“Mr. Beaumont, you must understand my decision. The Society of Antiquaries answered my letter first and promised to send their secretary at their nearest convenience.”
Mr. Harrington exhaled, his relief palpable. I refrained from reminding the Apollo that I had sent not one but three letters to the Dilettanti.
A long pause followed before Mr. Beaumont pivoted toward his rival. “Congratulations are in order to Mr. Harrington and his society.”
He tilted his head in my direction. “And congratulations to you, Miss Littleton.”
“A shame you made the trip and now must return.” Mr. Harrington sounded cheerful. He slid his hand into his pocket, where the ring hid.
Mr. Beaumont shrugged. “On the contrary. I intend to enjoy all that Bramnor offers before I end my stay.”
“I must warn of the inns,” I protested, hoping to deter him. “They are not fit for refined travelers.”
He brushed past me, the visit apparently over.
“So I have heard. Not to worry, Miss Littleton, I have engaged in the hospitality of Lord Hawthorn. I understand he, too, has mosaics equally as impressive as yours.”
27:Rafe
A club, for which the nominal qualification is having been in Italy, and the real one being drunk; the two chiefs are Lord Middlesex and Sir Francis Dashwood, who were seldom sober the whole time they were in Italy.
HORACE WALPOLE ON THE DILETTANTI
Mrs. Whittle caught me in the east wing after our guests retired to dress for dinner. Both men brought valets, easing some of the burden of my staff.
“I hope the menu will be satisfactory for our guests,” she said before rattling off a list that barely registered in my racing thoughts. Lamb and apple pudding or lemon syllabub. Did I have a preference?
“Do as you must, Mrs. Whittle.” I lowered my voice to calm her nerves. “Whatever you choose will suffice.”
She fidgeted with her brooch. Nerves, I suspected, due to the strain of serving such esteemed guests. “I hope the rooms are to their liking. They’ve rung several times and Mr. Whittle is beside himself trying to serve them as best he can. Lucy served tea to the gentlemen.”
I clenched my jaw. Lucy serving tea wasn’t unusual, but something about these men set my teeth on edge.
“Lucy’s done nothing to draw their notice, has she?” I asked.
Mrs. Whittle shook her head, her hands fidgeting with her apron. “No, my lord, she’s just doing her work. But they’ve been... demanding.”
I nodded, keeping my concerns to myself. “Very well, but if anything seems out of line, you’ll let me know.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment, hesitating briefly before leaving the study, the sound of her skirts swishing against the stone floor echoing softly as she closed the door behind her.
The study, usually a place of solace for me, felt heavier with the weight of expectations. I needed their help—investments in the orchards, particularly after the hailstorm, were crucial. But something about their presence unsettled me.
I was about to leave the study when I noticed my uncle’s diary lying on the desk, its worn cover drawing my eye. No dust remained on the surfaces, and I surmised that Lucy or Mrs. Whittle had moved it while tidying. Despite my need to join the men for dinner, it seemed to call to me.
I picked it up, a shiver of unease running through me. It had been moved while cleaning.
March17th, 1796
I have tried repeatedly to reach Anne. She refuses my letters even now. Why won’t she answer me? All I request is one letter to know where she and Rafe hide. I would collect both of them at the soonest convenience and return them to Hawthorn Abbey, where they both belong.
Surely, she must know by now that Randall is dead. The news of his death spread like wildfire in the papers, blazinghis name—and mine—across the area. His drunken brawl at that inn, the fool. He could not pummel his way out of that fight. How I regret not dealing with him sooner. I have nothing left within these halls but the constant reminder of my weakness. I know what people think. They whisper that I killed him. I did not, although I often wished I had. They whisper that Rafe is my son.
I wish he was my child.
I wish I had not pressured Anne to leave with me and head to some forgotten spot on the continent.
I cannot change my past. I hardly dare hope for the future, although the good reverend assures me it is not too late to find some redemption for my soul.
