Hawthorne Manor
Ashcombe, Kent
Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Hawthorne Manor, laying warm ribbons of gold across the polished oak floor. Ivy climbed the ancient stone walls, white roses nodded gently beneath the windows, while somewhere in the gardens a gardener whistled softly as he tended the flowerbeds. Beyond the manor, the old orchard stood in quiet stillness, its fading prosperity hidden beneath the beauty of late summer. Past the Hawthorne estate, the Hardings’ vineyards stretched across the rolling countryside, their vines heavy with ripening grapes beneath the warmth of late summer.
Curled comfortably beside the window, Celia Hawthorne sat with a book resting upon her lap. Every now and then she turned a page, absently twirling a loose strand of chestnut hair around her finger as the faint breeze carried the scent of earth and vineyards into her room. The world beyond the pages scarcely existed.
A brisk knock broke the silence. Before Celia could answer, the door had already swung open.
“There you are.” Lily Jennings stepped inside carrying a wicker basket nearly half the size of herself. A neatly folded picnic blanket rested over one arm, while a glass bottle of fresh lemonade clinked gently against several wrapped loaves of bread.
“You are bringing the entire tavern with you,” Celia laughed, closing her book.
“My mother insists no one has ever enjoyed a proper picnic without enough food to feed an army.” Lily dropped the massive wicker basket onto the table, the bottles clinking precariously inside. Then she narrowed her eyes at the book in Celia’s hands. “You were reading again.”
“I was.”
“Of course you were.” Lily pointed out.
Celia smiled without the slightest hint of apology. “I intend to continue once we reach the river.”
Lily sighed dramatically. “I have long accepted that I shall forever lose every argument against your books.”
“I am relieved.”
“Oh, don’t sound so pleased with yourself.” Lily crossed her arms. Seconds later, the two young women dissolved into quiet laughter.
When Celia descended the staircase with her book tucked beneath one arm, Lily struggled valiantly with the overflowing basket behind her. Downstairs, Richard Hawthorne stood near the drawing-room window. His hands rested behind his back, though his attention seemed fixed somewhere far beyond the expanse of orchards stretching beneath the morning sun.
“Father?”
He did not answer. Only after a brief moment did he turn, as though returning from somewhere much farther away than the view outside.
“Oh… forgive me.” His smile appeared, gentle as ever, though it failed to reach his eyes. “Good morning, Lily.”
“Good morning, Mr Hawthorne. I believe we’re stealing your daughter for the morning,” Lily announced brightly.
“So I gathered.” Richard’s gaze settled upon Celia with unmistakable affection. “Will you be long?”
“Only until luncheon.”
He nodded. “Very well.” There was another pause. Brief. Almost imperceptible. Yet Celia could not help noticing that his thoughts had wandered elsewhere again.
“Father?”
Richard blinked. “Yes?”
“Is everything all right?”
He smiled once more, this time a little more convincingly. “Perfectly. Go and enjoy the weather while summer still permits it.”
Celia studied him for another heartbeat. She noticed his right hand, tucked into his coat pocket, was clenched tightly around a stiff piece of folded parchment and the heavy crimson wax seal peeking out from beneath his thumb. But she chose not to pry, giving a small nod instead.
“As you wish.” She kissed his cheek before following Lily outside.
Richard remained by the window long after they had disappeared down the path. Only then did the smile quietly leave his face.
Behind him, a knock sounded at the door.
A moment later, several of the Hawthorne household’s most trusted servants entered the room.
“Mr. Hawthorne, you called for us?”
Richard turned from the window and gave a small nod.
He spoke quietly. The words were barely audible beyond the room, yet the effect was immediate. Surprise flickered across several faces. One of the older servants lowered his gaze, his expression crumpling with quiet sorrow, while another stood perfectly still, as though struggling to comprehend what he had just heard.
Richard looked at each of them in turn.
“Forgive me…”
His voice faltered. He stepped forward and took their hands one by one, clasping them with both of his. These were people who had served the Hawthorne family for years—some for more than a decade, others for nearly their entire lives.
They had watched Celia grow from a child into a young woman. They had known the family through its happiest years and its darkest ones. And now Richard was the one who had to tell them that their service to the Hawthorne household could no longer continue as it had before.
One of the older servants could no longer contain his emotion. He stepped forward and pulled Richard into a tight embrace.
Richard closed his eyes.
For several moments, neither man spoke. Richard simply stood there, one hand resting heavily against the man’s back.
Outside, somewhere beyond the window, the sound of Celia and Lily’s laughter drifted faintly across the grounds.
Richard swallowed hard.
He did not turn toward the window again.
