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It was quiet— too quiet. To be expected for a Saturday morning on campus, though, especially since it was the first day of Michaelmas recess. Students always bolted at the end of a semester. Bram had done so himself as a younger fellow. But now? Normally, he’d embrace such peace with no one to barge into his office or interrupt his study, but not today. He longed for noise. Laughter. Shouting. The thunderous roar of running feet that ought not be tearing about in these hallowed halls. Anything to drown out the hollow sound of packing the last of his belongings into the wooden box on his desk.

Reverently, he laid his worn copy of The Twelve Caesars on top of the pile. The text had been invaluable when teaching Roman history. He ran his finger over the cracked leather, a sudden wave of loss breaking so strongly over his head that he sank onto the chair he’d warmed these past six years. Everything he’d worked for, everything he’d gained—rapport with the students, an award-winning archery club, a salary on the rise—Grimwinkle had yanked from his hands, leaving him with nothing. Nothing! And now what? With a scarred record, no other institution would hire him. Extensive knowledge of the Roman Empire wasn’t exactly a marketable skill.

He folded over, forearms on his thighs, a curtain of unkempt hair falling over his eyes. There was no way out of this mess. Grimwinkle had spoken, and that was the end of it.

“Oh, God.” A moan more than a prayer. “I cannot fix this. I cannot even pretend to. All my life I have kept one step ahead of trouble, but this time...” Bitter laughter gurgled in his throat. “This time, Lord, it has caught up. You must make a way for me and my uncle, for I cannot, nor can he. We are in Your hands, as is Eva. Grant us all mercy.”

He exhaled long and low, heart heavy at the thought of Eva. Leaving her had been hard. Leaving her to deal with a financial crisis had been reprehensible. Yet what choice did he have? It wasn’t as if his bank account could solve her money problems.

Feeling a million years old, he slowly straightened. He ought to have sent her a telegram yesterday, explained that he’d withdrawn her relics from the college and delivered them along with the second load to the Fitzwilliam Museum—where he should have brought them in the first place. But by the time he’d finished the task, the telegraph office had been closed, and it’d not been open when he’d stopped by there on his way to Trinity this morn. Perhaps now would be a more suitable time.

He pulled out his trusty pocket watch. Half past nine. Funny how loading up years of his life had taken only the better part of an hour. Flipping the lid shut, he ran his finger over the embellishments, a new idea slowly taking root. He’d not been able to get Eva the money to fix up Inman Manor, but he could still provide her with something for her taxes. Hopefully it wasn’t too late. The revenue man couldn’t have processed the foreclosure paperwork yet, could he?

Bram shoved the watch into his pocket, then reached for his crate. Moments before his arms wrapped around the wood, he thought better of it and instead retrieved The Twelve Caesars. He set the beloved book on the shelf behind the desk as a makeshift blessing. Perhaps the next professor would take as much joy from it as he had.

Then he grabbed his box and, without a backward glance, strode from the room.

Uncle Pendleton’s office was farther down the corridor, where windows banked the entire south side. His door stood open, and Bram paused on the threshold. His uncle’s workspace spanned twice the size of his, with great oak bookcases flanking one wall and a cheery hearth on the other, leather chairs sitting cozily in front of it. Uncle Pendleton stood at his desk, his back to the door, shoulders stooped over a box.

Bram’s heart squeezed at how frail the old man looked. Uncle had been in surprisingly good spirits about the whole affair yesterday, but now the sledgehammer had clearly landed square on his head. And Bram could hardly blame his uncle for lacking the gumption to store away pieces of his life like some sort of squirrel burying nuts.

“Uncle?” Bram set down his box just inside the door. “Can I help you?”

“Hmm?” Uncle Pendleton faced him. “Oh, it’s you. No, no. I, em, I should like to do this by myself, if you don’t mind.”

“I understand.”

His uncle held up a dip-and-scratch ink pen, the ornate metal nib between his fingers. “Remember this?”

Bram smiled. “From Vindolanda.”

“That was a proper dig, was it not?”

“Indeed.” He took the pen from his uncle’s hand, admiring the craftsmanship himself before setting the relic back on the stand ... and that’s when he noticed that hardly a thing had been packed up. A mere few items sat inside the box.

Bram laid a light touch on Uncle Pendleton’s shoulder. “Look, Uncle, I know you are going to miss this. It is your life. But we will get on, you and me. I promise.”

His uncle chuckled. “You think I’m mourning the loss of my tenure?”

“Are you not?”

His uncle paced the length of the desk. “After staying at Inman Manor these past few months, I realize just how ready I am to be finished here at Trinity. I rather enjoyed being in the country. The fresh air. The quiet mornings. No, my boy, I shall not miss the rigors of teaching, for I am ready to be done with that taxing business. But”—he held up a finger—“what I will pine for is the profound sense of fulfillment and connection I had in the classroom on a personal level. Igniting curiosity, instilling a love of the past, these are the things I shall always hold dear.”

Of course he would, for Bram would miss the same. Blast that Grimwinkle! Blast him to Mount Vesuvius and back for inflicting such a wound upon them both.

Bram heaved a sigh, yet it did nothing to remove the ache in his heart. “I am deeply sorry, Uncle.”

“No more than I am for you.” Uncle Pendleton removed his spectacles and rubbed one of the glasses with his handkerchief, his eyes watery. “And I daresay I hold the greater sorrow on your behalf, for you had your whole teaching life ahead of you.”

Bram forced a smile, hoping to lighten the moment a bit. “Like you, I had my own revelation at Inman Manor. It was peaceful there, and I was quite surprised how well I took to it. While I am shocked at no longer being a professor, perhaps you and I could make a go of it in a smaller town.”

His uncle perched his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, gaze narrowing. “A go of what, exactly?”

“That is the question, is it not?”

A smile ghosted across his uncle’s lips. “I suppose time will tell.”

“Speaking of time, I have an errand to run.” Bram strode toward the door. “I should be back shortly to help you cart your things down to the loading dock.”

“It’s a good thing we delivered Miss Inman’s antiquities to the museum yesterday, for I daresay my books alone shall take up most of the wagon. Oh, where did you say you’re off to?”

Bram paused on the threshold, hating what he was about to do. There was no other option ... unless he called in a favor owed him by an old friend. But no. He would not provide for Eva with someone else’s money.

He stepped into the corridor, calling over his shoulder, “The pawn shop.”

His watch wouldn’t bring a whole thirty pounds, but added to his meager savings, he ought to scrape up enough.

Hopefully.

These swollen eyes were familiar. The ache in her head. The weight on her shoulders. Eva knew the embrace of this old acquaintance all too well, for sorrow always visited with no invitation. She’d managed to keep her emotions tightly buttoned up until she’d returned home yesterday to pack her travel bag for her new position. But then she’d walked by Penny’s empty room. She shouldn’t have looked in, should never have gazed at the bed so tidily made, never to be slept in again by her sister. Breathing in the faint memory of rosemary soap lingering on the air had been a mistake as well, as had straining to listen for any remnants of Penny’s sweet singing.

And she definitely should not have given in to that first sob, for she’d wept the day away and half the night.

Now, standing alone in the middle of her own bedroom, clutching the copy of Good Wives she’d forgotten to send along with Penny, the pressure to let loose another bout of tears was nearly too much to bear. How she wished she could turn back the hands of time, rewind the clock to the moments when laughter echoed through the halls of Inman Manor and Penny’s infectious smile lit up the darkest corners of her heart. Knees weakening, she curled over the book like a prayer. Utterly abandoned by all.

Oh , poppet. How I long to hear your voice.

The novel slipped from her fingers, landing atop her bed like a corpse in a grave. Eva whirled, gasping for breath. What a failure she was! She didn’t deserve God’s smile. No wonder the mighty Creator punished her with such trials.

“ If we confess our sins , He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins , as far as the east is from the west.”

Quite unbidden, Bram’s words floated back to her—misquotation and all. Her lips quivered, and she slapped her hand to her mouth. No doubt he would say she wasn’t truly alone, for God was still here with her, even if no one else was ... and that one singular thought hung like a lifeline. Dare she grasp it? Yet what was the alternative? Wallowing in what might or should have been had earned her nothing but a headache and burning eyes.

Slowly, a new determination began to take root. She would—she must—choose to believe God was not perpetually angry with her. That He had forgiven her for past mistakes, that there was grace for her in this nightmarish situation.

For that was the only way she’d survive.

With trembling hands, she pressed her fingertips to her eyes, pushing back tears until she caught her breath. Then she tossed back her shoulders and strode from her bedroom. There was much to do before leaving the day after tomorrow.

She swung into the office, intent on a final review of the accounts so that once the manor sold, she’d have an up-to-date list of creditors to be paid. She stopped just past the threshold. In the corner of the room, her steward perched on a ladder, applying plaster over the hole in the ceiling—a duty for a tradesman, not a man of his standing.

“Oh, Sinclair.” She leaned against the desk, determination slowly leaking from her. “I hate to see you stooping to such a task.”

“Not stooping at all, miss. I’m reaching, and I’m just about finished.” With a grin, he spread on the final coat, then descended. When he landed, he scooped up the bucket and held it aloft. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this in here any time soon, unless the ol’ ship springs another leak.”

His humor was a balm. “Thank you. Such a task is far beyond what you should have to do.”

“I don’t mind, miss. It’s better than having no task at all.”

She clutched her arm to her belly, his words a direct hit. “About that, I should like a word with you.” Retracing her steps, she shut the door.

“Must be serious,” he rumbled.

“I am afraid it is.” She faced him, fighting the need to nibble one of her nails. “As you know, taxes were due yesterday, and I was not able to pay the full amount. As such, I expect a possession order to arrive on Monday morning that will detail the eviction date. I am told it shall be soon, for the properties acquired this quarter are to be auctioned off at the beginning of the year.”

His brows drew into a thick line. “You’re losing the manor, then?”

She sucked in a deep breath. “I am.”

“It’s a sorry business, miss.” Morning light streaming through the single window cast a shadow on half his face, his cheeks not nearly as rounded since Mrs. Pottinger’s baking was now nonexistent. Little flecks of plaster rained from his hair as he shook his fist in the air. “Abominable business, if you ask me!”

“Yes, well, there is nothing we can do about it.” She crossed to the desk and picked up a pen, giving her hands something to do. “I am packing up what belongings I have left and am taking a position on Monday as a lady’s companion. I should be grateful if you would remain here and ready the house for auction. The larger the sale, the sooner the manor’s debts will be paid off. And once those relics are purchased, I am hoping to provide you and the staff an extra stipend to get you by until you are situated elsewhere.”

“It’s very generous of you, miss, but...” His angular jaw worked a moment, a muscle rising and falling on the side of his neck. “What of yourself and Miss Penny?”

“I imagine we shall get on brilliantly. My sister is being well cared for by the generous sponsorship of Mrs. Mortimer, and I shall want for nothing as a companion to Mrs. Pempernill.” How happy the words sounded, as if Penny were off on a grand tour, and she were a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. She rolled the pen between her fingers, warding off the urge to snap it in half. “It is you and the staff that concern me.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on our account, miss. Such is the life of those in service. Would you like me to tell them?”

His thoughtfulness stuck in her throat. “That is very kind of you, but no. It is my responsibility, and I shall do so tomorrow after Sunday morning service. Until then, I would appreciate it if you kept this information to yourself.”

“As you wish.”

“Thank you, Sinclair. I would never have made a go of it this long without you at my side.”

A hefty sigh deflated him. “It were a hard hand you were dealt, yet you played it very nicely, miss. You can count on me to ready the house for sale. I know a man in Bedford who’ll pay for a load of furniture.”

She pursed her lips. Surely Sinclair knew she’d already sold everything that would bring in a coin or two. “There is no furniture of value remaining. What is left is worn beyond salability or in need of repair.”

“He’s a scrapper, miss.” The steward shrugged, sending another good dusting of plaster bits to the floorboards. “He’ll take anything. If I load up the wagon today, I can leave tomorrow and be there on Monday morning when he opens up.”

“I see.” Slowly, she nodded. “I guess this is good-bye, then.” She set down the pen and offered her hand.

“Aye, miss. It’s been a pleasure serving you and your family all these years.” He gave her hand a hearty shake, the crow’s-feet at the edges of his eyes knitting into tangled lines. His Adam’s apple bobbed several times as he pulled away. “I’ll see to any remaining paperwork and stay till the end.”

“Once again, I thank you. You are a good man, Mr. Sinclair.”

“May God bless you, miss.” He grabbed his hat off the wall hook and strode to the door, where he hesitated. “Only, I can’t help but wonder...”

She angled her head. “Yes?”

“Well ... never mind. Weren’t important. Good day.”

He strode out the door, leaving her to ponder what he might have said, though deep in her heart, she suspected what he was thinking.

If she’d left the cursed acres alone, she’d have not met with such a foul end.