“Now,” Tristan murmured.
George pressed the trigger, and a shot rang out in the air. The deer jerked, stumbled, and collapsed in the tall grass, and a slow smile touched Tristan’s lips.
“It seems there may still be hope for you, Georgie boy,” he said gently, patting his back.
The boy’s grin spread wide. “Do you think—”
“Do not let it go to your head,” Tristan cut in. “One shot does not make you a marksman. But it is a start.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Tristan glanced at the path Mrs. Andrews had taken. “Your supper awaits. Go on ahead. I will follow shortly.”
George hesitated. “Shall I wait for you, my lord?”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed faintly. “No. I will be in shortly.”
The boy nodded, then trudged toward the path, the rifle balanced in both hands.
When he was gone, Tristan let out a breath, his gaze drifting back to where the deer had fallen. The forest had grown quiet again, except for the soft whisper of leaves. He stared at the leaves, praying their sight kept him out of thinking about what awaited him when he stepped back into the lodge.
***
The weight of the deer pressed into his shoulders as he stepped into the lodge. The scent of the kill clung to his clothes, sharp and metallic. Mrs. Andrews stood in the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked up at him and watched with focus as he walked into the house, his back bent from the weight.
“Where would you like it?” Tristan asked, his voice on the edge of a mild groan.
The older woman eyed the lifeless body. “Preferably alive and back in the forest, my lord, but since we cannot manage that, the kitchen will do.”
Tristan laughed and turned in the direction of the kitchen, but she stepped forward as though to take it from him.
“I can handle it from here, my lord. You do not have to—”
“Nonsense,” Tristan said, shirking away from her before she could even reach him. “I will do it myself.”
He carried the deer through to the kitchen and let it drop with a dull thud onto the long table. When he came back to the hall, Mrs. Andrews was opening a drawer.
He watched with interest as she pulled out an envelope and set it on the side table. “The letter, my lord.”
He nodded in response. “Do you need help skinning the deer? I can bring a—” he asked.
“I will have to beg your pardon for speaking out of turn, my lord,” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly, “but when it comes to skinning deer, I never need anyone else.”
He gave a faint smile in response as she walked away, her footsteps echoing faintly across the house.
After she was gone, Tristan’s eyes shifted back to the letter, and his fingers closed around it.
“What possible news could you have for me this time, Grandpapa?”
He broke the seal and unfolded the paper, feeling the words practically leap at him. His jaw tightened as he took in the contents word by word. Line by line.
Oh, dear lord.
He shuffled his feet and squeezed the paper into his hand, making it damp. By the time Mrs. Andrews returned, muttering about forgetting a stick of butter, the paper lay crumpled on the table.
She paused. “Is anything the matter, my lord?”
“The letter is from my grandfather,” Tristan responded.
