“Might we see the puppies?” Georgiana replied eagerly. “Are they old enough for new homes?”
“They are. Eight weeks and weaned, although you couldn’t tell by the way they insist on draining their mother dry.” Mrs. Maitland led them toward the enclosure, her weathered face creasing into a warm smile. “There are seven in the litter. Fine, healthy pups, every one of them. The father belongs to Mr. Bixby’s farm over Lambton way—excellent stock, long ears, and a wonderful disposition.”
Elizabeth peered into the enclosure and found herself confronting a tumble of brown-and-white puppies, all of themwith ears that seemed far too large for their bodies, too much skin for their size, and expressions of profound, melancholic dignity. They were, objectively speaking, the most ridiculous creatures she had ever seen, and by far the most adorable.
“Oh,” Georgiana breathed, her hands pressed to her heart. “They are perfect.”
“They look like they are contemplating the sorrows of existence,” Prue observed. “Exactly as promised.”
One puppy in particular caught Elizabeth’s attention—smaller than its siblings, with a distinctive white blaze on its chest and eyes that seemed to be evaluating her worthiness with grave consideration. It regarded her for a long moment, then heaved a sigh so weighty, so full of resignation, that Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh.
“That one,” she said, pointing. “What is its temperament?”
“Ah, the little one with the blaze.” Mrs. Maitland’s expression softened. “Quieter than the others. Thoughtful, if a dog can be said to think. He’s the one who takes his time deciding whether to trust you.”
Much like Little Tom, this was a creature to be won by patience, not pursuit. And perhaps, not unlike his uncle: all winter on the surface, with embers banked below.
“Might we hold them?” Georgiana was practically vibrating with eagerness. “Just for a moment?”
Before Mrs. Maitland could answer, a sound rose from the direction of the footpath—the unmistakable babbling of a small child, punctuated by the patient murmur of an adult voice. Elizabeth turned to find Hartley approaching with Thomas in her arms, his dark curls windswept and his expression suggesting that a morning confined to the nursery had been insufficiently stimulating.
“Hartley!” Georgiana waved enthusiastically. “Bring Thomas to see the puppies!”
The toddler strained toward the enclosure, arms raised and shrieking, “Down! Want. Down.”
Hartley set him on his feet, and Thomas toddled toward the puppies with his arms outstretched and his face alight with the purest joy Elizabeth had yet seen from him.
“Puppy,” he announced, as though naming them into existence. “Mine.”
“They are not yours yet,” Elizabeth said gently, crouching beside him. “They belong to Mrs. Maitland.”
“Lizba. Want puppy!” His lower lip wobbled, but his eyes were as large and appealing as if she were the grantor of his every wish.
Elizabeth bent to take his hand, but before she could point out the smallest puppy—the one with the white blaze—it had wriggled free of its siblings and pressed its nose against the wooden slats of the enclosure, directly in front of Thomas.
The boy and the dog regarded each other. The puppy’s tail wagged, slow and experimental, and Thomas’s lip stopped wobbling.
“Hello,” Thomas said softly, with more gentleness than Elizabeth had ever heard from him.
The puppy licked his fingers through the slats.
And Thomas laughed—a full, delighted laugh, the kind that transformed his solemn little face into something radiant and entirely unguarded. He laughed, and the puppy wagged harder, and suddenly the farmyard seemed brighter than it had been a moment before.
A lump caught in Elizabeth’s throat. She had seen Thomas’s tentative smiles before, as if he were seeking permission for happiness. But this was different: a child abandoning caution, grief dissolving in the presence of a puppy who, by some small miracle, had chosen him.
“May I?” Elizabeth asked Mrs. Maitland, gesturing toward the enclosure.
“Of course, ma’am.”
Elizabeth lifted the puppy with care; it was heavier than its appearance suggested, all ears and paws and warm, wriggling intent. She placed it in Thomas’s arms, and he promptly folded himself to the ground, legs crossed, cradling his prize as though nothing in the world could be more precious. The puppy, untroubled by this sudden elevation, nestled against Thomas’s chest and set about licking his chin with single-minded devotion.
“Harley,” Thomas informed Elizabeth. “Want Harley.”
“Harley?” Georgiana crouched beside them, her face soft with affection. “That is a very fine name for a hound.”
Elizabeth understood at once. Harley—Hartley, filtered through a two-year-old’s pronunciation. Thomas had named the puppy after his nursemaid, the quiet woman who had been his constant through upheaval and loss. It was, perhaps, the highest compliment a child could pay.
“A very fine name indeed,” Elizabeth agreed.
