Tom Holder scratches his head. “You may have a horse, sure, if I get her back.”
“You will. I promise.”
“Very well, then. She’ll be in the leftmost stable. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Her name is Rosie-May; she’s the fastest of the two. Are you going to tell me what you need her for?”
“It’s better if you don’t know,” she says.
“You’ll have to be extra careful if it’s Friday. We’re expecting a lot of guests.” He grimaces. “I’d like to close the inn as a sign of respect, but it wouldn’t do Jack any good, would it?”
The chill settles in her skin again. “I understand.” A beat, then, “I hope very much to deprive them of the spectacle, Tom.”
He flashes her a smile so bright it makes him look ten years younger. “That’s good news if there ever was any. I’ll be glad not to sell a single mug of ale on Friday.”
Tom shows her the horse, a handsome, stocky farm horse that, he says with some emphasis, can easily carry two. She thanks him and asks if she could borrow one of his or Richard’s caps. Tom Holder goes back into the inn. When he returns, he’s carrying a blue knittedcap in one hand and a letter in the other. “I nearly forgot. This came with the post this morning.”
She takes the letter, examining the small textured envelope, the elegant script.
“It’s from France, I believe,” says Tom Holder, pointing at the smudged stamp, which readsRoscoff.
It must be from Madame Cuvelier, she thinks. Half turning away from the innkeeper, she tucks the letter into the bodice of her dress and then takes the cap from him, gauging its size. “It’s Richard’s,” Tom Holder says.
“Thank you, Tom.” She takes her leave and flies down the road to Mrs. Dowling’s house. The tide is out, the air is filled with the smell of drying seaweed. The soles of her shoes slap the dirt road and she sweats under the already hot sun. Mercifully, the landlady opens the door at her first knock.
“I haven’t time to come in, I’m afraid,” Isabel says. “I only wished to tell you that I am to go away again, and though it shall take me a little while, I’ll ensure the lease of the cottage is paid in full.”
Mrs. Dowling says, “I heard the news about Mr. Carlyon.”
“Yes,” she says, keeping her voice steady. She lightly touches George’s medal. “It’s awfully sad.” Maybe it’s the way she says it; maybe the hope shines through or she speaks the words too casually.
“So it is,” Mrs. Dowling says, eyes locked on hers, understanding dawning. “And will you be making this journey alone?”
Isabel chews her lower lip, then says, “I hope I’ll be able to make it with someone very dear to me.”
Mrs. Dowling nods. “I’m awfully pleased to hear that, even if I don’t fully understand. Shall you be needing anything for your journey? Any food, drink; any linens, perhaps?”
“Only your good wishes, if you please, Mrs. Dowling.”
“You have them, naturally,” the older woman says, her hand against her cheek. “Oh, dear girl,” she clucks, shaking her head. “Wait here.”
Mrs. Dowling disappears in the gloom of the house. Moments later, she’s back, carrying a bundle of cream wool. “Take this with you,”she says, thrusting the bundle at Isabel. “It can be cold on the road. Or at sea.”
The wool is impossibly soft, knit into an intricate pattern of lace. Isabel is holding the finest shawl she has ever beheld. She lifts the cloth up to her cheek, feeling its downiness. It smells faintly of lavender. “I can’t take this. It’s much too fine.”
“Take it, please,” Mrs. Dowling says. “My mother made it for me. I wore it on my wedding day. I hope…” She glances up, across Isabel’s shoulder, at the inlet and the river beyond. “I hope there’s a chance you’ll wear it on yours.”
Her throat tight, Isabel says, “Thank you, Mrs. Dowling. If…if I don’t get to take it on my journey, it’ll be waiting for you at the cottage. It depends on where my journey leads, you see. It’s possible it’ll lead somewhere I cannot take this or anything else…” She trails off at Mrs. Dowling’s expression. She did not mean to begin talking like that again, with the words running fast and her hands moving as if they, too, wish to talk. “I’m sure all will be well,” she says.
Mrs. Dowling clucks again. “Please be careful.”
“I shall. Thank you for everything, all the many things you’ve taught me these past weeks.”
The lines in Mrs. Dowling’s face move until she’s smiling again. “Yes, where would you be without me? You couldn’t even light a fire.”
Looking at the shawl in her hands, Isabel smiles. “Or bake bread.”
“Or wash your clothes. These need a wash, don’t they—there’s sand all over your gown.”
“I must go. Thank you, Mrs. Dowling.”
