“That is nothing more than an irksome bullet from the Battle of Bussaco,” I replied. I hated being considered an invalid. The surgeon had done what he could to remove the shrapnel, but he could never fully repair the damage in my leg. At the moment all I felt was fire in my throat. I pulled on my cravat, struggling to breathe. Had I caught a chill from my tenants?
“No apologies needed. Bussaco, you say? When the Duke of Wellington dupedl’Enfant chéri de la Victoire, one of Napoleon’s greatest generals? I should like to hear your account.”
“I don’t care to remember,” I said, immediately regretting my harsh tone. I hastened to add, “I lost a dear friend that day.”
After motioning for him to join me in front of the fireplace, I sat, my body taut, as I rested my fist on my knee.
He followed my example. “Not an easy loss, I’m certain. You have my sympathies. How do you like our valley so far?”
“I certainly have plenty to occupy me.”
He smiled. “A new lord must attend to his duties, of which you have many indeed. You have only newly arrived and have done splendidly based on what I’ve heard from your people.”
I wasn’t used to hearing praise. To my surprise, his warm words settled into me like a healing balm. “Much work remains. If it wasn’t raining, I would be in the fields instead of lounging by a fire like a man of leisure.”
“Nay, rest will do you much good. The Sabbath was created for our benefit.” Reverend Littleton frowned as he studied me.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, my lord, you do appear paler than when I saw you last. If you are agreeable to the notion, my daughter has some skill with tinctures and teas. Perhaps at my next visit, I’ll bring a remedy.” The vicar’s words carried a quiet concern that seemed to burrow deeper beneath my defenses.
“If it isn’t devil’s dung, then I accept,” I replied.
The vicar chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “Lucy Whittle’s remedy. Oh yes. I’ve smelled it from afar.”
Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I resisted the urge to cough as a rough tickle lingered in the back of my throat. The growing discomfort mirrored the tension I felt, pushing me to cut through the pleasantries. I appreciated bluntness and decided to offer the same to my guest.
“Vicar, when I brought your daughter home during that storm, and forgive me for doing so but I had no luxury for propriety in such weather, you mentioned there were matters we needed todiscuss. One of them has unfortunately grown more pressing. Mr. Perry and I are at odds over the boundary of our properties. I had no choice but to ask Miss Littleton to cease digging on what I believe is my estate, particularly after someone tampered with my hedges and let my sheep loose.”
“She has not trespassed, I assure you. Nor would she or Mr. Perry release your sheep.” The vicar’s bushy eyebrows rose. “However, Mr. Perry has asked me to inquire after the records as soon as the magistrate releases them, which is one of my reasons for calling today. Your neighbor struggles to read and I have promised to intervene. I believe you will find Mr. Perry to be well in his rights. Have you found your uncle’s property deeds?”
Ire bubbled up within me. I had found no such documentation within my uncle’s records. It was possible I would later find them stuffed into some obscure cupboard.
“Not all of them. And I’ve been told that the magistrate has taken a trip to Bath to settle a family affair for the next two weeks. Until then, I have no choice but to hunt for papers hidden in the oddest of places.”
The vicar sighed. “Lord Hawthorn’s mind turned for the worst in his last years. He couldn’t remember where he placed his inkpot or his watch most days. At first, I assumed it melancholia. But then I realized more was afoot.”
This was also news to me. I had not considered that my uncle might have suffered memory loss.
I fingered my aching throat. “I must speak frankly. I’ve heard that you had an affable relationship with my uncle.”
“I counted him as a friend,” the vicar answered. “He carried many burdens to the end, one of which included restoring his holdings.”
I thought of the half-filled flask in the armoire, clear evidence of a man still chained to his weakness. “I fear the estate has been neglected far too long.”
“No doubt you have a challenge on your hands, but in time, with wise decisions, the Hawthorn holdings will flourish again. The crops failed thanks to blight a few years prior, and the expenditures grew. Many good men and women left Bramnor for the factories.”
Lucy entered the room with a steaming pot of tea and two teacups. She poured the fragrant brew and curtsied, leaving us alone with little fuss. The tea, mixed with honey, soothed my throat, if only for a moment. More troublesome was another flush of heat rippling through me as my vision wavered. Still, I continued.
“I have seen nothing of my uncle’s wisdom.”
The vicar frowned at my caustic bluntness, but again, he did not disagree. “No, I suspect not. At least not until the last few years of his life. The former lord battled his demons to the end.”
“If demons include drink, then I’m well aware of the obstacles.”
The vicar picked up his gold-rimmed teacup. “His greatest battle. It worsened, from what I understand, after your father’s death.”
My uncle had likely been too drunk to care, but I kept that thought to myself, changing the subject to more hopeful topics.
“Unfortunately, both men left me with no choice but to do what I must to protect Hawthorn Abbey. I’m determined to rebuild the orchard and sell cider. I may even sell the art, books, and silver within the abbey since I have no use for any of it. I’ve written to my barrister to inquire about buyers. Discreetly, of course.”
