It had only been a few days since I’d arrived at Hawthorn Abbey, but the weight of my family’s past still bore down on me. I did not know from whom my uncle needed to beg forgiveness. He had never spoken to my mother in the years that followed our escape from Hawthorn Abbey. Nor to me during my years of military service. If he had attempted to do so, any pleas would have fallen on deaf ears.
I could never forgive the Hawthorn men, especially my father, even if their tainted blood ran through my veins. And I wasn’t certain I wanted to meet the vicar who encouraged such foolish ideas. Nor was I certain I wanted to encounter his daughter for a third round of sparring, no matter how appealing those wide green eyes appeared.
Yet... I couldn’t deny my growing curiosity. I was the viscount of Hawthorn Abbey, and to refuse going to church would hardly improve my standing with the villagers. I had questions. Many questions for the vicar and possibly his daughter.
Reluctantly, I resolved to attend the following day.
12:Bridget
We should be rigorous in judging ourselves and gracious in judging others.
JOHN WESLEY
The Parish Church of the Holy Cross, with its small belfry and trim graveyard, appeared serene on a Sunday morning. Yet I felt only turmoil as I entered the church, which smelled of linseed oil.
Not even my freshly pressed gown and matching green hat could lift my spirits as Mrs. Herriot and I took our usual spot. I felt the eyes of the women and men, most whom I had known for the past twelve years since our family first moved to Bramnor. Despite the rumors of fever, the church appeared unusually packed.
Father would be so pleased. I hoped no one else would fall ill.
Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight cascading onto the polished pews. Father had spent a good deal of the previous day ordering a complete cleaning of the church to impress the new viscount, just in case Lord Hawthorn made an appearance. I wanted to inform Father that such efforts would be wasted, butthere I sat, dressed in my second-best attire, with my second-best gloves, and holding a new reticule embroidered with white flowers. My maid had attempted to tame my frizz into something pretty, with manageable curls carefully arranged on my forehead, until I bid her stop with the fussing.
Regardless of my appearance, my chest fluttered from nerves.
Several women bent their heads together, their whispers carrying over the pews.
“Roaming the fields at night.”
“Shocking for a lady! Can no one rein her in?”
“Chattering magpies. For shame, in a church no less,” Mrs. Herriot muttered as I turned my attention to my reticule, refusing to strain my burning ears. Perhaps I could encourage Father to preach a sermon about the dangers of such prattle. Then again, I was used to being the subject of gossip.
Dressed in a pristine cassock over his newest suit, my father cleared his throat while raising both palms over the congregation, which barely ceased its babble. Instead, the whispers increased in loudness, hissing and echoing across the cavernous sanctuary.
I shot him a glance, arching my eyebrow, but Father appeared transfixed, his startled gaze directed to the church entrance. Gasps resounded. Someone coughed loudly.
I shifted in my seat, my bonnet blocking my view of the entrance.
As I angled myself better, a man walked in late, his large form drawing attention. Our gazes locked briefly before he headed toward the raised lordship seat, positioned near the front of the left side, just before the chancel.
A tingle rippled through me. I felt frozen as I watched him stalk down the aisle.
His boots echoed hollow, if uneven. Despite his war injury, all I could remember was the strength of his arm as he pulled me out of the pit, and the way his arm curved about me during the ride inthe storm. From my position sitting on the bench, I had an ample view of the proud tilt of his head as he walked past. He did not bother to look at me again.
I had hurt him when he pulled me out of the hole the other day at the field. Yet he had barely uttered a murmur, even though his skin blanched when he set me on firm ground. He certainly knew how to inflict damage with his curt dismissal. No, I couldn’t pity him. He had proven to be unbendable. Boorish. Without another look at the church members, he sat on his family’s bench, his expression as hard as marble.
“Welcome, Lord Hawthorn. We are delighted to have you with us this morning.” My father offered a warm smile before stepping into the pulpit to expand upon Ecclesiastes.
Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.
My mind scarcely took in anything of value. I knew Father reserved one of his best sermons for this Sunday, yet his words scarcely registered through my tumbling thoughts. Instead, my feelings battled for control as I surreptitiously studied the new lord through lowered lashes.
Before long, we sang the last hymn, our voices high and out of tune, and then Father offered a closing benediction. I wondered if and how I should approach Lord Hawthorn again regarding the mosaics. I needed to know what secrets lay beneath the soil on Mr. Perry’s farm. Somehow, I suspected Lord Hawthorn would accuse me of vanity.
I do not want acclaim.He had all but ground out the statement before fleeing on his beast.
As if he sensed the weight of my stare, his eyes flared open, and he angled his head to catch me in the act. I ducked my headto study the beads trimming my reticule, waiting until Father finished his prayer with a resounding, “Amen.”
