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Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.

JOHN WESLEY

As soon as I swung my feet off the bed and touched the floor, the room spun. Last night, I dreamt of the abbey collapsing, my father watching from the shadows, his raspy voice mocking me. Even in dreams, he held power over me.

But he was dead. And I was no longer a child.

I stumbled against the armoire and rubbed my throat, which burned like fire. Worse, my temples throbbed as if I had taken a beating during the night. So much for exhausting myself with tenant visits and work to guarantee a dreamless sleep.

Today was Tuesday. I expected a call from the vicar considering our last conversation on Sunday at church.

Would his daughter come as well? Part of me hoped she would, and another part of me desired privacy to grill the vicar who’d considered my uncle a friend.

One could hardly have a frank discussion regarding the men in my family with a vicar’s daughter listening in.

All the same, as I pictured her, an unbidden smile crossed my lips.

Her desire for benefiting the valley echoed my own.

A pity we were at odds for how to go about it.

I pushed aside the image of her saucy expression at church, along with her indignation over my hints as to who might have cut into my hawthorn hedge and released my sheep.

Despite Constable Wickham’s visit, an inept man by all appearances, Mr. Whittle and Mr. Spencer and I had no further information or answers about the sabotage. Only Lucy offered solutions. Ghosts.

I’m telling you, my lord, I heard a sound late afternoon on Sunday in the west wing.

A door closed suddenly, but when I entered the guest bedroom, no one was there.

I waited several minutes. I swear I heard breathing.

It must be the old viscount come to pay a visit.

I can feel his eyes watching me from the portrait in the library.

It was pointless to argue with her. I, too, felt my uncle’s presence, albeit in a more solid way. This morning, as I opened my armoire and pushed aside a cloak, my fingers brushed against the back until I touched something cold.

I pulled it out, not at all surprised to see a silver flask still sloshing with drink. I uncorked it and poured the amber liquid into the banked fireplace. My uncle had not changed, no matter what the tenants or Mr. Whittle claimed. The flask had likely kept him company until his last breath.

I dressed quickly as rain pelted the windows. Outside, the wind moaned through the cracks and flashes of lighting sparking on the horizon. It sounded like a cry or an eerie weeping, reminding me of that fateful night before my mother and I escaped the abbey.

She had smiled wanly during a similar gale. “It’s only rain, my brave little man. Go to sleep.” When she had drawn the covers over my shoulders, I spied red welts on both her wrists.

The vision receded, but my breathing quickened. The flask, propped up where all could see it, glimmered in the morning light, catching my uncle’s elegant initials etched into the silver.

Should I trust the vicar who had chosen friendship with my uncle, and perhaps even my father?

Vicar Littleton, damp from the rain, bowed when he entered the solar, alone.

I quelled the strange flutter of disappointment, realizing few ladies would want to travel in such inclement weather.

Yet I had foolishly hoped she might come.

At least it meant my battle with Miss Littleton over the fields would be halted until the rain ended.

He stood dripping water and dabbing at his cheeks with a handkerchief. Quite a determined man to come in this storm.

“My lord, you are a busy man and I will make my visit short. Mr. Whittle informed me that you are not feeling well this afternoon.”

I nodded. “My apologies for not having greeted you sooner. As for illness, it is nothing.”

“From your injury in battle?”

“That is nothing more than an irksome bullet from the Battle of Bussaco,” I replied.

I hated being considered an invalid. The surgeon had done what he could to remove the shrapnel, but he could never fully repair the damage in my leg.

At the moment all I felt was fire in my throat.

I pulled on my cravat, struggling to breathe. Had I caught a chill from my tenants?

“No apologies needed. Bussaco, you say? When the Duke of Wellington duped l’Enfant chéri de la Victoire , one of Napoleon’s greatest generals? I should like to hear your account.”

“I don’t care to remember,” I said, immediately regretting my harsh tone. I hastened to add, “I lost a dear friend that day.”

After motioning for him to join me in front of the fireplace, I sat, my body taut, as I rested my fist on my knee.

He followed my example. “Not an easy loss, I’m certain. You have my sympathies. How do you like our valley so far?”

“I certainly have plenty to occupy me.”

He smiled. “A new lord must attend to his duties, of which you have many indeed. You have only newly arrived and have done splendidly based on what I’ve heard from your people.”

I wasn’t used to hearing praise. To my surprise, his warm words settled into me like a healing balm. “Much work remains. If it wasn’t raining, I would be in the fields instead of lounging by a fire like a man of leisure.”

“Nay, rest will do you much good. The Sabbath was created for our benefit.” Reverend Littleton frowned as he studied me.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, my lord, you do appear paler than when I saw you last. If you are agreeable to the notion, my daughter has some skill with tinctures and teas.

Perhaps at my next visit, I’ll bring a remedy.

” The vicar’s words carried a quiet concern that seemed to burrow deeper beneath my defenses.

“If it isn’t devil’s dung, then I accept,” I replied.

The vicar chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “Lucy Whittle’s remedy. Oh yes. I’ve smelled it from afar.”

Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I resisted the urge to cough as a rough tickle lingered in the back of my throat. The growing discomfort mirrored the tension I felt, pushing me to cut through the pleasantries. I appreciated bluntness and decided to offer the same to my guest.

“Vicar, when I brought your daughter home during that storm, and forgive me for doing so but I had no luxury for propriety in such weather, you mentioned there were matters we needed to discuss. One of them has unfortunately grown more pressing. Mr. Perry and I are at odds over the boundary of our properties. I had no choice but to ask Miss Littleton to cease digging on what I believe is my estate, particularly after someone tampered with my hedges and let my sheep loose.”

“She has not trespassed, I assure you. Nor would she or Mr. Perry release your sheep.” The vicar’s bushy eyebrows rose.

“However, Mr. Perry has asked me to inquire after the records as soon as the magistrate releases them, which is one of my reasons for calling today. Your neighbor struggles to read and I have promised to intervene. I believe you will find Mr. Perry to be well in his rights. Have you found your uncle’s property deeds? ”

Ire bubbled up within me. I had found no such documentation within my uncle’s records. It was possible I would later find them stuffed into some obscure cupboard.

“Not all of them. And I’ve been told that the magistrate has taken a trip to Bath to settle a family affair for the next two weeks. Until then, I have no choice but to hunt for papers hidden in the oddest of places.”

The vicar sighed. “Lord Hawthorn’s mind turned for the worst in his last years. He couldn’t remember where he placed his inkpot or his watch most days. At first, I assumed it melancholia. But then I realized more was afoot.”

This was also news to me. I had not considered that my uncle might have suffered memory loss.

I fingered my aching throat. “I must speak frankly. I’ve heard that you had an affable relationship with my uncle.”

“I counted him as a friend,” the vicar answered. “He carried many burdens to the end, one of which included restoring his holdings.”

I thought of the half-filled flask in the armoire, clear evidence of a man still chained to his weakness. “I fear the estate has been neglected far too long.”

“No doubt you have a challenge on your hands, but in time, with wise decisions, the Hawthorn holdings will flourish again. The crops failed thanks to blight a few years prior, and the expenditures grew. Many good men and women left Bramnor for the factories.”

Lucy entered the room with a steaming pot of tea and two teacups.

She poured the fragrant brew and curtsied, leaving us alone with little fuss.

The tea, mixed with honey, soothed my throat, if only for a moment.

More troublesome was another flush of heat rippling through me as my vision wavered. Still, I continued.

“I have seen nothing of my uncle’s wisdom.”

The vicar frowned at my caustic bluntness, but again, he did not disagree. “No, I suspect not. At least not until the last few years of his life. The former lord battled his demons to the end.”

“If demons include drink, then I’m well aware of the obstacles.”

The vicar picked up his gold-rimmed teacup. “His greatest battle. It worsened, from what I understand, after your father’s death.”

My uncle had likely been too drunk to care, but I kept that thought to myself, changing the subject to more hopeful topics.

“Unfortunately, both men left me with no choice but to do what I must to protect Hawthorn Abbey. I’m determined to rebuild the orchard and sell cider.

I may even sell the art, books, and silver within the abbey since I have no use for any of it.

I’ve written to my barrister to inquire about buyers. Discreetly, of course.”

A pained look crossed the vicar’s face before he took a sip of tea.

Perhaps it was the fever heating within me, but my tongue seemed strangely loosened while my head felt like it had its own rebellious drummer, each beat sending shock waves through my thoughts.

I set down my teacup and rubbed my temples. “I was surprised to hear that you were friends with my uncle. I did not have any semblance of a relationship with him over the years.”

“You received no letters?” The vicar’s frown deepened. He set his cup on the saucer. “Not even one?”

I shook my head and immediately regretted the action as it reverberated through me. “Nothing in all my years living with my mother. We stayed in a cottage, provided by her relatives at Portsmouth.”

The vicar shook his head. “Most unfortunate.”

“Did you know my father?” I demanded.

“He died before I moved to Bramnor.” A careful answer to my way of thinking.

“Then you’ve surely heard the gossip by now. Both men were brutes. When my mother took me from the abbey, it was to save her life. Not a single soul intervened to help her.”

“I am truly sorry. No woman should endure such terror. Nor any child.”

To my surprise, the vicar made no excuses for the men in my family. Instead, he regarded me with sympathy.

“My mother was a brave soul. Despite her meekness of spirit, she had the courage to leave this forsaken home. Her faith never wavered no matter her circumstances.” My fingers flexed over my knee.

No longer did I know what hurt more...

the battle wound or the fever rising or the pain of remembering my past.

“Your mother’s faith is a gift,” the vicar said quietly.

Yes, it was. If darkness chased my heels, something else lingered too.

The longer I spent in the abbey, the more I remembered her lessons and example, but I did not welcome his intrusion into my interrogation.

I wanted to know why he had remained by my uncle’s side.

If my uncle promised money or influence, surely the vicar would have seen through such blatant lies.

“So you see, I cannot fathom why any man would want to be friends with my uncle or my father. My earliest recollections are of my father accusing my mother of being unfaithful, even though I believe such an accusation could only be the lie of a crazed man. I do not know who is my father. My uncle or...”

Pressing a fist against my mouth, I curbed myself at the last moment, ashamed to have shared so much. I was not myself. Nor had I ever divulged so much with anyone other than Lewis.

A wave of dizziness swept over me, scorching my skin even further. The room wavered before my eyes. I was aware of a rustle as I tipped forward, caught by the edge of the table, and rattling the teacups. The vicar reached my side, his hand on my arm.

“My lord—”

I licked my lips, trying to answer to assure him not to worry, but my vision faded to black.