Page 21

Nothing happens to anybody which he is not fitted by nature to bear.

MARCUS AURELIUS

Hawthorn Abbey appeared almost romantic in the evening with ivy covering the stones.

My pulse thrummed despite the peaceful setting spread before me.

The sunset revealed signs of new activity along the estate.

A line of stakes marked the beginnings of a road cutting through the fields, portions of the ground freshly turned and awaiting the first stones.

My pulse quickened at the sight—evidence of the viscount’s determination to bring change, even in his weakened state.

I dreaded this visit, especially when Father returned to the parsonage appearing distressed, demanding I procure Mother’s time-tested tinctures and return with him to tend to the feverish viscount, now rendered immobile with the same fever sweeping the valley.

Considering our last encounter at church, would he even welcome my presence?

Father cast me a worried glance as we approached the main entrance, dripping with Hedera leaves.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Molly or Mrs. Herriot, but I am deeply concerned for our viscount. He’s young and quite determined to prove himself.”

“As he should,” I answered drily.

“Even to the point of selling the tapestries, paintings, and silver. He even threatened to sell the library.”

My steps faltered. I had delighted in that library, especially when the former Lord Hawthorn had allowed my father and me use of it.

It saved me an extra trip to the lending libraries in Chichester and had been the one saving grace of the former lord.

How desperate the viscount must be to part with his family’s items. A measure of pity wormed its way into my heart. A very small measure.

“I cannot imagine being in worse straits than to be forced to sell books.” The thought set a dull ache within my chest. There was nothing I loved more than tomes with yellowed pages and the scent of leather.

Daniel’s books had saved me, allowing me the freedom to travel the world from the comfort of our drawing room.

Father sighed as he lengthened his stride, clearly in a hurry.

“Nor I. It’s a shame to see a viscount reduced to such circumstances.

However, his military bearing and his upbringing seem to have prepared him for hardship.

He is unconventional, to say the least. He refuses to let his tenants suffer. ”

One could hardly discount the idea of a viscount caring for his tenants.

“He has endured a great deal, in this abbey and abroad. I cannot share everything I heard. A clergy man’s privilege. Some wounds fester within the soul long after the body regains strength, and our viscount is a man in desperate need of healing.”

I mulled over Father’s pause. “Were you able to settle the dispute between Mr. Perry and the viscount?”

My father shook his head. “I fear I will need to pay a visit to the magistrate. Lord Hawthorn has already made inquiries but the magistrate is in Bath. This matter with Mr. Perry and the estate boundary must be settled, and the sooner the better. We must pray for peace between our neighbors.”

What good had prayer done for Daniel or my mother?

The abbey, usually quiet, seemed even more so this evening, even after Father’s smart rap. The door creaked open and Mr. Whittle greeted us, his ready smile most welcome. He wore tight black breeches and a livery jacket far too small, a relic of the past. “Vicar. Miss Littleton. Do come in.”

I took in the dim hall, noting that the black-and-white tiles appeared remarkably clean. And the magnificent hall table flanked by two heavy chairs also seemed freshly dusted. Above the table, a large painting of a fox hunt commanded attention, now hung straight after years of dangling crooked.

“Is Lord Hawthorn better?” My father dropped his voice to a discreet level.

“Somewhat. The physician, who came over an hour ago, said the lord has the same sickness as the tenants, along with a sore leg. It’s not good, Vicar.

Not good at all. I don’t know what that physician did, but our viscount cursed something fierce.

” Mr. Whittle glanced at me as if remembering a lady was present.

“Lord Hawthorn awaits you in the green room. He’s in a fine temper this evening. ”

Oh dear, that did not sound promising at all.

Following Mr. Whittle’s quick steps, I nibbled my lip as I considered how the meeting might proceed. Within my reticule, I carried an assortment of herbal remedies. Would the lord be receptive to my medicinal advice, considering his past demeanor?

My pulse flickered when Mr. Whittle pushed open another door.

“I said no disturbances, Whittle!”

I couldn’t see into the room, only the back of Mr. Whittle’s too tight coat. His shoulders raised as if he heaved a great sigh.

“Vicar Littleton and his daughter, Miss Littleton.”

Something else was said... too low to make out, but I braced myself all the same.

The green room lived up to its name with walls the color of faded emerald finally subdued by years of sun streaming through the immense windows.

My gaze fastened on the man reclining on the arm of a sofa, his leg propped up by a stool, his feet encased in tasseled velvet slippers instead of his usual boots.

He looked like a king of the orient about to hold court, if not for his loosened cravat and mussed hair.

If I had expected a weak invalid, I would have been disappointed.

Yet I could not dismiss the paleness of his skin, nor the sheen gathered along his brow.

He gazed at us through hooded eyes, but I was no shrinking flower who wilted under the blistering sun.

Instead, I offered him my brightest smile.

He gestured to the chairs closest to him. “Vicar Littleton, Miss Littleton, a pleasure to see you. I must warn you, I might be yet contagious.”

A pleasure to see me? I had my doubts. Father did as he was bid, and I followed suit and perched on a chair facing the sofa.

Father cleared his throat. “I hope you are feeling better, my lord. You saw Dr. Smithy?”

Lord Hawthorn shifted on the sofa, moving his arm slowly as if it pained him. “He left an hour ago after draining me until I finally bid him to stop.”

“A barbaric practice,” I said, easily imagining the tools used for scarification, where a syringe and a spring-loaded lancet or glass cup created a vacuum and drained the poor victim’s life away.

Father placed a warning hand on my arm, squeezing lightly.

“You don’t approve of bloodletting?” Lord Hawthorn glanced at me with something akin to curiosity.

“No, I do not,” I said firmly. “If God created it to flow through us, why must we abandon it so readily?”

Lord Hawthorn’s mouth tilted slightly. “At last, Miss Littleton, the two of us have something else we can agree upon, other than exploring the great outdoors during rainstorms. I was a fool to let him try.”

I dared not glance at my father, but I heard his gentle cough all the same, as if he feared I might needlessly descend into a lecture regarding the history of bloodletting, reaching all the way to Hippocrates and the famed Greek physician Galen.

I found myself cheered we might find common ground after all.

Father was quick to add, “My daughter brought a collection of herbs and tinctures. Hopefully, you will find your strength bolstered again, my lord. I have found the remedies in the valley, grown by several of the local women, to be most remarkable in their healing properties, and far less invasive.”

On that cue, I reached into my reticule and pulled out the vials, then rose to take them to him.

“You will forgive me that I cannot stand,” Lord Hawthorn said gruffly while eyeing me with some curiosity. “It appears I’ve overextended the use of my leg from visiting each tenant.”

“Such formality. There is no need,” I replied, but I was pleased he had continued to make the effort to meet each of the men and women renting his land. His mouth lifted ever so lightly again and, miracle upon miracles, a dimple carved into one cheek. He had the ability to truly smile after all.

The first vial contained a tincture of sage, fennel, and basil, mingled with plenty of garlic to ward off ill humors.

When I handed it to him, my fingers grazed his, sending a surprising jolt rippling through me.

His eyes widened as if he felt it too, but he took the vial without a word and uncorked it, his nose wrinkling.

“Miss Littleton, am I to believe that I will remain completely unharmed after imbibing such a concoction?” A sparkle in his eyes countered the gruff words. This close to him, I noticed a series of scars on his fingers and knuckles, with faint white lines tracing a path up his wrist.

“You’ve been a hardened soldier, sir. I believe you will be up to the challenge.

You’ll find this tin less odious.” I handed him the second tin, a balm of peppermint and rosemary to rub on his leg.

Instead of risking touching him again, I set it on the small marble-top table beside the sofa, ever aware of how his gaze followed me.

“And perhaps a forced rest will do you good,” I added before returning to my chair. “Especially considering all the projects you have planned, including the new road running past the orchards.”

“A capital effort. How goes the building, Lord Hawthorn?” My father interjected with a forced pleasantness as he shifted in his seat.

“Slow but certain since we’ve only just begun,” the viscount answered as he set the balm next to the other vial. I wondered if he would even make use of the gifts.

“I do hope you’ll skirt Mr. Perry’s land,” I added after a moment’s hesitation. “He is quite invested in the mosaics at this point. To halt the dig now, especially with so much at stake, would prove disastrous for his finances.”

Any hint of his former dry humor fled when the viscount swung his attention back to me. “Miss Littleton, was this the purpose of your visit? To charm me with pleasantries and put a stop to my efforts with a service road for my orchards? To encroach on my property?”

“Well, no... not entirely, as long as we can continue our dig,” I faltered, heat climbing my cheeks at his accusation.

Perhaps I seemed a tad presumptuous. “Mr. Perry’s concerns have weighed on me.

It’s a matter of his livelihood, after all.

He needs income or he shall be forced to abandon his family farm. ”

Lord Hawthorn appeared duly chastened. “My apologies. You’ve come on an errand of mercy, and I have forgotten my manners with such talk.”

“It’s the least I could do,” I said briskly, although I clasped my hands tightly before I betrayed my discomfort.

Father held up a hand. “No apologies necessary. You are not yourself, and I daresay pain or illness will test any man’s patience.”

Lord Hawthorn’s wry smile returned. “I am grateful for your visit,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve found myself ill-prepared for such involvement in my affairs.”

I arched a quizzical eyebrow. “What surprises you, Lord Hawthorn? That the people of Bramnor care for one another? That they take a vested interest in each other’s lives?

We are not London, sir. You cannot wander the streets in anonymity here.

True, village living may prove irksome. The butcher knows exactly what the baker is up to.

We are simple folk and wish to benefit equally.

All we want is a decent living and a solid roof over our heads. ”

“But you aspire to so much more,” he challenged, folding his arms across his chest as if bracing himself for a pretty speech.

“I know we disagree about the dig, and I apologize if I was too forthright. But I believe we both want the same thing—a prosperous future for this valley. I’ve heard glowing reports from your tenants—how you allow delayed payment of rent for those struggling.

Already, they speak of the fine new lord who will improve their lot in life.

I want the same. I want the men and women in this valley to thrive.

Surely an investment in the dig will prove beneficial to all involved. ”

I couldn’t bring up my need to hunt for Daniel. Not with Father present. I couldn’t discuss the fifty pounds offered by the Society of Antiquaries. But my reserve melted as I thought of the others who would benefit from the mosaics.

The viscount grew still. I continued, “I realize accolades hold no appeal for you, but perhaps a visitor’s center for tourism and education might? Think of the people who would pay to see such a sight if you cared to invest.”

He blew out a measured breath. “I don’t care for the financial risk to myself involved, especially when indulging romantic fancies of lost civilizations.

What if we dig and find nothing but rubble?

I can hardly afford to put money into such speculation.

” He tapped his fingers on the carved armrests.

“As I said before, I have always thought the past was better left buried.”

“Yet you live in an abbey surely haunted with the memory of ghosts,” I teased lightly. “Have you encountered a lonely monk wandering the halls yet? Or perhaps the lady of the house with a starched ruff topping her Elizabethan dress?”

His nostrils flared, despite my teasing tone. “The dead ought to be left alone. Any dig I allowed on my land would ruin the property forever. Wouldn’t crops of apples and a cider business prove less risky if you want what is best for the families of Bramnor?”

“No. Crops fall prey to storm and blight,” I answered. “The history of the mosaics and their owner would attract visitors year after year. Does that not intrigue you?”

“Not in the slightest. I don’t want to know the secrets of history. I assure you, if the man was a landowner, and perhaps one who knew how fickle the Roman emperors could be, he lived a life driven by...” The viscount didn’t finish his statement. His eyes darkened.

Frustration simmered within me, but I couldn’t let it show. We needed those mosaics uncovered to the fullest extent, for the Perrys’ sake and ours. “We can’t know what his life was driven by if we do not excavate thoroughly.”

Lord Hawthorn’s lips thinned. “I’ve come to realize that you, Miss Littleton, are not above sharing your opinions. Let us see what the magistrate says regarding the property lines, and then we will be free to go our separate ways and do as we determine best.”

Father touched my arm again, his warning more urgent. “My lord, I’ve been meaning to ask you about your thoughts on Wellington’s recent advance. What do you think of the current situation?”

The conversation blurred as it drifted to different topics. I sensed the visit coming to a close, despite my father’s efforts. Romantic fancies, indeed.