Time & Tide - Original Wattpad Version

Chapter Fifteen: In Which Jessie Is On Her Way

I snorted. Yeah, real subtle there, padre.

But the Reverend had an animated sort of way of speaking, moving his hands about as if he was pulling the words he spoke out of the air, plucking them from the divine pen of his cherished savior, and I was interested enough to stay awake for the whole few hours.

I looked down, just once, at my left wrist, to check the time.

My wrist was bare and still faintly white where decades of wearing a watch had turned the skin on the underside smooth and colorless.

Right.

I'd sold the watch to pay for my freedom.

Right. Okay. I could handle this. I could.

I brushed the strangely naked skin with the gloved knuckles of my right hand, and turned my attention back to the sermon.

* * *

When we returned to the parsonage, Francis was waiting for us, grim faced and taking a solitary tea in the parlor. He looked like someone had just shot his dog.

Miss Martin had already gathered my meager possessions for me, pressed and folded them neatly and stowed them away in Mr. Lewis's satchel. This she handed to me without meeting my eyes, though her fingers lingered on the strap for a brief moment brushing mine, the only intimate goodbye I was going to get.

"I'll write?" I whispered, feeling lame and realizing now, for the first time, what it meant that I had - what was the right word? Coerced? Corrupted? Opened the eyes of? - this woman and was just going to go away and leave her here.

"Please do not, Miss," she said, and then she was gone, into the dark back passage that led to the kitchen.

I was given a moment to use the frigid outdoor toilet – now would be a good time for the Georgians to be wearing underwear, but no – shrug into the perpetual brown men's jacket, and make my very sincere goodbyes. I had to promise three times over to visit the parsonage when I next passed by this way, each of them coupled with a further vow to make more hamburgers.

Then Francis and I made our departure and he handed me into a small but sturdy and warm looking carriage.

"Whose is this?" I asked, for it looked too nice to have been a post-carriage or a rental.

"A friend in town," Francis said, looking even more miserable. He was short with me. Why was he being short? "He lent it to me for the journey back to Godersham."

That was the last thing he said for a while, until hunger made my belly rumble and he fished around under the seat in a small basket for some cold wrinkly apples and some leftover ham and bread. It was more than a perfect meal, made more so by the small flask Francis and I took turns nipping from. It was filled with a very nice red wine that made warmth tingle all the way down to my toes.

We ate in silence, Francis' eyes getting more and more hound-doggy until finally I asked: "Alright. What is it, sourpuss?"

He blinked, jerking his head up from where he seemed to be contemplating his palms, to meet my eyes.

"Sour... I beg pardon?"

"You look like I just told you Father Christmas isn't real."

His eyes went wade and his jaw dropped. "Father Christmas does not truly exist?" he gasped and for all of three seconds he actually had me. Then I cracked a grin and so did he. It was still sad-looking, but it was there, at least.

"C'mon," I said. "It's not like you to be so quiet. Aren't you supposed to be saying interesting, witty, clever things? Isn't that what charming young navel captains are supposed to be like?"