‘Doesn’t it?’ He beamed at her as if she was a clever pupil giving the right answer. ‘When I first read it, I felt like I’d been struck by lightning.’
‘In a good way, I hope?’ she said, offering a smile to jog him back to a less intense tone.
‘You see I realised that it was a message to me. My father was called Michael, and I am Luke.’
‘Common enough names, surely?’ Dora was rapidly doing the calculation. The poem had been published for over a decade. It couldn’t be about this young man before her. He would have been not much more than a child when it came out.
He didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Oh, I know it isn’t literally about me– but Wordsworth chose the names on purpose, to attract my attention.’
‘Well, er, how interesting.’ She was getting the distinct impression that her companion was not a well-balanced individual. Life on the road had taught her never to upset or run against the wishes of the mad people you often met on the king’s highway. Let their insanity flow past you; don’t make yourself the target. ‘I’m sure he would be flattered to find it spoke to you.’
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Knotte gave her the brittle smile of one in possession of a secret.
‘You are the expert, Mr Knotte. You must tell me what I’m missing. Shall we head back?’
He nodded curtly and gestured to her to take a different track.
‘We’re not going back the same way?’
‘This takes us to Wright’s lodgings.’
‘Oh.’ She paused, uncertain. It looked rather like it would take her in the wrong direction.
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘Of course I do!’ she protested quickly.
‘We are returning past Alcock Tarn and Dove Cottage– a very scenic route. You said you were a good walker.’
‘And I am.’
‘Then follow me.’
ChapterTwenty
While Dora was occupied with Knotte, Jacob had many tasks to accomplish and he still had to search Barton’s cottage. He did the quickest ones first, securing Mr Jackson’s word that he would write to Barton’s mother to tell her in the gentlest possible terms that his local friends were a little concerned about him and would be comforted to know if he had been in communication with his family. He then asked Moss about Wright, but he claimed not to have seen him since bidding him goodnight the evening before.
‘Do we need to worry?’ Jacob asked. ‘The last time one of your number did not turn up where he was expected led to a pile of clothes at Esthwaite Water.’
Moss scratched his chin. ‘I think I should check on him before dinner. He’s renting a cottage at Town End. It shouldn’t take me long.’
Those errands done, Jacob caught up with Wordsworth as the family filed back to their vicarage.
‘An excellent sermon, I thought,’ said Jacob. He wasn’t lying. He had found it particularly moving having just lost his own father. He was reminded of his conversation with his godfather and the advice that he should remember the things he owed his parent, not the shortcomings in their dealings.
‘God forgive me, but it did us good to hear someone who has the gift for stringing more than two words together without stumbling. I think Mary is better for the outing, don’t you?’
‘Indeed, it has put some colour in her cheeks.’
‘Everyone has been so kind.’ Wordsworth invited Jacob to take a seat beside him in the garden. The children were rapidly stripping out of their Sunday clothes, leaving jackets and boots heaped on Aunty Dorothy, and reverting to playtime in the sunshine. Some parents would consider their games too boisterous for a Sabbath, but Wordsworth only looked on with a soft smile.
‘Ah, the children:But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God who is our home!’ he chanted.
‘I think that is one of my favourite poems of yours,’ said Jacob. ‘One of the best poems ever written, if I may be so bold.’
Some of the lines on the poet’s face smoothed, his spirits lightening. ‘That is very kind of you.’
‘I speak truly. I’m not given to false flattery.’
