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,theold man if a certain shop girl in Hawkshead is to be believed.”
“Theold man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you cannot findtheold man?”
“Yes, sir.”
