“You are quite the romantic, Miss Littleton. No wonder you wander the countryside like a woodland sprite in search of her fairy glen. How fortunate I am to have found you on such a dismal evening before your gossamer wings took ruin.”
His remark pricked more than it ought to. I ought to be used to being either ignored or forgotten while being left to my own devices. I was certainly used to being dismissed as fanciful. Did he mean the comparison to a woodland sprite as an insult, or had he only meant to clumsily flatter me?
“You have quite a remarkable history at Hawthorn Abbey.” I tried to change the subject and take the focus off myself, but as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake. Immediately, the arms about me tensed.
“That is to say, the abbey must hold fascinating stories reachingback to the monks who lived there. And then, before the abbey, the Saxons...” I hurried to add.
“Yes, a long history,” he finally agreed, his voice rough.
“Have you studied the history of your home?” I finally relented to my insatiable curiosity as he led Chaucer down a flooded path.
A puff of air, as if he sighed, brushed the back of my neck where a stray curl or two lay plastered against my skin.
“I have always thought the past was better left buried. Some things are not meant to be known.”
I wanted to ask more, but from the rigidness in his arms and the weariness in his voice, the topic remained forbidden, as if carefully secured within a locked box.
“I see the parsonage ahead,” he said.
In the distance, golden lights spilled from the multipaned windows set within the thick whitewashed walls, illuminating a stone path lined with wildflowers. Along with my father’s parked chaise.
Oh dear. Considering the previous exchange, I had made no effort to include myself in calling on Lord Hawthorn, preferring to leave the duty to my father. Had he called in my absence?
Lord Hawthorn secured his grip on my waist and for one startled moment, I turned and glanced at him, helpless to resist. Water droplets sluiced down his cheek and dripped off his chin. But his eyes... A long moment stretched between us until he deposited me on a muddy stretch of grass.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling disoriented. “For the ride.”
The front door to the parsonage flung open, and there stood my father, his eyes bright and owlish from behind his round glasses and his cravat mussed as always. I could only imagine the questions swarming within his mind.
“Lord Hawthorn, a pleasure.” Father sounded strained as he stood in the doorway instead of Molly, our maid, or Mrs. Herriot. Unconventional to say the least, but I was not one to judgeconsidering the state of my arrival. “You have brought my daughter safely home. Please, come in from this horrid storm and let me properly thank you.”
Lord Hawthorn made no move to dismount. Instead, he gathered the reins. “Perhaps another day, vicar. I found your daughter on Hawthorn land. Miss Littleton has been most persistent in her efforts to uncover unusual antiquities.”
“Lord Hawthorn—” I began, fully intending to defend Mr. Perry’s right to his property, but the viscount held up a hand, which only made my ire boil hotter. I was no minion of the Navy or military to be ordered about.
“Good evening to you both.” Lord Hawthorn tilted his head in Father’s direction, cutting my protest.
“I called upon you earlier, but you were not home. I should like to meet with you at your earliest convenience.” Father shot me a warning look to hold my tongue.
Lord Hawthorn edged his massive horse back onto the beaten path. “I’ve been rather busy of late meeting the tenants, some who are ill.”
“I would be happy to go with you and provide any assistance you might need,” Father offered as he stepped beyond the door and into the rain. A wounded look flashed across his face and, judging from his tone, he had been surprised at the rebuff of his services.
“Soon,” the viscount said through gritted teeth as he swung his horse around. Chaucer snorted and I ducked out of the way, but not before the viscount smiled grimly at me. “Now that ride on Chaucer was nothing to fear, Miss Littleton, was it?”
I did not reply, far too aware of the tension sizzling between the lord and his vicar and me. Nor could I dismiss the fact that I had indeed accepted a ride with a man, unchaperoned.
After the sound of galloping faded, Father eyed my disheveled state. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared.
10:Bridget
What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?
ECCLESIASTES 1:3
As the sun sank into the horizon after I was sufficiently dried and had endured a lecture from Father on propriety with men, I sat at my desk with a quill in hand. The Dilettanti letter lay open to my right, the creases still crisp despite the years passed. I could scarcely bring myself to reread the derisive words from Mr. Thomas Beaumont’s secretary. The words remained branded in my mind. Yet I glanced at the paper again, the elegant slope of the handwriting impeccable.
I scratched out several letters, dissatisfied with each attempt at a second plea for publication. Balled papers filled the bin beside my desk. Frustrated, I twiddled the feathered pen between my fingers while rereading my latest effort.
