent Garden ladies contains plenty of pocket Venuses to try. The gents are itching to see the lasses and judge for themselves which one is the prettiest. After Randall has sampled what he may, he claims he shall find the nearest club and enjoy a good bet, though I daresay we seem to have the most terminable luck of late. I suspect I won’t be welcome at the faro table much longer.
I slammed the diary shut. Here lay my family’s disgrace—gaming hells and Covent Garden trysts. My father and uncle, so alike in temperament and vice, had lived unchecked. While my father had married, my uncle remained alone, too stubborn to settle down. No one and nothing had curbed their selfish inclinations. Nothing of value remained to be read within this diary.
Had my pious mother not taken me far from the abbey, I might have followed the same path with such men as my guides. I remembered her agony in trying to cling to respectability, even in genteel poverty. Ignoring the diary, I reached for a linen-covered book.
A cruel voice—or a memory of it—whispered in my mind, raising the hackles along my neck.
Are you sure Rafe is even my son?
I shook my head to clear my thoughts and opened the book.The estate records, though less sensational, still brought a staggering blow to my chest. The entries, like the crumpled papers stuffed into drawers, detailed a series of income reports and mounting debts, all jumbled together. It was only in the final years that I noticed any attempts at remedy, marked by my uncle’s scribbled notes proposing the purchase of a cider press and a plan to reinvigorate the valley’s cider trade. But those efforts had come too late.
An hour had passed while I performed a series of rough calculations. With an audit in only four months, how could I demonstrate any progress? If I could not make a go of it, the Crown would absorb the estate and give it to another lord. I would be like any soldier cast off from duty with not a coin in my pocket.
At last, I shoved the records away, mulling over what my barrister and Mr. Whittle had shared. As I descended the once-grand staircase lined with paintings, the gilt frames swathed in dust, I calculated the value of each item. Why not sell the art?
At the foot of the stairs, I pushed open the large entrance doors and stepped into the outdoors. The air was thick with the scent of overgrown vegetation. Stone pathways led to alcoves where monks might have sought solitude for prayer and reflection. Such irony, considering the sins of the Hawthorn men.
My uncle had left most of the buildings untouched, with no changes since the Elizabethan exterior was added to the abbey. A slow walk, hampered by my leg, brought me to a brewery with a freshly thatched roof—the only recent repair. Inside, however, all progress had halted with the old man’s death.
Beyond the brewery, a few moldering workshops stood forgotten. Finally, I returned to the once-majestic stables and barns near the courtyard. The damp smell of earth and the rustle of leaves filled the air as Mr. Whittle stepped out with another man, both striding toward me with urgency.
Bits of hay covered Mr. Whittle’s pants and boots. Apparently, the staff shared duties at the abbey, ranging from cook to maid, to butler and stable hand.
“My lord, may I introduce your steward, Mr. Spencer. He has a concern, if you’ll give him but a moment.”
Mr. Spencer was a small man with a long nose and hunched posture. He eyed me with as much curiosity as I eyed him.
The steward finally bowed. “Forgive me for intruding at such an hour, but I’ve encroachers on our property, and the matter cannot wait.”
“Tell them to leave,” I replied curtly.
“They won’t, my lord. Stubborn chits claim they have the right toyourfield.”
Within moments, I had mounted Chaucer and was delighted to have my faithful companion with me again. The other men found two workhorses in the stables, where they had been left with some old harnesses and equipment. After quickly saddling them, they joined me.
I followed Mr. Spencer’s lead as he guided us away from the courtyard heading west, past the neat rows of trees. The apple orchard promised a fall harvest, and the two hundred sheep would provide wool come May.
Mr. Whittle noticed my interest in the orchard. He drew up his horse beside mine, his cheeks nearly as rosy as his daughter’s. “Those trees will produce fruit soon enough come fall and bring a fair price. All that you view to the northeast belongs to you.”
My moment of triumph was soon ruined when Mr. Spencer swore loudly and nudged his horse away from mine. “Blasted neighbors. See how boldly they’ve stepped onto our land again?”
I shielded a hand over my eyes, straining to see. Two slender forms appeared in the field next to the apple trees. One figure stood, while the other kneeled on the ground.
“Who borders our land?”
The steward scowled. “Mr. Perry. He’s a stubborn sort. Wouldn’t sell to the former lord, but somehow he refuses to budge even when crops disappoint.” Then he added, “Some of the newer farmers in the vicinity have been pushing their luck, moving their fences bit by bit. They assume our neglected fields are fair game.”
