Page 71 of Fair Weather Enemies
Her face lit with a blush and she dropped a curtsy. “Eversley, sir. You are too kind, sir. Are you a gentleman, sir?”
“Yes, although most might disagree.”
She clapped her hands again. “I knew it! Real ladies and gentlemen from London. Oh, to reside in London with all of its fineries and amusements and diversions!”
She retrieved the broom, clutched it to her chest, and twirled twice more. Ever the model of efficiency, Barlow stepped nearer and tipped his hat to the girl. “I wonder, Miss Eversley, might you tell us of any”—he paused and quirked a brow—“angels residing in your fair hamlet?”
She cocked her head and squinted. “Angels?” She shook her head, sending blond curls into a nervous bob. “We have no angels in Hawkshead.” Her eyes flew wide. “Do you have angels in London? Oh, I always thought that if any place had angels, it would be London!”
“No obvious angels,” said Barlow with a smile. “Unless you consider kind souls. I imagine even Hawkshead possesses its share of those.”
The girl considered his assertion briefly. “I believe it does, sir.”
Adam lifting his arm caught Jane’s attention. She found him eyeing the church on the hill and pointing toward it. Intent curiosity colored his expression. “Miss Eversley. What is the name of that church?”
“Oh, that. Only the stuffiest old church in all of England, I am certain.”
“Fair enough. However, does it possess a name, or do locals simply refer to it as the stuffiest old church in all of England?”
She giggled. “Of course not, sir. That would be rather silly.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Then perhaps you might share the name of the church so we may not appear rather silly.”
“Oh, yes,” she said with an enthusiastic nod. “We call it Saint Michael’s All Angels Church.”
Jane’s mind leaped even as Adam spun to face her. They blurted the same words simultaneously. “All angels surveying a proud bird of prey!”
“Wonderful!” added Aunt Hester. “We have found the appointed place. Mr. Wordsworth promised we could not miss it. It appears he was correct.”
The zeal of the moment faded quickly for Jane, though. With another puzzle solved, only a pair of lines remained in the letters—one apiece. Two lines of careful script on old parchment stood between them and the miserable end of the journey. She sagged beneath the weight of that thought. Adam apparently noticed, for he grasped her hands and drew her near. He smiled with commiseration. “We will find a way, Jane. Say it.”
She nodded slowly and whispered, “We will find a way.”
“Louder, so the world might hear.”
She raised her voice somewhat, trying desperately to believe the unbelievable. “We will find a way.”
“Much better. Much better.” The warmth of his smile set her stomach aflutter, and the searing vision of his lips against her hand danced before her eyes. Without meaning to, she emitted a long, low sigh.
“Oh!” the shop girl squealed. “You two are in love! How gloriously wondrous to be in love!” She twirled twice with the broom.
Jane peered at Adam, waiting for him to correct the girl. He did not, but simply maintained his smile. She decided not to correct the girl, either. To do so would be a lie—at least on her part. She loved Adam, God help her. Deep in the secret places of her soul, she suspected that he loved her in return.
“Ahem.” She turned to find Barlow stepping forward. “Not to interrupt a youthful moment, but perhaps we should review the letters for the next piece of the puzzle.”
Adam gently released her hands and reached for his pocket. “This is the final piece, Mr. Barlow. The end of the road lies near, regardless of the outcome.”
“I see.” Disappointment dripped from Barlow’s voice as he glanced sadly at Aunt Hester. She returned a similar smile and wordlessly placed a hand on his forearm. Jane tore her eyes away and retrieved her letter. She opened it to read the final line of her copy while Adam stood ready with his.
“Seek, then, thereafter the pockmarked old man.”
“And trust unto Chance for the rest of the plan.”
She lowered her letter and cocked her head in befuddlement. Although each riddle had seemed vague at first, this one seemed impossible. Had the original writer expected his employers to return soon? If so, how could the same old man be yet living after seventy years? She glanced at her companions to find them equally bewildered as each considered the lines.
“A pockmarked old man,” Adam mumbled. “If he were old then, he must be Methuselah by now.”
“Or rotting in the grave,” said Barlow.
