“Yes sir.”
He exhaled an audible breath. “You can be anything you aspire to be. You are not a prisoner of the dirt. You are not doomed to the path your father set for you.”
Morgan contemplated the irony of his claim. She was a woman. By virtue of her birth, most paths were denied to her through convention, custom, and law. “I… I think you overestimate me.”
“I think not. There is much more to you than meets the eye, of that I am certain.”
If only he knew how much more. “I could say the same of you.”
He laughed softly. “I doubt it, but fair enough.”
She continued staring at the stars, trying to envision what Steadman claimed. Trying to aspire to become more than what the world had constructed her to be. However, the voice of her dead father dogged her thoughts with his repetitive epitaph.“You have fallen short again, Morgan Brady. You have fallen short.”
Chapter Five
As Steadman approached the village of Broad Chalke, memories clung to him like morning dew on fields of clover, accruing shimmering recollection of days long past. Every meadow whispered stories of adolescent misadventure. Every house sighed of former friends, acquaintances, and rivals. Every side road murmured of journeys both physical and aspirational. In all, the area appeared little changed since his eighteenth birthday.
The day he had left for good.
“When your mind returns to your body, might you tell us where we are?”
Morgan’s good-natured taunt drew him from his relentless reverie. “I am simply awash in memory. What’s your excuse?”
“My mind is perfectly present. However, it does not require my lips to move as a result.”
“Are you saying I talk too much?”
“Like a cow chewing cud. Your observations fill the gaps that might otherwise offer sacred moments of silence.”
Steadman barked a sharp laugh. “You would not be the first to insinuate as much. But youarethe first to say it so frankly and survive.”
Morgan frowned. “And here I thought you prized frankness.”
“I do. However, the rank and file of England have learned to withhold truth when speaking to men of a certain class, even if the man is considered a criminal.”
“Why is that?”
Steadman lifted his eyes to the sky. A good question that darkened the borders of his soul. “Because to men of a certain class, hard truths range from inconvenient to indicting. How can one enjoy the summit knowing he sits atop a mountain of misery? A determined practice of ignoring suffering and a solid belief that misery is justified by virtue of birth dispels troublesome feelings – such as compassion and empathy. If anyone dares speak the truth, well, the man of a certain class must do everything to quash it regardless of the pain inflicted on the truthteller. As a result, the common class learns early to withhold frank opinions for fear of reprisal.”
He grimaced at his outpouring and glanced at Morgan. His partner appeared to mull over the explanation. “What you say sounds sensible, which surprises me.”
“Dare I ask?”
“Because you are a man of a certain class. Your opinion would appear to indict and otherwise inconvenienceyou.”
Steadman scowled. “I have not been that man for fifteen years.”
“Good, then.” Morgan’s smile bordered on impish. “Then may I be frank once more?”
“I suppose.”
“Are we lost, or can you tell me where the devil we are?”
A smile crawled across his face, lifting him from encroaching indignation. “I am never lost. We approach our intended destination of Broad Chalke.”
“Thank you, sir. Despite your origins from a certain class, you are sometimes helpful.”
“I am nothing if not helpful.”
