This and Every Life

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.

Meal and water in hand, I hurry back down the hall. Our housekeeper is sitting up in bed when I arrive, her hair neatly tidied and a strained smile on her face. Her eyes dart to the door and then back to me when she sees the jam-covered bread I’m carrying.

“Oh, Jasper,” she chides.

“You’ll need your strength,” I defend, handing it over, along with the water.

“You are too good for this world, my sweet boy.”

Despite her words, Catherine doesn’t seem upset with me. Her eyes close as she takes a bite of the bread, the jam a luxury she’s not often afforded.

“This world needs more good,” I point out, settling the blankets around her hips. “Will you be able to manage until I return? Father is having me join him at the printing press today.”

“More lessons,” she says evenly, an eyebrow raised .

I let out a sigh, the apprenticeship not of my own choosing. But what is?

Catherine pats my hand. “I’ll manage fine. Go on, my boy.”

Giving the back of Catherine’s hand a quick kiss, I nod and take my leave. My own bedchamber is on the opposite end of the house, the room nearly four times the size of Catherine’s. I’m already dressed for the day, but I pull on a coat from my wardrobe before setting off to complete my tasks.

The stables are on the outskirts of the town center, between a tavern and a saddler.

Luckily, the weather is fair today, affording me a comfortable walk.

I pass others on my way, nodding politely, avoiding looking too long at the clusters of women in their colorful dresses.

Ribbons adorn the wealthiest of the bunch.

Other men and women are dressed more modestly, their attire simple like Catherine’s.

The smell of the horses reaches me first, manure a potent scent not easily masked. I relish the baseness of it. The musky undertones that speak of earth and nature. I prefer it over the burnt oil of the printer, the chemicals used for the process not pleasant to my nose.

I pull in a deep breath before rounding the corner of the stables, seeking out the stable master to reserve a carriage on my family’s behalf. All I see, however, are the horses.

“Good morrow?” I call gently.

A head pops out from around a wooden partition separating two horse stalls, its owner quickly following.

My breath this time is involuntary. A quick snap of my lungs I do my very best to conceal under a hastily pasted-on smile.

The man who walks my way is young. Not much older than my twenty years, if I had to guess.

And certainly not the elder stable master I was expecting .

The stranger sets his rake to the side as he stops in front of me. “Good morrow. May I help you?”

“You’re not Victor,” I say, although I’m sure he knows as much.

He smiles at that, and I twine my fingers together in front of myself, suddenly needing a task for my hands. “No. I am not. Abraham Morris.”

I stare at the man’s outstretched hand for a moment too long before taking his palm in my own. His skin is callused and warm, even a little dirty. Yet I don’t mind it one bit.

“Jasper Sinclair,” I offer. “Pleasure.”

He smiles again, letting my hand go. Abraham’s shirt is a simple white, laced in front, although not pristine considering the work he does.

His breeches are brown, a complement to his lifestyle.

He’s not wearing a waistcoat, nor a coat at all, for that matter.

He’s dressed as commonly as any stable hand I’ve ever met, and yet my pulse quickens at the sight of him.

I forget, for a moment, what I’m even here for.

Abraham’s voice cuts through my daze, bringing me squarely back to the business at hand. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Oh, yes. A carriage.”

“Ah.” His eyes skip to the large leather book sitting atop a table nearby. “Then you will need Victor. He should return tomorrow or the day after.”

I deflate, knowing my mother will not be pleased to hear of the delay. “I understand,” I tell him, not begrudging his being unallowed or unable to assist me. “Why is it I’ve never met you before?”

Abraham seems surprised by the question but not displeased. “I only started working under Victor earlier this year. I assume our paths have not had the chance to cross before now. It is a large town.”

That it is. And our social circumstances, different as they are, would have kept us naturally apart.

I nod idly, my eyes mapping Abraham’s strong jaw and full lips.

“Jasper?”

My pulse hastens at Abraham’s curious tone. Straightening, I take a step back. “I must go. I… I’ll return again. Please let Victor know if you see him?”

Abraham nods, a furrow in his brow that speaks of concern, but I’m already turning away.

Whether I can feel the heat of his stare on my back or am only imagining the sensation, I’m unsure, but it stays with me until the stables are out of sight.

Only once I reach the center of town where the brick-building printer resides does my pulse slow to normal.

I stop in front of the building, knowing my father is waiting for me inside. Waiting to teach me how to print the newspapers and pamphlets men like Abraham aren’t given the chance to read. I have a duty. A life spread out in front of me, waiting for me to live it.

I don’t want to. I want none of it.

My feet carry me in the opposite direction before I have the conscious thought to move. My pulse is a steady drum now. Fear. Defiance. Exhilaration.

Abraham has a pile of bridles in his arms when I step back inside the stables. His eyebrows rise, a tentative smile on his face. “Jasper?”

“Yes. Me again. Would you be in trouble if I stayed?”

“Stayed here?”

“Yes. ”

He sets the bridles down carefully beside a tin of leather oil. “I don’t believe so. Is something the matter?”

“No,” I say, nearly laughing in delight. “Nothing is the matter at all. I would like to stay. If I could.”

Abraham glances downward, his lip pulled between his teeth, his expression turning almost…pleased. My heart patters, although I cannot, for the life of me, say why.

“That would be fine.” He sets into motion, grabbing a stool from nearby and placing it in a spot not easily visible from the front of the stables. When he waves me forward, I take a seat, the small act of rebellion like the finest port coursing through my veins.

“Thank you,” I tell him softly.

His smile is sincere. I think it would be rather easy to be friends with Abraham Morris.

“What are you doing?” I ask him, watching as he opens the tin of oil.

“Caring for the leather.” He deposits some of the oil on a rag, brushing it over the straps of the bridle quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. “This will help keep the material from cracking.”

“Which means replacing it less often,” I deduce.

“Correct.” Abraham sends me another swift smile. “Do you like horses?”

“I do. I haven’t much chance to ride unless we visit my aunt in the country. That’s where we’re going. Why we need the carriage.”

“Is it far?”

“A couple days’ ride.”

He nods, setting aside one bridle and grabbing another. His eyes flit over me as he applies more oil to the rag, a quick up and down I assume is meant to take me in. I have no doubt he’s aware of our differences, as inconsequential to me as they are.

“Please do not judge me before you know me,” I say, voice quiet.

His motions still, brown eyes meeting my own. “How would I judge you?”

“By my birth,” I answer. “I will not judge you for yours. Please give me the same courtesy.”

He holds my gaze for the longest moment. “You are unexpected, Jasper Sinclair. But not unwelcome.”

I pull in a breath, my chest expanding. “Does that make us friends?”

“It may. But I suppose that depends.”

“On what?” I ask, my gaze slipping unintentionally to the pull of Abraham’s shirt as he resumes oiling the bridle.

He lets out a soft hum that sounds playful, matching the boyish quality of his grin. “On whether or not you enjoy the creek.”

For a moment, I flounder. “Our friendship hinges on whether or not I can swim?”

He barks a laugh from deep within his chest, the sound so arresting I nearly wobble off my stool. “If you cannot get your feet wet, I fear we won’t get along.”

“You’re jesting, aren’t you?” I realize.

Abraham’s smile is warm, hitting me like a sunbeam. “Perhaps. Would you swim with me this Sunday?”

A million thoughts flit through my head. My obligations. My family, who would not understand nor approve of my association with Abraham. The simple prospect, even, of adventuring in the creek, a place I haven’t been since my early childhood when such indulgences were still allowed.

How will I get away for a few hours? Can I manage it ?

“Yes,” I tell Abraham, knowing I’ll find a way. “We’ll go to the creek.”

He smiles in answer, and I ask him more about the horses. About how he came to work here. About his life.

I don’t leave the stables until nearly midday, when I know I can’t put it off any longer without facing severe consequences. Walking away is harder than it has any right to be.

My one consolation, as I return to the only life I’ve ever known, is the promise of a few more stolen hours with Abraham.