by Sawyer North
Beelzebub, though, would have none of it. He thrust his nose between Adam and her and huffed a breath that sprayed mucus on them both. As they pulled abruptly apart, the horse tossed his head twice as if instructing Adam to take charge again of the tether. The spectacular moment shattered and crumbled into dust to join thousands of forgotten footsteps on the road. With a heavy sigh, Adam released her hand and recaptured the horse’s tether. Meanwhile, she lifted the exalted hand to her cheek and wiped away a glob of mucus. An involuntary smile stole across her face, and she began to laugh. He watched with raised eyebrows for a moment before her amusement drew him into shared laughter. As the laughter faded, reticence overcame her. She dipped her head shyly and peeked at him from beneath a furrowed brow. He returned the dip of the head.
“Come, Jane. We cannot remain here.”
“Of course.”
Without another word, he returned the stolen glove and they resumed walking. Aunt Hester and Mr. Barlow had continued onward, seemingly unaware of the unfolding drama in their wake. Jane and Adam set a quickened pace to make up the distance. As she walked by his side, the memory of his lips on her palm lingered, warm with empathy. It was not enough, though, to will away dark emotions. She considered the cruel irony of their situation. When they had departed on the journey two weeks earlier, one of them stood to win at the expense of the other. However, the startling affection flowering between them had changed everything. It guaranteed that both would suffer immense loss, regardless of the outcome.
They continued in silence, stepping in time to the clopping of Beelzebub’s hooves behind them. The steady rhythm allowed her thoughts to spin flights of fancy. She imagined the scenario of finding the gold and winning the coin toss, only to watch Adam lose control of his family legacy and marry a woman for whom he held little affection. The vision evoked mild nausea. She did not wish to be the source of his loss, the reason for his fall. How could she live with such a burden? How could she walk free from her debt while leaving him to spend a lifetime mired in his? How could she press onward while never again knowing the grip of his hand, the caress of his lips, or the warmth of his smile?
The dire vision circled her mind repeatedly. On each rotation she searched for an open door, a means of escape. However, she failed to find an exit. Mercifully, Aunt Hester’s call interrupted the grinding cycle.
“Look there. A village ahead.”
Jane lifted her absent gaze from the dirt to find her aunt halted ahead, one hand still ensconced in Barlow’s elbow. She spied rooftops protruding beyond the trees. She and Adam reached the pair in a few dozen steps.
“Which village is this?” Jane asked.
Barlow jerked a thumb over his shoulder to a sign beside the road, partially covered by a creeping vine. “Hawkshead, apparently.”
She pursed her lips in thought as a notion wriggled in her mind. “Hawkshead. A hawk is a bird of prey, is it not?”
She glanced at Adam. He lifted one eyebrow and nodded slowly. “It is. A proud bird of prey, one might even say.”
Barlow swept an arm toward the village. “Shall we, then? Perhaps we might find angels walking golden streets, if the letter is to be interpreted literally.”
They fell in step together and entered the village four abreast. The trees gave way to a huddle of whitewashed shops and houses nestled against a hill that rose from the far end of the village. An auspicious church crowned the rise.
“Yet another lovely place,” said Aunt Hester.
Jane nodded agreement. “Indeed. It seems this corner of England is overrun with quaint hamlets tucked amidst rolling hills and pristine lakes.”
Adam laughed. “Perhaps they might spare one or two for the rest of England.”
“Perhaps.”
After passing a row of houses, they encountered a sundry shop displaying an eclectic set of merchandise behind a pair of plate glass windows. A young woman was sweeping the walkway in front of the door, her back to them. On turning, she jumped with a start.
“Oh, my! I did not notice your approach!”
Jane made a quick study of the girl. She was perhaps fifteen and pretty. Her dress, although meticulously clean, represented the height of fashion from ten years past. Meanwhile, the girl appeared to give Jane similar scrutiny. Her eyes widened and she placed a hand to her mouth.
“You are from the south, yes?”
“Yes. From Oxfordshire by way of London.”
The girl clapped her hands together, allowing the broom to clatter forgotten to the walkway. “I knew you were! Oh, how exciting!”
“And this is Hawkshead?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and absolutely the end of the civilized world.”
“But it seems a lovely place…”
“Oh, no. Hawkshead is where all culture dies, and all dreams go unfulfilled.” She placed the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead as if she were about to faint. “Oh, to live in London rather than in this wretched hovel!”
She gripped her skirt and twirled twice while gazing skyward. Jane glanced at Adam to find him unsuccessfully suppressing a smile at the girl’s theatrics. When she stopped spinning, he tipped his hat to her. “I am quite certain you would fit nicely in London, Miss…”
Her face lit with a blush and she dropped a curtsy. “Eversley, sir. You are too kind, sir. Are you a gentleman, sir?”
“Yes, although most might disagree.”
She clapped her hands again. “I knew it! Real ladies and gentlemen from London. Oh, to reside in London with all of its fineries and amusements and diversions!”
She retrieved the broom, clutched it to her chest, and twirled twice more. Ever the model of efficiency, Barlow stepped nearer and tipped his hat to the girl. “I wonder, Miss Eversley, might you tell us of any”—he paused and quirked a brow—“angels residing in your fair hamlet?”
She cocked her head and squinted. “Angels?” She shook her head, sending blond curls into a nervous bob. “We have no angels in Hawkshead.” Her eyes flew wide. “Do you have angels in London? Oh, I always thought that if any place had angels, it would be London!”
“No obvious angels,” said Barlow with a smile. “Unless you consider kind souls. I imagine even Hawkshead possesses its share of those.”
The girl considered his assertion briefly. “I believe it does, sir.”
Adam lifting his arm caught Jane’s attention. She found him eyeing the church on the hill and pointing toward it. Intent curiosity colored his expression. “Miss Eversley. What is the name of that church?”
“Oh, that. Only the stuffiest old church in all of England, I am certain.”
“Fair enough. However, does it possess a name, or do locals simply refer to it as the stuffiest old church in all of England?”
She giggled. “Of course not, sir. That would be rather silly.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Then perhaps you might share the name of the church so we may not appear rather silly.”
“Oh, yes,” she said with an enthusiastic nod. “We call it Saint Michael’s All Angels Church.”
Jane’s mind leaped even as Adam spun to face her. They blurted the same words simultaneously. “All angels surveying a proud bird of prey!”
“Wonderful!” added Aunt Hester. “We have found the appointed place. Mr. Wordsworth promised we could not miss it. It appears he was correct.”
The zeal of the moment faded quickly for Jane, though. With another puzzle solved, only a pair of lines remained in the letters—one apiece. Two lines of careful script on old parchment stood between them and the miserable end of the journey. She sagged beneath the weight of that thought. Adam apparently noticed, for he grasped her hands and drew her near. He smiled with commiseration. “We will find a way, Jane. Say it.”
She nodded slowly and whispered, “We will find a way.”
“Louder, so the world
might hear.”
She raised her voice somewhat, trying desperately to believe the unbelievable. “We will find a way.”
“Much better. Much better.” The warmth of his smile set her stomach aflutter, and the searing vision of his lips against her hand danced before her eyes. Without meaning to, she emitted a long, low sigh.
“Oh!” the shop girl squealed. “You two are in love! How gloriously wondrous to be in love!” She twirled twice with the broom.
Jane peered at Adam, waiting for him to correct the girl. He did not, but simply maintained his smile. She decided not to correct the girl, either. To do so would be a lie—at least on her part. She loved Adam, God help her. Deep in the secret places of her soul, she suspected that he loved her in return.
“Ahem.” She turned to find Barlow stepping forward. “Not to interrupt a youthful moment, but perhaps we should review the letters for the next piece of the puzzle.”
Adam gently released her hands and reached for his pocket. “This is the final piece, Mr. Barlow. The end of the road lies near, regardless of the outcome.”
“I see.” Disappointment dripped from Barlow’s voice as he glanced sadly at Aunt Hester. She returned a similar smile and wordlessly placed a hand on his forearm. Jane tore her eyes away and retrieved her letter. She opened it to read the final line of her copy while Adam stood ready with his.
“Seek, then, thereafter the pockmarked old man.”
“And trust unto Chance for the rest of the plan.”
She lowered her letter and cocked her head in befuddlement. Although each riddle had seemed vague at first, this one seemed impossible. Had the original writer expected his employers to return soon? If so, how could the same old man be yet living after seventy years? She glanced at her companions to find them equally bewildered as each considered the lines.
“A pockmarked old man,” Adam mumbled. “If he were old then, he must be Methuselah by now.”
“Or rotting in the grave,” said Barlow.
“Yes. Or that.”
“Well,” said Aunt Hester. “The only silly question is the one unasked.” She smiled at the girl, who waited with wide-eyed anticipation. “Miss Eversley.”
“Ma’am?”
“Might you know something of a particularly pockmarked and elderly man?”
The girl frowned in consideration, apparently not thinking the question as silly as it sounded. “Let me see. Hawkshead has its fair share of pockmarked old men. Not likely as many as Coniston does, though. Since the mines closed and the young people left, Coniston is nothing but old men these days. And when they visit here, they seem to speak of nothing else but the old man. His condition. His health. Whether or not he will revive.”
Jane touched the young woman’s hand. “Which old man?”
She shrugged. “I know not. They never mention a name.”
Jane leaned toward the shop girl. “This may sound odd, Miss Eversley, but could this particular old man be one hundred and fifty years old?”
The girl expelled a giggle into Jane’s startled face. “One hundred and fifty years old? Don’t be silly!” Then, her eyes shot wide and she gasped. “Do people live that long in London?”
“No, no. People live no longer in London than they do here.”
The girl deflated. “Oh.”
Adam stepped toward her. “Miss Eversley. Where is Coniston, exactly?”
She considered her surroundings briefly before pointing through the door of the shop. “That direction, about four miles over Hawkshead Hill.”
“West, then?”
“Is that west?”
“Yes.”
She clapped her hands again. “Wonderful. Coniston lies four miles to the west.”
The travelers huddled into a loose circle.
“It seems we should inquire in Coniston,” Barlow said.
Aunt Hester nodded agreement. “Yes. If we find nothing, we may return here within a couple of hours to search for an alternative answer to the riddle.”
Adam pursed his lips, seemingly approving of the plan. He peered at Jane. “What do you say?”
She considered the thirty-day deadline. In the worst case, they would lose only a day if Coniston proved fruitless. It seemed worth a try. “I say we go to Coniston and ask about a pockmarked old man.”
“And then what?”
“Trust unto chance, I suppose.”
Adam shook his head. “Seems like a poor plan.”
“I agree. However, it appears to be the only plan available.”
He lifted his eyes to regard the sky, perhaps attempting to determine if they could make the journey before evening. She intercepted his thinking.
“I ask only that we wait until morning. The walk from Ambleside has left me fatigued. Apparently, I am not as recovered as I had hoped.”
He seized her hand yet again. “Very well. Let us see about finding you a place to rest your feet.” He released her and addressed the shop girl. “Where might we find an inn?”
“Just down this street. Impossible to miss.”
He doffed his hat and bowed. “We thank you, Miss Eversley, for your enlightening guidance. We wish you well and bid you a good day.”
She dipped a double curtsy. “My pleasure, sirs and madams. Anything for those in love.”
Jane hurried away from the girl, anxious to flee from such a claim. Aunt Hester caught up with her and leaned near to whisper. “Is Miss Eversley correct on that account?”
She ignored her aunt and pressed resolutely toward the inn, her thoughts flirting with the impossible.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The journey from Hawkshead to Coniston the next morning proved unremarkable, much like Coniston itself. Adam had traveled enough of the world to recognize a dying village when he saw one. Although just as quaint as any hamlet encountered on their journey, the village showed telltale signs of deterioration. Shops and houses cried for a fresh coat of paint. Debris collected along the sides of streets, waiting for the services of a long-absent street sweeper. Neglected or abandoned gardens bearing the hallmarks of former glory struggled against the onslaught of weeds. However, the villagers themselves told the frankest truth. As he walked into Coniston with his traveling companions, Adam saw despair and resignation in the haunted eyes, weary faces, and slumping strides of those he passed. He did not judge their woeful state, though, for he surely appeared the same to them. As the end of the journey neared, he had become intimate with the haunt, the weariness, and the slump.
Unable to face the mirror images of his doldrums, he lifted his eyes to the impressive fell rising behind Coniston. Its rugged grandeur matched that of Helvellyn. Remnants of abandoned mining operations littered its slopes, a legacy of the enterprise that had sustained the village for so long. Forgotten tailings and vacant shafts provided a daily visual reminder to all inhabitants the reason for the village’s downward spiral.
“Adam.”
Jane’s inquiry and light touch on his sleeve returned him from the misery of the fell. He found her watching him with concern painted across her alluring features. “Yes?”
“Perhaps we should inquire there for the pockmarked old man.”
She swept a hand toward a sprawling inn that seemed determined to defy the decline. He read aloud the sign swaying in the light breeze above the inn’s tavern entrance.
“The Black Bull. Fair enough.”
They entered a hatched door deeply stained with age. A pair of lamps beat back the murk of the interior, revealing a warm and inviting tavern. Due to the early hour, the room remained largely unoccupied. The tavern keeper leaned across the bar with pen and parchment, perhaps updating his accounts. The only other inhabitant was a white-haired man sitting alone in a darkened corner. He regarded them carefully before returning his attention to the door.
Adam approached the
tavern keeper. “Pardon me, sir.”
The man looked up from his papers, seemingly surprised to find someone standing before him. He straightened, adjusted his glasses, and peered first at Adam and then at the others. “Who are you?”
“Travelers, sir.”
“Come to Coniston?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Intentionally?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Odd.”
Adam frowned at the unenthusiastic welcome. “Very well, then. I wonder if you might assist us. We seek someone, and perhaps you might enlighten us.”
The man stowed his pen in the inkwell and eyed Adam suspiciously. “Maybe. Who would you be seeking?”
Adam smiled at the tavern keeper. “We seek an old man.”
“An old man?”
“Apparently, the old man if a certain shop girl in Hawkshead is to be believed.”
“The old man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you cannot find the old man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Not anywhere?”
“That’s right, sir.”
The tavern keeper scowled at Adam and waved him away. “Leave me be. I’ve no time for pranksters and larks.”
With that, he leaned back over his books and seemed to forget Adam’s very existence. Confused, Adam turned to his traveling companions. Their faces bore similar expressions of befuddlement. He herded them away from the bar toward the door.
“Strange,” said Hester.
“Indeed,” added Barlow.
Jane stared blankly, her face a mask of bafflement. “Why do you suppose he reacted so oddly?”
Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. Regardless, it seems we will find no enlightenment here.”
“That man treated you rather ill, though. Perhaps we should press him further, if for nothing other than justice.”
“Perhaps not. We should spend our efforts inquiring elsewhere.”