“Aye, wicked, wicked things have happened here,” Mr. Hinsley muttered.
“There are no ghosts,” I corrected them, irritated that my tenants would spread vile slander. “Men either go to heaven or to hell. There is no in-between.”
A barely contained shudder passed through me as I recalled my uncle’s journal entry.
You must forgive those who hurt you.My mother’s voice drifted to me on the edge of the wind rustling through orchard branches. She had raised me to forgo bitterness, to let go of the past. I had not been allowed to ask questions, yet how could I forget the night we bundled into the carriage and fled? The longer I stayed within the abbey, the more those memories poured into me until I felt like a cracked vessel about to burst. No wonder I wanted to spend each waking hour out in nature.
When I reached the spot where mounds of dirt lay, my breath caught in my chest. Another mosaic appeared in the groundshowing two armed men with chests and legs bare clashing in an eternal battle. I had read enough about the gladiatorial combats of ancient Rome during my military years to recognize the net and trident entangled with the short sword of the other opponent. Both men wore heavy helmets with enormous plumes. Tiles painted the color of rust indicated a fight to the death.
“Looks like the animal fights at the Bear Garden in Southwark where a man can pay to watch a bull maul a pair of dogs.” My steward snickered.
I glanced at him, curious if he had pursued such entertainment. He shrugged, neither confirming nor denying it. Rubbing my chin, I studied the mosaic. Miss Littleton would not likely shy from the gladiators, unlike some of the men clustered around me. My gaze rose to the nearby Perry field where two canvases lay over the ground like bandages hiding gaping wounds.
Had I been too hasty, too harsh, in refusing her request? Her desire to help others mirrored my own, as she’d said.
“My lord, please, we found something else.” Mr. Spencer sounded strained as he removed his hat. “You must follow me immediately.”
Now thoroughly curious and alarmed, I hurried as fast as I could, my leg far less painful these days, thanks to Miss Littleton’s medicinal herbs. Mr. Spencer motioned me forward, pointing to another mound where a fragile sapling, the roots still wrapped in burlap, lay discarded on the ground.
“Our shovels hit something and when we scraped aside the dirt, we saw a pile of bones. At first we thought it was nothing more than roots...” The oldest Dixon boy stopped and backed away. His younger brother stood behind him, eyes large and round.
Within the dirt, a tiny skeleton lay in a contorted mess as if discarded. I was not a squeamish man, but the sight of an innocent child buried and now uprooted within the orchard I had run barefoot through as a boy made me ill. I sucked in a noisy, horrifiedbreath, unfortunately drawing the attention of the surrounding men from their talk of evil spirits and wicked men.
The men surrounding me grew silent as the wind whistled through the orchard trees.
A place intended for growth and life, now tainted with death. Who was this poor babe?
“Satan’s work,” a man mumbled from behind me while I groaned inside.
No matter what I did, I could not escape the secrets and the curses of the Hawthorn legacy.
18:Bridget
The thorns which I have reap’d are of the tree
I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
LORD BYRON
“Bridget, they’ve found a child’s bones at Hawthorn Abbey.” Father’s voice broke as his hand trembled on my shoulder.
I had just placed my sketchbook on the desk, where I planned to write about my latest findings regarding the Venus mosaics, when a frantic knock at the front door had interrupted my documentation.
“What?” I cried as I swiveled in my chair. “What do you mean?”
“Yes, the tenants found a skeleton this morning while planting trees in the orchard.”
The hair on my neck rose as I pushed aside my notes. My mind filled with lurid possibilities, none fit for polite company.
“A murder? Or a sickly child, buried due to tragic circumstances?”
Father shook his head. “Mr. Dixon came to the parsonage a moment ago, begging for us to go to the abbey. He claims theydiscovered the remains close to a gladiatorial mosaic. I plan to offer what guidance I can, at least until the constable arrives.”
Father continued babbling while my mind whirled, struggling to latch on to the tumbling words. A dead child? Gladiator mosaics?
He did not protest when I grabbed my satchel of utensils to join him.
