Battle images flashed through my mind, alongside the accusatory voice. Despite the scent of moldering books, I could still smell the black powder from the cannons. I could still see the men of my regiment, including my friend and lieutenant, falling helpless to the ground. We had won but at what cost? Men who had relied on me only to be let down by my hesitancy during the heat of the battle. That guilt would forever cling to me.
I clenched my fists before slowly releasing my fingers and the pent-up tension with them, built up over many months, perhaps even years. Regret and bitterness seemed to taint the abbey, claiming that it had no future and no hope. I would not succumb to such a bleak fate, even if it had claimed my father and my uncle.
My mother, if she were still alive, would remind me that good people yet remained within this valley. How could I abandon them, especially after Mrs. Whittle had done her best to watch over me as a lad? Who knew if a new lord would keep the Whittles hired? And what would happen to the families who tended my uncle’s estate? No child should be forced from a home and driven into an insecure future as I had been.
No, I must remake Hawthorn Abbey into something worthy of pride. Duty demanded it. I couldn’t fail those who depended on me—not again. Nothing hollowed out a man more than failure.
If I could no longer serve my regiment with this blasted injury, then I would carve out another future—a better one for myself andmy tenants. The land would find rebirth through the revitalization of the orchard, its once-thriving trees bearing fruit again. The apples could be sold at market, bringing much-needed income to the estate and ensuring the tenants had work to sustain their families. With careful management, the estate could return to its former glory. Once the land was secure and the Crown’s representative satisfied, I would purchase another home far from Bramnor, hopefully within a year or two. One with far fewer ghosts.
4:Bridget
The oldest, shortest words—yes and no—are those which require the most thought.
PYTHAGORAS
Father liked to remind me of Elijah’s flight from Queen Jezebel whenever my spirits were low. Then he’d say,A nap, a spot of tea, and a couple biscuits, and soon enough you’ll see that the Lord Almighty will set things right again.
I found the advice helpful on most occasions, particularly the part about devouring treacle tarts or shortbread. That evening after encountering the new viscount, however, I found nothing in common with the prophet who subsisted on morsels from ravens.
Night had fallen when I pushed on the weathered door to the parsonage and removed my filthy slippers to tend to later. I untied my apron and braced myself for yet another lecture. Yet as I crossed into the hall, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Herriot, heard my loud sneeze, I found myself led upstairs as she muttered her sympathy.
She handed me a handkerchief. “Poor thing, you look as though you took a nasty tumble. How wan your skin is. Tell me you have not taken a chill from all your gallivanting about the countryside.”
I sneezed again and dabbed at my eyes. “It’s been quite an evening. I just encountered the new lord on the road leading to the abbey, and of course, I managed to bungle the whole affair.”
“You met the new lord? Dressed like this?” Mrs. Herriot reared back, gesturing to yet another ruined gown. “Oh, my child. Molly will be scrubbing this for hours.”
I sighed on behalf of my maid. Mrs. Herriot and I had an unusual relationship, tolerating each other, pushing each other, and occasionally finding a truce. A friend of my mother’s, Mrs. Herriot had been forced to find employment after her husband’s death. When my mother passed eight years ago, Mrs. Herriot was the closest thing I had to female guidance other than an aloof aunt on my father’s side, who refused to take me as a companion because of my eccentric tendencies. Not that I was complaining.
I had always spoken my mind with Mrs. Herriot. We had an understanding—I preferred scholarship over society.
“I don’t mind a ruined gown. I can use it solely for excavation. If only I could find a pair of buckskin trousers. And boots! A far more sensible ensemble, to my way of thinking.”
“Never let me hear the wordsbuckskin trousersout of your mouth again,” she hissed, all maternal affection scattered to the breeze.
I stifled a groan as I allowed her to help me shrug out of the damp gown. My best tools remained scattered across the grass, and I had been bound by far too much pride to retrieve them in front of the viscount. Tomorrow morning, I would reclaim them.
She clucked her dismay. “Let us hope you will make a better impression in the days to come. I don’t need to remind you that a vicar relies on the favor of his superior.”
I could not hide my grimace. “A challenging command, Mrs. Herriot. I always disliked the Hawthorn men.”
“Why?” she probed. “Are we not to love our neighbors as ourselves?”
Patting my hair, I considered my answer. “Because Father spent his days at the abbey over the past six years, running to soothe each nervous ailment the old viscount had. Growing up, Daniel needed a father.” I turned to her, my ire rising. “I needed him too, especially after Mama died. Do we, his flesh and blood, matter so little? Or must precedence be extended only to his flock?”
Mrs. Herriot pursed her lips. “A reverend often serves at the expense of his family. It’s a holy sacrifice.”
Was it such a noble sacrifice? Perhaps my brother would have had a stalwart presence to guide him, had Father been around more often instead of leaving me to raise Daniel. Perhaps I wouldn’t have had to coddle Father, taking on tasks such as organizing the parish charity work and visiting the sick in his stead, while ensuring the household ran smoothly.
Did that make me selfish? Maybe. Judging from Mrs. Herriot’s narrowed gaze, I could only surmise the chiding thoughts running through her mind. My brother was lost to me. And I had sat by my mother’s sickbed, caring for her alone.
Father had given his all to Viscount Hawthorn in the name of divine love. And the rest of us had no say in the matter.
Mrs. Herriot’s gaze softened. “I never cared much for those Hawthorn men either, truth be told. Too much wine addled their faculties.” She sniffed as she reached out with a smoking taper to light our tallow candles. “You poor lamb. Imagine being run down by a horse. How utterly terrifying, especially considering that mishap you had riding all those years ago. What kind of gentleman does not escort a woman home at such a late hour?”
“I do believe one without manners,” I answered without hesitation, although a warning voice in my mind soon followed—a pox upon my pesky conscience—and reminded me that I had soundly rejected him when he pointed out the same.
“A shame. Rather brutish manners for a man of the titled gentry. I suppose that hard nature comes from the military. How they beat those poor men into submission...” She placed the candle on the wardrobe and left me to my turbulent thoughts, mumbling about how it was a mercy I didn’t twist my ankle on the road and that she would bring something hot for me to drink.
