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If you really want to escape the things that harass you, what you’re needing is not to be in a different place but to be a different person.

LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA, LETTERS FROM A STOIC

The abbey loomed ahead, its aged stone walls smothered with overgrown vines, and as inhospitable and isolated as I remembered from childhood. The entire estate appeared lost within the middle of the countryside now swathed in the deepening twilight.

Despite the dull ache in my calf, courtesy of a bullet from the Battle of Bussaco, I swung off my horse, repulsed by the profusion of weeds clinging to my boots. Chickweed in full bloom and grass, as thick as could be, brushed against my legs.

One step forward and my leg buckled, the pain stabbing and sharp. Was it only six months ago that I could force my body to do whatever I willed?

As if to comfort me, Chaucer snickered and bumped against my arm with his nose.

The ride had proven more treacherous than I’d expected. The young woman had warned me well, and I’d adjusted my pace accordingly. My rush seemed all for naught as I studied my surroundings.

Everything about Hawthorn Abbey felt untamed and forlorn, from the moss-covered stones dotting the walls of the once magnificent hall to the boarded windows beneath a slate roof.

Even the young woman I met had a wildness to her, her pert nose smudged with mud and her dirty gown fading in the twilight.

Nothing seemed manageable about her, including the red hair frizzing about a small face and pointed chin.

A waif or spirit come to waylay my journey.

If this was my reintroduction to Bramnor Valley, I groaned to think of what I might encounter next.

How she had clutched that expensive paper to her breast, her white face indignant.

I sensed her fear of Chaucer when she kept a careful distance while eyeing the horse.

A misplaced fear, of course. There was no gentler creature than Chaucer, even if he was bred for war.

I rubbed my neck. After such a long journey, I felt disoriented and exhausted, and anger flared again.

Anger that the military had forced me to leave my regiment.

I had a title I cared nothing for, with a property in near ruin, according to my barrister, and the frantic letter from the local vicar begging my return.

I could not evade returning to the home I despised with all my being and ignore the diminishing rents forever, especially when my barrister informed me of the estate possibly returning to the Crown if I walked away from my inheritance.

And now, thanks to my barrister’s ill-timed meddling, I was to anticipate a visit from an auditor, a Mr. Edmund Talbot, with the understanding that I had to prove the estate’s worth or risk losing everything.

The clock started ticking the moment I set foot on this cursed land.

My barrister’s warning echoed through my head.

It’s you, my good viscount, and you alone who must shoulder the burden of the family estate.

No one else remains to carry the Hawthorn title.

The powers that be will absorb the land and all it entails and give it to another family.

Is this how the Hawthorn name shall end?

Will the tenants be left to the devices of an unfeeling lord who spends his days cavorting in London and Bath?

A shame, since Hawthorns have held this land for well over three centuries.

What else will you do now that the military has closed its doors to your service?

I nearly told him to let it burn. But I had nothing else of worth to claim these days, other than the sale of my military commission and this estate. No future waited. I couldn’t even join the Bow Street runners, an investigative service, thanks to my injury.

Nor could I ignore the letter from Vicar Littleton begging me to tend to the needs of the impoverished families.

The throbbing ache in my leg reminded me to rest, a new reality I abhorred. Rest brought a host of memories I had no desire to recall. I gathered the reins in my left hand and guided Chaucer to the back of the building, where I hoped to find the stable in decent shape.

The abbey was unlit and quiet. The chirps of crickets and the scuttling of an unknown creature through dead brambles were all that greeted me behind the house.

After spending my days with other military men, crowded into cramped quarters with the continual hum of voices for company, the silence felt oppressive.

Gritting my teeth, I limped past a decayed garden surrounding a dry fountain toward the stable.

The image of the woman from the road flashed again in my mind. And that of her art. She spoke with cultured tones, an odd mixture of reserved and saucy replies, but then again, her appearance... Well, I couldn’t quite decide what her appearance reminded me of, exactly.

What in the world had I gotten myself into? I was not a superstitious man, but I couldn’t suppress a chuckle mixed with a shudder.

“Who is there? I see you!” A thin, reedy voice called out from behind the extensive stable with a thatch roof in better repair than the dovecote and coach house.

“Captain Rafe Hawthorn,” I said. My new title of viscount felt too surreal to use after thirteen years in the military.

A wizened man, wiping his hands with a filthy cloth, ducked out from behind a low lintel. His eyes widened when he took in me and Chaucer. A hurried bow followed after he tossed the cloth onto a nearby barrel, not even caring when it slid off the rim and into the long grass.

“My lord! Welcome! Forgive me. I didn’t realize you would come today.

We’ve been in a state of preparations following the former viscount’s passing.

God rest his soul.” He hastily added the blessing as he smoothed the remaining strands of hair over his balding head.

“You remember me, eh? Of course, you were nothing more than a wee lad at the time. I’m Mr. Whittle.

Frank Whittle. I tend to the grounds of Hawthorn Abbey. ”

“I remember,” I said after a pause.

“My wife now manages the household, and our daughter, Lucy, serves as a maid.” When I offered no further pleasantries, he jammed a filthy hand into his waistcoat, stained the color of molding butter, a putrid mix of green and yellow.

A pair of large breeches, the color of rust, hung on his thin frame.

I sighed. “Are there no other servants left?”

“Other than the steward, Mr. Spencer, no. Only us, my lord.” Mr. Whittle shook his head. “The previous viscount hired the tenants as need be for the orchards, but he didn’t entertain company in the later years. Didn’t care for people much, especially when he fell into one of his spells.”

I froze at such blatant impropriety while Mr. Whittle had the grace to flush. With a hand still jammed into his waistcoat, he rocked on his heels as if he might bolt.

“Forgive me, my lord. My wife oft complains of my tongue flapping in the breeze. But it’s best you know the history of this place.”

Dare I admit I knew more than most might realize, considering my long absence? My dismay must have shown, for Mr. Whittle, perhaps eager to distract from his blunder, pointed to a path winding around the stable.

“One thing is for certain: no one loved the orchards more than your uncle. Do you recall how we had row upon row of the finest apples a man ever did taste?”

“Ashmead’s Kernels, perfect for cider,” I murmured, my attention redirected to the orchard beyond the abbey.

Mr. Whittle flashed me an approving smile. “Indeed. You ran among the trees often enough to take what you could. Why, I remember you climbing one tree with bare feet, no less. Best climber in all of Bramnor, I always said.”

I did not return his smile as I stared at the trees. I couldn’t. My throat tightened as my mind drew shadowy pictures of the orchard and abbey from before. Perhaps I could stay long enough to hire additional staff and then find a place to live elsewhere. Anywhere but the abbey.

Mr. Whittle watched me for a moment, as if expecting an answer.

“I shall visit the orchards first thing in the morning,” I finally said as I offered him the reins.

Mr. Whittle blinked at me, uncomprehending.

“Have you worked with horses, Mr. Whittle? Or must I hire a stable master?”

The groundskeeper swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Finally, he took the reins. “No, no. It’s just the size of this creature. I shall take care of him while you ... er, inspect the house. His name, sir?”

“Chaucer. After the poet, of course.”

A twinkle entered Mr. Whittle’s eyes. “An appropriate name, if you don’t mind me saying so. Imagine the adventures this horse has encountered.”

I was loath to leave Chaucer in the hands of Mr. Whittle.

He felt a stranger to me, even if he presumed to know me so well.

Any protests died on my lips when my leg threatened to buckle yet again.

To my relief, Mr. Whittle gently led my able companion into the stable.

He called over his shoulder, “I’ll find fresh water and oats right away. ”

A single light appeared within the diamond panes of a window next to a door leading to the kitchen.

The main entrance back around in the front boasted massive double doors covered with iron scrollwork and faced west. I was too tired to insist on formality.

The tiny pinprick of light piercing the growing gloom descending upon the house and gardens beckoned with the offer of comfort.

The heavy oak door creaked as I pushed on it and entered the kitchen. While the outside of Hawthorn manor repelled, the kitchen appeared clean with a swept flagstone floor and a large wooden table pushed against a cracked, plastered wall yellowed with age.

A plump lady with gray curls peeking beneath a white cap bent over a stone fireplace, lighting shaved kindling with a matchstick. She jumped when the door shut behind me, then tossed the smoking stick into the fireplace and straightened.