Aunt Barbara never told anyone, which was even more so troubling. She appeared to believe Geneva's weak explanation that she was merely out walking to test her ankles.

She was quite certain her aunt would have told her sisters about the incident if not for what happened next. Curiously, Aunt Deborah came down with a flu, which lasted for a fortnight. Whenever one of the Withers sisters got ill, it was a rule to not aggravate their condition by sparing them of household matters or issues that may only cause them stress.

Geneva may have been spared, but she was still wary. Aunt Barbara followed her everywhere for a month, always walking into her room when she overstayed, or would even grab her shawl and join Geneva to the market. Church was no question, of course.

But whatever Aunt Barbara may suspect Geneva was up to, or however Geneva worried over the excess attention she was getting from her aunt, was brushed aside when Doctor Peters gave them unfavorable news. Nearly two months now since falling ill, Aunt Deborah had not made a full recovery. A little walk would make her breathless, more so every journey up and down the stairs.

Geneva was in the corner of the drawing room, silently listening, while Doctor Peters explained to Aunt Prudence and Barbara that they may need to prepare for the inevitable.

"Unacceptable," said Aunt Prudence, stiffly shaking her head. "Deborah can still walk and talk. She still eats her meals. Something could surely be done."

"Whatever it is," Aunt Barbara said, voice shaking as she pleaded with the doctor. "You must have something to recommend."

Doctor Peters was silent for a while, considering his next words. "I can recommend a trip to Birth. Many choose to recuperate there because of the wind and the clear ocean."

"You mean they go there and wait for death," Prudence bitingly said.

"There must be another way!" Barbara was nearly frantic now.

Doctor Peters nodded in understanding. "Very well," the man said, gaze traveling between the two sisters, then once to Geneva. "There is one doctor who may have more to offer," he said.

"Who?"

"Doctor Oliver St. Vincent."

"I have heard of him," said Prudence to her sister. "I heard he once brought a man back to life."

"Or so he claims," Doctor Peters murmured under his breath before saying aloud, "Doctor St. Vincent is the best in Sutherland. However," he added before the two sisters could open their mouths. "He is not the most personable."

"Whatever do you mean?" Barbara asked, her brows in the same shape as the ironed curls framing her face.

"St. Vincent will be very honest with you. He shall not bother to find the best words to reveal unfavorable news—or even good ones. I want you to be ready for what he may say when you meet him."

"We only want the best options for our sister. The Lord shall guide us when we meet this doctor." Barbara turned to her older sister before she gave Geneva a look of determination. "We shall leave at once."

***

Windsong Manor gained the reputation as a place not suitable for innocent young ladies for many reasons. Perhaps because there was nothing particular that would interest anyone who had great knowledge about architecture or the arts. It was dilapidated at best, with molds and vines eating its walls, and it had quite a bad history (different versions of it, to be in fact). Another reason might be that villagers of all sorts passed by using the path that led to the other side of the hill. Most often, people from the other side would also herd their livestock outside the manor where the grass was bountiful. Another reason was that the place was not meant for just anyone to enter, and however open it might be because the doors and windows were long gone, the fact still remained that someone still owned the place and stepping within its premises could be considered a crime.

But the Stratfords, among many of their friends (those they made within and those they took here), Windsong offered an adventure that the woods could not. There were treasures here—secrets they enjoyed uncovering by slight digging. There were too many versions of Windsong's history that it only heightened the very curious minds of the Stratfords. Thus, with their friends, they decided to make it their little mission to find out more.

That was many years ago, of course. Many of their friends had gone off to have families of their own, and even them, the Stratfords, do little to contribute to their rather small findings, which Harry had recorded in a small notebook that may or may not be in his study in Abberton House. Still, they would come here whenever they could, most often during their morning rides.

Damon's horse, Maple, was tethered under an oak tree while he lay on an arched stone opening of what might have once been a large window or a door, one leg danging off the ledge outside. Standing inside the ruins of the manor, with hands on his hips, was another man much younger than him.

"The fire may have started upstairs," the young man continued, looking up at the now-absent second landing, gaze following an imaginary balcony that led to another imaginary large staircase, and finally landing on the surviving eleven steps. Everyone knew there were eleven steps because everyone who had been in Windsong had climbed those steps, risking their lives in the process. "If it started downstairs, the bottom of the stairs would have not survived."

"Fair point," Damon said, eyes not on the stairs, but outside at the empty path not far away. "But that's not the greatest mystery, is it, Matthew?"

The young man turned and took off his hat, revealing dark hair damp with sweat. His shoulders dropped as he sighed. "No, it isn't. It's who started the fire." However, his face lit up and he ran toward another opening behind Damon and jumped out into grassy ground. "By the by, Sir," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "I finally realized what I wish to do."

The corner of Damon's mouth curled. "You did now, did you?"

Matthew nodded, putting his hat back on. His farm shirt and breeches were as soiled as aways, but never the smile. No, this young man always wore such a bright smile. "Aye. I wish to study in Coulway."

"Study about what?"

"Machines and how to make them," the young man said, motioning with his head toward the three cows he herded up the hill. "So 'Ma doesn't have to milk them with her own hands. I'll build a machine that can do that. And one that will make bales so we don't have to."

"Interesting," Damon said, turning to drop his other leg to join the other so he was sitting on the ledge. "And very possible, Matthew."

But Matthew shook his head, his warm smile dying a fraction. "But I can't leave my family, Sir. Never."

"You can always come back during breaks. Going to Coulway doesn't mean you can never go back, Matthew."

"Nah, Sir," said the young man. "My brothers need the help. The money we earn is better spent on Jasper."

The sound of an approaching horse made them both turn. Damon swiveled to recline along the frame again while Matthew eagerly walked away and met Price. The two young men talked while Price tethered his horse.

"Damon! Did Matthew tell you he wants to study in Coulway?" Price shouted from across the grassy field.

"Hmm," he hummed in reply.

"You definitely should!" Price was saying, wrapping an arm around Matthew as they walked closer to Damon. "Then perhaps you can build a machine that will keep Roxie and Freda in their proper places. One that can sense their very presence and close all doors leading out of the manor."

"Or stop the party," added Damon.

"No, I rather it happens," said Price. "I would like to savor my victory at the engagement party. The wager prize is not enough."

Damon rolled his eyes as his brother went on to tell Matthew of the outcome of his perfectly laid-out plan to match their sister with the Duke of Dafield. "He went away a month ago to Coulway and we only had a few more weeks left to win. We had to make him come back, see? So I wrote Web a letter detailing what he has to tell the duke. And just as I expected, the poor man went back for Sisi."

"You've already told Matthew the same thing yesterday, Price," Damon said, jumping down with a grunt.

"Where are you going?" his brother asked. "I just arrived."

"You were snoring when I left for my morning ride. You're bloody late. I'm famished." As he passed Matthew, he patted the young man's shoulder. "Come to me if you decide to pursue this dream. I'll be sure to find a way to help."

Matthew's gray eyes widened with awe. "You will, Sir?"

"Of course. After Price terribly failed us, I might as well place my hope on someone else."

"Not quite funny, Damon," Price said.

Damon just laughed as he walked away. "Think about it, Matthew. I'm quite serious."

***

Geneva was given one single task, but it felt more like a test. For the first time in her life, her aunts decided to leave without her so she could stay and oversee the household while they traveled to Coulway to meet Doctor St. Vincent.

"Never miss church," said Aunt Deborah as she caught her breath after the short trip to the carriage. While Aunt Prudence and Barbara murmured orders to the servants, Geneva took the time to hold her aunt's hand. It was cold and dry at the same time, her skin like wrinkled paper, the veins protruding along with her bones. At that moment, she realized just how old her great-aunts had gotten. Seeing them daily for most of her life, she had been ignorant of the changes. They had been subtle, but the impact in moments like this was great. A sense of panic overwhelmed her, an attack of fear of losing them at any moment tormenting her.

She may fear them, may wish to be away from their presence most of the time, but she loved them nonetheless. They were the only family she ever knew. They were always the first people to know whenever she was sick, the first to sense if she was in distress. Always, they had been alone together, independent and strong-willed. It was hard to see them frail.

"I'll pray that God shall shower Doctor St. Vincent with wisdom," she said to Aunt Deborah. She wanted to reach out and wrap her arms around the woman, but that was not how they showed, nor receive, affection. The Withers were always composed, always the masters of their faculties. Emotions should be shared with God alone. Weakness should be displayed in private, on your knees praying to the Lord.

"Be good," Aunt Deborah said, patting her hand. "Stay away from sin."

Geneva nodded earnestly, moved with desire to please her aunt.

"We need to leave," Aunt Prudence said as she climbed into the carriage. "Don't forget the list, Geneva. Everything is in there."

"Of course, Aunt Prudence."

"Geneva." She turned to find Aunt Barbara looking at her sternly. Her heart began to hammer, but the woman surprised her by pulling her into her arms. "You are given this chance to prove you're worthy of our trust. Do you understand?"

Geneva nodded stiffly before stepping away. "I already miss you. All of you," she said, looking into the carriage at her other two aunts, her eyes watering.

"We are going back, darling. Whyever are you crying?" Aunt Prudence asked with a scowl. "Barbara, we have to leave now."

She reluctantly stepped back as Aunt Barbara climbed into the carriage. Her fingers tugged at each other as she watched the carriage roll away.

Her first day alone with just the servants was lonely. For years, she had secretly wished to dine alone, or to spend hours in the drawing room without her aunts walking in on her. But she was wrong. She instantly felt their absence and on her first night and wished they asked her to come with them.

But as soon as she received a short letter from Aunt Prudence, one she posted in the first town they stopped by, Geneva felt relief. They were fine and safe. And so, that Sunday, she dressed for church, determined to prove to Aunt Barbara that she could be trusted. She would not venture to the other side of the woods, nor would she look for the Vernons in the market.

It was her first time to attend church alone, and without her aunts, she felt lost. How many years had she been going to this church? How many Wednesdays and Sundays had she spent praying under its roof? Why did it feel strange going here now? She was sitting beside her aunts' friends, wasn't she? She talked to them like how she would if her aunts were here, didn't she?

And why was it that when she spotted the Stratfords outside the church after service she felt the urge to go straight to Damon Priest?

But she still had her senses. Of course, she was able to stop herself. And Parker was in her path. He greeted her with a smile, asked her if she delivered the letter herself.

Of all places to lie, of all the time to do it, she did it in the threshold of the church mere minutes after service. "I did, Mr. Parker."

"Very good. Mr. Vernon was in our shop just this Wednesday. I thought to ask, but I remembered you specifically saying that I do not mention your initial intentions."

"Thank you," she said. "I would truly appreciate if you do not bother them with my request since Mr. Vernon and I are not acquaintances. I'm no longer in need of his favor."

"No bother, Miss Geneva." He smiled brightly and touched the tip of his hat. As he left, Geneva climbed down the stairs, her feet eager to get away from her aunts' friends. They had been asking about Aunt Deborah's health. Geneva already answered their questions as best she could, but their curiosity extended to a tea party, one she would rather not be a part of.

***

When he saw Geneva Withers hurry away, Damon left the company of his cousins and brother to chase after her. The Stratfords did not notice, all of them eager to go home, anyway. And everyone else was focused on the Duke of Dafield, whose engagement to Simone was the current talk of the town.

"Miss Withers," he called just loud enough for her to hear.

She looked back but did not stop walking. "Yes, Mr. Priest?"

"I've been waiting for you at Windsong," he said, walking beside her, hands clasped behind him. "My invitation stands still. You can join me if you wish. I go there every morning, but on Wednesdays, I go during the afternoon."

She blinked up at him in confusion. "Why every afternoon on Wednesdays?"

Prepared to face her refusal but not her question, he blinked a few times to find an answer. "I do not know. Windsong do not get much visitors during the afternoon."

"So you prefer company on other days save for Wednesdays."

He smiled. "Precisely."

"Who goes there every morning?"

"Anyone. Most often, it is just us Stratfords. We ride every morning." He inclined his head down at her. "Do you ride?"

"Of course."

"Then mayhap you may join us."

"But not so well."

"Oh. Well, that might pose as a problem. We ride competitively. Now that the Duke of Dafield is joining the family, we have another competitor."

Her eyes flickered to him before quickly looking away. Was she wondering why he was being this way? She should not ask it aloud for he did not know the answer to that either. Not yet, at the very least.

"But they do not always stay long in Windsong," he said when he sensed she had no intention to speak. "Sometimes, they leave me in the company of the cows."

A very slight curl of her brows. "Cows?"

"The Vernons herd their livestock outside the manor. The grass is healthy there, perhaps because of the dead bodies that did not survive the fire." At the arrested look on her face, he chuckled. "That was a joke, Miss Withers."

She blinked away and walked faster. "I have to go, Mr. Priest."

"On foot?" he asked.

"As you should clearly see by now."

"Allow me to walk you home."

"No, I can—"

"We are acquaintances now, Miss Withers. Please, let me walk you home."

She did let him walk her home, but she never spoke again. He wanted to ask about her aunts, but he thought she must have already gotten more than her fair share of questions at church earlier. It must have been exhausting to give the same answer to people who only asked because they wanted you to think they were concerned. He knew that well enough after the death of his parents.

When they reached the Withers House, she hastily murmured a thank you, and disappeared inside. Damon stood outside for a while, trying to fathom how he even got to this point. This was not how he planned his Sunday morning. But it was done, and he felt quite cheerful.

It was nearly two months since he last saw her. He was even unsure if she had returned to the woods after that night. If she did, he saw no traces of her.

With his hands in his pockets, he walked home. And later that night, as he shared a drink with Harry and Webster, who went home after the news of their sister's engagement, Geneva Withers crossed his mind again.

"What seems to bother you?" Webster asked. They were on the roof of the manor, on a birdwatching deck they built years ago, sharing a bottle of brandy.

"Must be a woman," Harry guessed, tipping his head back as he took a gulp from the bottle.

"Who?" asked Webster. "You have not been away from Abberton, have you? Had someone new come to town?"

"None that I know of," said Harry. "Who is it, Damon?"

Damon was still blankly looking at the silhouette of the woods across from them. "Geneva Withers."

Harry blinked while Webster sputtered in his drink. "Who?"

"Geneva Withers," he said. "She's quite interesting."

His brother and cousin shared a look before staring at him again. "I remember you once said she is amongst those you consider quite pretty, but you never gave any indication that you were interested."

"Well," he said, sighing as he laid back, resting his head on his hands. "Not until now, it seems." He rolled his eyes to the right. "And you are not going to start another wager on me and Miss Withers."

"It shall be a fun wager," said Webster. "Imagine the number of churchgoers on our list."

Harry laughed. "I can imagine, indeed."

"Not on me," he said, tone serious. "If Geneva Withers finds out, she would find no fun in it. And that shall decrease my chances considerably."

"Your chances?" Webster asked. "You mean you intend to seek a courtship?"

"I plan to be her friend, brother. I do not have the confidence for more at this point."

Harry looked at him with a dumbfounded look on his face. "How did this even come about?"

"It just happened."

"Was it the time you scolded her for scolding the devils?" Webster asked.

He shrugged. "Mayhap."

"There's more to this," said Harry.

"Something else happened," seconded Webster. "What is it?"

"None of your bloody business."

They fell silent then, all three of them thinking different things at once. But Webster broke the silence. "Are you quite certain we are thinking of the same Geneva Withers?"

"Yes."

"And you are certain about this?"

"The more you doubt my capacity for rational thoughts, the more certain I become."

"Brother," Webster said, turning on his hips to look down at him. "With those three aunts of hers, you will need all the saints and angels in the bible to win this woman."

Damon sighed. "Why do you think I endure church on Sundays? I'll need all divine interventions."

"A holy mission," said Harry. "Being a Stratford is not a good start."

"Not good at all, indeed," Damon said with a groan. "I'm quite anxious, to be honest."

"To be crucified by three old women? You ought to be," Webster said with a laugh.

"What is there to be anxious about?" Harry asked seriously. "Surely, the Withers would want what's best for their niece. A Stratford may not be biblically ideal to them, but you are quite charming, Damon. And rich, if I may add."

Damon did not reply. He was afraid for many reasons. If this was any other woman, forming a friendship or any kind of relationship would not be a cause for concern at all. But there was just something fragile about Geneva Withers.

"They will take a liking of you," Webster reassured him. "You are not a perfect man, but you are better than most men."

Yes, quite true. But he may also be just the wrong man to shatter her fragile nature.