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The groundskeeper shook his head. “I cannot say for certain, but we’ll not let whoever it is succeed again. With your permission, I’ll fill in the gap with stones after we secure the sheep.”

I nodded, my resolve hardening as I struggled to count the white bodies making their grand escape. “See to it, Mr. Whittle. And hurry! The sheep are still fleeing.” My groundskeeper didn’t need to be told twice. He ran to his horse, and soon galloped over the field.

Mr. Talbot stood beside me, peering down at the damage. “You’ve certainly inherited quite a few challenges, my lord. A mismanaged estate, dissatisfied tenants, and now this.” He gestured to the hedge. “And yet, you seem to think you can turn the ship around in a matter of months.”

“I’m well aware of my responsibilities,” I ground out. “I don’t need reminders.”

His smile thinned. “As I mentioned earlier, the Crown will not look kindly on delays. This sabotage could be seen as a reflection of the estate’s lack of order. Your lack of order. Don’t make me regret my decision to allow a small measure of leniency.”

By then the other tenants had joined us, their expressions curious as they studied Mr. Talbot.

I turned to them. “Mr. Hinsley, run ahead for the local constable. Someone will have to answer for this breach.” Mr. Hinsley nodded and left while his companion, Mr. Dixon, sprinted toward the flock to assist Mr. Whittle.

He shouted and waved his arms to steer the sheep back toward the pasture.

Mr. Cobb sniffed loudly as he folded his arms across his chest. “Will ye be collectin’ rents right o’way? It’s been a tryin’ year with poor crops, and most of us don’t see how we can keep going.”

I mulled over the ill-timed question. I needed the goodwill of Bramnor’s residents, but I disliked how his shifty gaze slid to Mr. Talbot as if gauging how much pressure he could insert on me. Had he been the one to complain to the Office of Field and Stream?

“I’ll give you an extra month to come up with rent.” The words came out so certain, yet I recoiled all the same. How could I promise such a boon?

From the corner of my eye, I saw Talbot’s brow arch ever so slightly, though he said nothing.

Mr. Malcolm whistled low at my answer. Yes, I had debts to pay. Salaries to catch up. I also awaited my barrister’s reply regarding the abbey’s art and sculptures collecting dust. Who needed it more? The shadowed halls or the men who couldn’t put food in their bellies?

Mr. Malcolm’s eyes glowed. “Well now, you’ve most certainly made my missus happy, milord. She’ll be most relieved. You’d make the former lord right proud.”

That shocked me speechless for a moment as the men turned and left me with Mr. Talbot next to the gutted hedge.

“Choose your next actions wisely, my lord, for my patience grows weary from years of Hawthorn excuses. You have four months to impress me,” Mr. Talbot said, his voice echoing loudly. “Not a single day more. For both our sakes.”

When a sweating Mr. Whittle returned to the abbey later that afternoon, I pulled him into my study. “Mr. Malcolm implied that my uncle offered a boon to his renters. That does not sound like my uncle at all. I do not remember him or my father indulging in mercy.”

My groundskeeper nodded, but his face had taken on a sickly hue as if troubled by the conversation. Was he that loyal to my uncle to be offended by my remark?

“The former lord wasn’t the man you remember, my lord. Near the end, he changed. Offered rent relief for two months during a drought, and the tenants haven’t forgotten.”

I shook my head, unwilling to change the picture within my mind.

“He wasn’t always easy to understand. There are some who suffer from a deep melancholy—a darkness of spirit, you see.

And he was often lost in his cups and more and more forgetful as the years passed.

But in the end, he turned toward God,” Whittle added quietly.

“Lucy found his Bible the other day in the library. Perhaps you would care to see it. A gift from the vicar.”

His words followed me to the library, where a worn Bible rested on the desk. Opening it, I found a yellowed letter from Vicar Littleton, dated 1798.

The Most Honorable Lord Hawthorn,

I have pondered our last conversation. You will forgive my frankness, my lordship.

I believe the best course of action is to seek forgiveness.

All may seem lost, but may I remind you of Romans 8:28.

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.

I will speak further on the subject when we visit again. Take courage. Do what must be done.

Yours faithfully,

Vicar John Littleton

That year had proven a pivotal one. I had enlisted in the military a month before my mother passed of consumption. I wondered what penance my uncle desired? Part of me wanted to toss the letter into the fireplace to wither into ash. Instead, I placed it back where I found it.

It had only been a few days since I’d arrived at Hawthorn Abbey, but the weight of my family’s past still bore down on me.

I did not know from whom my uncle needed to beg forgiveness.

He had never spoken to my mother in the years that followed our escape from Hawthorn Abbey.

Nor to me during my years of military service.

If he had attempted to do so, any pleas would have fallen on deaf ears.

I could never forgive the Hawthorn men, especially my father, even if their tainted blood ran through my veins.

And I wasn’t certain I wanted to meet the vicar who encouraged such foolish ideas.

Nor was I certain I wanted to encounter his daughter for a third round of sparring, no matter how appealing those wide green eyes appeared.

Yet... I couldn’t deny my growing curiosity. I was the viscount of Hawthorn Abbey, and to refuse going to church would hardly improve my standing with the villagers. I had questions. Many questions for the vicar and possibly his daughter.

Reluctantly, I resolved to attend the following day.