![]() The weak autumn sun was still some distance from the horizon. He stood, one pace away from the gate, breathing hard. Keeping his left hand in front of him as though offering an arm to an invisible lady, he took a deep breath and stepped across the estate boundary.Īs he did so, he realised he’d be late for dinner if he didn’t go back to the Hall now. A few bedraggled, black-faced sheep grazed at the far end, and Thornby knew he should shut the gate, but somehow did not quite like to. The hummocky field belonged to the rectory, which was a mile away in the village. The gate was on the Raskelf estate, which belonged to Thornby’s father, the ninth Marquess of Dalton. His hands had trembled as he’d done it, and the ‘l’ had smeared against his cuff. He’d written the word ‘leave’ on his skin in black ink. Soren, Lord Thornby, opened the rectory field gate and checked the back of his left hand for the hundredth time. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. ![]()
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