“Excellent wisdom, sir,” I choked out as I gripped the reins within my stiff fingers.
His answering grin was all the encouragement I needed to kick Chaucer’s poor sides and return to the abbey.
The iron lockbox rested in my chamber, pushed against my uncle’s desk. After fumbling for the key in one of the drawers, I unlocked it. As I lifted the heavy lid, moving aside odds and ends, a yellowed paper lining the bottom grazed my fingers. My hand hovered above the document, its title blazing a scandalous accusation that I couldn’t look away from. Afternoon light filtered through the window as I studied the words.
Did Lord Hawthorn Murder His Brother?
I pulled it out, skimming the contents that painted the story in both false and lurid terms. I knew the truth, but I wondered if my mother had seen a similar article. She hid within that small cottage, fearing for her life, keeping me in a safe, narrow circle with few friends or family to offer guidance or comfort. I did not resent her choices. Still, my chest tightened with emotion.
I thought of the last journal entry I had recently read.
I realize now that I am truly forgiven by God’s grace. How I wish Anne would forgive our family for our wrongs, but I canonly leave her in His hands and pray she finds healing one day. How could I possibly blame her for this never-ending silence? We must see to our own hearts, and the condition hidden within. He has a way of dealing with us, bringing our sorrow and sin to the surface.
My tenant had told me that the coming frost in winter forced the stones to rise within the ground, the pressure pushing them outward and upward. I recalled his words now, the meaning behind them slowly unfolding. Each year, the harsh cold and frost would force stones to the surface, just when the fields seemed cleared.
The earth never stayed silent for long, always uncovering what was buried. Perhaps life was no different—these upheavals, these moments of turmoil, were like the winter forcing rocks to the surface. But just as those obstacles had to be removed to allow the soil to thrive, maybe this was my chance to clear away what had long weighed me down. The effort, no matter how backbreaking, could yield something far greater in the end—a clear pasture, ready to be sown with new beginnings.
I could no longer hide from my past, pretending those pivotal events had no effect on my present and future. So many mistakes had been made, even by my mother as she separated from her own unforgiving kin, hiding in her poverty and the shame of a gutted marriage.
A whispered prayer broke free of me. For Bridget. For the Whittles. For each of my tenants. And I prayed that God would heal me and help me become a man others could rely upon. Nor could I assume that I alone could protect those within my care. The burden of sole responsibility, to fix and repair, that I had carried for so long—first with my mother, then with my best friend’s death, and now with my tenants and Bridget—slipped from my shoulders.
I needed God’s help.
After placing the article on the desk, I carefully tucked Bridget’s most valuable possessions inside the safe. A sacred trust, not to be bestowed lightly. I locked the lid and deposited the key in my coat pocket. My uncle found forgiveness at the end of his life.
And me? Perhaps I, too, would find freedom from the long years of bitterness.
35:Bridget
It is not the man who has too little,
but the man who craves more, that is poor.
SENECA
Sweat trickled down my back as I paused to dab at my forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief while surveying Mr. Perry’s field. May proved a fickle month, hot and rainy by turns. Despite a bright beginning this morning, clouds billowed in the sky, promising a storm by late afternoon.
After giving the ring and doll to Rafe for safekeeping, we made another thrilling discovery just this morning—a mosaic featuring Ganymede flying to Mount Olympus in a blaze of glory as Mr. Harrington and I swept away the debris from the cerulean-blue chips.
Mr. Harrington, eager to secure the funds from the sale of the ring, sent another letter by courier to the society. He allowed the Bramnor men to help with the excavation, but few wanted to stay long considering how he shouted orders.
Mr. Perry, of course, and Abigail, remained by my side, eagerly combing through the dirt on the hunt for more gold. Mr. Harrington had struck a further deal with Mr. Perry, agreeing that any future items discovered might be sold, to benefit both him and the society. Father and I had helped negotiate the arrangement, and it seemed fair that I would receive a percentage for bringing in the Society of Antiquaries—much like an agent’s fee.
Mr. Perry gladly agreed to his terms, including his plans for a tourist center to be built the following summer. He had also approved of Rafe keeping the items safe at Hawthorn Abbey under lock and key.
Mr. Harrington had gestured to the newest section of the floor.The real value will occur when you grace the summer tourist guides. I imagine families will travel across the continent to see this lost palace.
Abigail had laughed, flinging her arms around her father’s neck.We’ll be rich, Papa.She kissed him soundly on the cheek.And we’ll build a palace of our own.
Mr. Harrington added with a grin,I imagine you could charge a decent price for a walking tour. You might even open a teahouse and offer refreshments. The possibilities are endless.
I had smiled at my dear friend’s enthusiasm, especially when she shot me a meaningful look. At last, both of our vaporous dreams felt like a solid reality. If only Daniel was here to share in the joy.
As I stopped digging to grab my sketchbook and charcoal in order to capture Ganymede’s fierce gaze, the sun broke free of the clouds, brilliant and golden. Abigail seemed in especially high spirits before she left the dig to prepare a lunch basket for us. I had spent the morning listening to her tales of the young men who had shown interest in her following May Day. Poor Mr. Perry would likely have his hands full in the days to come with marriage proposals.
Soon, the scent of fresh bread and cheese filled the air as Abigail returned with a picnic basket. We gathered beneath a large oaktree, the breeze carrying the promise of an approaching storm, and spread the blanket on the grass. While we ate, Mr. Harrington continued to discuss plans for the mosaics, his enthusiasm infectious. Abigail, flushed with excitement, could hardly sit still, dreaming aloud of what their future might hold.
Surprisingly, I’d heard not a single peep from her about Mr. Barron. Nor had I encountered him since that unfortunate conversation when he was last at the field and Rafe defended my reputation. Therefore I was surprised when a shadow fell over the pages of my sketchbook, and I glanced up, squinting despite my bonnet, to see Mr. Barron hovering over me.
