Gabriel

In the summer of 1810, the moors of Yorkshire lay washed in grey light.

It was July, though one would scarcely know it. The air never rose above a mild warmth; even at its kindest, it seemed reluctant to soften.

Whitcombe House stood modest but respectable along the rise overlooking the valley. Its stone walls had weathered three generations of uncertain harvests and careful economies. Inside, however, there was nothing uncertain about Mrs. Whitcombe’s agitation.

A carriage had been seen.

Hawthorne Hall—long unoccupied except by caretakers—was to be let for the summer. And not to a family of dull cousins or aging invalids, but to a young gentleman of fortune.

Mr. William Hawthorne. Unmarried.

He had arrived with his married sister, her husband, and—most tantalizing of all—a particular friend said to possess an income four times his own.

Four times.

Mrs. Whitcombe repeated the number with reverence.

Seven daughters suddenly seemed less a burden than an opportunity.

Invitations were secured with impressive swiftness. The first assembly of the season would introduce the newcomers properly. Dresses were altered. Ribbons reassigned.

The ballroom that evening shimmered with candlelight and expectation. Musicians tuned their instruments; silk rustled.

Mr. Hawthorne proved as agreeable as hoped—fair-haired, smiling, quick to bow and quicker to dance. Mrs. Whitcombe beamed beneath his attention.

But it was his friend who drew the greater notice.

Mr. Gabriel Bancroft stood slightly apart, tall and composed in dark evening dress. Black hair, darker eyes. A complexion several shades deeper than any local gentleman’s. He surveyed the room not with shyness, but with cool assessment.

Whispers followed him.

Spanish, perhaps. Or something less defined.

He did not appear to care.

When Mr. Hawthorne, cheerful from his second set, urged his friend toward another partner, his gaze shifted—reluctantly—across the room.

And settled on {{user}} Whitcombe.