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The soldier nodded. “I see.” His mouth twisted in thought as he leaned back toward the parlor, then turned again to Philo. “One moment, sir—what is your name?”
“I am Reverend Philo Young, sir.”
The soldier nodded quickly before closing the door all but an inch. After a few voices jumped back and forth, the soldier returned, swinging the door wide. “Major Stockton will see you.”
Major Stockton, hmm? Philo tucked the name away and entered, taking stock of the house in a single glance before his attention was stolen by the imposing man in front of the fire. His commanding stance was enough to herald his status even if his decorated scarlet coat did not.
The young soldier motioned to Philo, then the officer. “Reverend Young, Major Stockton.”
“Thank you, Private Reece.” The major dipped only his head in greeting. “Reverend.”
Bowing deeply at the waist, Philo encased himself in all the charm and ease of one who spent a lifetime learning how to gain a man’s trust. “At your service.”
Stoic, the man only nodded. “You are here to see your brother, I understand?”
“Aye, sir.” Philo straightened, easing the muscles in his shoulders and neck to give the impression he hadn’t a thread of tension, though the longer he stood in the same room with this stranger, the thicker it became. “It has been some time since I have paid a call. What is family if not to love and care for one another, hmm?”
The man’s eyes flicked up and gazed over Philo’s shoulder to the young soldier behind him. It seemed there was a message in his look, for the soldier who’d seen him in excused himself, leaving Stockton and Philo alone.
“Reverend.” Stockton pivoted slightly, resting his hand on the mantel. “I fear I’ve some sorrowful news to report…had we known of any family, we might have sent word—”
“Nothing’s happened to Hannah.” Panic’s pointed fingers clutched his throat. Did that account for the second grave on the hill? Though he’d not seen her in years, though he hated her for what she’d done, it didn’t change that she was his child and her death would be a blow he couldn’t bear.
“Miss Young is well, sir.” Eyebrows knit tight, Stockton kept his expression hard. “’Tis your brother.”
“Oh?”
Lowering his hand from the mantel, the man straightened with a look that gripped Philo around the shoulders. “He is dead.”
Dear God.
Philo’s gaze lowered by degrees as the gravity of such a revelation forced his eyes to the ground. He spoke, his stare at the place where the wall met the floor. “When?”
“Some days ago.” Strangely sincere, the man motioned in the direction of the hill. “His body rests beside his wife. I assure you he received a proper burial.”
Still as a windless summer day, Philo allowed the words to first cling and then drag against him, waiting for the grief to strangle. It did, aye, but not as much as he’d expected. In truth, the future gleamed like a light in a firmament of pitch. Through loss would come joy then, it would seem.
He swallowed, aligning carefully what he would say next before he spoke. “Eaton Hill is a family estate.” Lowering his head, he directed a heavy dose of sorrow through his words. “I wonder what shall become of it now he is gone?”
When Stockton didn’t immediately speak, Philo seized the quiet. “I am pleased you have made use of it. I do fear my brother may not have been friendly toward the king, but I for one would see those rebels hanged for their treason.”
Only the man’s eyebrows lifted, as if he knew such a response was expected, but his trust was still in the balance. “You are kin of Miss Young then, I take it, as you asked after her?”
“Hannah? Aye, she is…” Of a sudden he was pained with a distant longing. “She is my daughter.”
“She said nothing of a father.” Suspicion creased his forehead.
“We are estranged.”
The rising sk
epticism that settled ever deeper in the soldier’s weathered face would not serve Philo well. He needed the man at his side, not apart from it.
Philo at last removed his hat and moved politely to a chair, praying the unsolicited act would be taken as a statement of his grief and not his pride. “When her mother died, I feared caring for a daughter myself, so I…I gave her into the care of my brother and his wife, who had no children of their own. I fear she believes I abandoned her. A father can only do his best.”
Something of the partial truth he’d shared must have struck a chord. Stockton’s hard features softened at the edges, and he looked over to the window. “Your daughter is a good woman. A brave one.”
There was more than simple kindness in his words—there was a familiarity that wormed against Philo’s skin, but he ignored it, bringing the conversation around again to him—to Eaton Hill.
