Abigail cried out, but desperation propelled me forward to follow the new viscount. I had no trouble keeping up with his uneven stride as he reached the great onyx horse, who waited patiently. I withheld a shiver as I approached. I’d hated horses since that awful accident with my brother.
As Lord Hawthorn swung himself into the saddle, whatever pity I might have felt for his injury dissipated at the coldness in his manner.
“Please, sir, imagine the accolades and national interest you would achieve!”
He leaned over, his saddle creaking, affording me a view of his eyes. Not the hue of ebony as I had assumed last twilight, but polished mahogany gleaming in the sunlight, and just as hard. Each word was enunciated with exaggerated care.
“Miss Littleton, I do not want acclaim. Nor do I want my land crawling with greedy men. I want to—how is it you so delicatelyput it?—be an improvement and tend to my community’s needs. I suggest you stay on your side of the fence from hence forth.”
With that curt answer, he bent low and muttered a curse, then urged his horse to gallop. Speechless, I could only gape at his flight and flair for dramatics.
“A vicar’s daughter ought to be visiting the sick.” Mr. Whittle shook his head, tsk-tsking and drawing my attention away from the lord. “She ought to be in service to her community, not running around chasing after buried rubble and childish notions.” He grabbed his reins and tried to place his foot in the stirrup, albeit far less gracefully than his lord had done only moments before. The bay horse edged forward, leaving him to hop with it. He finally swung himself onto the saddle with a loud plunk as Mr. Spencer followed suit on the other horse.
Mr. Whittle tipped his hat, his mouth curved into an amused line. “Many plans are in play, miss. Oh yes, you’ll see soon enough. Our viscount will be the one to make things right again within our valley. Don’t be pestering for money or wagons and taking men from their work because of foolish dreams. It won’t do. Not at all.”
I threw up my hands in disgust as they left. Instead of impressing the viscount, I had further bungled my case.
Abigail chewed her bottom lip, her arms folded across her middle, appearing like a chastened child. “That went rather...”
“Abysmally,” I supplied as I descended once more into the pit to retrieve my tools. I slid them into my pocket and motioned for her to assist me.
“Er, yes.” She eyed me with dismay, then held out one calloused hand and then the other, and with the most unladylike grunt, pulled me up onto the level ground. To assist her, I jammed my foot into the soaked dirt and heaved myself out, a disheveled, sweating mess, revealing plenty of ankle and ruining my stockings.
Meanwhile, my heart sank. I had utterly failed in my quest.
I might have bluestocking tendencies, but even I knew a lady had only one opportunity to impress, whether on the ballroom floor or amid a farmer’s mucky field. As Abigail and I gathered our tools, frustration welled inside me. We had no choice but to stop for now—at least until we heard back from the Society of Antiquaries. Then, perhaps, we’d have the ammunition to defy Lord Hawthorn.
8:Bridget
For many men, the acquisition of wealth does not end their troubles, it only changes them.
SENECA
The next morning, I dressed with extra care in case I encountered anyone of interest during my errands in town. Mrs. Herriot always reminded me of the power of a woman’s attireto cut a dash. Today, I willingly took her advice. I needed all the ammunition I could gather. A pale-blue muslin dress with a delicate lace fichu and a sapphire pelisse trimmed in velvet suited the cool spring weather. My poke bonnet, topped with monstrous ostrich feathers, completed the ensemble.
A silly amount of effort for one man, my mind chided without pity as I set out for town.
Despite my best efforts, I briefly pivoted from the path leading to Bramnor to stare in the direction of Hawthorn Abbey and that singular man. During my walk, I recalled Lord Hawthorn’s curtresponse to my pleas. Not even walking past the charming fifteenth-century houses, nor the whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs and ivy creeping up the side, could improve my mood.
I pushed open the door to the apothecary and was greeted by the tinkling of a brass bell hanging overhead. A young man measured out a vial of clear liquid while a plump woman in a gray pelisse and matching bonnet waited near the counter. I recognized Jonathan Cording, the apothecary’s youngest son, who was about my age.
He smiled when he saw me, and the woman glanced over her shoulder, her gaze distracted. Mrs. Whittle, the housekeeper of Hawthorn Abbey. Beside her stood a thin man with a beaver hat and reddish hair curled and plastered against his shiny forehead in the latest style. His emerald waistcoat gleamed in the sunlight as he fidgeted with a silver watch fob, his gaze fixed on Mrs. Whittle.
Jim Barron, innkeeper and owner of the Jolly Wench and the man Abigail entertained thoughts of marrying. I swallowed my amusement at his attempt to appear a Corinthian. The man leaned forward as if an intimate friend to the housekeeper.
“Oh, Mrs. Whittle!” Mr. Barron gushed, nearly knocking over a jar of herbal remedies as he gestured broadly. “Fancy meeting you here! I was just admiring the new confectionery. Have you tried the peppermint creams? They’re positively delightful!”
Mrs. Whittle’s eyes widened. “Peppermint creams? No, I—”
“You must try them, Mrs. Whittle!” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a grand secret. “I hear they’re good for digestion and sweeten one’s breath. Perhaps your husband would enjoy them?”
“Er... I suppose, but I’m here on other matters, Mr. Barron.” She frowned.
He gestured to the row of glass jars. “I’m also here for some tonic. A chill in the air has given me the sniffles. But what brings you to the apothecary? Not any trouble at the abbey, I hope?”
Mrs. Whittle’s plump face reddened as she cast a quick glance at the counter. “I... I’ve come on behalf of Lord Hawthorn. Nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Barron.”
“Oh, but I do concern myself! It’s in my nature, you know.” He chuckled, fingering his lace cuffs. “We all must look after one another in these parts. And after all, I hear the new lord is quite the war hero. Injured according to the rumors, yes? Surely a man like that doesn’t need laudanum?” He gestured to a glass vial on the counter.
