Something flickered in his eyes. “And you, as a vicar’s daughter, has her fair share of scars, I believe.”
I did not expect him to read me so well. A vicar’s daughter was to be all sweetness and sunshine. All hope and reassurances that pain was temporary and fleeting, and joy waited in the morning.
My voice cracked as I fidgeted with the edge of my sleeve. “Yes, well, we are not all hardened warriors.”
“No,” he agreed, “we are not.”
He rode away, leaving me to wonder at such a statement. When I returned to the cottage, Mrs. Eacher pointed to the stove.
“Would you be a dear and pour another cup of tea, Miss Littleton?”
I tore my gaze from the door, bemused by a man who would visit a blind woman and offer her assistance then grant access to his library. A man who named his horse after the father of English poetry. And a man who wondered about redemption and asked a jaded vicar’s daughter about her thoughts on theology.
“Poor lad,” Mrs. Eacher murmured when I handed her a cup of tea. “I daresay coming home must be a painful thing, considering how his father often frightened Lady Hawthorn and Rafe so...” She caught herself before revealing any more and took a long sip, her blank gaze drifting to the door. “Sometimes life proves far stranger than our novels, Miss Littleton.”
When I asked her to tell me more, she refused to elaborate.
14:Rafe
Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.
JOHN WESLEY
As soon as I swung my feet off the bed and touched the floor, the room spun. Last night, I dreamt of the abbey collapsing, my father watching from the shadows, his raspy voice mocking me. Even in dreams, he held power over me.
But he was dead. And I was no longer a child.
I stumbled against the armoire and rubbed my throat, which burned like fire. Worse, my temples throbbed as if I had taken a beating during the night. So much for exhausting myself with tenant visits and work to guarantee a dreamless sleep.
Today was Tuesday. I expected a call from the vicar considering our last conversation on Sunday at church. Would his daughter come as well? Part of me hoped she would, and another part of me desired privacy to grill the vicar who’d considered my unclea friend. One could hardly have a frank discussion regarding the men in my family with a vicar’s daughter listening in.
All the same, as I pictured her, an unbidden smile crossed my lips. Her desire for benefiting the valley echoed my own. A pity we were at odds for how to go about it. I pushed aside the image of her saucy expression at church, along with her indignation over my hints as to who might have cut into my hawthorn hedge and released my sheep.
Despite Constable Wickham’s visit, an inept man by all appearances, Mr. Whittle and Mr. Spencer and I had no further information or answers about the sabotage. Only Lucy offered solutions. Ghosts.
I’m telling you, my lord, I heard a sound late afternoon on Sunday in the west wing. A door closed suddenly, but when I entered the guest bedroom, no one was there. I waited several minutes. I swear I heard breathing. It must be the old viscount come to pay a visit. I can feel his eyes watching me from the portrait in the library.
It was pointless to argue with her. I, too, felt my uncle’s presence, albeit in a more solid way. This morning, as I opened my armoire and pushed aside a cloak, my fingers brushed against the back until I touched something cold.
I pulled it out, not at all surprised to see a silver flask still sloshing with drink. I uncorked it and poured the amber liquid into the banked fireplace. My uncle had not changed, no matter what the tenants or Mr. Whittle claimed. The flask had likely kept him company until his last breath.
I dressed quickly as rain pelted the windows. Outside, the wind moaned through the cracks and flashes of lighting sparking on the horizon. It sounded like a cry or an eerie weeping, reminding me of that fateful night before my mother and I escaped the abbey.
She had smiled wanly during a similar gale. “It’s only rain, mybrave little man. Go to sleep.” When she had drawn the covers over my shoulders, I spied red welts on both her wrists.
The vision receded, but my breathing quickened. The flask, propped up where all could see it, glimmered in the morning light, catching my uncle’s elegant initials etched into the silver.
Should I trust the vicar who had chosen friendship with my uncle, and perhaps even my father?
Vicar Littleton, damp from the rain, bowed when he entered the solar, alone. I quelled the strange flutter of disappointment, realizing few ladies would want to travel in such inclement weather. Yet I had foolishly hoped she might come. At least it meant my battle with Miss Littleton over the fields would be halted until the rain ended.
He stood dripping water and dabbing at his cheeks with a handkerchief. Quite a determined man to come in this storm.
“My lord, you are a busy man and I will make my visit short. Mr. Whittle informed me that you are not feeling well this afternoon.”
I nodded. “My apologies for not having greeted you sooner. As for illness, it is nothing.”
“From your injury in battle?”
