A shaft of sunlight dared to penetrate the cloud and he twisted, leaning on his cane to stare back down the street.
Struck by further shafts of sunlight were the distant hills beyond – browns and greens flecked with snow, the hues blending as though an artist had taken a brush to them.
How he used to adore striding the countryside. To feel the air in his lungs.
Memories stirred and bubbled, Charlotte asking whether he walked the fells anymore, and he wondered… He wondered if an hour away from his ledgers might not…be missed.
So, before cold logic could argue, he swivelled and hastened for the narrow lane that ran along the side of the inn, where one encountered the Stock Ghyll beck once more as it headed down into town. On the far side, bobbin mills roared their might, harnessing the now faster-flowing water, but as he continued up the lane, little by little the way became…quieter.
Nude winter branches stretched overhead to kiss like greeting lovers, the bank rising steeply to his right, and now one could at last hear the rush of water over stone. A few beech trees shone amongst the bareness, their copper leaves refusing to submit to winter’s gelid hand, and a robin, finding refuge amongst them, sung with all his might.
The sounds of nature.
Nothing was more…valuable.
Clearing his throat at such whimsical waffle, he hastened on, losing the beck for some time as the lane ascended until an earth-tamped path veered left.
Smiling, he continued through woods scented with autumns past – damp leaves and lichen-clad stone. Ancient roots ripped the earth asunder but moss smoothed the wounds, slippery and magnificent in its intricacy.
And ahead, he could hear it.
The first waterfall.
Rains had been abundant this year and a glorious wide cascade gushed over a twenty-foot drop, white streams of beauty tumbling into the stone bed of the beck. He watched for a while, this endless feed of life-giving water, but then turned to head on up the steep path.
For the best was yet to come.
Further up the wooded ravine, the beck divided into three channels and a crash of water attested to the next set of cascades. The pathway was of beaten earth and sodden leaf, nature at its rawest, and he would have it all to himself. No need to be the duke or the businessman.
The water became louder and–
His boots halted.
“But sometimes it must be exciting to be a governess? Do you meet famous people?”
Dinah.
“Well, no, but I once saw Lord Byron as he came to a house party at my employer’s estate.”
Charlotte.
“Ooooh, did he speak to you? Did he fall in love with you?”
A man’s laughter.
Not a clue.
Marcus narrowed his eyes and crept closer.
“I’m afraid not,” replied Charlotte. “In fact, he failed to even glance my way.”
“Oh, dear.” A thespian sigh. “What a shame, Miss Webster. My readership might be disappointed at that, but one should never let facts get in the way of a good story. I can embellish.”
Utilising his cane for balance, Marcus leaned forward to peer around a tree…
A hatless Charlotte and a wrapped-up Dinah were watching the cascade while a gentleman to their side perched on a small stool, easel in front of him.
Marcus hummed and hawed. Should he make himself apparent or just slope off and–
