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Opinions are made to be changed— or how is truth to be got at?

LORD BYRON

By Monday afternoon, after reading The Mysteries of Udolpho to Mrs. Eacher, my spirits had risen. Nothing lifted me more than good company and a thrilling book.

Mrs. Eacher smirked after I finished a particularly thrilling chapter.

“Upon my word, Miss Littleton, is this Udolpho considered proper fiction?”

“No, it’s not,” I whispered, peeking over the edge of the leather-bound volume. “Most think it shocking. Scandalous, even.”

With her cataract-clouded eyes, she could barely see, but she heard well enough. We sat by the fire, enjoying thick-sliced bread and sharp cheese. I had offered to leave her a basket of supplies, but she refused the tinctures, claiming that my visits were all she needed.

“Well, carry on then,” she said with a laugh, motioning for me to continue. “I hope Emily finds the courage to do something bold. These characters are so helpless. Can’t she at least bash a villain over the head with a vase?”

“A brilliant suggestion, Mrs. Eacher, and quite bloodthirsty.”

Before I could resume, a knock at the door interrupted us. I expected Mrs. Dixon, but to my surprise, Lord Hawthorn stood there, filling the doorway.

“L-Lord Hawthorn,” I stammered, clutching the book.

“I’ve come to call on Mrs. Eacher,” he said after a pause. “And to see if she needs anything.”

“Lord Hawthorn! Do come in.” Mrs. Eacher sounded as eager as a young girl as he stepped inside and I closed the door.

“I daresay it has been years since I saw you last. At least I could see in those days. Come! Have a seat by my fire and join Miss Littleton and me. She reads to me every week, and we’ve recently discovered The Mysteries of Udolpho . ”

“I fear I cannot stay long, not when I’ve planned to visit each tenant this week.

” He shot me an unreadable glance as he obeyed and sat opposite Mrs. Eacher.

“I’m glad you have found stimulating company.

I, too, am quite intrigued by Miss Littleton’s taste in art and literature, especially since she is a vicar’s daughter. ”

Like a chastened child, I found another chair to sit on, feeling ever so foolish about the gothic fiction I clutched to my chest.

Mrs. Eacher laughed. “Miss Littleton brings a great deal of excitement with each visit. I don’t know what I would do without her assistance.”

“You cannot see anything,” he stated lowly as he studied the older woman. A frown passed over his features.

She shook her head. “Not for many years, although I remember you , the little master and your lovely mother, Lady Hawthorn. She often came to visit me in those early days. How I missed her after she left. Do you remember sitting in this cottage? I gave you biscuits and you would eat them ever so politely, careful not to drop crumbs on the floor. These days, I rely on the kindness of Miss Littleton, and of course, your other tenants, the Dixons, who help me clean the cottage and bring me what I need.”

I was hard-pressed to envision the grim man in front of me as a young boy brushing crumbs from his chin.

As I studied him, a curious change came over the viscount at the mention of his mother.

His hands resting on his knees suddenly tightened into fists.

When he caught my probing gaze, he relaxed his fingers, forcing them to straighten.

“If you need anything, you will let me know. Repairs to the cottage. Anything at all.”

She beamed and leaned forward as if sharing secrets with a confidant. “I only request novels. Gothic in particular. Ah, I remember Lady Hawthorn describing the magnificent library in the abbey. It’s the only way I can truly see these days.”

“Gothic fiction? I prefer Shakespeare,” he said, much to my surprise.

“The bard has plenty of drama.” I couldn’t resist prodding, curious that a man of the military would have a taste for literature. “ This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. ”

“ Hamlet ,” he said. “Surely you can’t deny the beauty of the bard’s words, Miss Littleton? Shakespeare offers a far meatier read—complete with poetry while examining man’s nature—than your lurid tales.”

“I think The Mysteries of Udolpho is just as compelling. And far more entertaining. You might try it and see for yourself, if you care to peruse my novel.” I held up my beloved volume in my eagerness to challenge him. “I’ve read enough Shakespeare to last a lifetime.”

He almost smiled, turning his attention to Mrs. Eacher.

“An interesting trade of books. In the meanwhile, consider the library at Hawthorn at your disposal.”

The visit ended as abruptly as it began with him standing. He nearly reached the low ceiling. Mrs. Eacher begged him to return and asked if I would send him home with the bread I had brought, in memory of the boy who visited with his delightful mother.

He halted at the door, silent for a long moment before accepting Mrs. Eacher’s humble gift. I slipped a crusty loaf into a clean handkerchief and walked outside the cottage into the cool spring air. He mounted his horse, Chaucer. The wandering medieval poet.

“Thank you for visiting my friend and taking her gift,” I said as I handed him the wrapped loaf.

He took it, the frown still captured between his brows. “She has enough food to eat?”

I pressed my lips together, not wanting to diminish her effort at welcoming the new viscount.

“Then I shall see that a basket is dropped at her door tomorrow,” he said thickly.

“Very kind of you. I know the tenants will greatly appreciate any gesture on your part. They’ve struggled so these past years.”

“I remember a certain miss informing me that the previous lord had not done much to help them.”

I straightened, refusing to lie or back down, regardless of that disastrous first meeting on the road, and then in the rain. I wrapped my arms about my middle.

“Yes, the tenants need a viscount who will watch over them and care for them.”

He blew out a harsh breath. “Unfortunately, the Hawthorn estate lives up to its name. Full of prickly thorns meant to keep others out. I was always under the impression that my uncle proved no different. However, some of the tenants have shared that he changed in his last years. What do you know of a person’s ability to change, Miss Littleton, speaking as a vicar’s daughter, of course?

If you know history and literature, I am certain to be astounded by your grasp of theology. ”

I suddenly wanted to flee. Literature and history were fine topics for discussion. But to delve into my faith? Or lack of it? A flare of panic rendered me mute.

Father believed a person could change with repentance. It was my experience that far too many would rather pretend than embrace genuine change, including my brother.

“Perhaps if one is honest about his faults and tries harder, he may achieve success.” My readings of the enlightenment suggested that all man needed was reason and scientific discovery. Yet the answer rang false this evening, and the viscount pursed his lips as if tasting something sour.

“Fair enough. But do you believe that God can change a man?” he asked, his gaze penetrating mine.

Did I believe God could change a hardened heart? I no longer knew, especially after my brother’s problems. I had witnessed far too much hypocrisy to believe much of anything—a price I paid as the vicar’s daughter. But I could hardly share such scandalous thoughts.

“I’ve seen too much of habit and human nature, my lord, to believe a man, or a woman, can so easily find redemption,” I finally replied.

“And if so, who can change?”

His lips quirked with wry amusement... and something else, very much akin to sadness when I did not answer his question right away.

“Why Miss Littleton, I do believe you are a cynic.”

“Does that surprise you, Lord Hawthorn, especially as a man who has fought battle after battle and witnessed the bleakest side of humanity?”

Impolite conversation, no doubt, but my guard had slipped, and though I tried to parry words with him, he didn’t return the attack. Not right away, at least.

Something flickered in his eyes. “And you, as a vicar’s daughter, has her fair share of scars, I believe.”

I did not expect him to read me so well. A vicar’s daughter was to be all sweetness and sunshine. All hope and reassurances that pain was temporary and fleeting, and joy waited in the morning.

My voice cracked as I fidgeted with the edge of my sleeve. “Yes, well, we are not all hardened warriors.”

“No,” he agreed, “we are not.”

He rode away, leaving me to wonder at such a statement. When I returned to the cottage, Mrs. Eacher pointed to the stove.

“Would you be a dear and pour another cup of tea, Miss Littleton?”

I tore my gaze from the door, bemused by a man who would visit a blind woman and offer her assistance then grant access to his library.

A man who named his horse after the father of English poetry.

And a man who wondered about redemption and asked a jaded vicar’s daughter about her thoughts on theology.

“Poor lad,” Mrs. Eacher murmured when I handed her a cup of tea.

“I daresay coming home must be a painful thing, considering how his father often frightened Lady Hawthorn and Rafe so...” She caught herself before revealing any more and took a long sip, her blank gaze drifting to the door.

“Sometimes life proves far stranger than our novels, Miss Littleton.”

When I asked her to tell me more, she refused to elaborate.