There was little excitement and adventure. What there was—and what I was thankful for—was routine. The job was much like what I’d been doing in my youth in Virginia, back when Father had been priming me to take over Veritas Estate. I bought livestock, oversaw the horses, and mended anything that might need fixing. I knew George approved of my work, and we were even going into London tomorrow to discuss the finances of the farm, a true sign of his trust in me. In fact, the entire Abbott family seemed to like me, and I was surprised to find how much I liked them. I knew in a few years I’d have to move on, since they’d soon notice that I wasn’t aging as they were. But I could still enjoy the time I had left.
Hastily, I pulled on a merino-wool jacket, one of the many items of clothing George had given me in the few short months I’d been at Abbott Manor. Indeed, he often said he thought of me like a son, a sentiment which simultaneously warmed and amused me. If only he knew that he was actually a few years younger than me. He took his position as a father figure se
riously, and although he could never replace my real father, I welcomed the gesture.
Not bothering to lock the door to my cottage, I strode up the hill to the house, whistling a nameless tune. Only as I got to the chorus did I realize its origin—it was “God Save the South,” one of Damon’s favorites.
Grimacing, I mashed my lips together and practically ran the remaining steps to the rear door of the manor. After twenty years, any recollection of Damon was as sharp and abrupt as a clap of thunder on a dry, hot summer day. I still remembered him—his brooding blue eyes, his lopsided smile, and his sarcasm-tinged Southern accent—as vividly as if I’d only seen him ten minutes ago. Who knew where he was now?
He could even be dead. The possibility sprang into my mind out of nowhere. I uneasily shook off the thought.
Arriving at the house, I swung open the door. The Abbotts never kept it locked. There was no need. The next house was five miles down the road, the town another two beyond that. Even then, the town only consisted of a pub, post office, and train station. There was nowhere safer in all of England.
“Stefan, my boy!” George called eagerly, striding into the foyer from the sitting room. Giddy and already a little drunk on pre-supper sherry, George was flushed and seemed even more rotund than last week.
“Hello, sir!” I said enthusiastically, glancing down at him. He stood at only a little bit above five feet, and his bulk seemed to be his way of making up for his short stature. Indeed, sometimes I worried for the horses when it struck George’s fancy to go for a ride in the woods.
But even though the other servants occasionally mocked him for his unwieldy body and fondness for drink, I saw in him nothing but friendliness and goodwill. He’d taken me in when I had nothing, and not only had he given me a roof over my head, but he’d given me hope that I could find companionship with humans again.
“Spot of sherry?” George asked, pulling me out of my reverie.
“Of course,” I said amiably, as I settled into one of the comfortable red velvet chairs in the sitting room, a small and homey space with Oriental rugs covered in dog hair. Gertrude Abbott had a soft spot for the farm dogs, and would let them inside the Manor whenever it rained—which was nearly every day. The walls were covered with portraits of Abbott relatives, identifiable by their dimples. That made all of them, even a stern portrait of Great-uncle Martin, who stood watch over the bar in the corner, seem almost friendly.
“Stefan!” A lisping voice shrieked as the two Abbott boys tumbled into the room. First came Luke, devious and dark-haired, with a cowlick that simply wouldn’t behave no matter how much his mother pushed it down against his forehead. Oliver followed, a seven-year-old with straw-colored hair and skinned knees.
I smiled as Oliver threw his arms around my legs. A stray piece of hay from the barn was stuck in his hair, and his freckled face was smudged with dirt. He’d most likely been out in the woods for hours.
“I hunted a rabbit! He was this big!”Oliver said, breaking away and holding his hands several feet apart.
“That big?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “Are you sure it was a rabbit? Or was it a bear?” Oliver’s light eyes grew saucerlike at the possibility, and I stifled a smile.
“It wasn’t a bear, Stefan!” Luke interjected. “It was a rabbit, and I was the one who shot it. Oliver’s bullet only scared it.”
“Did not!” Oliver said angrily.
“Daddy, tell Stefan! Tell him I shot it!”
“Now, boys!” George said, smiling fondly at his two young sons. I grinned as well, despite the pang of regret I felt stabbing into the core of my being. It was such a familiar scene that I knew played out in houses all over the world: Sons squabbled, rebelled, and grew up, and then the cycle repeated all over again. Except in the case of me and my brother. As children, we’d been exactly like Oliver and Luke. We were rough-and-tumble and unafraid to knock each other down, because we knew that our fierce, undying loyalty would spur us to help each other back up moments later. Before Katherine had come between us and changed everything.
“I’m sure Stefan doesn’t want to hear you boys bickering,” George added, taking another swig of sherry.
“I don’t mind,” I said, ruffling Oliver’s hair. “But I think I need to enlist you to help me with a problem. Mrs. Duckworth said there’s a fox in the forest who’s been stealing the chickens from the Evanses’ coop, and I know that only the best hunter in all of England will be able to bring down the beast,” I invented.
“Really?” Oliver asked, his eyes growing wide.
“Really.” I nodded. “The only person who can possibly take him down is someone small and quick and very, very clever.” I saw interest flicker across Luke’s face. At nearly ten, he most likely felt too grown-up to take part, but I knew he wanted to. Damon had been similar at that age—too sophisticated to be caught enjoying the games that we’d all play down by the creek, yet terrified of missing out on anything.
“And maybe we’ll take your brother,” I said in a stage whisper, winking as I caught George’s eye. “The three of us will be the best hunting party this side of London. The fox won’t stand a chance.”
“Sounds like a fine adventure!” George said grandly as his wife, Gertrude, walked in. Her red hair was pulled back, emphasizing the widow’s peak on her fair forehead, and she was carrying their four-year-old daughter, Emma, on her hip. Emma had fine blond hair and enormous eyes, and often looked more like a fairy or a sprite than a human child. She flashed me a large grin and I smiled back, feeling happiness radiate from the center of my being.
“Will you come, Daddy?” Oliver asked. “I want you to see me hunt.”
“Ah, you know me,” George said, shaking his head. “I’d only scare the fox into the bushes. He’d hear me coming from a mile away,” he said.
“Stefan could teach you to be quiet!” Oliver lisped.
“Stefan’s already teaching this old man to run his farm,” George laughed ruefully.