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Leisure without books is death, and burial of a man alive.

SENECA

My visits with Mrs. Eacher were always enjoyable.

I could usually be myself around her and never perceived judgment reflected from her filmy eyes.

She peered into the hearts of men and women better than most, yet rarely said a word of condemnation, instead plying them with tea while offering a seat by her fire.

We were both satisfied with the developments of our shared story, The Mysteries of Udolpho .

I tucked the book into my satchel after closing the door behind me, torn about leaving the safety of my friend’s cozy cottage to head home.

I had stayed longer than planned, discussing my brother.

When Mrs. Eacher asked me to lead in prayer, I muttered rote phrases, but when her blue-veined hand clasped mine, a tear slipped free.

Bridget... my sweet Bridget, your heavenly Father sees your concerns.

Surely you can take these burdens to Him and trust His provision.

She could not see the emotions no doubt twisting my features as I muttered that it was late and I must be on my way.

I, however, saw the flash of disappointment play across her face.

Time wasn’t a luxury I had. And I was tired of discussing my pressing concerns with a mute God.

As I walked away, a harsh wind picked up, matching my mood, tempered with the tangy sweet scent of coming rain.

The long grass brushed against my skirt as the storm gathered.

I took the quickest route through Lord Hawthorn’s estate, doubting he’d see me in such foul weather.

Surely he hunkered within that great dining room with the deer head frozen on the wall as he sipped claret or port or whatever it was he preferred.

Chagrined that I would think of him at all, I defiantly marched across the winding trail beaten into the grass, past the fields and the apple trees offering a boundary line.

Thunder cracked above my head, and I jumped, already nervous of the incoming storm. If I hated horses, I hated storms just as much.

I hastened along the path, and the moment I reached the farthest edge of Mr. Perry’s field, the heavens broke loose, roaring with fury and sending sheets of rain that formed pools in the indentations of the field.

Already my best slippers were soaked and likely ruined.

My embroidered blue hem was splattered with mud, and the once jaunty ostrich feathers on my bonnet drooped forward in defeat.

I would never hear the end of ruining my best outfit.

Vanity of vanities, to wear my prettiest gown in the rare happenstance that I might encounter Lord Hawthorn.

How foolish to think I could ever come close to a diamond of the first water and impress anyone at all.

What I needed was a pair of sensible boots and more dresses the color of mud.

Then another fear—beyond destroying fashion and dealing with the formidable Mrs. Herriot—took hold, forcing me to lift my skirts and dart across the mucky field.

The mosaics! Surely the rain would ruin the progress Abigail and I had made in uncovering them.

I had persuaded Mr. Perry to cover each section with canvas and dipped into my meager funds to purchase the supplies.

As I reached the dig site, my lungs straining for air, I spied a large puddle forming in the center of the canvas covering the Medusa mosaic.

Worse, one of the stakes securing the canvas appeared loose, promising an imminent waterfall when its hold released.

Then the pool would indeed fulfill its original purpose.

I pulled on the stake, ignoring my white gloves now streaked with filth. Grunting, I tried to stomp on it to sink it farther into the ground and stretch the canvas tighter, but the weight of the water puddling in the middle proved too much for me.

“Miss Littleton! Is that you?” a deep male voice shouted across the field. I groaned, then slipped and fell in an undignified heap of lace-trimmed skirts.

A black shape trotted across the field until I found myself staring through the downpour at the colossal horse and its owner.

Lord Hawthorn scowled beneath the dripping wide brim of his felt hat as he surveyed me, then the site. Another coat, this one in gray, made him appear more farmer than lord, although no less intimidating sitting astride his obsidian beast.

“Lord Hawthorn, what a delightful evening for a walk,” I shouted over the rain from my muddy seat.

I kept my tone fearless although embarrassment coursed through me as he continued to study me. Embarrassment turned to alarm when the canvas sagged farther, pouring water on the mosaic and filling the ancient pool with a gush.

“Medusa will be ruined!’ I cried, struggling to rise and secure the loosened stake, though it was hopeless.

Suddenly, I was aware of a great form looming over me, a hand reaching over mine and tugging on the stake with a strength I could not match. Without a word, he shoved it into the ground, although I feared that the damage had already been done.

He glanced down at me, his gaze tightening when I ignored the hand he held out to assist me.

Unfortunately, my limp feathers chose that particular moment to flop back over my face after I tried to brush them out of the way.

At the very least, I managed to rise on my own, flinging the mud from my hands.

Even though I pivoted away from him, a speck or two must have landed on his coat.

“Miss Littleton, we must stop meeting under such circumstances.”

“I find nothing more invigorating than being outside in nature.”

“No drawing room or gentler pursuits for you.”

I huffed loudly, forcing the ostrich feathers to puff away. “No, Lord Hawthorn. But it would appear we both prefer the great outdoors to musty interiors.”

He nodded once. “True enough. This wicked storm caught Chaucer and me on our way home from visiting tenants, but I’ve encountered worse on the battlefield.

Although, I doubt either of us should linger.

There isn’t much more you or I can do to secure the canvas.

It won’t protect your pool, not without additional center stakes to prop up the weight. ”

I felt ever more the fool for not having consideredsuch a factor.

“But I can’t abandon her to the elements,” I sputtered as I gestured to the sagging tarp.

The wind turned cold and stinging, and despite my best effort, I started to shiver in my drenched gown, plastered to my form.

Rain dripped down my back, but I was loath to leave the site until I could assess the extent of the damage.

“I suspect Medusa will survive a bit of rain,” he said. “She has endured far greater trials. You, on the other hand... Forgive my bluntness, but I thought we had come to an understanding that you would leave my field alone.”

“Mr. Perry’s field, sir. And as my memory serves, I agreed to no such terms. When the magistrate assures me otherwise, I will continue on as Mr. Perry’s guest in the manner I see fit.”

To my surprise, his lips quirked ever so slightly.

“And that will include wandering the fields alone again, I see.”

“If you must know, I visited a blind widow on your property and was caught by the storm on my way home. I often help my father with his pastoral visits.”

The rain poured even harder, blurring the man before me. I glanced at the horse, nervous that it might bolt or worse, but it appeared steadier than I was at the moment. Perhaps it was used to hardship, like its grim owner.

“Widow?” He frowned as he stepped closer to me. “One of my tenants?”

I frowned as well. “Surely you plan to visit all the tenants, including my father, the vicar, who enjoyed the patronage of your uncle.”

His jaw clenched. “I have been making my rounds. The Hawthorn holdings are rather vast and spread out in distance, but I have not had the pleasure of meeting this widow. In fact, I’m just returning from the Dillon cottage. What is her name?”

As for my father, the viscount made no mention. Had I ruined the relationship between them with my singular pursuit of antiquities?

“Mrs. Eacher,” I responded more curtly than I ought thanks to Lord Hawthorn’s blunt manner, but I felt protective of my friend, and I hoped she would not be the last on his list. Many would consider her a burden.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, as if the name were personal to him.

“You know her?” I demanded as I brushed aside the ridiculous dripping ostrich feather a third time.

He nodded, flicking raindrops from his hat in my direction. “I often stopped to see her when I was a child. She is blind, you say?”

“For the past ten years, her vision has faded until she can only discern a piercing of light through the shadows. I read to her whenever I am free. I do hope your ban of me will not include calling on the parishioners. My father spends a great deal of his day fulfilling the needs of your people.”

I wanted to further prod the viscount on whether he had met my father or not, but a sizzling bolt struck a nearby tree, far too close, and the resulting boom made the horse flick its ears backward.

Lord Hawthorn glanced over his shoulder then back at me. “Come, Miss Littleton. We cannot dicker over fields and land boundaries within this sodden field. I suspect neither of us will survive the exchange if we linger.”

“I’m but a few miles to home,” I said quickly, my pulse racing at the thought of riding with him.

He shook his head. “I cannot let you walk home in such inclement weather. Allow me to give you a ride.”

“A highly improper suggestion, sir. I know my way. I’ve traversed these hills alone for years.”