“I cannot imagine being in worse straits than to be forced to sell books.” The thought set a dull ache within my chest. There was nothing I loved more than tomes with yellowed pages and the scent of leather. Daniel’s books had saved me, allowing me the freedom to travel the world from the comfort of our drawing room.
Father sighed as he lengthened his stride, clearly in a hurry. “Nor I. It’s a shame to see a viscount reduced to such circumstances. However, his military bearing and his upbringing seem to have prepared him for hardship. He is unconventional, to say the least. He refuses to let his tenants suffer.”
One could hardly discount the idea of a viscount caring for his tenants.
“He has endured a great deal, in this abbey and abroad. I cannot share everything I heard. A clergy man’s privilege. Some wounds fester within the soul long after the body regains strength, and our viscount is a man in desperate need of healing.”
I mulled over Father’s pause. “Were you able to settle the dispute between Mr. Perry and the viscount?”
My father shook his head. “I fear I will need to pay a visit to the magistrate. Lord Hawthorn has already made inquiries but the magistrate is in Bath. This matter with Mr. Perry and the estate boundary must be settled, and the sooner the better. We must pray for peace between our neighbors.”
What good had prayer done for Daniel or my mother?
The abbey, usually quiet, seemed even more so this evening, even after Father’s smart rap. The door creaked open and Mr. Whittle greeted us, his ready smile most welcome. He wore tight black breeches and a livery jacket far too small, a relic of the past. “Vicar. Miss Littleton. Do come in.”
I took in the dim hall, noting that the black-and-white tiles appeared remarkably clean. And the magnificent hall table flanked by two heavy chairs also seemed freshly dusted. Above the table, a large painting of a fox hunt commanded attention, now hung straight after years of dangling crooked.
“Is Lord Hawthorn better?” My father dropped his voice to a discreet level.
“Somewhat. The physician, who came over an hour ago, said the lord has the same sickness as the tenants, along with a sore leg. It’s not good, Vicar. Not good at all. I don’t know what that physician did, but our viscount cursed something fierce.” Mr. Whittle glanced at me as if remembering a lady was present. “Lord Hawthorn awaits you in the green room. He’s in a fine temper this evening.”
Oh dear, that did not sound promising at all.
Following Mr. Whittle’s quick steps, I nibbled my lip as I considered how the meeting might proceed. Within my reticule, I carried an assortment of herbal remedies. Would the lord be receptive to my medicinal advice, considering his past demeanor?
My pulse flickered when Mr. Whittle pushed open another door.
“I said no disturbances, Whittle!”
I couldn’t see into the room, only the back of Mr. Whittle’s too tight coat. His shoulders raised as if he heaved a great sigh.
“Vicar Littleton and his daughter, Miss Littleton.”
Something else was said... too low to make out, but I braced myself all the same.
The green room lived up to its name with walls the color of faded emerald finally subdued by years of sun streaming through the immense windows. My gaze fastened on the man reclining on the arm of a sofa, his leg propped up by a stool, his feet encased in tasseled velvet slippers instead of his usual boots. He looked like a king of the orient about to hold court, if not for his loosened cravat and mussed hair.
If I had expected a weak invalid, I would have been disappointed. Yet I could not dismiss the paleness of his skin, nor the sheen gathered along his brow. He gazed at us through hooded eyes, but I was no shrinking flower who wilted under the blistering sun. Instead, I offered him my brightest smile.
He gestured to the chairs closest to him. “Vicar Littleton, Miss Littleton, a pleasure to see you. I must warn you, I might be yet contagious.”
A pleasure to see me? I had my doubts. Father did as he was bid, and I followed suit and perched on a chair facing the sofa.
Father cleared his throat. “I hope you are feeling better, my lord. You saw Dr. Smithy?”
Lord Hawthorn shifted on the sofa, moving his arm slowly as if it pained him. “He left an hour ago after draining me until I finally bid him to stop.”
“A barbaric practice,” I said, easily imagining the tools used for scarification, where a syringe and a spring-loaded lancet or glass cup created a vacuum and drained the poor victim’s life away.
Father placed a warning hand on my arm, squeezing lightly.
“You don’t approve of bloodletting?” Lord Hawthorn glanced at me with something akin to curiosity.
“No, I do not,” I said firmly. “If God created it to flow through us, why must we abandon it so readily?”
Lord Hawthorn’s mouth tilted slightly. “At last, Miss Littleton, the two of us have something else we can agree upon, other than exploring the great outdoors during rainstorms. I was a fool to let him try.”
I dared not glance at my father, but I heard his gentle cough all the same, as if he feared I might needlessly descend into a lecture regarding the history of bloodletting, reaching all the way to Hippocrates and the famed Greek physician Galen.
