wheel of cheese, resting in a pile of straw next to him.
Ask him about food . He willed her to hear his thoughts as his stomach clenched.
After a while Joe ventured an inquiry of his own. “You Gypsies?”
“No indeed. Terence, Mr. Fish, is a gentleman. We are escaping from an evil villain. A foreigner .”
Joe responded with a grunting noise that might have been sympathy, but more likely dismissal of anyone born outside the North Riding of Yorkshire.
“That’s why we need to reach my friend at Stonewick. We’ve been walking for a day and a night and had almost nothing to eat. Do you think you could spare us some supper?”
In his lengthiest communication so far, Joe allowed that he could, if they came to his cottage.
“Oh, thank you! Joe.” Celia patted the giant’s arm.
Terence’s mouth watered even as he wondered how they’d pay for their meal. Perhaps Joe would like an erotic novel. That would be a handy way to dispose of it before Celia got to the good bits.
Joe’s horse was built for endurance, not for speed. The sun had almost descended by the time they reached his cottage, an isolated cote similar in size and design to the site of Celia’s imprisoent. The dwelling and a small barn in matching stone were set in a walled barnyard in which a few mangy chickens scratched among the weeds in dusty earth.
Celia jumped down from the cart. “What a fine place, Joe. And you have a well in the barnyard. Do you mind if we draw some water to drink?”
While Joe unharnessed the horse and led it out to pasture, they conferred over a thirst-quenching bucket.
“Will you stop making up to that fellow?” Terence said, keeping his voice low. “Lord knows what he thinks.”
“I’m doing nothing of the kind! I’m being nice to him. You may not have much notion of agreeable conversation, but I do. Please note that Joe has brought us part of our way in comfort.”
“Some comfort!”
“And is going to provide us with food.” A look of something like ecstasy lit her features. “Did you notice the cheese? Thanks to me, we have a chance of getting a good slice of it.”
“How much remains to be seen when he realizes we have no money.”
“Joe won’t charge us. He’s a sweet man!”
“Joe is a Yorkshireman.”
His own instinct that he knew a good deal about Yorkshire was confirmed when Joe, having produced a loaf of bread, a good wedge of cheese, and half a dozen wrinkled apples, asked for a shilling. Informed by Celia, in her sunniest tones, that they had no coin, the farmer prepared to return the provisions to his larder.
Before Celia could begin to weep—the agony on her face far surpassed anything he’d so far observed—Terence entered negotiations. As expected, Joe was unimpressed by The Genuine Amours of Peter Aretin . Pity. He’d probably enjoy the book, if he could read it.
Which left one pair of gentleman’s boots, possibly made by Hoby and certainly costing more than a shilling. More than many, many shillings. Not practical footwear for farm life, and Joe’s feet were enormous. But even in a small market town they’d fetch a guinea or two.
Celia held her breath as Joe subjected the stylish footwear to a careful examination. Finally he nodded, but she couldn’t contain a moan of grief when Joe removed three apples from the pile and brandished his knife to cut the cheese wedge in half. Mr. Compton, proving himself a canny Yorkshireman when it came to bargaining, pushed the blade so only a sliver would be lost. After some back-and-forth they settled on three quarters of the original amount. The loaf of bread remained intact. He stowed the bounty into the sack as Joe described a shortcut over the moors that would bring them to Stonewick. But before they could take leave of their host, they heard the bay of a hound from the direction of the road, echoed by a furious bark from Joe’s sheepdog.
“Strangers.” Joe muttered the single word with a ferocious frown.
Celia’s heart sank
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