I longed to escape to the parsonage after my earlier embarrassment with the portrait of Lord Hawthorn, but with lightning striking, I stayed to finish my illustration. I didn’t dare set out with lightning stabbing at the ground. I put down my pencils and approached the window overlooking the courtyard. The wind howled and groaned like a wraith, battling the windows, and the trees whipped around the courtyard.
“I do hope we won’t see flooding,” I said, fearing for the viscount and his men caught within the storm.
She came up beside me and pulled back the velvet drape. A hard plink bounced off the window, as if a rock had been thrown against it. Then another plink. And another.
“No,” Mrs. Whittle moaned. “The orchards will be ruined.”
A man could only battle so much and not be destroyed. Insects, drought, too much rain. But hail? Nothing demolished a crop or orchard with as much ruthless efficiency. I felt ill. The ice only grew in size until I saw one the size of a shilling ricochet off the stone wall of the courtyard, the impact sharp and echoing through the space. A coat of white soon filled the expanse of the road and steamed against the beaten grass.
Mrs. Whittle wept. I put my arm about her, too heartsick to offer any encouragement.
“Poor man. He will lose his investments.” She wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. “What will he do?”
“I fear for anyone caught outside,” I whispered. My alarm grew until at last a door slammed. Both Mrs. Whittle and I hurried to the abbey entrance just as Lord Hawthorn stormed into the hall, his cheek bleeding. Rain plastered his white shirt to his skin, outlining hard muscles. He shook the water dripping from his hair.
My breath caught at the sight. He resembled a demigod rising from the sea, but the blood on his forehead proved him living—and in despair.
“My God,” he muttered. I sensed more prayer than curse with that hissed breath.
My mouth dried as I tried to find platitudes, comfort, anything at all to offer him in such a moment of need. He had offered me comfort earlier. What could I possibly say or do for him?
He stared outside until the eerie tinkle of breaking glass echoed over the hail. Outside, the storm raged. I suspected it raged inside him as well.
“The orchard will be ruined,” he finally rasped.
Before I could find words, the front door swung open again. This time, a stranger entered, his fine beaver hat dripping rain onto the floor. His coat was soaked, the collar turned up in a futile attempt to keep the downpour at bay. He removed the hat,brushing it, though his expression showed no hint of discomfort—only determination.
“Mr. Talbot,” Lord Hawthorn rasped, his voice edged with either surprise or irritation. “What brings you here in this weather? I was not expecting you so soon.”
Mr. Talbot gave a slow shake of his head, glancing around the hall before locking eyes with Rafe. “I wish I could say this was a social call, but it’s not. I’ve come to assess the progress on the estate. Unfortunately the storm caught me just as I rode up the lane.”
Lord Hawthorn’s brows furrowed, tension rippling through his frame. He strode over to the man at the entrance of the hall while Mrs. Whittle and I remained standing just outside the drawing room.
Mr. Talbot’s gaze shifted to the windows, where the hail continued to pound against the panes. He lowered his voice yet each word carried across the polished floors. “I understand the timing isn’t ideal, but the Crown isn’t known for its patience. I needed to see if the work you’ve undertaken is enough to convince them you can restore Hawthorn Abbey, but I fear this weather might change your prospects.”
“I’ve started building the new road, expanded the orchard—this storm will set us back, but we’re making headway.” Lord Hawthorn also spoke softly. “Surely, you can report those changes.”
“Perhaps we should retire to the drawing room,” I whispered to Mrs. Whittle, who stood next to me. She shook her head, her eyes round with alarm. Instead, she gripped my arm with an unnatural strength, pinning me to her side.
Mr. Talbot stepped closer to the viscount. “I don’t doubt your effort, but effort alone doesn’t always sway the Crown. The estate’s condition... it has deteriorated faster than anyone expected, especially after today.”
Lord Hawthorn appeared made of stone. “What are you saying?”
Mr. Talbot sighed, clearly reluctant to continue. His eyes flickered toward me and Mrs. Whittle, silent witnesses to Rafe’s impending embarrassment. His gaze softened momentarily. “The Crown is impatient. They’ve given you time, more than they would’ve given most, but...” He paused, as if considering how much worse this moment must feel with ladies present. “How can I return with a good report after today? The orchard’s loss, an incomplete service road, the funds running dry—you’re running out of options. If you can’t show significant progress by the end of the month...”
Lord Hawthorn’s shoulders stiffened, his chest rising as if preparing for a blow. “Then what, Mr. Talbot? What happens if I fail?”
Mr. Talbot hesitated. “You know the answer.”
The silence that followed felt suffocating. Rafe’s breath coming in harsh, shallow bursts.
“I won’t let that happen,” he said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “This estate is now my life. My family’s legacy.”
Mr. Talbot glanced at me again, perhaps aware of how deeply private this conversation should have been. Mrs. Whittle refused to relinquish her grip even when I attempted to pull free.
Rafe turned as if remembering he had an audience, his profile grim. “Please, wait in the drawing room, Mr. Talbot, and I shall join you. I need a moment.”
Mr. Talbot gave him a brief nod. His gaze lingered on me and Mrs. Whittle, who stood awkwardly beside me, before he stepped past us and into the drawing room, his wet boots leaving faint marks on the polished floor.
