in Atlanta. His neighbors had perished when their house caught fire during General Sherman’s siege, and the only survivor had been a sixteen-year-old girl with no relations. Immediately, Father had offered to board the girl in our carriage house.
It had allsounded very mysterious and romantic, and when Father told me, I saw in his eyes how much he enjoyed the idea of serving as rescuer to this young orphan.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes dancing. “And you are …”
“Stefan!” I said quickly. “Stefan Salvatore.
Giuseppe’s son. I am so sorry for your family’s tragedy.”
“Thank you,” she said. In an instant, her eyes became dark and somber. “And I thank you and your father for hosting me and my maid, Emily. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“Yes, of course.” I felt suddenly protective.
“You’l be in the carriage house. Would you like me to show you?”
“We shall find it ourselves. Thank you, Stefan Salvatore,”
Katherine said, following the coachman, who carried a large trunk toward the small guest house, which was set back a bit from the main estate. Then she turned around and stared at me. “Or should I call you Savior Stefan?”
she asked with a wink before turning on her heel.
I watched her walk into the sunset, her maid trailing her, and instantly I knew my life would never be the same.
3
August 21, 1864
I can’t stop thinking about her. I will not even write her name; I daren’t.
She is beautiful, entrancing, singular.
When I’m with Rosalyn, I am Giuseppe’s son, the Salvatore boy, essentially interchangeable with Damon. I know it would not matter one whit to the Cartwrights if Damon took my place. It is only me because Father knew Damon would not stand for it, knew I would say yes, just like always.
But when I saw her, her lithe figure, her red lips, her eyes that were flickering and sad and thrilling all at once … it was as though I was finally just myself, just Stefan Salvatore.
I must be strong. I must treat her like a sister. I must fall in love with the woman who is to be my wife.
But I fear it is already too late….
Rosalyn Salvatore, I thought to myself the next day, tasting the words as I walked out the door, ready to fulfil my duty by paying a second call on my soon-to-be-betrothed. I imagined living with Rosalyn in the carriage house—or perhaps some smaller mansion my father would build as our wedding present—me working all day, poring through ledgers with my father in his stuffy study, while she took care of our children. I tried to feel excitement. But all I felt was cold dread seeping through my veins.
I walked around the grand path of Veritas and gazed wistfully up at the carriage house. I hadn’t seen Katherine since she arrived yesterday afternoon. Father had dispatched Alfred to invite her to supper, but she’d declined. I’d spent the evening looking out the window toward the house, but I couldn’t see any flicker of candlelight. If I hadn’t known she and Emily had moved in, I’d have assumed the house had remained unoccupied. Finally, I went to sleep, wondering the whole time what Katherine was doing and whether she needed comforting.
I tore my eyes away from the drawn upstairs shades and trudged down the driveway. The dirt road under my feet was hard and cracked; we needed a good rainstorm. There was no breeze, and the air felt dead. There wasn’t another person outside as far as the eye could see, yet as I walked, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on walked, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I got the uneasy feeling that I wasn’t alone. Unbidden, Robert’s warnings about walking off on my own floated through my mind.
“Hello?” I called out as I turned around.
I started. Standing just a few feet behind me, leaning against one of the angel statues that flanked the drive, was Katherine. She wore a white sunbonnet that protected her ivory skin and a white dress dotted with
It had allsounded very mysterious and romantic, and when Father told me, I saw in his eyes how much he enjoyed the idea of serving as rescuer to this young orphan.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes dancing. “And you are …”
“Stefan!” I said quickly. “Stefan Salvatore.
Giuseppe’s son. I am so sorry for your family’s tragedy.”
“Thank you,” she said. In an instant, her eyes became dark and somber. “And I thank you and your father for hosting me and my maid, Emily. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“Yes, of course.” I felt suddenly protective.
“You’l be in the carriage house. Would you like me to show you?”
“We shall find it ourselves. Thank you, Stefan Salvatore,”
Katherine said, following the coachman, who carried a large trunk toward the small guest house, which was set back a bit from the main estate. Then she turned around and stared at me. “Or should I call you Savior Stefan?”
she asked with a wink before turning on her heel.
I watched her walk into the sunset, her maid trailing her, and instantly I knew my life would never be the same.
3
August 21, 1864
I can’t stop thinking about her. I will not even write her name; I daren’t.
She is beautiful, entrancing, singular.
When I’m with Rosalyn, I am Giuseppe’s son, the Salvatore boy, essentially interchangeable with Damon. I know it would not matter one whit to the Cartwrights if Damon took my place. It is only me because Father knew Damon would not stand for it, knew I would say yes, just like always.
But when I saw her, her lithe figure, her red lips, her eyes that were flickering and sad and thrilling all at once … it was as though I was finally just myself, just Stefan Salvatore.
I must be strong. I must treat her like a sister. I must fall in love with the woman who is to be my wife.
But I fear it is already too late….
Rosalyn Salvatore, I thought to myself the next day, tasting the words as I walked out the door, ready to fulfil my duty by paying a second call on my soon-to-be-betrothed. I imagined living with Rosalyn in the carriage house—or perhaps some smaller mansion my father would build as our wedding present—me working all day, poring through ledgers with my father in his stuffy study, while she took care of our children. I tried to feel excitement. But all I felt was cold dread seeping through my veins.
I walked around the grand path of Veritas and gazed wistfully up at the carriage house. I hadn’t seen Katherine since she arrived yesterday afternoon. Father had dispatched Alfred to invite her to supper, but she’d declined. I’d spent the evening looking out the window toward the house, but I couldn’t see any flicker of candlelight. If I hadn’t known she and Emily had moved in, I’d have assumed the house had remained unoccupied. Finally, I went to sleep, wondering the whole time what Katherine was doing and whether she needed comforting.
I tore my eyes away from the drawn upstairs shades and trudged down the driveway. The dirt road under my feet was hard and cracked; we needed a good rainstorm. There was no breeze, and the air felt dead. There wasn’t another person outside as far as the eye could see, yet as I walked, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on walked, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I got the uneasy feeling that I wasn’t alone. Unbidden, Robert’s warnings about walking off on my own floated through my mind.
“Hello?” I called out as I turned around.
I started. Standing just a few feet behind me, leaning against one of the angel statues that flanked the drive, was Katherine. She wore a white sunbonnet that protected her ivory skin and a white dress dotted with
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