The throbbing ache in my leg reminded me to rest, a new reality I abhorred. Rest brought a host of memories I had no desire to recall. I gathered the reins in my left hand and guided Chaucer to the back of the building, where I hoped to find the stable in decent shape.
The abbey was unlit and quiet. The chirps of crickets and the scuttling of an unknown creature through dead brambles were all that greeted me behind the house. After spending my days with other military men, crowded into cramped quarters with the continual hum of voices for company, the silence felt oppressive.
Gritting my teeth, I limped past a decayed garden surrounding a dry fountain toward the stable.
The image of the woman from the road flashed again in my mind. And that of her art. She spoke with cultured tones, an odd mixture of reserved and saucy replies, but then again, her appearance... Well, I couldn’t quite decide what her appearance reminded me of, exactly.
What in the world had I gotten myself into? I was not a superstitious man, but I couldn’t suppress a chuckle mixed with a shudder.
“Who is there? I see you!” A thin, reedy voice called out from behind the extensive stable with a thatch roof in better repair than the dovecote and coach house.
“Captain Rafe Hawthorn,” I said. My new title of viscount felt too surreal to use after thirteen years in the military.
A wizened man, wiping his hands with a filthy cloth, ducked out from behind a low lintel. His eyes widened when he took in me and Chaucer. A hurried bow followed after he tossed the cloth onto a nearby barrel, not even caring when it slid off the rim and into the long grass.
“My lord! Welcome! Forgive me. I didn’t realize you would come today. We’ve been in a state of preparations following the former viscount’s passing. God rest his soul.” He hastily added the blessing as he smoothed the remaining strands of hair over his balding head. “You remember me, eh? Of course, you were nothing more than a wee lad at the time. I’m Mr. Whittle. Frank Whittle. I tend to the grounds of Hawthorn Abbey.”
“I remember,” I said after a pause.
“My wife now manages the household, and our daughter, Lucy, serves as a maid.” When I offered no further pleasantries, he jammed a filthy hand into his waistcoat, stained the color of molding butter, a putrid mix of green and yellow. A pair of large breeches, the color of rust, hung on his thin frame.
I sighed. “Are there no other servants left?”
“Other than the steward, Mr. Spencer, no. Only us, my lord.” Mr. Whittle shook his head. “The previous viscount hired the tenants as need be for the orchards, but he didn’t entertain company in the later years. Didn’t care for people much, especially when he fell into one of his spells.”
I froze at such blatant impropriety while Mr. Whittle had the grace to flush. With a hand still jammed into his waistcoat, he rocked on his heels as if he might bolt.
“Forgive me, my lord. My wife oft complains of my tongue flapping in the breeze. But it’s best you know the history of this place.”
Dare I admit I knew more than most might realize, considering my long absence? My dismay must have shown, for Mr. Whittle, perhaps eager to distract from his blunder, pointed to a path winding around the stable.
“One thing is for certain: no one loved the orchards more than your uncle. Do you recall how we had row upon row of the finest apples a man ever did taste?”
“Ashmead’s Kernels, perfect for cider,” I murmured, my attention redirected to the orchard beyond the abbey.
Mr. Whittle flashed me an approving smile. “Indeed. You ran among the trees often enough to take what you could. Why, I remember you climbing one tree with bare feet, no less. Best climber in all of Bramnor, I always said.”
I did not return his smile as I stared at the trees. I couldn’t. My throat tightened as my mind drew shadowy pictures of the orchard and abbey from before. Perhaps I could stay long enough to hire additional staff and then find a place to live elsewhere. Anywhere but the abbey.
Mr. Whittle watched me for a moment, as if expecting an answer.
“I shall visit the orchards first thing in the morning,” I finally said as I offered him the reins.
Mr. Whittle blinked at me, uncomprehending.
“Have you worked with horses, Mr. Whittle? Or must I hire a stable master?”
The groundskeeper swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Finally, he took the reins. “No, no. It’s just the size of this creature.I shall take care of him while you ... er, inspect the house. His name, sir?”
“Chaucer. After the poet, of course.”
A twinkle entered Mr. Whittle’s eyes. “An appropriate name, if you don’t mind me saying so. Imagine the adventures this horse has encountered.”
I was loath to leave Chaucer in the hands of Mr. Whittle. He felt a stranger to me, even if he presumed to know me so well. Any protests died on my lips when my leg threatened to buckle yet again. To my relief, Mr. Whittle gently led my able companion into the stable. He called over his shoulder, “I’ll find fresh water and oats right away.”
A single light appeared within the diamond panes of a window next to a door leading to the kitchen. The main entrance back around in the front boasted massive double doors covered with iron scrollwork and faced west. I was too tired to insist on formality. The tiny pinprick of light piercing the growing gloom descending upon the house and gardens beckoned with the offer of comfort.
The heavy oak door creaked as I pushed on it and entered the kitchen. While the outside of Hawthorn manor repelled, the kitchen appeared clean with a swept flagstone floor and a large wooden table pushed against a cracked, plastered wall yellowed with age.
