Page 6

“Goodness, what a fright you’ve given me, young sir!”

“My apologies. I am Captain Rafe Hawthorn, and I’ve just arrived ...” Home. The word stuck in my throat, stubbornly resisting any effort to utter it.

She gasped before curtsying, her mobcap sliding askew. “It’s you! The little master returned home at last.”

The little master. I tried not to flinch at the title, especially since I was no longer a lad of six years. Instead, I felt weathered at one and thirty.

Without noticing my discomfort, she prattled on while fluttering her hands as if nervous. “We weren’t sure when to expect you, my lord. You’ll meet my daughter before long, I’m certain. She’s somewhere about the abbey at this late hour.”

“Of course, Mrs. Whittle.”

Her gaze brightened at the use of her name.

With a quick tug, the housekeeper fixed her drooping cap, the action familiar, again reminding me of the woodland sprite I had met earlier.

“Shall I have my daughter prepare your rooms and light a fire? Spring brings such a damp chill, doesn’t it?

Would you like a cup of tea? I haven’t much food on hand, but I have some meat pie from earlier.

” The dubious rise of her voice made me question how much earlier she had served the pie.

I nodded regardless, my stomach threatening to rumble. “Thank you, Mrs. Whittle. Your offer will have to suffice.”

She winced slightly, her hands fluttering nervously as she smoothed her apron.

“Follow me, and I will show you to the drawing room. The green room, your uncle called it. When you are ready on the morrow, my husband will take you to meet the tenants. They’ve been so eager to have a lord oversee the estate again.”

“I’m an early riser.” I pulled off my great cloak and handed it to Mrs. Whittle.

Unlike her husband, who seemed unused to service, she immediately took the heavy woolen garment, the brass buttons gleaming within the meager firelight.

“I remember my way, thank you. I would appreciate tea as soon as possible.”

She nodded, biting her lip until the skin pinched gray beneath crooked teeth. “It’s good to have you home, sir. It’s been so long since we laid eyes on you. Why, it seems like yesterday you were sneaking ginger biscuits when you thought I wasn’t looking. And now you’ve grown into a fine man.”

She edged around the table and raised her hand as if to touch me, and then, perhaps thinking the better of it, let her arm fall to her side. A sheen filled her eyes.

“Thank you.” My throat tightened at the emotion playing across her face.

I’d hidden beneath that very table, clasping my quivering knees to my chest while my father bellowed my name as he marched through the abbey.

Yes, I remembered her too. Standing like a sentinel with her mixing spoon in one hand and a bowl in the other, hiding me from view while I cowered beneath the table.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

I shook my head. A few lit candles waited on the table, and I snatched one.

Without further preamble, I headed down the hall, driven by the fierceness of my desire to be alone.

The musty hall, covered with the same flagstones as the kitchen floor, stretched into darkness.

Wood paneling, so deep a hue as to appear nearly black, lined either wall.

A prison.

I shut my eyes tightly against the invasive memory threatening to latch sharp tentacles into my mind.

“Not today,” I whispered to myself. Not today.

Despite my resolve, another old image resurfaced, one of Mrs. Whittle holding open the door as my mother brushed past into the deep night with her long hair streaming behind her.

My mother always wore her hair up in elaborate styles with ribbons.

But the night we left the abbey had been one of strange events and dressing quickly.

With a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, Mrs. Whittle had gestured to the waiting carriage in the circle drive when I balked at leaving.

Hop in. Quick! It’s just a game of hide-and-seek. Shh. No crying, wee lad. You cannot properly hide if the entire abbey hears you at this late hour. What a lark this will be.

The thud of my boots echoed in the silence as I headed down the hall I had escaped as a child. Pots banged from the kitchen, setting my nerves further on edge.

Doors lined the left and right, but one remained partially open.

Raising my candle, I examined the room, noting the green walls, leaded windows, and an unlit fireplace with a heavy oak mantel.

Above the mantel, a white-haired man with curls framing flaccid cheeks sneered at me with disapproval from a grim portrait.

A basset hound at his feet gazed upward in adoration.

A recent portrait of the viscount, although the navy coat, waistcoat with dangling pocket watch, and tights were from another time.

I knew him immediately. The former Lord Hawthorn, my namesake.

A man I never cared for, nor attempted to write during my military service.

My father’s brother.

I scowled back at the likeness. Rumors swirled about the Hawthorn men, and possibly many of the tales were true.

How could I forget my mother’s fear or the purple bruise marring her left eye as we escaped while both men spent a night out carousing?

Eventually my uncle tired of my father’s antics and mounting debts and barred him from entering the abbey.

The last I’d heard, my father was stabbed in a shady inn.

Long, long ago, as Mrs. Whittle had noted.

Hadn’t my father and uncle abandoned my mother and me, refusing aid and comfort? Well, here I stood, though not of my choice. A paltry victory.

After setting the candle on the nearest table, I sank into a chair next to the barren fireplace.

A groan escaped me as I stretched out the injured leg.

Alone at last, I could at least privately massage the once-torn flesh.

The frayed fabric covering the chair smelled of dust and old sweat, and the limp cushions sagged beneath my weight. But I was too tired to care.

My uncle’s small-set eyes glittered from above the fireplace, as if in silent mockery. A faint whisper curled inside me, much like the smoke drifting above the sputtering candle.

You failed your men at Bussaco. What will be different this time?

Battle images flashed through my mind, alongside the accusatory voice.

Despite the scent of moldering books, I could still smell the black powder from the cannons.

I could still see the men of my regiment, including my friend and lieutenant, falling helpless to the ground.

We had won but at what cost? Men who had relied on me only to be let down by my hesitancy during the heat of the battle. That guilt would forever cling to me.

I clenched my fists before slowly releasing my fingers and the pent-up tension with them, built up over many months, perhaps even years.

Regret and bitterness seemed to taint the abbey, claiming that it had no future and no hope.

I would not succumb to such a bleak fate, even if it had claimed my father and my uncle.

My mother, if she were still alive, would remind me that good people yet remained within this valley.

How could I abandon them, especially after Mrs. Whittle had done her best to watch over me as a lad?

Who knew if a new lord would keep the Whittles hired?

And what would happen to the families who tended my uncle’s estate?

No child should be forced from a home and driven into an insecure future as I had been.

No, I must remake Hawthorn Abbey into something worthy of pride. Duty demanded it. I couldn’t fail those who depended on me—not again. Nothing hollowed out a man more than failure.

If I could no longer serve my regiment with this blasted injury, then I would carve out another future—a better one for myself and my tenants.

The land would find rebirth through the revitalization of the orchard, its once-thriving trees bearing fruit again.

The apples could be sold at market, bringing much-needed income to the estate and ensuring the tenants had work to sustain their families.

With careful management, the estate could return to its former glory.

Once the land was secure and the Crown’s representative satisfied, I would purchase another home far from Bramnor, hopefully within a year or two. One with far fewer ghosts.