Page 16

That’s one of the greatest curses ever inflicted on the human race, memory.

OVID

The mist enveloped me once again, swirling with tendrils as if it were a living thing. And with it came the ghosts.

I shook my head to clear the visions, yet I remained pinned on the mountain. I could not escape, helpless to see events play out once more.

’Tis only a dream, I warned myself. Wake up, you fool. Sometimes the plea worked and I would wake up, drenched in sweat, my leg aching. Other times...

The fog lifted as the morning sun cleaved the ridge, revealing the shadowy shapes of the advancing enemy. The French. So many of them. Though I braced for battle, I couldn’t prevent a shudder.

“Fire!” I at last screamed. Dimly I heard Lewis’s shouts to do the same.

Guns blasted, the smoke acrid, stinging my nostrils. The twelve cannons belched flames and fumes even as the French scurried to change from the formation of a column into a line.

I was not a coward. I wouldn’t tolerate defeat.

Yet even as the French fell, bile crawled at the back of my throat at the sight of so much blood and destruction.

But orders were orders. I yelled again, the battle cry scarcely recognizable.

Lewis charged alongside me, faithful as ever.

Lewis, my dear friend, whom I’d sworn to his pregnant wife, Mildred, I would protect with my life. Lewis, who died in these dreams.

I collapsed, a bullet ripping into my lower calf and hobbling me when I reached for the man who had been like a brother.

But his eyes were glazed and unseeing, his throat a mangled mess.

I had indeed failed him. How could I forgive myself when I lived, alone in the world, while he died with a family left behind?

I cried his name again, and rough hands shook me.

“Blast it, I cannot wake him!”

I jerked awake to Mr. Whittle’s concerned face.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, gripping the bedpost. “You were hollering, and my wife bid me check on you.”

A breath escaped me as I sat up, the sheets and coverlet a tangled mess about my legs. I no longer stood on the ridge. Instead, the four stalwart posts of the bed surrounded me, reminding me that it was my third day in Bramnor.

Plunging a hand through my hair, I tried to even my breathing and my racing pulse. “I’m all right. In the future, please inform your wife that there’s nothing to be alarmed about. It would be better to let me be.”

He took an enormous step away from the bed. “Of course, my lord. Perhaps my daughter’s tales of spirits have us all spooked. Might I commend you on a wicked hook? You nearly took out my jaw.”

A red welt appeared on the left side of his stubbled chin. He rubbed the spot with a rueful smile.

“Ah,” I said, at a loss for words as embarrassment heated my skin. “It’s my turn to apologize.” The dream had haunted my steps all the way to Bramnor. I had alarmed plenty of innkeepers at the midnight hour.

“I’ve met men from battle who’ve gone through similar. War is an ugly affair. It never leaves you.” He offered an awkward bow. “Breakfast awaits at your leisure.”

I nodded, still too caught up in the nightmare. That morning, September27, 1810, would forever remain branded in my mind. Although I had received an honorable discharge and sold my commission, I couldn’t shake my grief. Or my dereliction to keep those I cared about safe.

My friends were few, and those who stayed with me, I kept for life.

I had no one to rely on. No one at all, save an overfamiliar groundskeeper and his odd family.

I shrugged into clean britches and a coat from the warped wardrobe, thinking of my mother’s reliance on God during the hardest seasons.

How had she retained hope in the midst of so much suffering?

The more I spent time within the abbey, a place of so much sorrow, the more I thought of her.

Resolve filled me not to let my father’s legacy taint me any further than it had.

When I reached the solar, the tantalizing scent of sausage links, tea, and porridge greeted me. Mr. Whittle interrupted my moment of respite just as I settled and started to eat.

“Pardon the interruption, my lord. A Mr. Talbot is here to see you.”

Appetite now fled, I left my breakfast unfinished. When I entered the green room, Mr. Talbot stood by the window, his black coat impeccable despite the morning’s mist. His sharp gaze shifted toward me as I approached, the weight of his presence already filling the room.

“Mr. Talbot.” A tightness clung to my voice. I already had a sinking feeling as to why he had come. “I was not expecting your visit so soon.”

Talbot wasted no time on pleasantries. “My lord, the Crown demands immediate action. As you are aware, your uncle’s passing has left matters of your estate in a precarious condition, including unpaid taxes.

The Office of Woods and Forest has taken a keen interest in seeing if you can restore Hawthorn Abbey to its former standing—and if it will be profitable enough to sustain its people. ”

I groaned inwardly. Unpaid taxes? “I fear that you will find my uncle’s records in disarray. Please, I have only just arrived. At least allow me a year to prove that Hawthorn estate will turn a profit.”

He inclined his head, something akin to understanding flickering in his eyes.

“Last year, I stood in this very spot, hearing the same assurances from your uncle and I looked the other way. Alas, my position will be in danger if I do not act. The Crown is weary of excuses, and I fear the pressure to act has only intensified. You have four months to present a clear plan not only to revive this estate, but to bring in enough coin to support the village. The road leading to the estate, for example—it’s in disrepair.

The tenants have lodged complaints, and I’ve experienced it firsthand, rattling in a carriage.

You’ll need to begin rebuilding it at once, or I’m afraid I will be forced to recommend that the Crown absorb your estate immediately. ”

I ground my teeth at the threat but kept my composure. Anger boiled within me at the assumption that I would prove no better than my uncle. “The road? I can scarcely afford such a construction if taxes are owed.”

“A full reconstruction, my lord,” Talbot urged. “It would serve not only your tenants but the estate itself. Particularly if you intend to expand the cider business as your uncle promised me—ease of transport will be key. This road is a vital link to the village and beyond.”

“And if I fail to meet these expectations?”

Talbot’s lips pursed. “Then the Crown will likely decide the estate should transfer to other hands—ones more capable of handling its affairs. Truly, I am sorry to deliver such ill news.”

Before I could respond, the door flung open with a loud thud, and Whittle rushed in yet again, his eyes bulging with alarm. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but it’s urgent. The sheep—most of the flock—are running loose through the valley! The tenants are in an uproar.”

“What?” I cried. The estate was already teetering, and now this.

Talbot raised an eyebrow, his demeanor steady despite the sudden chaos. “Perhaps you should attend to your sheep, Lord Hawthorn. Rest assured, we will continue our discussion later.”

I grimaced as I followed Mr. Whittle into the sunshine, where men waited in the courtyard, twisting their felt hats within filthy hands.

I had not yet had the pleasure of greeting these tenants.

As I walked toward them, I could feel Mr. Talbot’s eyes trailing me, no doubt assessing every movement, ready to report each issue back to the Crown.

The oldest man inclined his head, coughing into his fist. “I’m Hinsley, and this be Mr. Malcolm, Mr. Cobb, and Mr. Dixon.

We woke up to see your sheep out in Mr. Malcolm’s pasture.

My sons are rounding them up as we speak.

When I rode past the Hawthorn bush, I noticed someone had cut the hedge and dug a hole directly beneath where the bush was.

Big enough for my sheepdog to fit through. ”

Hawthorn, just like my namesake, created a tall barrier of sharp thorns to keep the sheep from escaping and prevented predators from entering the pastures.

From behind me, Mr. Talbot cleared his throat, a small noise that grated on my nerves. I knew what he was thinking—another sign of disarray on the estate.

My blood boiled at the impudence of someone intentionally cutting the hedge to let my sheep out. I couldn’t afford another setback. Not with Talbot witnessing my latest debacle.

“Thank you for alerting me, gentlemen,” I said, meeting each of their eyes. “I’ll see to it immediately. And rest assured, the person responsible for this will be found and dealt with.”

I turned on my heel, determination fueling each step as I headed toward the stables.

This wasn’t just an act of mischief—it was a challenge, and I wasn’t about to let it go unanswered.

At the stables, I called for Chaucer, my trusted stallion, and wasted no time saddling him.

As I mounted, the cool air of the morning hit my face, sharpening my focus.

I rode alongside Mr. Whittle, while the other men followed on foot. To my annoyance, Mr. Talbot had also insisted on mounting one of the horses and trailed behind with a measured pace, as if content to observe rather than offer any real assistance.

Mr. Whittle and I reached the area first, where the remains of an ancient stone wall ended next to a hedge of hawthorn. I dismounted, the representative of the Crown doing the same behind me.

I peered at the upturned dirt. The hole mirrored the ones in Perry’s field, and the hawthorn branches lay strewn, leaving a gap in the hedge. My gaze fixed upon the shredded section of the once formidable hedge.

Balling my fists, I forced a calmness into my voice. “Who would dare to do such a thing? And why?”