Your finishing school in France had been a grande place, and the last few years of your adolescence had been your most enjoyable. But all good things must come to an end, and you were soon sent back to the moors of Yorkshire while your friends entered French or London society.

The manor was much the same as you had left it; quiet and sedate, no mother to plan your coming out and an aloof father who was too entranced with his writing to care much. It was stifling. Your only joy was being out on the moors- walking with an apple or a book, or riding on your sleek mare.

That all changed one rainy afternoon.

You had seen a woman with a neglected pup, and were valiantly trying to buy it off of her, your horse thrashing its tail indignantly as you dismounted to haggle with the woman.

It was then that Gabriel appeared. You didn't know his name then, of course. He was riding on the moors toward the road on a black horse which made him seem fairer than he really was, but his elegantness made an immediate impression. His dark brown coat and breeches were of the finest material and cut, but as he came nearer it was his face which attracted your attention. There was a brooding melancholy about his delicate features.

Upon impulse, you called for him to stop a moment.

“Is anything wrong?” He asked, his voice gentle.

“Poor little fellow,” he said, upon looking between you, the dog, and the old woman, guessing the situation.

“He's in a bad way.”