Free Forever and Ever by Patricia Gaffney Page A

path toward the green.
    A half-moon silvered the grass and diffused the yellow wink of fireflies rising and sinking in the oak trees. The whispery splash of the Wyck inside its steep banks was a comforting, familiar sound; Sophie barely heard it. She had unhitched Valentine from the cart earlier and left him tethered at the far edge of the grass, within reach of the river so he could have a drink. She heard the tinkle of his harness and smiled, picturing him shaking his head, catching her scent and already impatient for home. A moving glimmer of white caught her eye. She slowed her steps and peered into the gloom.
    Valentine wasn’t where she’d left him; he was hitched to the cart, and Jack Pendarvis was holding his head and rubbing his nose. And feeding him an apple.
    It was the white of his shirt she’d seen in the dimness. As she drew closer, he and Val lifted their heads, hearing her at the same time. The pony whickered a friendly welcome. Mr. Pendarvis watched her come and didn’t say anything.
    She stopped three feet shy of him, resting her hand casually on the pony’s rump. “You’ve put Valentine in his traces.” Her voice came out sounding too low and intimate. “Thank you,” she tacked on, louder.
    “Don’t mention it.”
    Only a second or two passed while they stared at each other, but to Sophie it seemed much longer. “Well. I’ll be going home now.” When he didn’t move, she said, “Was there something you wanted?”
    “Will you lend me that book?”
    “This?” She looked down at the tan leather cover of
Emma
, then back up at Mr. Pendarvis. “You don’t want to read this.”
    “What makes you think I don’t?”
    There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he was mocking her. But she was determined not to let him lure her into an argument. “I don’t believe it’s quite your cup of tea.”
    He folded his arms, leaning lightly against Val’s shoulder, as if he didn’t have a thing in the world to do except talk about books late at night on the village green. “And what would you say, Miss Deene, is my cup of tea?”
    She pretended to consider. “There are some adventure books in our subscription library. Pictures, mostly, but a few with simplified text. The children find them quite stimulating.”
    Breathless from her own daring, she watched his face, the quick changes in it from surprise to anger, and finally grudging amusement. His slow, knowing smile unsettled her, did something ticklish underneath her breastbone.
    “When I was a boy, Miss Deene, the Methodist minister in our village used to tutor me in reading and mathematics. When I did well on my examinations, he’d reward me with presents, a poem he’d written in Latin, or little cardboard pictures of the saints, or Brighton Beach, or the Houses of Parliament.” His low voice was deep and pleasant, his accent a lighter Cornish burr than she was used to. “Once he gave me a book. I don’t know where he got it—he was a very old man and nearly as poor as we were. The book was called
The Life and Times of Bartholomew Bailey, a Virtuous Boy
, so it’s possible the reverend didn’t know what he had.”
    “What was it?”
    “A book about a magic boy. Bartholomew was the same age as me—eight—and he could make himself appear and disappear in unlikely times and places—Egypt among the pharaohs or the North Pole. The American frontier. The Bastille in 1789.”
    “Ah,” Sophie breathed, intrigued in spite of herself. “How lucky you must have felt.”
    “Lucky.” His voice gave the word a strange gravity. He stepped closer until their hands, both absently stroking the pony’s smooth flank, were nearly touching. “Bartholomew could talk to animals, too. His dog was his best friend. He understood what deer and rabbits said, and horses, and birds.” He looked away; a self-mocking smile quirked his lips on one side. “You understand that this book was a miracle to me. Magic. My salvation.”
    She nodded, although she