Free Fairer than Morning by Rosslyn Elliott Page A

a town coach with blue trim—Dr. Loftin’s. The two grays drawing the carriage trotted briskly toward him. Will moved farther to the side of the road. The carriage and team were wide; there was barely space to pass even if it pulled off the path.
    When the coach was only a few yards away, he saw with surprise that the man riding postilion on the nearer of the grays was Dr. Loftin himself. Usually he had a man in that saddle for him.
    â€œHello there, Will!” the doctor called. He pulled onto the dead winter grass, reining his horses to a halt, which caused the carriage to rock gently.
    â€œGood afternoon, Dr. Loftin,” Will said. He had to stop his cart now, out of respect, and he prayed the road was smooth enough here to allow him to continue in a minute. He touched the brim of his cap and nodded his head.
    â€œWhere are you going on this frigid day?” The doctor’s penetrating gaze took in Will’s flimsy excuse for a coat, his raw, gloveless hands.
    Will would have blushed in shame, but he was bloodless from cold. “I’m taking Master Good’s donation to the poorhouse.”
    â€œOakum,” the doctor said wryly. “How kind of him.”
    Will felt one corner of his mouth pulling up into a grin. He ducked his head to hide it.
    â€œI see you’ve forgotten your gloves,” the doctor said. “Take mine. I’m nearly home.”
    â€œOh no, sir, I couldn’t.”
    â€œYou most certainly can. Here you are.” The doctor stripped off his gloves and handed them down. As Will approached and reached up for them, the curtain of the coach twitched, and a pair of blue eyes looked out at him from a china doll face.
    â€œSusan!” he heard a girl’s voice whisper. Behind the little girl sat an older girl, her face framed in a dark fur hood. She was pink at the cheekbones; whether from embarrassment or the warmth of the carriage, he couldn’t tell. The curtain fell back into place, though it did not block the sounds of high-pitched giggling and shushing.
    He was too glad of the gloves to care what they said about him for now. Later, he knew he would mind. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said stiffly, fumbling to draw the gloves over his fingers.
    â€œMy passengers are Mr. Samuel Miller and his young daughters,” the doctor said with a note of apology, as if to explain the laughter. “You will be meeting them soon, as Mr. Miller will be working with your master.”
    â€œVery good, sir. And thank you again.”
    The doctor nodded and clucked to the horses, and the carriage moved on toward the Loftin house.
    The gloves were leather and lined with fur. He could not believe their luxurious softness and warmth. He flexed his fingers and hoisted the bars of the cart once more. It was like a blessing from God himself how the gloves cushioned the strain on his hands. His face might still freeze, but the gift would ease the pain of the journey.
    As he trudged on, he remembered the last time Dr. Loftin had encountered him, by the pigsty that lay on the boundary between the two properties. The doctor had given him an orange, offhandedly, as if he always carried such things in his pockets for half-starved young men. Will hid it in his feed sack, sneaking it back to the barn where he and Tom tore it apart and ate it carefully, piece by precious piece. Will had to stop Tom from eating the peel, knowing that its bitterness would bring up the gorge and waste the sweetness of the orange in retching. He had tried it once himself.
    Will buried the orange pips and peel so Master Good would not know that the doctor had given them food. His master’s moods were unpredictable, which meant Will would have to find a very good hiding place for the gloves. But perhaps the doctor had intended to lend them, not give them. Will would return them as soon as he finished this errand.
    The base of the hill loomed ahead. What of the yellow-haired girl whom he