The Bride's Farewell Read Free

early afternoon, another woman came running toward her panting, and asked if she’d be so good as to post a letter, given that she was going past the village post office in any case, and when Pell nodded, the woman produced an envelope and smoothed it flat as if wishing it luck on its way. She pressed a penny for the stamp into Pell’s hand, with the explanation that the letter was “for my son in London.”
    Pell didn’t say a word, but the woman couldn’t help puffing herself up a little and adding proudly, “He’s gone there to seek his fortune.”
    At that, Pell’s heart dipped in sympathy. She had a fair idea of how the story of the son’s fortune might go, thinking of next door’s son coming back after a year in the big city factories hungrier and thinner than when he left, with tales of cruelty and hardship to freeze your soul.
    Pell would have liked to speak more to the woman, to prolong her moment of hopefulness, but Bean sat forward and chirped to Jack, loosening his rein and moving off, so she had to follow. She looked back to wave, and saw the woman still standing, watching, reluctant to let the letter out of her sight.
    Pell turned toward the road ahead once more, and closed her eyes. A vision of Salisbury Fair filled her head, with nothing beyond.

Five

    B y midafternoon, they had joined the highway, where a slow trickle of humanity headed for the fair. From every direction they came, in caravans and traps and farmer’s carts, on foot in little chattering groups, or all alone dragging heavy loads. As the day wore on, the trickle became a stream and the stream a river. Some rode or led or drove horses in strings or pairs, and Pell was glad Jack wasn’t the kicking sort but only huffed once or twice at mares he fancied as they passed.
    It became difficult to maneuver, and when a thickset young farmer backed his horse into Jack, Pell turned to him smiling, in expectation of an apology. Instead, he leaned in close to her and whispered, “What’re you selling?” with a smile that made the blood rise in her face.
    She reined Jack hard, cutting through the crowd and setting off a volley of complaints. Behind her the farmer laughed unpleasantly, and Pell forced her mind away from him to the happy distraction of horses bound for market. Some were driven, some ridden, and some led; some strode past graceful as gods, others looked broken down and ready for the knacker’s yard. There were grays and bays, chestnuts and roans, Roman noses and deep chests and high bony withers, but most were just big honest beasts looking for a good home with someone who would work decent hours beside them and feed them decent food. Which was what the men wanted too.
    At least half of the horses on the road were colored Gypsy types splashed all over black or brown and white with big domed heads and feathery legs. But even among so many the same, there were gaits and heads that drew your eye and said look at me .
    And Jack as good as any she saw and better, Pell thought.
    Passing through a little village and over a narrow wooden bridge, Pell found herself riding beside a middle-aged man with a pleasant face, who, after some time and one or two sidelong glances, ventured a conversation.
    “That’s a very fine pony you have there, miss,” he said.
    Pell continued to look straight ahead as if he hadn’t spoken, but his voice sounded friendly and it felt wrong, somehow, to snub him. She offered the slightest of nods.
    “Are you taking him to market?”
    Below Pell’s elbow, Bean craned his head to look at the man, and smiled encouragement.
    The man smiled back. “It’d be a shame to sell him, now, wouldn’t it?” He addressed his comments to Bean. “Or perhaps you’re buying?”
    With her back straight and her chin high, Pell pressed Jack to step out ahead. Bean looked across and shook his head.
    The man kept pace. “May I inquire, then, as to your mission in Salisbury?”
    “No,” said Pell primly, and both the man