Charlotte saluted. “Aye, aye.”
The girl ran, the string grew taut, the girl shouted, and Charlotte released the kite. It struggled low to the ground for several seconds, then wavered. Just when she feared it would crash to the rocks, it caught the wind and leapt up. It rose higher and higher in the sky, level with the ridge, then beyond. It danced in the currents and reached higher still, straining at its tether. Watching the bright thing fly, Charlotte felt unexpected tears prick her eyes.
“Woo-hoo, Lizzy, that’s the way!” A man stood high on the ridge, his fist and face raised to the sky. The girl’s father, she assumed.
A few moments later, there came the man bounding down the steep hill, a broad smile on his face. He was younger than she would have expected. Wait, she recognized the man—the very tall man.
“Hallo there,” he called.
She waited until he jogged closer. “Hello. I was just admiring your little flyer there.”
“That’s Lizzy, my sister. I’m Thomas Cox.”
“Charlotte Lamb. I believe I saw you at church Sunday last.”
His eyes widened in recognition. “That’s right. And has your shoulder recovered from serving as Mrs. Beebe’s pillow?” He smiled his boyish smile.
“Indeed, there was little recovery needed.”
“I am surprised to hear it. But don’t let on I suggested Mrs. Beebe has a large head or I shall never hear the end of it. Nor enjoy those apple tarts of hers anytime soon.”
“Thomas! Thomas, look how high!” Lizzy Cox called from her position up the beach. Her brother turned to look her way. Again he whooped and raised a triumphant hand in the air.
Charlotte bent to reexamine the wheel. She really should be getting back. Mrs. Taylor might worry.
“Broke, did it?” With one large step, Thomas drew near and hunched beside her, hands on his knees.
“I’m afraid so. I feel terrible—it belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Beebe.”
“Never fear. I helped Mr. Beebe build the wee gig. We’ll have ’er fixed up sharp.” Thomas loped back up the hill, as if the incline were no effort for his long legs.
A few minutes later, Lizzy jogged over, winding the twine back around its spool. “Thomas can fix anything,” she confided.
“Did your kite fall again?”
She shrugged. “No, I reeled it in. I need to finish my work in the garden.”
“That’s your home there?” Charlotte asked, looking up the ridge.
“Goodness no. That’s Shore Hill House. Thomas works there.”
“He’s their gardener?” Charlotte asked, watching Thomas return across the pebbled shore.
Again Lizzy shrugged. “Gardener, carter, cooper, surgeon, and all around repair boy.”
“Surgeon?”
Thomas clearly overheard at least part of their conversation. “Lizzy, don’t abuse Miss Charlotte’s ear so—and you know I’m not a surgeon.” He bent to the task of repairing the baby carriage.
“Did you not set Johnny’s arm and put a cast on it? And make those poultices for Mother that set her to rights last winter?”
“Yes, but you’re family.”
“You stitched up the McKinleys’ dog when it got into a fight last week. And Mrs. Moody says you’re better at getting her boy’s shoulder back in place than that surgeon in town.”
Thomas looked at Charlotte apologetically. “Not everyone can afford to call a surgeon for every ache and injury.” He shrugged, the gesture charmingly similar to his sister’s. “I just do what I can.”
“How do you know what to do?”
