Part I
Jasper and Abraham
Chapter 1
Jasper
It’s a Tuesday morning when my life changes irrevocably.
“Jasper.”
My mother’s clipped tone has me setting down my spoon, abandoning my morning meal in favor of giving her the full attention she’s demanding. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You’re to visit the stables today. We need a carriage.”
The instruction gives me pause. I glance my father’s way, but his nose is in his workbook, one hand idly lifting a piece of warm bread to his mouth. The top is slathered in rich blackberry jam, but he chews as if tasting nothing at all.
“Why not send Catherine?” I ask my mother.
Her face pinches, mouth set in a moue of displeasure. “The maid is ill.”
My inhale is sharp, but I keep the surprise from showing on my face, knowing my mother would not like it. She’s never appreciated my fondness for our housekeeper, despite the fact that she tasked Catherine with the brunt of raising me.
“May I see her before I go?” I ask.
After a long pause in which I’m sure my mother will deny me, she inclines her head. “Fine. We’ll need the carriage the week after next. We’re to visit my sister in the countryside.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, struggling to stay in the present, my worry over Catherine at the forefront of my mind.
“See that you don’t dawdle,” my father puts in, not even lifting his head to look at me from across the table. Dust floats in the early morning light coming through the window, the motes swirling when he turns a page in his book. “You’re to join me at the printer when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
My mother leaves the room with a swish of her skirts, and I hastily finish my hot wheat, the porridge having gone cold.
Once my father closes his workbook and stands, I collect our dishes and bring them to the sink basin. With Catherine ill, I take over the task of cleaning, idly wondering if it was her or my mother who prepared our meal this morning. Most likely Catherine.
Hands dried, I walk down the hall to her room and knock gently.
“Enter.”
The curtains are drawn in the small space, the bed Catherine is lying on pressed against one wall, her dresser along the other. She makes to sit up, but I close the door behind me and approach swiftly, setting a hand on her shoulder to stall her.
“Please,” I urge. “No need to trouble yourself on my account. I only wished to check on you.”
“Sweet boy,” Catherine says around a sigh, the wrinkles on her face looking more pronounced than usual. Her gray hair is escaping its bun, and although covered by blankets, it’s clear Catherine isn’t dressed for company.
“Is it bad?” I ask her, crouching on the floor beside her bed.
She shakes her head, further disrupting her bun. “No, of course not. I’ll be on my feet again in no time.”
The cough she lets out, leading into a series of painful-sounding hacks, has me doubting the validity of her statement. My mother would not allow her to rest, after all, unless it was serious.
“Can I get you anything?”
Catherine looks as if she’s going to once again reassure me she’s well enough, but then she asks, softly, “A glass of water?”
I nod and make my way out of the room. My father is leaving for the day as I pass, my mother nowhere in sight. I fill a glass from the carafe and then pause, eyeing the leftover piece of bread on the table. Heart beating fast, I rush over and slather jam on top, knowing I’ll incur my mother’s wrath if she catches me treating Catherine so.
