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The oldest, shortest words—yes and no—are those which require the most thought.

PYTHAGORAS

Father liked to remind me of Elijah’s flight from Queen Jezebel whenever my spirits were low. Then he’d say, A nap, a spot of tea, and a couple biscuits, and soon enough you’ll see that the Lord Almighty will set things right again.

I found the advice helpful on most occasions, particularly the part about devouring treacle tarts or shortbread. That evening after encountering the new viscount, however, I found nothing in common with the prophet who subsisted on morsels from ravens.

Night had fallen when I pushed on the weathered door to the parsonage and removed my filthy slippers to tend to later.

I untied my apron and braced myself for yet another lecture.

Yet as I crossed into the hall, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Herriot, heard my loud sneeze, I found myself led upstairs as she muttered her sympathy.

She handed me a handkerchief. “Poor thing, you look as though you took a nasty tumble. How wan your skin is. Tell me you have not taken a chill from all your gallivanting about the countryside.”

I sneezed again and dabbed at my eyes. “It’s been quite an evening. I just encountered the new lord on the road leading to the abbey, and of course, I managed to bungle the whole affair.”

“You met the new lord? Dressed like this?” Mrs. Herriot reared back, gesturing to yet another ruined gown. “Oh, my child. Molly will be scrubbing this for hours.”

I sighed on behalf of my maid. Mrs. Herriot and I had an unusual relationship, tolerating each other, pushing each other, and occasionally finding a truce.

A friend of my mother’s, Mrs. Herriot had been forced to find employment after her husband’s death.

When my mother passed eight years ago, Mrs. Herriot was the closest thing I had to female guidance other than an aloof aunt on my father’s side, who refused to take me as a companion because of my eccentric tendencies. Not that I was complaining.

I had always spoken my mind with Mrs. Herriot. We had an understanding—I preferred scholarship over society.

“I don’t mind a ruined gown. I can use it solely for excavation. If only I could find a pair of buckskin trousers. And boots! A far more sensible ensemble, to my way of thinking.”

“Never let me hear the words buckskin trousers out of your mouth again,” she hissed, all maternal affection scattered to the breeze.

I stifled a groan as I allowed her to help me shrug out of the damp gown. My best tools remained scattered across the grass, and I had been bound by far too much pride to retrieve them in front of the viscount. Tomorrow morning, I would reclaim them.

She clucked her dismay. “Let us hope you will make a better impression in the days to come. I don’t need to remind you that a vicar relies on the favor of his superior.”

I could not hide my grimace. “A challenging command, Mrs. Herriot. I always disliked the Hawthorn men.”

“Why?” she probed. “Are we not to love our neighbors as ourselves?”

Patting my hair, I considered my answer.

“Because Father spent his days at the abbey over the past six years, running to soothe each nervous ailment the old viscount had. Growing up, Daniel needed a father.” I turned to her, my ire rising.

“I needed him too, especially after Mama died. Do we, his flesh and blood, matter so little? Or must precedence be extended only to his flock?”

Mrs. Herriot pursed her lips. “A reverend often serves at the expense of his family. It’s a holy sacrifice.”

Was it such a noble sacrifice? Perhaps my brother would have had a stalwart presence to guide him, had Father been around more often instead of leaving me to raise Daniel.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have had to coddle Father, taking on tasks such as organizing the parish charity work and visiting the sick in his stead, while ensuring the household ran smoothly.

Did that make me selfish? Maybe. Judging from Mrs. Herriot’s narrowed gaze, I could only surmise the chiding thoughts running through her mind. My brother was lost to me. And I had sat by my mother’s sickbed, caring for her alone.

Father had given his all to Viscount Hawthorn in the name of divine love. And the rest of us had no say in the matter.

Mrs. Herriot’s gaze softened. “I never cared much for those Hawthorn men either, truth be told. Too much wine addled their faculties.” She sniffed as she reached out with a smoking taper to light our tallow candles.

“You poor lamb. Imagine being run down by a horse. How utterly terrifying, especially considering that mishap you had riding all those years ago. What kind of gentleman does not escort a woman home at such a late hour?”

“I do believe one without manners,” I answered without hesitation, although a warning voice in my mind soon followed—a pox upon my pesky conscience—and reminded me that I had soundly rejected him when he pointed out the same.

“A shame. Rather brutish manners for a man of the titled gentry. I suppose that hard nature comes from the military. How they beat those poor men into submission...” She placed the candle on the wardrobe and left me to my turbulent thoughts, mumbling about how it was a mercy I didn’t twist my ankle on the road and that she would bring something hot for me to drink.

By late evening, following yet another supper alone, I resolved to write several additional letters on behalf of my missing brother. Again to the Secretary of the Admiralty, the Bow Street runners, and a few barristers of my father’s acquaintance.

A shudder rippled through me as I considered Mrs. Herriot’s offhanded remark about the military.

A flash of lightning stabbed outside the window near my desk in the parlor. How did my free-spirited brother fare within the cruel and rigid confines of the Royal Navy? Men were lashed without mercy for the smallest infractions and imprisoned for insubordination.

Daniel had fled the rules of this parsonage and a strained relationship with Father.

Part of me always felt responsible for the break between them.

I fingered my quill while eyeing the storm outside the ripple-paned window as I thought of Daniel.

The fire’s glow reminded me of that day shortly after Mother’s death, when everything began to fracture.

Daniel had promised Abigail a thrilling sight tucked away near Hawthorn Abbey. Of course, I knew what it was, but Abigail, with her blue eyes glowing, eagerly agreed to his offer.

“You’ll close your eyes, won’t you? And you’ll promise not to tell a soul about what you see?

It’ll be our little secret.” He loomed over my friend, tugging at his messy cravat—so like Father’s.

I resisted the urge to fix it, suppressing my frustration that he might spoil the adventures we’d once shared, just the two of us.

Those outings had taken us into the fresh air, away from the prying eyes of the village women eager to guide me after Mother passed.

Abigail glanced at me with her eyes wide, but Daniel’s narrowed gaze forbade me from hinting at my dismay.

I sighed, realizing I was sorely outnumbered since the formidable Mrs. Herriot had left the parsonage on errands and could not provide a suitable escort.

Who knew where Father was during the early afternoon?

With nary a breeze to cool us, our drawing room sweltered and a fine sheen had collected on my forehead. Even Abigail fanned herself, her cheeks unnaturally flushed.

Or was Daniel the cause of her heightened color? I’d seen the sly glances she cast toward him when she thought no one was looking. Leaving her alone with my brother was unthinkable, and my attempts to coax them into taking Father’s chaise for a country drive were futile.

I soon found myself perched precariously on a skittish mare, while my brother took Father’s horse and Abigail rode her father’s. How I wished for the tamer workhorse instead of the one beneath me—Betsy, as she was called.

Once I was astride, Betsy pawed at the ground with her ears flat back when I tried to nudge her with my heels.

“Stop sitting so stiff,” my brother scolded me, even if his tone was softened with matching dimples on his cheeks. “See, you must hold the reins loosely, Bridget.” He had been tasked by Father to teach me to ride before winter coated the valley in ice and snow.

I preferred to walk, finding exercise freeing for my soul. I tried to obey his advice, but the bumpy ride with me hitting the saddle in all the wrong spots promised sore muscles and earned a giggle from Abigail.

Daniel led us to the edge of Hawthorn Abbey where he jumped down with careless grace, then snatched the reins to guide his horse next to the stone wall.

As he did so, Abigail dismounted, her feet landing softly on the ground.

I followed suit, fumbling with the reins as I slid down from the saddle, grateful when my feet finally touched solid ground.

“Bridget and I sneak out whenever we have the opportunity,” he confided as he maneuvered his horse to walk beside Abigail, leaving me to follow behind.

“I wondered why the two of you disappeared Friday afternoons,” she said, sounding rather put out. “It’s rude, Mr. Littleton, not to include me in your nefarious plans, especially when sneaking onto Hawthorn land.”

He winked at her while leaning closer than propriety demanded.

“Mrs. Dray insists she’ll teach Bridget the art of embroidery and my poor sister cannot take another session of the cackling hens.

Of course, I cannot stand the sermonizing Mrs. Dray offers.

Eh gad, but she can put me to sleep while extolling the virtues of Proverbs.

She knows the entire book from memory and is determined I shall memorize it too! ”