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“And other wounds that are less visible.”
Perhaps that was what she’d seen in his eyes.
“He doesn’t care to talk about it,” Kenver added.
“I could see that.”
He gave her a quick glance. “I found him on the cliff path, nearly three years ago now. He was trying to tramp cross country as he used to do as a student. But he’d fallen and couldn’t go on. He was lying at the edge, looking over.”
Sarah met his hazel eyes and understood that Stovell had been thinking of throwing himself into the sea. “So you found him a place as schoolmaster.”
“We…discussed matters and came up with the idea together.” He looked at her again. “We don’t mention exactly how it came about.”
She nodded a promise. “And who is John?”
“A village boy apprenticed to a solicitor down in Truro.”
That was also quite unusual.
“Stovell and I have an arrangement,” Kenver continued before she could ask. “Most children learn trades from their parents, as you know. A smith’s son becomes a smith. The daughter of a skilled seamstress is taught that art. Farm laborers bring their offspring into the fields. And so on. But now and then, a child is different.”
“Good at their books,” Sarah suggested.
“Partly that. But perhaps just not suited to their parents’ work. Or inspired by some other. Stovell keeps an eye out, and a sympathetic ear, and when we’re certain they mean it and are determined, we find them an apprenticeship or position. Schooling sometimes.”
“That is splendid,” said Sarah, full of admiration.
He shrugged as if it was no great thing.
They rode on. All along the way, Kenver was greeted by workers in the fields and residents of tenant cottages. He seemed to know every detail of their families and situations and was pelted with news of more. Many of them came over with quiet questions or requests for him. Now and then, he retrieved his pouch of coins and handed some over. Sarah didn’t hear what they said, but the transactions were clear. Kenver was supplementing actions by the Poldene estate manager, or perhaps even circumventing some decisions. He was woven into the fabric of this place, needed and admired and obviously respected. “This is how you spend your days?” she asked when they had left one of these groups behind.
“Mostly.”
“You said you wanted a knightly quest, but you already have one. Tending your own countryside.”
“It’s not the same,” he objected.
“Yes, it is. What else were those ancient knights doing?”
“Important things. Battles. Missions. Righting wrongs.”
“I suspect you are doing that,” Sarah said quietly.
Kenver stared. She looked utterly sincere. And appreciative. She was not mocking him. This intelligent, perceptive young lady really thought he was the equal of those old questers. The idea was too revolutionary to take in all at once.
A gust of wind caught at his hat. The vagaries of local weather were in his bones. “It’s going to rain. Come. There’s a place to shelter not far ahead.”
He increased the pace and brought them to a barn at the edge of a stubble field before the first drops fell.
“Are you tired?” he asked as he helped her down from the saddle.
“A little. I don’t usually ride so long.”
“We’ll have a good rest.” He began to empty his saddlebags. He’d made sure to bring more than bread and cheese today, and he was pleased when Sarah exclaimed over the waxed packet of thinly sliced chicken, crusty bread, peaches, and tightly corked bottles of cider.
He added several cloth napkins to the pile and left her to arrange them as he tended the horses, loosening their girths and bringing them water from a trough outside the doors. There was fodder stored here, and no one would grudge him a bit. Then he joined Sarah on an aged bench to eat.
Hunger kept them quiet for a while. Kenver used his pocketknife to pry the corks from the cider. The tart, sweet liquid tasted like harvest bounty. He cut the fruit into quarters, discarding the pits.
