Page 24

The thorns which I have reap’d are of the tree

I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.

I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

LORD BYRON

“Bridget, they’ve found a child’s bones at Hawthorn Abbey.” Father’s voice broke as his hand trembled on my shoulder.

I had just placed my sketchbook on the desk, where I planned to write about my latest findings regarding the Venus mosaics, when a frantic knock at the front door had interrupted my documentation.

“What?” I cried as I swiveled in my chair. “What do you mean?”

“Yes, the tenants found a skeleton this morning while planting trees in the orchard.”

The hair on my neck rose as I pushed aside my notes. My mind filled with lurid possibilities, none fit for polite company.

“A murder? Or a sickly child, buried due to tragic circumstances?”

Father shook his head. “Mr. Dixon came to the parsonage a moment ago, begging for us to go to the abbey. He claims they discovered the remains close to a gladiatorial mosaic. I plan to offer what guidance I can, at least until the constable arrives.”

Father continued babbling while my mind whirled, struggling to latch on to the tumbling words. A dead child? Gladiator mosaics?

He did not protest when I grabbed my satchel of utensils to join him.

I stepped out of the chaise, my wide-brimmed straw hat shielding me from the sun just as Mrs. Whittle hurried out of the abbey entrance, wringing her hands.

“Oh, Miss Littleton, such dreadful news! Who would have thought, an innocent child found within our orchards?”

I offered some consolation but needed to see the site before the men caused more damage.

“I won’t sleep a wink tonight,” she bemoaned as she clutched my arm, preventing me from leaving.

“And the Dixon boys won’t stop with their tales of ghosts wandering through the abbey.

Did I tell you my Lucy hears the strangest things in the afternoon and at night?

And I don’t need to tell you how the lord cries out so in his sleep. Like a wounded lamb.”

My heart clenched with pity for the viscount, no matter how loudly Abigail’s words of caution echoed in my mind.

“He has nightmares?” I asked in a low voice while glancing around to make sure we were alone, aside from my father, who secured the chaise.

It would be a shame if anyone overheard Mrs. Whittle.

I suspected the Dixon boys would gladly spread idle tales, and nothing thrilled quite like those of nighttime sounds echoing through the cloistered halls.

The older woman’s plump hand fluttered to her throat. “Yes. My husband says it’s on account of the war, but the lord keeps it all tightly bottled within until the midnight hour.”

Placing what I hoped was a comforting hand on hers, I offered her a sympathetic smile. “He needs a touch of compassion, Mrs. Whittle. Those nightmares will eventually fade.”

I refrained from adding that Lucy needed a cat to keep her company and to chase away the scuttling.

Father waited at the edge of the courtyard, shooting me a meaningful look to hurry, and I rushed to follow him. Past the stable with the slate roof, I spied a group of men clustered together when we rounded the bend. My pulse sped even though I sternly bade it to slow.

Lord Hawthorn’s form towered over the others.

He folded his arms across his chest, the forearms bare with sleeves rolled high enough to reveal a sprinkling of black hair.

Clad in linen trousers, minus the country felt hat the other men sported, with only a black waistcoat, he seemed no different from the other farmers pressed close to him.

I found I rather liked his rugged appearance.

Far less formal than the military man with his uptight bearing.

One man jabbed a pointed finger toward the orchard. Voices raised, fearful or angry, I could not tell, but I had the distinct impression of a storm about to break.

“This is a grim business.” Father lent me his arm as we approached the group. Nerves sparked to life as I considered the scene.

Lord Hawthorn lifted his head, his gaze colliding with mine. Dare I admit I saw relief, yet he was too far for me to make such a presumption. After seeing us, he walked in our direction. I couldn’t deny the rebellious spark of pleasure at witnessing his improved health since my last visit.

He spoke first. “Vicar, Miss Littleton. Thank you for coming so soon.”

“I hope you don’t mind my intrusion,” I said. “Father told me your men uncovered something, and I would like to see—to see...” I faltered, uncertain how to proceed when describing such a find. “If you are willing, I want to examine what you found.”

“Have you discovered anything about the child?” Father spoke boldly.

The lord shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Nothing so far. I have the constable hopefully arriving soon,” he warned me. “I want nothing disturbed further until he’s cleared the area of any foul play.”

“Constable Wickham? Goodness. He’s hardly the brightest...” I caught myself just before saying something I would truly regret. “Carry on, Lord Hawthorn. Perhaps Father and I can be of some assistance in the meantime.”

“It is not a pretty sight.” He studied me, as if expecting me to swoon, then nodded as if assured I wouldn’t. I trailed him through the orchard, noticing a slight shudder in his shoulders. Even a hardened military man could blanch.

At last, the old orchard ended and we came upon row after row of new saplings spread to the edge of the western stone wall. I must have exclaimed my dismay, since he halted mid-step and pivoted until he faced me.

“I’ve ordered a cider press,” Lord Hawthorn explained to my father while observing me. Almost defensively, to my way of thinking. “I intend to expand the orchards as much as possible.”

My heart clenched. “All the way to Mr. Perry’s land?”

He inhaled sharply. “I have asked the men to leave the edge of the orchard alone until the magistrate determines where my land ends and Mr. Perry’s begins. I’ll curve the service road to the west. You should have more than enough room to excavate until the property lines are settled.”

My jaw must have dropped in the most undignified manner since Father touched my elbow.

What had prompted his decision? I would have said so much more, but I stopped at the edge of the orchard, next to the tender saplings planted this morning, where my gaze finally dropped to a small pitiful mound in the dirt.

“The Dixon boys stumbled across the child there while planting the new trees.” He scowled, gesturing to the site where additional saplings lay discarded on the ground, ready to be planted.

I knelt beside the grave, reaching for the bones before pulling my hand back.

“Poor child. I wonder at your sad story. I’m not an expert on bones.” I turned to Father. “Based on the size of the skeleton, how old do you think this child might have been at death? I think only two years at the most.”

He stroked his chin, leaning over my shoulder. “I agree.”

I frowned as I removed a long-handled artist’s brush from my bag and nudged aside one bone. The passing years had stripped away all sense of identity.

“But the exact age, or date of death, might be harder to determine.”

“Why do you say so?” Lord Hawthorn demanded, his voice rough.

With my brush, I gently nudged aside the ancient earth, flicking away the remaining debris. A gasp escaped me as I studied a slender shape emerging with each brushstroke. The form of a miniature woman, jointed and yellowed.

“Miss Littleton, please—” Now he sounded anguished. “I promised the constable that nothing would be unduly disturbed.”

I raised my head. “I suspect this grave has existed for centuries. I can’t help but wonder if there is a connection to our Roman villa?”

“A Roman child?” Lord Hawthorn blew out a long breath while palming the back of his neck. He visibly relaxed with my proclamation, his relief palatable. Had he worried that the grave might implicate further secrets hidden by the Hawthorn family?

I nodded. “And buried with a doll, I think.”

“A doll?”

By then, the tenants had gathered around us, forming a tight circle as they jostled for a better view, their boots nearly stepping on my gown as I knelt. Lord Hawthorn pulled one man away who dared to tip too close in order to see better.

I pointed to it. “An ivory doll with jointed limbs. Her hair looks Roman in style, carved into rolls with a ribbon holding her curls in place.”

Father placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “It could be more recent.”

“Yes. Even the Saxons buried trinkets with their loved ones, but not with dolls with Roman-era hairstyles,” I agreed readily.

“Now, if it was a Roman family, that is interesting. Children needed no funeral rites since they were considered pure of spirit. Their deaths polluted none and hence they could not haunt the family. The smallest were buried under the eaves of the family home, otherwise known as suggrundarium . According to the Romans, children only gained full humanity by degrees, with careful teaching and discipline. Yet someone loved this little one enough to ensure a proper burial, which is unusual.”

My emotions must have played across my face, since Lord Hawthorn’s gaze softened a touch. My throat clogged at the idea of a mother forced to bury her beloved child. After all, I had buried someone I loved and the pain of it lingered still, ebbing and flowing with the seasons.

I forced myself to speak. “Do I understand, Lord Hawthorn, that you also have another mosaic?”

“Gladiators,” Lord Hawthorn answered readily as he reached for my hand to assist me.

He wore no glove. After a moment’s hesitation, I took his hand.

His warm fingers engulfed mine, lifting me to my feet.

The touch was all too brief. Flustered, I allowed him to guide me to the recently discovered mosaic.

A gasp escaped from my lips when I saw the image of two men locked in immortal combat.

“You have a retiarius , the fish man, tussling with a secutor and his sword. We know what vices the owner preferred, don’t we?

Is it possible he hosted gladiatorial matches here?

Did he dabble in buying and selling gladiators?

Or was he but a simple landowner, following the latest decorating trends? ”

Father winced, drawing back from the sight. “ There is no new thing under the sun. Sin has always been, and always will continue.”

With a sigh, I retraced my steps to the grave to gather my satchel from the ground. “There is nothing so reliable as the blackness of souls.”

“And nothing so reliable as God’s grace to redeem us from that darkness,” Father replied gently.

I paused at his quiet admission, something in his tone striking a chord I hadn’t expected.

Could I have misjudged him all this time?

I had always assumed his sternness had driven Daniel away, that his countless hours spent with the old viscount were neglectful of us.

But hearing him now, I wondered—had he been longing for Daniel’s return too?

Had I been mistaken in thinking he cared more for duty than for his own children?

It was safer to change the subject. I moved closer to Lord Hawthorn. “May I take the ivory doll? It could help date the villa.”

I expected a firm no. Instead, he exhaled slowly.

“After the constable views the site,” came the careful answer.

A breath escaped from my own parted mouth as I stared at Lord Hawthorn to see if I had lost my senses. “I beg your pardon, did I hear you correctly?”

“The doll is yours. As long as...” He paused when the murmuring of other men rose, including one sullen man, Mr. Cobb, who was whispering about ghosts and curses and Hawthorn Abbey.

“It’s yours to study,” Lord Hawthorn said more firmly. He moved closer as well to peer at the crumbled earth and in doing so, his sleeve brushed against the sleeves of my pelisse. I could scarcely believe his acquiescence.

“Thank you,” I said as emotion clogged my throat. “Thank you.”

Something tightened in my chest at the hint of vulnerability in his eyes—or perhaps it was my imagination.

I glanced at the doll, itching to examine it more closely, but restrained myself, remembering his words. The constable needed to see it first. Instead, I carefully tucked the clean handkerchief back into my satchel, waiting for the moment when I could properly gather it safely and bring it home.

“Of course, I shall have to ask the Society of Antiquaries what their thoughts are on the subject and have them confirm the find,” I added absently as I stared at the doll as if I could coax answers from it.

The viscount’s softened expression dissipated just as quickly as it appeared. “They will insist on trampling on my lands. It’s one thing if you study the grounds, but a society will require far greater involvement.”

I held his gaze, hoping he would understand my position. “I’ve written to them about the finds so far. I believe this will intrigue them further when they come to visit. I wrote the Dilettanti as well. All I need is one society to respond to my letter.”

A muscle ticked within his jaw as he glanced again at the grave site. “I do not want any society rummaging through my orchard.”

“You may want to rethink that sentiment when Constable Wickham arrives. At least you can tell him you’ve done all you can to find out the age of the child. But I beg you, don’t let him take anything. Antiquarian experts must first examine the site.”

Lord Hawthorn plunged a hand through his hair until the ends stuck up in whorls. “I have a road to finish and trees to plant. None of them can wait or I’ll lose my investment.”

Father lightly touched my arm, signaling for me to cease before I created further trouble, but I nudged his hand aside, determined to speak my piece.

“My lord, I have no intention of causing you further trouble. Please believe me; I want to help you as much as possible. Let us put the rumors of spirits to rest.” I meant it, especially considering how he had treated Mrs. Eacher and the tenants, along with assuring me he would leave the edge of Mr. Perry’s field alone.

Abigail cautioned me about him, but the more I saw, the harder it was to view him as an adversary.

And if his actions continued to surprise me, my declaration certainly had the same effect. His mouth parted before one of the tenants called to him, drawing the viscount’s attention from me while leaving me to wonder at what he might have said.