“I did not mean to say anything ill of Mr. Abram,” she rushed on, blinking fast. “He seems quite a nice man and there is certainly nothing in the world wrong with being a farmer, and after all, he did save your life—”
“There are too many people who would offer the honorary seat to the rich and the stool in the corner to the poor.”
“I have heard the vicar at church read as much.”
“A man is not what he possesses but what he does with himself.”
“You are right, of course. I shall never forget.” She smiled then, as if the admonishment had soothed instead of annoyed her. “You are wonderfully good, Mr. Kensley. If I took a hundred phaeton rides in your company, I imagine I should become a hundred times a better person.”
He laughed. “You are nonsense.”
“And you are headed the wrong way. This road here.” She pointed him in the right direction, and the phaeton rumbled over a less traversed road with mossy stone walls flanking each side. They rode for less than a mile, when a worn thatched cottage, a red barn, and fields of barley filled their view.
After William handed Miss Gresham down from the carriage, they approached the door and knocked thrice with no answer.
William glanced up and spotted a figure wading through the gold-green barley field. The man waved in greeting and minutes later neared the cottage with greater speed than his age should have allowed.
Sweaty and dusty, he was dressed in brown breeches, striped stockings, and black boots, with a course linen frock over his coat. A yellow handkerchief was knotted at his throat, and he pulled a floppy hat from off his head. Thin grey hair, parted severely to the left and draped across his head, couldn’t quite conceal the baldness.
Despite his appearance, a pleasantness shone in the sunburnt cheeks and smiling eyes. “Rightly honored, I be, that you should come, Miss Gresham.” He bowed, glancing up at William. “And rightly glad, sir, to see the likes of you standin’ on two strong feet.”
“I am not yet certain how strong they are.” William stepped forward and grasped the man’s hand. He squeezed. “But I am standing nonetheless, and it seems I have you to thank for that.”
“Oh.” A shrugged shoulder, a lifted smile. “ ’Tweren’t nothin’ I done. Just hauled you in, I did. Ol’ Sunshine over there did most of the work, I reckon.” He nodded to where a bony horse grazed inside a fence along the barn.
Mirth stirred in William’s throat. “Please express my gratitude to Sunshine, then.”
“You want to be comin’ inside? I’ve tea I can be settin’ to boil and hot milk, if you have it that way, though I don’t have no sugar.”
Beside him, Miss Gresham flustered. “Oh, really, we must be go—”
“Indeed. Tea would be just the thing.” William winked at Isabella and followed Mr. Abram into the small abode. The room smelled of burning wood, yeast from the bread rising on the table, and a unique blend of sweat, straw, and tobacco.
Only two stools occupied the room, so William and Miss Gresham both seated themselves while Mr. Abram bustled about preparing the tea.
Her finger nudged his knee. “Why did you consent?” she mouthed without sound, her nose slightly wrinkled.
William grinned. For all her assurances on their ride here, she now seemed to have forgotten them. This would do her no harm, though. Sitting here in a humble cottage, perched on stools, accepting steaming tea in earthenware cups from a man who practically trembled with excitement.
They drank and talked and laughed for close to an hour. Mr. Abram, in his simple and quiet way, told them of his crops and his animals, all of which had names and rather amusing misadventures.
Miss Gresham said little at first. But as the conversation wore on, she seemed amused by the funny stories and laughed so hard once she dabbed moisture from her eyes. When they departed, she even left the old man with a promise she’d return again sometime, perhaps with a bit of sugar for ol’ Sunshine or a new bell for Rosie the milk cow.
Out of sight of the cottage, William leaned forward and urged the phaeton faster. “That was not so unbearable, was it?”
“Certainly more bearable than the visit with Mrs. Shaw.” She tugged off her gloves and fanned her face against the heat. “I retrieved a letter from Sophia Kettlewell, who passed along a letter from Mr. Pidcock, the bishop who runs the aid society. He assures that the Shaws are doing quite well, despite a lingering cough in the mother.”
“Good. I imagine she will recover soon enough with proper care and food.”
“Indeed.”
“How do you access the seashore?”
“What?”
“The seashore.” He turned the phaeton onto the road along the cliffside. “You know, sand, water, rocks—”
“I know what a seashoreis.” She chuckled. “But why do you wish to know?”
