by Sawyer North
Jane waved a dismissive hand. “You need not do so on my account, sir. I can walk.”
“Nonsense, young lady. I must report to Ambleside tomorrow anyway to see to my responsibilities as Distributor of Stamps. A slight detour will not render me derelict in my duties.”
Adam and Jane silently inquired of each other again and tacitly agreed. He stood. “Thank you, sir and madam, for your gracious hospitality, stellar sleuthing, and offer of transport. We accept them, one and all.”
Wordsworth stood and shook Adam’s hand in accord. “If you would, Mr. Ashford, I’d like to show you the location on a map.”
The two of them exited the room, leaving Jane and Mary behind to visit. After stepping down the hallway, Adam asked, “Where is this map?”
Wordsworth chuckled. “There is no map. Simply a ruse to separate you from Miss Hancock.”
“For what reason?”
“To ask you a question.”
“A question? What question?”
“Did you speak poetry to Miss Hancock these past days?”
Heat abruptly climbed Adam’s neck. What could he say to a renowned poet? He shrugged. “I did, a time or two. My attempts were clumsy and generally an affront to the English language.”
Wordsworth clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad. Keep doing so, and love will find a way.”
Adam narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain about that?”
“It always does.”
With that, Wordsworth sauntered away while whistling an indistinct tune. Adam was left to wonder over his assertion and to hope for the best.
Chapter Twenty-Six
While Wordsworth’s open barouche rolled through Ambleside, Jane was at war. Her post-fever euphoria and return to the road ran headlong against a growing sense of dread. The journey would end soon, one way or another. Her possible financial outcomes ranged from hopeful to disastrous. Regardless, the miraculous friendship with her former enemy would come to a crashing halt. Dreams yet unspoken would die without ever having breathed. Her vacant stare found Beelzebub plodding along behind the carriage, drawn by a tether and lugging the baggage. His days of pampering at the Wordsworth stables had dulled much of his obstinate spirit. Now, he simply walked where the tether pulled. Jane commiserated acutely. Adam’s presence directly across from her, knees nearly touching hers, only added to the confusion. She desperately avoided his concerned gaze, only making eye contact with Aunt Hester from time to time.
“Don’t you agree, Jane?”
Aunt Hester’s question interrupted her silent campaign. Her aunt had been conversing with the men for much of the ride, giddier than Jane had ever seen her.
“Agree with what, Aunt Hester?”
“That Ambleside is a lovely town.”
She took notice of the surrounding buildings and greenery. “It seems an agreeable place.”
She avoided further conversation by fixing her attention on the passing buildings until Adam cleared his throat auspiciously.
“Would I offend anyone,” he said, “if I held Jane’s hand.”
“No, no,” said Aunt Hester.
“Not at all,” added Barlow.
She turned her eyes toward Adam. He raised a single brow. “And you, Jane?”
Her attention fell to his hand, which lay open with invitation. Not only did she want his hand, she needed it. “No. I would take no offense.”
He leaned forward and reached beyond his knees. She did the same, meeting him in the neutral territory between them. His fingers gently cupped her hand and caressed it nearly imperceptibly through the glove. The dread did not abate, but a warm wave of assurance flowed through her. For the moment, she felt as if Adam had always been present in her life and would always remain so. She sighed and allowed the harmless lie to keep dark feelings at bay.
Wordsworth, who had been driving while conversing over his shoulder, glanced back to observe the clasped hands. He laughed. “You must have taken my advice, lad.”
Adam’s face flushed, and he eyed Jane with apology. “I did, however poorly.”
She cocked her head. “What advice, Adam?”
The flush deepened. He glanced sheepishly at Aunt Hester and Barlow, apparently remiss to admit the details. Jane gazed intently at him until forcing a confession.
“Mr. Wordsworth advised me to express my admiration for you as poetically as possible. I achieved the first admirably but fell woefully short in the latter.”
Her burden lessened, and she smiled as the dread fell quiet. “You underestimate yourself. I found your words perfectly sweet.”
“Perfectly awful, I think.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand with gentle intimacy as Wordsworth continued to watch.
The poet smiled wryly and turned away to face the road, but not without comment. “People fail to understand that the most eloquent poetry is recited without words.”
The carriage left the outskirts of Ambleside and proceeded south for a short distance while following the River Rothay. Soon, the river spilled into a wetland mostly devoid of trees, carpeted instead by tall grass. Where the road veered west to avoid the marsh, Wordsworth halted the carriage and stood to point.
“The ruins lie just there, some three hundred yards distant. The stones rising just above the grass.”
As one, the passengers stood to follow his point. The motion put Jane squarely against Adam’s chest while still clutching his hand. She lifted her chin to find him staring at her, his face a mask. With seeming reluctance, he dipped his head and stepped sideways to break the impromptu embrace. Without thinking, she mirrored his movement, pulling against him again. The mask melted into a pleasant grin. Then, he leaned forward to peck a kiss on her forehead. Her knees buckled and she plopped to her seat. His grin gave way to an apologetic frown.
“I am terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
She collected her wits without releasing his hand and stood again. “No apology necessary.”
Wordsworth cleared his throat noisily and pointed again to the marsh. “If the children are quite finished, may I again direct your attention to the ancient fort, which lieth just there.”
“It is quite lovely,” Jane said, never taking her eyes from Adam. The carriage lurching into motion broke the spell, driving her and Adam back into their respective seats. Aunt Hester reached tentatively to grasp Jane’s forearm.
“Dear niece. Perhaps we should consider the next lines of the letter rather than the appeal of Mr. Ashford’s eyes.”
Heat climbed Jane’s neck and shot tendrils into her cheeks. She gathered her reserves of courage and released Adam’s hand. He sagged in seeming defeat. She leaned back again in her seat and quoted the lines from memory.
“Ford and run southward, a westerly way. Find all angels surveying a proud bird of prey.”
Wordsworth chuckled again. “Clever, clever. Oh, so clever.”
Barlow clasped a hand on the poet’s shoulder. “You know the meaning of the lines, do you not?”
“Yes. Mary and I are both quite familiar with the object of the riddle.”
Curiosity surged within Jane, dragging her unwillingly back into the puzzle. “What does it mean, then? Will you tell us?”
“And ruin a perfectly good surprise? Absolutely not.”
“See here, sir,” said Adam. “That is not very sporting of you.”
“Oh, but it is. In fact, my telling you would ruin the sport.”
Aunt Hester rocked forward. “Then you will tell us nothing? You will leave us to fend for ourselves like wildlings?”
He glanced back, smiling thinly. “Mostly. However, I will suggest that you cross the River Rothay along this road and make for the hamlet of Clappersgate just beyond. The River Brathay passes Clappersgate before flowing into the Rothay. Cross the Brathay there and follow the road southwesterl
y for a few miles. You cannot help but find both angels and a proud bird of prey.”
He turned again to face the road. Jane folded her arms and furrowed her brows. “Will you offer nothing more, Mr. Wordsworth?”
He punched the air with his index finger. “Oh, yes. One thing further. Best of luck.”
Moments later, he brought the carriage to a halt just before the bridge over the Rothay. He stood to face his passengers.
“My portion of this adventure ends here. The bridge may not support the weight of the carriage, five people, and three horses. While I am an excellent swimmer, I refuse to risk dunking my friends. However, just follow my directions and all will be well. Proceed slowly, though, for Miss Hancock’s sake.”
With no other choice, the passengers disembarked and bid their farewells. All offered profuse thanks for the kind hospitality shown by the poet and his wife and vowed to remember it always. Wordsworth waved off the acclaim, apparently uncomfortable with such effusive praise. However, he motioned Jane aside for a private conversation. She joined him at the side of the road with question.
“Miss Hancock,” he said. “May I advise you as well?”
She nodded enthusiastically. She needed all the pearls of wisdom she could gather. “Please, sir. I would be most grateful.”
“You have a good man in Adam Ashford. Do not let him go.”
Although wanting to embrace the advice, she knew better. She could never possess what was contracted to another, nor replace the siren’s call of land and legacy. “I am sorry, sir,” she said, “but I cannot help but let him go. The laws of men and heaven stand against us. We have no choice in the matter.”
He shook his head sternly. “Nonsense. I can assure you that love always finds a way.”
“But I do not love him.”
He shook his head. “May I offer one final bit of advice, then?”
“I suppose.”
“Good.” He leaned near to whisper. “False stories become true if sufficiently repeated. Cease repeating that one, for Heaven’s sake.”
With that, he mounted his barouche and spun it about in the road. Adam barely had time to disengage Beelzebub before the carriage accelerated back toward Ambleside. They watched Wordsworth go for a minute before turning to cross the bridge toward Clappersgate. When Adam grasped her hand once more, Jane admitted the truth. She loved him. And the inevitable loss of his attention would likely undo her.
…
As he walked alongside Jane southward on the road from Clappersgate, Adam considered the absurdity of dogfighting. Months earlier, he had reluctantly joined an acquaintance for a series of matches at Westminster Pit. Most contests had ended in a dead contestant. However, a particular match between a pair of bull terriers remained gruesomely seared in his memory. Though bloodied and torn, neither animal had surrendered until both were carried lifeless from the fighting floor. Rutley had sent Jane and him into the pit with the expectation that both would be bloodied and only one would survive. Adam did not wish to give him the satisfaction but knew no means of escape.
“You have fallen awfully silent, Adam.”
He glanced at Jane to find her watching him, the slight crease above the bridge of her nose indicating concern. She was doing well, having walked more than three miles from Clappersgate without incident. He forced a smile.
“Just ruminating and enjoying the walk.”
She nodded but appeared to maintain suspicion. She looked to the road ahead where Hester walked with her hand embedded in the crook of Barlow’s elbow. Their chipper conversation drifted back on the breeze, which had grown brisk.
“They appear to be having a fine time,” said Jane. “I don’t quite know what to make of it.”
“How so?”
She shrugged gently. “My aunt. She has been my anchor for as long as I can remember. Steady. Level. Restrained. Now, she bounces along the road as giddy as a schoolgirl. I barely recognize her.”
“So, you disapprove?”
“No. I do not disapprove. In fact, I feel only the deepest happiness that she has found joy in such a difficult time. I only wish…”
She failed to finish, letting the comment die on her lips and drift away with the breeze. A pang of protective affection welled up within Adam. He shifted Beelzebub’s tether to his left hand and grasped her hand with his right. She peered down at the clench of fingers, her features softening. “Why do you insist on holding my hand?”
“Because I find the action increasingly necessary as an outlet for my growing regard for you.”
“Regard?” She smiled mischievously. “I have your regard? What a lucky girl am I.”
“Perhaps ‘regard’ is not the most suitable word. I feel more than that toward you.”
“More than regard? Appreciation, then?”
“More than that.”
“Approval? Esteem? Consideration?”
He shook his head. Her questioning drove him into an uncomfortable corner. “More.”
She gave him a mock frown. “Oh, please do not say that you like me.”
“I will not then.” When her frown became genuine, he shot her a smile. “That term is still too bland to describe my feelings for you.”
She cut wide eyes away from him. “Oh.”
“Do you prefer I not hold your hand?”
“No.” Her reply came quickly before she amended it. “That is to say, I prefer that you hold my hand. In fact, I will miss the presence of your hand when this journey ends.”
The reminder pulled his gaze forward again to the road. They walked in silence while watching Hester and Barlow continue to banter as if strolling through the park on a Sunday afternoon. Eventually, he sighed.
“How I envy them. They are captains of their own destinies. All choices remain theirs for the choosing. Our choices, on the other hand, are a foregone conclusion.”
He glanced down to find her chin quivering. Spontaneously, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it gently. Her mouth fell open with surprise.
“My apologies,” he said. “I could not help myself.”
“No apology necessary.” He noticed that her chin had stopped quivering. He lifted his attention to the middle distance.
“I’ve been thinking about us.”
“What about us?” Her reply was small, tentative but tinged with hope.
“The one scenario under which we might remain friends when this is done. Perhaps more than friends.”
Her fingers clenched abruptly, and she drew near enough to brush his hip. Her blue eyes shined upward at him with cautious expectation. “What scenario is that?”
“If the gold is gone.”
Her eyes narrowed. “But that would breach the contract, which means…”
Understanding lit her features. He put it into words. “If the worst were to happen and there is no gold, the contract is void. If the contract is void, then I am no longer bound to Miss Rutley. If I am no longer bound to Miss Rutley, then I may devote my time and resources to paying your debt and delivering you from prison, even if it takes me ten years to do so. Such an endeavor would prove difficult without the income of an estate, but I would find a way.”
Sorrow washed over her features. “But you would lose your home. Your family heritage. Your standing in society.”
Her description of his potential loss abruptly stabbed his soul. Did he really mean what he promised, should the worst come to pass? He shook away the doubt and laughed softly. “Do you mean to say you would not accept the interest of a poor and destitute man?”
“I would, without question. But your staggering loss would surely break my heart. And besides…” She fell silent and cut her eyes away, her chin again quivering.
“Besides what?” He asked gently, hoping to coax a reply. Whatever she held back appeared too important to remain unspoken. Sh
e reaffixed her gaze before dipping her chin.
“Few poor women last ten years in debtor’s prison, and those who do emerge forever damaged.” The words fell softly, mournfully. “Illness, deprivation, or starvation snuffs the candle long before the debt is repaid.”
Adam impulsively halted and released the tether. He reached carefully to capture her quaking chin and lifted it slowly until her eyes reluctantly locked with his.
“Do not lose hope, sweet Jane. We may yet find a way.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jane stared at Adam with dismay as a tempest of doubt flashed like a summer storm across the vista of her mind. The intensity of his gaze dared her to believe in the possibility of wonders, of marvels, of miracles. To believe that fate might undo the intractable knot. However, what he offered could come only in the aftermath of their mutual destruction. She shook her head imperceptibly. He acknowledged her doubt by releasing her chin, lifting her gloved hand, and pressing the back of it to his cheek. He held it steady while her heartbeat stammered out a new tempo.
After blinking slowly, he lowered her hand to his chest level and studied it with a tilt of his head, turning it palm upward as he did so. A soft sigh escaped him, and his free hand rose to enclose her fingers. With the gentleness of a breeze, he began to tug the glove loose, an inch at a time, finger by finger. She stood frozen in glorious disbelief, drawing rapid, shallow breaths. She watched with bewilderment as he peeled the glove slowly from her hand, first exposing the wrist, then the palm, and finally trembling fingers. She tore her stare from her bared hand to meet his still unflinching gaze. The warmth of his brown eyes had given way to a dusky smolder.
With deliberate intention, he raised her hand to his lips and one by one, gently kissed the tip of each finger. When she responded with a stuttered gasp, he slid his lips along the length of her index finger. They came to rest against her open palm where he massaged the flesh with a series of soft kisses. Her eyes drifted shut as her fingers and thumb curled to grip his stubbled jaw. He whispered words into her hand that she could not hear, but their meaning was abundantly clear. She leaned toward him, drawn by gravity or fate or the miraculous. His encompassing arms awaited. His everlasting kiss awaited.