Geneva sat tensely behind the man she should have grown up with as a father. The market was not too far away, and the wagon was not rolling slow enough. She merely had a few minutes with the man, yet here she was, sitting mum.

He had talked about the weather and she might have nodded or shook her head, and he also talked about how the Stratfords became friends with his sons. Of course, they met in Windsong where the Stratfords spent many of their mornings, and where his sons herded their cows. Matthew, the name she had heard a few times earlier, was the youngest of three sons.

"We've always known he's bright. His interest is boundless," Theodore Vernon said, shaking his head. "He always questions—questions and questions every time. And he finds the answers himself. I think he prefers it that way. If you give him an answer, he accepts it. But if he discovers it himself, he's the happiest."

Geneva could only imagine what it must be like to live with someone like Matthew. It would definitely be interesting.

"But he never told us what he wants to do," he continued. "We've always assumed he would follow the same path as me and his eldest brother, Stephen. It never came to mind that he has dreams outside of Abberton." He shook his head. "I've been too blind and ignorant."

She wanted to say something, was about to, but he stopped the wagon to talk to someone on the side of the road. She turned away, hiding her face. If her aunts were to ever find out, there would be consequences. After a moment of light chatter and laughter with the stranger, Theodore Vernon led the wagon back on the road.

"Do you know that you share a name with my daughter?" he asked. A shiver ran through her. He was talking about her to her. What should she do? He looked over his shoulder to steal a glance, face expectant.

"I d-do?"

"Yes, Miss. And she should be the same age as you."

She wished she could see his face and not just his back. She wanted to know what he looked like as he talked about her. This was her chance. Maybe she did not need to send her letter. Maybe he could answer her questions now. "And where..." She faltered, her throat closing in on her. "Where is she?"

The words sounded garbled, but he understood. "She was taken away by my wife's aunts. She was always sickly as a child, just like her brother, Jasper. Her great-aunts promised to keep her healthy. They promised to give her what we could not."

Geneva rapidly blinked away, realizing her tears were flowing uncontrollably. Her throat was tight, but a whimper still escaped. She covered the sound by clearing her throat, turning away to wipe her face with shaking hands.

"She's away for now," said Theodore Vernon. "We're just waiting for the day when she would come and see us."

"You d-don't see her?"

"We try, of course," he said. "For years, in fact. But she must be too busy. Her life and ours are quite different, Miss, you see."

Her jaw tightened as she fought the tears that simmered at the back of her eyes. Her chest was all of a sudden tight, her breath trapped along with the words at the tip of her tongue. Her hands were unexpectedly restless, her thoughts jumping from a crowd of questions to a series of accusations, then back again, until she could no longer keep up. She did not even know who she wanted to ask the questions to, or where to throw the accusations. To him? Her aunts? At herself for being too ignorant and naive?

The wagon came to a full stop and Theodore Vernon turned to her with a bright smile. "I hope it's alright with you if I stop here, Miss."

She could barely see now, her vision misted by tears. She blinked them away, hoping he did not see, nodding as she gathered her skirts. "Thank you, Mr. Vernon," she managed, helping herself out of the wagon before he could.

"Anytime, Miss Geneva," he said, jumping down to face her with a slight bow.

And all of a sudden, everything was still and calm. The thoughts and questions were warded off by his gentle smile and his wrinkly eyes. This was a man who laughed a lot. A man who may not be a father to her yet, but someone she wanted to embrace as one.

And she did it. Without thinking, she stepped forward and flung arms around his neck, burying her face in his dusty coat.

"Miss Geneva?" he asked, "Is everything alright?"

She nodded, sniffling. "Thank you, Mr. Vernon," she mumbled before she forced herself to step back. "Thank you."

Hiding quickly turned away, then stopped. She faced him again and said, "Maybe she can't."

He blinked at her in confusion.

"Maybe she can't see you." Something flashed in his face. Sadness? Regret? Pain? "Maybe she's still learning how to get to you."

His eyes glimmered as he smiled. "Or maybe we should be more persistent."

She nodded. "Or she should be braver."

"Or maybe time will tell."

She nodded, tears blurring her vision. "Maybe. Have a good day, Sir."

She turned away and blindly walked to the direction of the park, sniffling and wiping her tears. A soft giggle escaped her lips, an overwhelming sense of wonder and excitement bubbling inside her.

***

Damon found a bench under a tree. He slid lower and leaned back, legs stretched, and arms crossed as he waited. There some villagers about, but none Geneva should be concerned of, he thought. If any of her aunts' friends were here to bear witness to their meeting, they were either frail to walk in the heat of the sun, or blind to recognize anyone standing more than a yard away.

He watched strangers and even neighbors pass by, returned greetings as they came and went, but he made certain he was unavailable for anything more. When a gentleman stopped, seemingly eager to talk, Damon came to his feet and pretended he was leaving.

"Mr. Priest, your basket!" the man called.

Damon turned and gave him a tight smile before picking up the basket on the bench. "Good day," he greeted before walking away again. He slowed down, looked over his shoulder, and waited until the gentleman was far enough before returning to his bench.

Minutes later, as a lady was purposely walking toward him, her young daughter in tow, Damon fumbled inside his coat, murmuring about a lost shopping list of sort. And as the pair continued their approach, he cursed loud enough, looking for the piece of paper that wasn't there. That stopped the intruders and they turned away to continue southward.

He eventually settled to closing his eyes, hoping anyone who would come by would think it impolite to wake someone napping in the park.

It was some time before he noticed something, or someone, blocking the sun. He did not stir until he heard her clear her throat. Opening one eye, he found her frowning at him.

"Good. You're here," he said, sitting straight. "How was your journey with Mr. Vernon?"

She looked like she had been crying, and he was almost certain she wouldn't answer his question. In fact, he expected she'd be angry. Really, he didn't think she would meet him here at all.

But she did the unexpected. She sat side him, eyes straight toward the mountainside. "I cried and hugged him. He must now think I'm crazy."

A faint smile curled the corner of his mouth. "I don't think he would think that way. He had met the Stratfords," he said. "We are crazier. And even if he thinks it odd that you did what you did, he would simply assume our eccentricities had rubbed on you."

She snapped her head toward him, lips pursed to keep the laughter from showing. But he saw the glimpse of it in her eyes. "A governess?"

He chuckled. "Why not?" He looked around and stood. "Shall we?"

"What?"

"It's time for supper," he explained, picking the basket.

"I'll go home."

He looked around and sighed. "Very well. I was going to show you the well."

Interest and excitement flashed in her eyes. Biting her lips, she looked around the park. And with the air of someone who was trying not to show too much enthusiasm, she rose to her feet and murmured, "Very well."

It was nearly dusk when they entered the woods. Up above, hues of pink and blue would flash through the gaps of the branches and leaves.

"No one is out making traps?" she asked, warily looking around.

"No," he said. "They're probably in the meadow catching frogs." When he saw the question in her face, he smiled and added, "Roxie and Freda were assigned to bring two of them tomorrow."

"Whoever would assign them to bring frogs?"

"Their tutor, of course. They wanted to learn about organs."

Her eyes widened in horror.

"They say it's not as horrid as one might think."

"B-But they kill them?"

"And bury them with respect," he said. "Or at least that's what I heard they'll do. I don't know. I never participated in such study."

"Why not?"

"Because like you, I can't bear the thought of cutting up a frog."

A quiet reigned between them for a while. "You're not curious at all? About the frogs, I mean."

"I'm curious about many things," he said, staring at her with a smile. "The insides of a frog is not one of them."

She looked away and stared at the path ahead. "It's rather odd that their tutor would allow them such liberty."

"He is as eccentric as them." He shifted the basket to one side and walk closer beside her. "Did you have tutors?"

Geneva shook her head. "I only had one governess. She taught me everything I needed to know." She did not wait for him to make a comment, or ask another question. Instead, she turned and looked up at him. "Why do you do this?"

He shrugged. "Now that I'm keeping your secrets, I cannot just let you deal with them alone."

If she had anything to say to that, she did not voice it. The silence stretched on until they reached Windsong. The pink sky had turned purple, evening closing in. But there was still enough light by the time Damon led Geneva to the well.

It was at the back of the manor, in the middle of what would have been a back garden. At first glance, it was another structure prone to accident. But if one should indeed fall into it—which happened to Damon—they would discover something curious and compelling.

"I don't see why you like this well," she noted, peering down with a frown.

Without a word, Damon set the basket on the ground and picked up the rope ladder hidden from sight and dropped it down the well. The sound of wood against stone echoed back to them.

"It's dry," he said, climbing on the ledge of the well, settling into the first step of the ladder.

Geneva, by this time, might already have had enough of asking what he was up to. Thus, the question she asked next was, "What's down there?"

He grinned. "Give me the basket." She did. "Now, follow me." Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. He cocked his brows at her in amusement. Then he went down.

***

She was tired of thinking she should not be doing this or that. Because, truly, she shouldn't but she was still too stubborn to follow. If she was on the road to becoming like her grandfather, or her mother, then she would just have to deal with it later. For now, she felt nothing but excitement as she stepped down the ladder, cloaked in utter darkness, her breathing echoing around her.

"One more step," Damon said from somewhere below. And then she felt his hands around her hips, and heard him say, "Jump." And she did, safely landing on solid ground. He stepped back and she blindly turned, imagining dirt around her.

But then Damon lit a gaslight and suddenly, she could see.

It was far beyond what she had imagined. There were no dirt walls, nor muddy ground. There was just a small chamber with brick walls. And a makeshift settee. Table, chairs, shelves with jars of food.

He looked proud when her fascinated eyes flew to him. "When I fell down here years ago, I acquired a broken leg. But it was worth it. We discovered this rather odd chamber."

"You did not build this?"

He shook his head. "No. It was not like this when I fell upon it. The brick walls, however, were already here. Even the floor."

She looked down and found brick. "Who would build something like this?"

"Someone with a very interesting mind, perhaps," he said, opening the basket. "The well must have dried up many years ago and whoever built this chamber must have had the most splendid idea of turning it into something they could use."

"I see no use in it," she said. "But I dare say it's fascinating."

As he laid out bread and fruits on the table, he motioned his head upward.

Geneva looked up, a small gasp escaping her. Above, the opening of the well offered a magnificent view of the sky. "Can you see the moon from up here?"

He settled in the settee and gazed up. "Of course. It's not as pretty without the moon." Patting the space beside him, he invited her to sit. She did, still looking at the hole above them. He explained how they stole the settee and other furniture from the manor, carried them through the woods, and down here.

After some time, without saying much, they ate their supper.

She realized Damon was not someone who had the need to constantly break the silence. Like her, he embraced it. He paid particular attention to his food and to what he was doing. And only when necessary did he comment or ask her anything. Did she want jam or butter for her bread? He wasn't sure if the grapes were clean, but she was welcome to wipe it on her dress. He brought water and sherry—what did she prefer?

Small questions that offered comfort, and a calm that allowed her mind some space to think internally. It was a pleasant supper.

It was only when they were done, and they both held their drinks, did he say something that required her to think. "You should attend the engagement party. Many of the villagers are invited, including friends of your aunts."

The invitation reminded her of the coming days, of when her freedom would come to an end. "I need to discuss it with my aunts."

"Are they back in town?"

She scoffed. "Do you think I'd be here if they are?"

"Then send them a letter."

She sighed. "I already know their answer."

For some quiet breaths, he was silent. "The invitation lasts as long as the party does. Come whenever you can."

She smiled. "I shall keep that in mind." He did not push the matter, but she could sense that he was waiting for her to ask the question. "Did you invite the Vernons?"

The wicked look on his face was answer enough. "We did invite Matthew and his brothers, of course. Simone spent a lot of good times with them here in Windsong, of course she had to invite them. And Mrs. Vernon, too. She would often send bread and meat for us on some mornings."

He was not looking at her, pretending that his words were delivered in such nonchalant a manner.

Geneva bit her lips and closed her eyes. Of course, she should not go. But then, she also knew she would.