“If you need anything, you will let me know. Repairs to the cottage. Anything at all.”
She beamed and leaned forward as if sharing secrets with a confidant. “I only request novels. Gothic in particular. Ah, I remember Lady Hawthorn describing the magnificent library in the abbey. It’s the only way I can truly see these days.”
“Gothic fiction? I prefer Shakespeare,” he said, much to my surprise.
“The bard has plenty of drama.” I couldn’t resist prodding, curious that a man of the military would have a taste for literature. “This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”
“Hamlet,” he said. “Surely you can’t deny the beauty of the bard’s words, Miss Littleton? Shakespeare offers a far meatier read—complete with poetry while examining man’s nature—than your lurid tales.”
“I thinkThe Mysteries of Udolphois just as compelling. And far more entertaining. You might try it and see for yourself, if you care to peruse my novel.” I held up my beloved volume in my eagerness to challenge him. “I’ve read enough Shakespeare to last a lifetime.”
He almost smiled, turning his attention to Mrs. Eacher.
“An interesting trade of books. In the meanwhile, consider the library at Hawthorn at your disposal.”
The visit ended as abruptly as it began with him standing. He nearly reached the low ceiling. Mrs. Eacher begged him to return and asked if I would send him home with the bread I had brought, in memory of the boy who visited with his delightful mother.
He halted at the door, silent for a long moment before accepting Mrs. Eacher’s humble gift. I slipped a crusty loaf into a clean handkerchief and walked outside the cottage into the cool spring air. He mounted his horse, Chaucer. The wandering medieval poet.
“Thank you for visiting my friend and taking her gift,” I said as I handed him the wrapped loaf.
He took it, the frown still captured between his brows. “She has enough food to eat?”
I pressed my lips together, not wanting to diminish her effort at welcoming the new viscount.
“Then I shall see that a basket is dropped at her door tomorrow,” he said thickly.
“Very kind of you. I know the tenants will greatly appreciate any gesture on your part. They’ve struggled so these past years.”
“I remember a certain miss informing me that the previous lord had not done much to help them.”
I straightened, refusing to lie or back down, regardless of that disastrous first meeting on the road, and then in the rain. I wrapped my arms about my middle.
“Yes, the tenants need a viscount who will watch over them and care for them.”
He blew out a harsh breath. “Unfortunately, the Hawthorn estate lives up to its name. Full of prickly thorns meant to keep others out. I was always under the impression that my uncle proved no different. However, some of the tenants have shared that he changed in his last years. What do you know of a person’sability to change, Miss Littleton, speaking as a vicar’s daughter, of course? If you know history and literature, I am certain to be astounded by your grasp of theology.”
I suddenly wanted to flee. Literature and history were fine topics for discussion. But to delve into my faith? Or lack of it? A flare of panic rendered me mute.
Father believed a person could change with repentance. It was my experience that far too many would rather pretend than embrace genuine change, including my brother.
“Perhaps if one is honest about his faults and tries harder, he may achieve success.” My readings of the enlightenment suggested that all man needed was reason and scientific discovery. Yet the answer rang false this evening, and the viscount pursed his lips as if tasting something sour.
“Fair enough. But do you believe that God can change a man?” he asked, his gaze penetrating mine.
Did I believe God could change a hardened heart? I no longer knew, especially after my brother’s problems. I had witnessed far too much hypocrisy to believe much of anything—a price I paid as the vicar’s daughter. But I could hardly share such scandalous thoughts.
“I’ve seen too much of habit and human nature, my lord, to believe a man, or a woman, can so easily find redemption,” I finally replied.
“And if so, who can change?”
His lips quirked with wry amusement... and something else, very much akin to sadness when I did not answer his question right away.
“Why Miss Littleton, I do believe you are a cynic.”
“Does that surprise you, Lord Hawthorn, especially as a man who has fought battle after battle and witnessed the bleakest side of humanity?”
Impolite conversation, no doubt, but my guard had slipped, and though I tried to parry words with him, he didn’t return the attack. Not right away, at least.
