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?”
