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I had just mounted Chaucer and was about to return home when Reverend Littleton rushed out of the parsonage. My heart sank at his determined approach as he ate up the distance of the stone path lined with daisies and bluebells.

“My lord, a moment in privacy, if you will.” He came to a halt beside Chaucer, his hands behind his back as if prepared to deliver a sermon. “I am not a blind man, and as any good father must inquire, what exactly are your intentions toward my daughter?”

I had wrestled with that burning question all night long, my twisted sheets about my limbs a testament to how agonizingly elusive sleep had proven.

“My regard is of the utmost for your daughter, sir. And for you, as well. And if I thought she would accept my suit, I would press for more. But as things stand, your daughter has rejected me.” A harsh laugh rumbled through me.

“To be perfectly honest, I would marry her. Gladly, with your blessing, should you care to give it.”

He regarded me for a long moment. “Indeed. I have often found that patience is key, Lord Hawthorn. Patience and a bit of tender wooing. As you have well perceived since our initial visit, Bridget has a fancy or two tucked behind that practical mind of hers. A woman wants to be fought for. Cherished. If you could take that ridge at Bussaco, I believe you are more than up for the challenge of romance.”

It was my turn for my cheeks to flame to life. Of all the advice to get from a vicar! Part of me feared a Song of Solomon reference would soon follow since he was so enamored with Ecclesiastes.

“Excellent wisdom, sir,” I choked out as I gripped the reins within my stiff fingers.

His answering grin was all the encouragement I needed to kick Chaucer’s poor sides and return to the abbey.

The iron lockbox rested in my chamber, pushed against my uncle’s desk.

After fumbling for the key in one of the drawers, I unlocked it.

As I lifted the heavy lid, moving aside odds and ends, a yellowed paper lining the bottom grazed my fingers.

My hand hovered above the document, its title blazing a scandalous accusation that I couldn’t look away from.

Afternoon light filtered through the window as I studied the words.

Did Lord Hawthorn Murder His Brother?

I pulled it out, skimming the contents that painted the story in both false and lurid terms. I knew the truth, but I wondered if my mother had seen a similar article.

She hid within that small cottage, fearing for her life, keeping me in a safe, narrow circle with few friends or family to offer guidance or comfort.

I did not resent her choices. Still, my chest tightened with emotion.

I thought of the last journal entry I had recently read.

I realize now that I am truly forgiven by God’s grace.

How I wish Anne would forgive our family for our wrongs, but I can only leave her in His hands and pray she finds healing one day.

How could I possibly blame her for this never-ending silence?

We must see to our own hearts, and the condition hidden within.

He has a way of dealing with us, bringing our sorrow and sin to the surface.

My tenant had told me that the coming frost in winter forced the stones to rise within the ground, the pressure pushing them outward and upward.

I recalled his words now, the meaning behind them slowly unfolding.

Each year, the harsh cold and frost would force stones to the surface, just when the fields seemed cleared.

The earth never stayed silent for long, always uncovering what was buried.

Perhaps life was no different—these upheavals, these moments of turmoil, were like the winter forcing rocks to the surface.

But just as those obstacles had to be removed to allow the soil to thrive, maybe this was my chance to clear away what had long weighed me down.

The effort, no matter how backbreaking, could yield something far greater in the end—a clear pasture, ready to be sown with new beginnings.

I could no longer hide from my past, pretending those pivotal events had no effect on my present and future. So many mistakes had been made, even by my mother as she separated from her own unforgiving kin, hiding in her poverty and the shame of a gutted marriage.

A whispered prayer broke free of me. For Bridget.

For the Whittles. For each of my tenants.

And I prayed that God would heal me and help me become a man others could rely upon.

Nor could I assume that I alone could protect those within my care.

The burden of sole responsibility, to fix and repair, that I had carried for so long—first with my mother, then with my best friend’s death, and now with my tenants and Bridget—slipped from my shoulders.

I needed God’s help.

After placing the article on the desk, I carefully tucked Bridget’s most valuable possessions inside the safe. A sacred trust, not to be bestowed lightly. I locked the lid and deposited the key in my coat pocket. My uncle found forgiveness at the end of his life.

And me? Perhaps I, too, would find freedom from the long years of bitterness.