I stepped out of the chaise, my wide-brimmed straw hat shielding me from the sun just as Mrs. Whittle hurried out of the abbey entrance, wringing her hands.
“Oh, Miss Littleton, such dreadful news! Who would have thought, an innocent child found within our orchards?”
I offered some consolation but needed to see the site before the men caused more damage.
“I won’t sleep a wink tonight,” she bemoaned as she clutched my arm, preventing me from leaving. “And the Dixon boys won’t stop with their tales of ghosts wandering through the abbey. Did I tell you my Lucy hears the strangest things in the afternoon and at night? And I don’t need to tell you how the lord cries out so in his sleep. Like a wounded lamb.”
My heart clenched with pity for the viscount, no matter how loudly Abigail’s words of caution echoed in my mind.
“He has nightmares?” I asked in a low voice while glancing around to make sure we were alone, aside from my father, who secured the chaise. It would be a shame if anyone overheard Mrs. Whittle. I suspected the Dixon boys would gladly spread idle tales, and nothing thrilled quite like those of nighttime sounds echoing through the cloistered halls.
The older woman’s plump hand fluttered to her throat. “Yes.My husband says it’s on account of the war, but the lord keeps it all tightly bottled within until the midnight hour.”
Placing what I hoped was a comforting hand on hers, I offered her a sympathetic smile. “He needs a touch of compassion, Mrs. Whittle. Those nightmares will eventually fade.”
I refrained from adding that Lucy needed a cat to keep her company and to chase away the scuttling.
Father waited at the edge of the courtyard, shooting me a meaningful look to hurry, and I rushed to follow him. Past the stable with the slate roof, I spied a group of men clustered together when we rounded the bend. My pulse sped even though I sternly bade it to slow.
Lord Hawthorn’s form towered over the others. He folded his arms across his chest, the forearms bare with sleeves rolled high enough to reveal a sprinkling of black hair. Clad in linen trousers, minus the country felt hat the other men sported, with only a black waistcoat, he seemed no different from the other farmers pressed close to him. I found I rather liked his rugged appearance. Far less formal than the military man with his uptight bearing.
One man jabbed a pointed finger toward the orchard. Voices raised, fearful or angry, I could not tell, but I had the distinct impression of a storm about to break.
“This is a grim business.” Father lent me his arm as we approached the group. Nerves sparked to life as I considered the scene.
Lord Hawthorn lifted his head, his gaze colliding with mine. Dare I admit I saw relief, yet he was too far for me to make such a presumption. After seeing us, he walked in our direction. I couldn’t deny the rebellious spark of pleasure at witnessing his improved health since my last visit.
He spoke first. “Vicar, Miss Littleton. Thank you for coming so soon.”
“I hope you don’t mind my intrusion,” I said. “Father told me your men uncovered something, and I would like to see—to see...” I faltered, uncertain how to proceed when describing such a find. “If you are willing, I want to examine what you found.”
“Have you discovered anything about the child?” Father spoke boldly.
The lord shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Nothing so far. I have the constable hopefully arriving soon,” he warned me. “I want nothing disturbed further until he’s cleared the area of any foul play.”
“Constable Wickham? Goodness. He’s hardly the brightest...” I caught myself just before saying something I would truly regret. “Carry on, Lord Hawthorn. Perhaps Father and I can be of some assistance in the meantime.”
“It is not a pretty sight.” He studied me, as if expecting me to swoon, then nodded as if assured I wouldn’t. I trailed him through the orchard, noticing a slight shudder in his shoulders. Even a hardened military man could blanch.
At last, the old orchard ended and we came upon row after row of new saplings spread to the edge of the western stone wall. I must have exclaimed my dismay, since he halted mid-step and pivoted until he faced me.
“I’ve ordered a cider press,” Lord Hawthorn explained to my father while observing me. Almost defensively, to my way of thinking. “I intend to expand the orchards as much as possible.”
My heart clenched. “All the way to Mr. Perry’s land?”
He inhaled sharply. “I have asked the men to leave the edge of the orchard alone until the magistrate determines where my land ends and Mr. Perry’s begins. I’ll curve the service road to the west. You should have more than enough room to excavate until the property lines are settled.”
My jaw must have dropped in the most undignified manner since Father touched my elbow. What had prompted his decision? I would have said so much more, but I stopped at the edge of the orchard, next to the tender saplings planted this morning, where my gaze finally dropped to a small pitiful mound in the dirt.
“The Dixon boys stumbled across the child there while planting the new trees.” He scowled, gesturing to the site where additional saplings lay discarded on the ground, ready to be planted.
I knelt beside the grave, reaching for the bones before pulling my hand back.
“Poor child. I wonder at your sad story. I’m not an expert on bones.” I turned to Father. “Based on the size of the skeleton, how old do you think this child might have been at death? I think only two years at the most.”
He stroked his chin, leaning over my shoulder. “I agree.”
I frowned as I removed a long-handled artist’s brush from my bag and nudged aside one bone. The passing years had stripped away all sense of identity.
