Page 23

Time discovers the truth.

SENECA

Two and a half weeks had passed since my fever, and each day my strength returned with Miss Littleton’s remedy.

The vicar’s visits were comforting, but I missed her razor wit.

The abbey felt strangely dull without her, and I often watched her and Miss Perry digging next door—a quiet race unfolding between us.

Her determination mirrored my own. I didn’t mind her father’s report of their progress: a four-by-ten-foot section of mosaic—Venus and her cupids, the goddess of love, he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

But my attention needed to return to the estate. The road skirting the orchard had become my focus. Progress was slow, but necessary to secure Mr. Talbot’s approval. His suggestion to angle the service road through the mosaic field nagged at me, though ownership remained disputed.

How I needed more coin! I had written to my barrister, requesting the discreet sale of the abbey’s finest pieces.

His delayed response was another frustration.

Later that morning, after checking on the men’s progress, I returned to the study, seeking any records or receipts that might prove my uncle had tried to redeem the estate.

Mr. Talbot’s accusation of missing taxes loomed over me like a shadow.

Reluctantly, I opened my uncle’s diary again, hoping to find something of value to prove the Crown representative might be wrong.

Flipping through the familiar pages, I stopped short—a page had been ripped out. A chill ran through me. My heart raced as I turned to the next entry:

I never want to see his miserable face again. I will never forgive him. I wish he was dead.

Had my uncle killed my father? The rumors had haunted me for years, but seeing his words in ink... I couldn’t bring myself to read further. The past seemed determined to haunt me.

Before I could close the book, shouts echoed from outside. I stood quickly, my leg protesting the sudden movement, but I ignored it and hurried outside. The men had gathered near the road where the orchard began, their brows furrowed.

“My lord,” Mr. Whittle began, “we’ve struck something near the old orchard. It appears Mr. Perry isn’t the only one blessed with ancient ruins. I say it isn’t right to dig up those demons. Best leave them in the soil and cover it all up for decency’s sake.”

Dismay filled me as I followed my groundskeeper outside to the orchard.

All the men, seven including Mr. Spencer and the Dixon boys, gathered around me, their eyes wide with terror.

As we approached the far end of the orchard skirting my property, where the old lane leading from the abbey now took a turn to the right, a mound of dirt waited.

“What did you find?” I asked Mr. Spencer.

My steward pointed to a mound of dirt near several apple saplings waiting to be planted. “We saw men hacking at each other with swords, blood everywhere. These ancients fought like brutes. But there’s more—you’d better come see for yourself.”

“Land’s cursed,” one of the Dixon boys whispered to his younger brother. “Mr. Cobb says ghosts haunt Hawthorn Abbey, howling their outrage, and this proves it. Miss Whittle says she’s heard things in the abbey going bump at night too.”

The only one howling happened to be me, a curse of war and nightmares, but I had no intention of sharing that tidbit. No doubt most of them had heard about it already.

“Aye, wicked, wicked things have happened here,” Mr. Hinsley muttered.

“There are no ghosts,” I corrected them, irritated that my tenants would spread vile slander. “Men either go to heaven or to hell. There is no in-between.”

A barely contained shudder passed through me as I recalled my uncle’s journal entry.

You must forgive those who hurt you. My mother’s voice drifted to me on the edge of the wind rustling through orchard branches.

She had raised me to forgo bitterness, to let go of the past. I had not been allowed to ask questions, yet how could I forget the night we bundled into the carriage and fled?

The longer I stayed within the abbey, the more those memories poured into me until I felt like a cracked vessel about to burst. No wonder I wanted to spend each waking hour out in nature.

When I reached the spot where mounds of dirt lay, my breath caught in my chest. Another mosaic appeared in the ground showing two armed men with chests and legs bare clashing in an eternal battle.

I had read enough about the gladiatorial combats of ancient Rome during my military years to recognize the net and trident entangled with the short sword of the other opponent.

Both men wore heavy helmets with enormous plumes.

Tiles painted the color of rust indicated a fight to the death.

“Looks like the animal fights at the Bear Garden in Southwark where a man can pay to watch a bull maul a pair of dogs.” My steward snickered.

I glanced at him, curious if he had pursued such entertainment.

He shrugged, neither confirming nor denying it.

Rubbing my chin, I studied the mosaic. Miss Littleton would not likely shy from the gladiators, unlike some of the men clustered around me.

My gaze rose to the nearby Perry field where two canvases lay over the ground like bandages hiding gaping wounds.

Had I been too hasty, too harsh, in refusing her request? Her desire to help others mirrored my own, as she’d said.

“My lord, please, we found something else.” Mr. Spencer sounded strained as he removed his hat. “You must follow me immediately.”

Now thoroughly curious and alarmed, I hurried as fast as I could, my leg far less painful these days, thanks to Miss Littleton’s medicinal herbs. Mr. Spencer motioned me forward, pointing to another mound where a fragile sapling, the roots still wrapped in burlap, lay discarded on the ground.

“Our shovels hit something and when we scraped aside the dirt, we saw a pile of bones. At first we thought it was nothing more than roots...” The oldest Dixon boy stopped and backed away. His younger brother stood behind him, eyes large and round.

Within the dirt, a tiny skeleton lay in a contorted mess as if discarded.

I was not a squeamish man, but the sight of an innocent child buried and now uprooted within the orchard I had run barefoot through as a boy made me ill.

I sucked in a noisy, horrified breath, unfortunately drawing the attention of the surrounding men from their talk of evil spirits and wicked men.

The men surrounding me grew silent as the wind whistled through the orchard trees.

A place intended for growth and life, now tainted with death. Who was this poor babe?

“Satan’s work,” a man mumbled from behind me while I groaned inside.

No matter what I did, I could not escape the secrets and the curses of the Hawthorn legacy.