He tilted his head, indicating the lane ahead. “How much farther on this cursed road until I reach Hawthorn Abbey?”
“You have less than a mile to traverse, sir. There are holes ahead and should your horse stumble into one—” I let my warning slide into the space between us. The horse snorted as if in agreement. Curiosity made me want to ask who the man was and why he felt the need to travel so recklessly. Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek.
“Is nothing tended here in this godforsaken place?” His icy gaze dropped to my stained gown, his censure clear, as if the careless state of my dress extended to the state of the roads.
I flinched at his disdain despite my best effort to appear calm. “The farmers of Bramnor work hard and contribute their share to the turnpike trust.” Unfortunately, with the rising costs of farming, the fund reserved for roads and bridges had shrunk in recent years.
“Clearly their efforts are not enough.”
Ire bubbled up at his caustic response. “It is also the responsibility of the lord to tend to his community’s needs. And since Lord Hawthorn passed away two and a half months ago, we have yet to meet his heir. One can only hope he will be an improvement, though I don’t hold to it considering previous experience with the Hawthorn family.”
A harsh laugh—a bark, really—exploded from the stranger. He tipped his beaver hat up to better view my face. “Your opinion is duly noted. Pray, just who might you be, other than a woodland sprite sent to misguide my way?”
I wasn’t in the habit of handing out my name to strangers, and I had no intention of doing so this evening. “I must bid you good evening if you are to arrive at Hawthorn Abbey at a decent hour.” I edged closer to the field. He was boorish and demanding—all qualities I disliked in a man.
“The hour certainly isn’t decent for a miss to walk the roads alone.” The stranger pursed his lips as he mounted his horse. With a grimace, he settled into the saddle. Once astride, he pulled on the reins and turned his horse as if to accompany me. Was he concerned as a gentleman or curious in a predatory sort of way?
“It’s not a long walk. My father waits for me.” With my art trapped beneath my left arm, I retrieved my bonnet. Unfortunately, my hair, though still pinned, remained uncovered, with loose strands playing about my face.
“Your father! What kind of man lets his daughter roam the countryside alone at night?” His faint mockery made me bristle.
I tugged the bonnet onto my head with a violence that surprised me. How could I hide my identity? He would soon know my name if he spent any time in Bramnor.
“Good night, sir,” I replied firmly as I resumed my walk home. A few of my brushes lay hidden within the long grass, but I would rather suffer three enormous bottles of cod-liver oil than scrounge on the ground for my precious tools in front of him. I would return to search for the lost brushes tomorrow morning.
He didn’t follow, and before long, I heard the rhythmic pounding of hooves once more before they faded into the distance. My pulse, however, didn’t slow with his disappearance. Instead, it raced through my veins until my heart rattled.
I was sick with dread that I had just met the new Lord of Hawthorn Abbey.
3:Rafe
If you really want to escape the things that harass you, what you’re needing is not to be in a different place but to be a different person.
LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA,LETTERS FROM A STOIC
The abbey loomed ahead, its aged stone walls smothered with overgrown vines, and as inhospitable and isolated as I remembered from childhood. The entire estate appeared lost within the middle of the countryside now swathed in the deepening twilight.
Despite the dull ache in my calf, courtesy of a bullet from the Battle of Bussaco, I swung off my horse, repulsed by the profusion of weeds clinging to my boots. Chickweed in full bloom and grass, as thick as could be, brushed against my legs.
One step forward and my leg buckled, the pain stabbing and sharp. Was it only six months ago that I could force my body to do whatever I willed?
As if to comfort me, Chaucer snickered and bumped against my arm with his nose.
The ride had proven more treacherous than I’d expected. The young woman had warned me well, and I’d adjusted my pace accordingly. My rush seemed all for naught as I studied my surroundings.
Everything about Hawthorn Abbey felt untamed and forlorn, from the moss-covered stones dotting the walls of the once magnificent hall to the boarded windows beneath a slate roof. Even the young woman I met had a wildness to her, her pert nose smudged with mud and her dirty gown fading in the twilight. Nothing seemed manageable about her, including the red hair frizzing about a small face and pointed chin.
A waif or spirit come to waylay my journey. If this was my reintroduction to Bramnor Valley, I groaned to think of what I might encounter next. How she had clutched that expensive paper to her breast, her white face indignant. I sensed her fear of Chaucer when she kept a careful distance while eyeing the horse. A misplaced fear, of course. There was no gentler creature than Chaucer, even if he was bred for war.
I rubbed my neck. After such a long journey, I felt disoriented and exhausted, and anger flared again. Anger that the military had forced me to leave my regiment. I had a title I cared nothing for, with a property in near ruin, according to my barrister, and the frantic letter from the local vicar begging my return. I could not evade returning to the home I despised with all my being and ignore the diminishing rents forever, especially when my barrister informed me of the estate possibly returning to the Crown if I walked away from my inheritance.
And now, thanks to my barrister’s ill-timed meddling, I was to anticipate a visit from an auditor, a Mr. Edmund Talbot, with the understanding that I had to prove the estate’s worth or risk losing everything. The clock started ticking the moment I set foot on this cursed land. My barrister’s warning echoed through my head.
It’s you, my good viscount, and you alone who must shoulder the burden of the family estate. No one else remains to carry the Hawthorn title. The powers that be will absorb the land and all it entails and give it to another family. Is this how the Hawthorn name shall end? Will the tenants be left to the devices of an unfeeling lord who spends his days cavorting in London and Bath? A shame, since Hawthorns have held this land for well over three centuries. What else will you do now that the military has closed its doors to your service?
I nearly told him to let it burn. But I had nothing else of worth to claim these days, other than the sale of my military commission and this estate. No future waited. I couldn’t even join the Bow Street runners, an investigative service, thanks to my injury.
Nor could I ignore the letter from Vicar Littleton begging me to tend to the needs of the impoverished families.
