“Ah, a poet.”
“You judge me for that?”
Mrs. Ashford shook her head with a laugh. “No, Mr. Tennyson. As we mentioned earlier, we consider Mr. Wordsworth a friend. Do you know him?”
“I have met him, yes.”
“Wonderful. Then I will remind you what he told us nearly twenty years ago. He said love finds a way. Always.”
Mr. Ashford chuckled. “And even inferior poetry from the likes of me cannot stand in the way.”
In a move that startled Alfred, Mrs. Ashford reached across the table to place her hand atop his. He blinked with surprise. She shot him a warm smile that reminded him of home.
“Stay the course, Mr. Tennyson. Perfect outcomes are guaranteed to none of us. However, great contentment and joy may be found in the journey. You need only lift your eyes from the dust of the road to admire the mountaintops from time to time.”
In the presence of such certainty, Alfred’s melancholy dissipated as rapidly as it had come. “Thank you. You have given hope to a lonely wanderer.”
Mr. Ashford dipped his head again. “The pleasure of this fortunate meeting is ours, young man. You have heard our story. Now, go seek yours.”
Mrs. Ashford squeezed his hands for emphasis. “Yes, Alfred. As we now consider you a friend, we expect you to return some day to tell us that story. We will be here in Coniston, happy and waiting.”
The smile Alfred had so diligently kept at bay finally took hold of his features, threatening dimples. The warmth of the Ashfords’ company swept away the chill that had been settling into his spirit over the past weeks. He nodded gratefully.
“I will, Mrs. Ashford. But you hardly know me well enough to call me friend.”
She shook her head and turned that warm smile to her husband. “I long ago gave up making enemies, Mr. Tennyson. Now, I collect only friends. Consider yourself collected.”
Mr. Ashford smiled at his wife and squeezed her hand.
“Indeed. Jane Hancock collected me long ago, and I marvel over that wondrous fact still.”
