anything he hadn’t made himself, but it didn’t feel right to leave without purchasing something. Mr. Abbott had shown far too much patience with him over the years, and Finch owed the fellow.
The shirt they were admiring was beyond his reach, but Finch settled on a few cravats. Sewing them was his least favorite task, so it was an expense worth shouldering. With a few words of farewell, he took his package and wandered out of the shop.
His boots squeaked in the snow, and a flash of wet on his toes told him they were in need of repair, but they would have to wait until he was home again. His cobbling skills were minimal, but he knew enough to get another year out of this pair with the right tools, which were back in London. Perhaps it was finally time to dedicate himself to the art of boot-making. With the cost of supplies, it would be a pricey undertaking at first, but it would save him funds in the end.
And it would give him something to do once he returned to London.
So, cobbling it was.
A dusting of snow skittered across the road, and Finch looked around at the various shops and cottages that formed Bristow’s heart. So much of the world was changing at a breakneck speed, but this village looked much the same as it had two hundred years ago. While it was invigorating to see London grow and to witness the new commerce and inventions driving it forward, it was comforting to know that some places remained constant. He wondered if Bristow would still look this way in another hundred years.
Calling out to the lad who was walking Sheba up and down the lane, Finch tossed the boy a coin and patted the mare on the neck. Checking the harness and cinch, he mounted and pointed her towards Avebury Park.
No doubt Simon and Mina would still be on their adventure to Ainsley, but Finch had wasted enough time here, and shopping was a bore when one did not have the funds to indulge. Tucking his solitary parcel into his jacket, he meandered away from the heart of the village and saw the lane splitting between the path that would take him to Avebury Park and that which would take him to Buxby Hall.
Perhaps he ought to pay a call on Lady Lovell. She was an engaging conversationalist and always welcomed a visit. What more could he ask for than to pass an hour or two in good conversation? That and some more delectable gingerbread cake.
Pointing his mount down that lane, Finch was willing to admit that he wasn’t wholly disappointed at the thought of occupying more of Miss Barrows’ time. The lady may be odd—exceptionally so—but she’d proven to be quite entertaining on more than one occasion. Even if she did enjoy prying into his business.
Finch’s lips curled into a half-smile as he stared off in the distance, his eyes tracking the curving lines of the rolling hillside all covered in a dusting of snow. Casting his thoughts back, he was caught by a sudden thought. He wasn’t certain he’d ever seen Bristow in summer. Or any other season for that matter. The world expected him in London during the Season even though he had neither the funds nor standing to do much with that social whirl. Heaven forfend that he should spend those months elsewhere.
Rounding a bend, Finch jerked Sheba to a stop before they collided with an abandoned phaeton. Turning in his saddle, he scoured the area for any sign of the imbecile who’d left it blocking the narrow lane at a blind corner. Finch guided Sheba around the vehicle and noticed footsteps continuing down the road, and he followed after them to see a lady cutting across a nearby field.
“Hello, there!” Sheba trotted forward, following after the figure. The lady did not pause in her trek, her footsteps cutting determinedly across the landscape. Even with her hair mostly hidden beneath a bonnet, he recognized the unruly curls peeking out the back and realized that her path was the most direct route to Buxby Hall.
“Miss Barrows!”
At her name, she turned, squinting against the sun at Finch’s back, and as he came up beside her, rather than her usual smile or greeting, Miss Barrows scowled.
“Wretched beast,” she grumbled. Or so Finch thought. It was such a strange exclamation to make that he wasn’t entirely certain.
“Pardon?” Finch slid from his saddle, but Miss Barrows swung around and