“William! Our son’s come home!” Samantha Castor cried amidst the crowd of people dressed in black in the estate’s hallway. She hurried towards the tall young man who had just dropped his single suitcase at the entrance door. Five years of pining over her ill daughter and the past month of watching her slowly die had brought on more years to her face than he had thought possible. She embraced him heartily and he was astonished to feel how feeble she had become. He hadn’t seen her, or anyone else from the estate save his father in eight years. “Benjamin.” He turned to his father who limped towards him with the help of a cane. Three years ago, a fight in a bar for his first son’s honour had rendered him unable to hold his weight with his right leg.
“I’m glad you’re home.” Father embraced son, and an awkward moment pursued. William Castor had never been one to show much affection. Elizabeth’s death must have affected him more than he had imagined. “Glad to be home,” he replied when they parted. “Where is Harry?” he asked, turning once more to his mother. She was much smaller than he remembered, contribution to his growth spurt when he turned eighteen, and in her hair were several grey streaks. “He’s in the living quarters with your aunt, Katherine,” Samantha informed. “Go ahead, son. We’ll send someone for your luggage.” He gave his mother a quick peck on her cheek, patted his father on the shoulder and made his way through the crowd. As he had anticipated, his trip to his brother was prolonged as he was greeted and offered condolences by everyone who recognized him.
When he had finally made his way to the living quarters, his purpose for being there was immediately forgotten as he heard the melancholy melody of an organ. Puzzled, he searched the crowd for the bearer of the composition, and then he saw her. Head down, eyes closed, she played with her heart, her slim brown fingers moving gracefully along the keys, dancing effortlessly on the white and black ivory. He was spell-bound, compelled to merely stand still, stare, and consume the auditory nutriment. And then she opened her eyes. Stormy grey orbs caught his blue ones, and immediately, her performance ceased. She stared at him, rising from her seat tentatively, before her eyes flashed to his left and she sat back down, allowing her fingers to settle over the white keys once more.
He was unable to mystify over her sudden reaction because a strong hand gripped his shoulders and spun him around. “Ben?” He turned, coming into contact with a pair of caramel brown eyes. “Harry!” He embraced his older brother, holding on to dear life and hoping against hope that he would wake up in London and this would all be a dream: his sister’s death; his mother’s worn out face; this wake that he had travelled cross country for; but not the African beauty that he had just seen. No. Not her. He needed to know more about her. “Is she really...” he asked when he pulled away from his brother. “I’m afraid so,” the older man replied. At age twenty seven, Harold Castor was one of the most eligible bachelors in the country side, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, being the only child whose hair took after their mother. He was 6 feet 3 inches, only one inch taller than Benjamin now.
“Mother and father aren’t taking it too well. Father’s in danger of turning to the bottle to relieve his worries and mother,” he sighed, “she’s barely holding up. It’s a miracle she’s down here tonight talking with people. We could barely her out of Lizzie’s room just this morning.” Benjamin watched his brother’s expression. “And how are you taking it?” Harold had left the family with their father’s friend Edward James when he was sixteen to become a medical doctor. He had finished top of his class, but had failed to help their sister, Elizabeth, recover from her cancer. Benjamin worried he blamed himself for his inability to help her. “Now’s not the place or time to talk about how I’m taking it,” his brother evaded. “For now, let’s just focus on keeping the family together during this ordeal.”
“Ben!” Both brothers turned to see a firm young man, with curly auburn hair and deep forest green eyes approaching them. “Steven? Is that you?” Benjamin inquired, barely believing his eyes. “Aye. It is. I’d just gotten back from the field when I’d heard about Lizzie. Poor dear. She was a sweet little thing.” Harold touched his brother’s shoulder and turned away to greet new guests. “Indeed,” Benjamin agreed, shaking his childhood friend’s hand. “She was taken too soon. I still can’t believe she’s gone. It all just seems so… illusory.” The piano playing stopped, but before Benjamin could turn to catch sight of his beautiful mistress once more, Steven spoke again. “Glad you could make it in time for the funeral tomorrow. You know who’s been taking Elizabeth’s death even harder than your mother? Darian.”
