I despised laudanum. It dulled the senses and proved nearly impossible to quit. I had seen the results too many times among the villagers. My mother had refused it even when dying of scarlet fever, preferring her own blend of herbs to manage the pain.
Was the laudanum for the viscount?
Mrs. Whittle drew back. “Lord Hawthorn’s affairs are his own, Mr. Barron.”
“Ah, yes, yes. Of course,” he soothed. “But if there’s anything the good Lord Hawthorn needs to soothe his suffering—brandy perhaps, or some company during those long nights—I’d be more than happy to oblige. Nothing does the soul and body so much good as excellent company.”
Moving past the shelves lined with tinctures and powders, I waited my turn while pretending to study the vast array of medicinal supplies. Of course, Mr. Barron would find a way to ingratiate himself with the new lord. If only I could witness the viscount’s expression when he encountered Bramnor’s premier dandy.
“I also have the marshmallow root you ordered. You can’t be too careful these days. The Aster family remains under quarantine for fever,” Mr. Cording informed Mrs. Whittle.
Tension coiled in my belly at the proclamation. Fever again? Was it the dreaded scarlet fever that had stolen so much from me? It would take Father away on his many errands of mercy. I swallowed a sigh, resolved to spend more evenings alone at the dinner table.
Mr. Cording lowered his voice, unable to hide his stutter. “Is the new lord t-truly a hero from B-B-Bussaco? I’ve heard so many different tales, I cannot make out what is true and what is fable. I heard he was shot in the leg.”
Her hands fluttered to her fichu, but her expression brightened immediately. I held my breath as I slipped farther into the cool interior, my ears finely attuned to hear anything of interest.
“Yes, he’s a hero. Noted by Wellington himself, though he rarely speaks of what happened.”
Mr. Barron tsk-tsked. “It’s a shame how the viscount was injured.”
“It’s only temporary, the lord insists. Isn’t his return a blessing, gentlemen? Lord Hawthorn has many plans for the old abbey. Why, imagine the apples and cider business booming once again and the—”
“Cider. How exciting,” Mr. Barron interrupted, his eyes flashing. “Why, my customers would beg for more, if it is as good as the old days.”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Whittle’s smile stretched wider. She leaned in close, her dingy bonnet shielding her face. “I’m not one to share the viscount’s plans, but I believe he’s hoping to brew once he receives a new cider press. If you know of anyone needing work, send them to my husband.”
“Such good news.” Mr. Barron nodded firmly. “Let us hope a turn of fortunes will chase the old spirits out of the abbey once and for all, and may the new lord sleep peacefully without nightmares or haunting spirits.”
“Mr. Barron!” Mrs. Whittle sounded horrified as she stretched to her full height. “How can you make such a salacious claim?”
By then, I had crept forward on my kid slippers without realizing how far I had traversed.
He chuckled. “Dear lady, your lovely daughter crossed my pathearly this morning during one of my country walks, and she happened to mention that the new lord cried out around midnight, as regular as clockwork. Something bloodcurdling. Of course, I detest gossip, but one does care about the state of the Hawthorn family, considering the old lord’s peculiar nature. And, of course, I share this as a friend. Perhaps you could have a word with her about trusting whom she speaks with, eh? It’s she who is convinced that ghosts have returned to the abbey to haunt it.”
Mrs. Whittle sputtered again, clearly speechless at the accusation of impropriety leveled at her daughter.
Mr. Cording planted both palms on the counter. “We all know that madness and death cling to that abbey. Didn’t the Hawthorn brothers quarrel, with one later dying in an inn? Convenient, if you ask me. I’ve always said secrets lie buried on those grounds. And the old lord wasn’t right in his mind, no matter what the good vicar says.Hemurdered his brother, aye? How many other bodies lie buried on his land since the law cannot touch a viscount?”
“Mr. Cording, I’ll take some chamomile tea if you have a moment,” I spoke up to spare Mrs. Whittle from answering. How unfortunate that the truth was so often mingled with lies within this superstitious village. I doubted the old viscount had killed his brother. He had more than enough sins to blacken his soul without that extra embellishment. I had no patience for slander.
Mrs. Whittle snatched her supplies from the counter. “I really must be off. Oh, Miss Littleton! I hope I’ll see you and the good vicar at the abbey soon for a visit.”
I smiled, although it felt a mask. I planned to see the parishioners, not the lord. Although... the idea of poking him further, especially after his command, might prove somewhat entertaining.
“Please, Mrs. Whittle,” Mr. Cording called out as she began to leave. “I must insist on payment. I’ll take no more credit until Hawthorn Abbey settles its debts.”
Now mottled red, Mrs. Whittle returned to the counter and paid for her items, then bustled out the door with only a harried nod in my direction.
“Miss Littleton, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Mr. Cording’s blond hair fell over his brow in tight curls, no less tame than my own, though he tried to smooth them as I approached the counter.
I opened my beaded reticule and pushed across several shillings while doing my best to ignore Mr. Barron’s intense stare.
“I’ve been rather busy of late.”
“Miss Littleton found something in Mr. Perry’s field,” Mr. Cording said as he pivoted to retrieve two glass jars from a pristine shelf. I watched him scoop the fine brown tea leaves and slide them into the smaller tin.
“Ah.” Mr. Barron sidled up closer to me until his sleeve brushed mine, much to my ire. “Mr. Perry mentioned something about an old Roman site when he stopped by the inn. I should like to see what you’ve uncovered.” His gaze flicked over me, and he added with a chuckle, “Can’t say I’ve ever seen a lady do a man’s work, digging up dirt.”
