Page 37 of Fair Weather Enemies
Jane spun again to face him. “His grave? You know where the Bad Baron is buried?”
“Of course. Even the village idiot knows that.”
“You will take us there, then?”
He shook his head. “Cannot.”
All four of the treasure seekers simultaneously blurted, “Why?”
Thistlethwaite’s eyes widened at the unexpected vitriol. He straightened, gripped a still-empty pint glass, and hugged it to his chest. “Because the grave is in Penrith. That’s twelve miles away with nary a drop of spirits along the route. I prefer to remain here near the kegs, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well,” said Adam. He noted the bite of his reply and breathed once to tamp down exasperation. “Then perhaps you may provide us directions.”
Thistlethwaite brightened. “That I can do. Go to St. Andrew’s Church in Penrith. Find the priest who oversees the place—a Mr. Fudge. Ask him to show you the grave. Then spit in his eye.”
Adam suppressed a sigh. “I don’t suppose you mind telling me why I should spit in his eye?”
“Not at all, sir. He is my cousin, and he owes me money.”
Chapter Fifteen
Recent dismal memories plagued Jane as the company trekked along the Roman Road toward Penrith while leading a rebellious horse. Her eyes swept across the remains of one ruined field after another, dire monuments to the wave of failed crops plaguing Britain. Three consecutive disastrous harvests had pushed the country toward the brink of hunger and social unrest. More personally, it had shuttered her family’s milling business and placed her at the mercy of Mr. Rutley. Worst of all, the stress had claimed her father’s life only six months earlier, leaving Jane to shoulder the burden for her only remaining kin, Aunt Hester.
She looked ahead to find her indomitable aunt walking alongside Mr. Barlow, talking, laughing, and otherwise reveling in the journey. Jane wondered how Aunt Hester could so easily dismiss the stark reality of their situation. She glanced back at Adam. He appeared to have sensed her melancholy and had refrained from engaging in conversation. He must have taken the glance for an invitation to converse.
“What consumes you, Jane? You’ve said nothing for miles.”
He tugged the horse vigorously to draw alongside her. She waved an arm toward the field adjacent the road. “I wonder what will become of those who rely on this to survive. I wonder how their children will fare against the teeth of winter.”
“I don’t know.” He gazed at the field with her. “However, the poor weather cannot last forever. Every famine of the past eventually gave way to plenty. It will do so again. Your mill may yet survive.”
She cocked her head and frowned. “What do you care of my mill? Has not your family schemed for decades to bring it to ruin?”
“I do not deny that. However…” He failed to complete his thought.
“However, what?”
He expelled a weary breath. “However, now that your family is near ruin, I find myself oddly dismayed by the prospect.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Excellent question. I cannot be certain. But my parents and grandparents carefully cultivated me to battle the Hancocks. In the absence of an enemy, what would I do? I seem unprepared for any other course.”
His admission took Jane by surprise. Not only was it unexpected, but it paralleled her own struggle. Without thinking, she blurted, “You will find a way. Have faith.”
He glanced at her with arched eyebrows before staring ahead. She immediately second-guessed her outburst. Why had she offered encouragement? His family had brought hers to the cusp of extinction. Should she not rejoice in his misery? She escaped confusion the only way she knew how—by thoroughly changing the subject.
“Speaking of finding a way, Adam, I pray this giant’s grave will point us to the next destination.”
Adam nodded, and his solemn expression relaxed. “If we are fortunate, the giant’s grave will feature a beanstalk from which we may survey the land. Surely, the gold may be seen from there.”
“But did not Jack’s giant whet his appetite with the bones of Englishmen? As we are all English, it seems we would constitute a tasty meal. Perhaps we should avoid beanstalks altogether.”
“Prudent advice. Very prudent. However, as the giant is dead, I suspect we may outrun him.”
She allowed a giggle to escape. “I may outrun him, sir. However, as you must drag Beelzebub, I fear for your safety.”
“Not a problem. I would simply release the horse to the giant.”
