Page 39 of Holding Onto Love

She slowed her steps and let her thoughts drift.

Little Dan had somehow set fire to the Gowes’ chicken coop Sunday morning while Charlotte and Dan were not paying attention. Charlotte had rescued all the birds but one. That, she plucked and cooked—“finished cooking” she explained, relating the story while sipping tea.

Charlotte Gowe was unflappable.

Jasper’s voice: So were the wings on that bird. I have one for you—Dan Gowe is the rare man who looks forward to Sunday morning.

One word, Jasper. That’s the challenge. To distill to the essence.

Hmm. What about this Bitter?

Bitter was sweet. Kind. Good-looking, too. She would say the poor man was cursed, but he wouldn’t agree. He insisted he was blessed. Hadn’t God kept him around to look after Nan?

Jasper: That is diluted, not distilled.

But I can’t think of one word to encompass it all.

Jasper: Admirable?

No. Not quite.

Admired, then.

Yes. Bitter, the idiot, was admired. And what did Jasper think of Sherwood?

Jasper: Laughable? Annoying? Pathetic?

That is three.

Insignificant.

No, that’s too cruel.

Jasper had called Hilyer that once, to his face, so Hazard had said.

Jasper: Coxcomb

Oh, perfect.

She reached her cottage. Tam had repaired the cobbled walk to her door for her. She’d tried to pay him with a plate of biscuits, but he wouldn’t take them. There was nothing wrong with them, she told Jasper in her head. She made very good biscuits. It was simply that he’d had a spare two hours and the men in the church took seriously the command to look after widows. Apparently, God wouldn’t count it if Tam took something in return.

She opened the door and stepped inside, still musing. She didn’t have a word for Tam. Not dutiful. Or pious. Not even good-hearted. Unfortunately, the word lumbering kept coming to mind. She shut the door. The latch fell into place with a thud.

Lonely is mine. Or alone. Not fearful, but still waiting, always, to hear footsteps.

Crispin, piping in: Resilient.

Thank you, but you were not invited to play.

Jasper, searchingly: And what one word have you for the Earl of Iversley?

Could she distill what she knew of Jasper to one word?

Impossible.

And now, the game was not amusing anymore.

Chapter Thirteen