I stood frozen, watching the strain in Rafe’s posture as he fought to maintain his composure. His body shook, and for a moment I feared he might break under the weight of the news. Without thinking, I freed myself of Mrs. Whittle and reached him quickly, my hand finding his arm.
“Lord Hawthorn, you are bleeding.”
I pulled out my handkerchief and faced him. He halted when I dabbed at his forehead, wiping away the crimson trail. When I handed him my handkerchief, he snatched my hand as if it were a lifeline.
“Mrs. Whittle, perhaps you can make something bracing for our guests and the men when the storm ends. They are trapped in the brewery as we speak.” He paused, still gripping my fingers. “If the storm ends.”
Mrs. Whittle fled, her skirts swishing as she hurried to the kitchen.
“It will end,” I said. “All storms do.”
He glanced down at my hand, where he was crushing my fingers.
“I apologize that you had to witness such an exchange,” he said as he released me. His gaze strayed outside, the white of his eyes bright in the dark hall as he took the handkerchief and pressed it against his cheek where the hail had grazed.
“It will all be gone, I’m afraid. The old orchard and the new. Any crops planted, both for the tenants and myself.” His voice betrayed the barest tremor. “And now you’ve witnessed the fall of the house of Hawthorn.”
“What can I do to help you?” I asked, my heart breaking for all the loss I had witnessed. Breaking for him.
He looked at me again. “Pray, Miss Littleton. Pray.”
I nodded. “A friend could do nothing less.”
“How we need friends during such seasons.” A ragged sigh escaped him. He glanced down at his shirt and waistcoat still clinging to his form. As if aware of his dishabille, he mumbled an apology and left me within the hall.
From my position in the grand hall, I watched the clouds until they disappeared as swiftly as they had come. I did not slip into the drawing room to hear the rest of the muttered conversation between Mr. Talbot and Lord Hawthorn, no matter how badlyI wanted to stand by his side and offer companionship and support. A man could endure only so much before life crushed him altogether.
My stomach churned at all I had witnessed, even as Mr. Whittle offered a ride home in their carriage.
I wanted to pray for Lord Hawthorn. I wanted to pray for Mr. Perry and the farmers. Even Daniel. Despite my former reserve about beseeching a silent God, I whispered pleas late into the evening from the safety of my bedroom at the parsonage where no one could hear me.
23:Bridget
For truth is always strange;
stranger than fiction.
LORD BYRON
In the days after the hailstorm, I split my time between sketching the dig site and rare items for sale within the abbey, as the initial shock gave way to efforts to salvage what we could of trampled gardens. Only the mosaics had endured nature’s wrath, yet I felt no relief, my thoughts constantly lingering on the man trapped within Hawthorn Abbey.
The orchard bore the scars of the storm—twisted branches and broken limbs—but it was not entirely destroyed. Some sections remained intact, though the damage weighed our spirits.
With each passing moment, my urgency to clear the entire Bacchus floor grew, which was no small feat. So far, we had reached nearly twenty feet in length and twelve feet in width. No doubt, I stood on the grounds of an ancient palace. A very large palace,proving my initial guess correct. Vines now coiled around the god of wine as he danced, holding his goblet aloft, surrounded by drunken satyrs and maenads. Publication would bring much-needed funds, not just for me, and exposure to buyers for Mr. Perry, who faced the same urgency to rescue his small farm as Lord Hawthorn.
I also received a second letter from the Society of Antiquaries confirming that Mr. Harrington would visit within the coming week to inspect Mr. Perry’s site. I replied at once, offering our hospitality at the parsonage. However, the impending visit wasn’t our only concern. That same day, Father left for Chichester with hopes to settle the boundary dispute. Although the magistrate was still away in Bath, Father returned two days later with documents that left me speechless.
Child’s Remains Found at Hawthorn Abbey.
“The article mentions your name,” Father said as he slapped the article fromThe Timeson the table. He glanced at me, pride mingling with irritation. “It’s outrageous, of course.”
Miss Bridget Littleton, a vicar’s daughter, discovered a Roman-era mosaic and the remains of a child at Hawthorn Abbey, a place long associated with misfortune. More than a decade ago, Sir Randall Hawthorn was murdered, and now his son has returned after an injury in the army.
I devoured the article, dismayed by the salacious tone of the writing. “The author doesn’t even acknowledge that the child might be from third-century Rome. Thank goodness for the mention of the gladiator mosaic. Perhaps that will remove any blemish on Lord Hawthorn’s name.”
The speed with which the papers reported the story surprised me. Had someone slipped the information toThe Times?
Another paper proved somewhat better and noted that the grave site might be ancient. But my heart nearly stopped beating at the mention of mosaics and hidden gold. I remained hopeful we would encounter items of value, but this news would do neither Lord Hawthorn nor Mr. Perry any good. Gold would surely prove a siren’s call for trouble. I could not forget Lord Hawthorn’s dismay at the discovery of a child buried on his property. The more the story circulated, the less his chances of being included within polite society. The poor man was isolated enough.
