Not as bleak as the years he’d spent within that grim institution.

Delivered to the place as an infant, he’d lived eleven years inside its walls. Eleven long years being subjected to ice-cold dormitories, spoiled food, and beatings for infractions both real and imagined.

But such hardships hadn’t mattered overmuch. Not when he’d had Justin, Alex, and Tom to rely on. They’d been his friends. His family.

After Neville’s accident, they’d all gone their separate ways. Justin had been apprenticed to a blacksmith, and then later joined the army. Tom had moved to London to begin his legal training. And Alex had vanished, seemingly into thin air.

Only Neville had remained. He’d been removed to the convent forthwith. Provided for, but otherwise forgotten.

Alone for the first time in his life, he’d spent many a night in tearful anguish over the loss of his friends, and many more over the loss of his speech. It had taken the better part of a year for him to settle into his new routine. To acclimate himself to silence and solitude.

It hadn’t been easy. But in the end, when grief had at last given way to acceptance, he’d found a measure of contentment at St. Crispin’s. More than contentment. He’d been happy working in the convent stables, and happier still when he’d come home to Greyfriar’s Abbey.

He knew he could find that level of happiness again, given the chance.

This feeling of restlessness—of melancholy—that had plagued him of late was sure to pass. Miss Hartwright would be leaving soon. And he would be getting back to his work. To his life, here at the Abbey.

He shrugged on his coat, swept up his beaver hat in his hand, and departed for the house. It was a cold and dreary morning, though not a rainy one. He was grateful for the warmth of the Abbey. It enveloped him as soon as he crossed the threshold into the main hall.

He stopped in the middle of the carpeted floor to remove his hat and coat. The butler wasn’t about. No doubt he’d joined Mrs. Quill outside to oversee the preparations for bringing in the Christmas tree. It was an undertaking that affected his domain as much as hers.

“Mr. Cross!”

Neville’s head jerked up at the sound of the familiar laughing voice. It was Mary, the housemaid. The one who got such pleasure in teasing him. He was hard-pressed to conceal a grimace.

She crossed the hall with a bouncing step, stopping directly in front of him. “Just look at where you’re standing, sir. Almost as if you’d planned it so.”

He gave her a blank look.

She giggled and pointed upward. “You’re under the mistletoe, ain’t you?”