1
“A penny for your thoughts, young sir.”
At his fellow passenger’s words, Sir Adam Standish dragged his eyes from the view outside the coach window, where the desolate winter scenery was as bleak as his prospects.
“I fear my thoughts are not worth even that much,” Adam told the wizened, whiskered old man in the seat opposite him.
“Nonsense,” the ancient replied. “All thoughts are worth at least a pence, be they good thoughts or bad, happy or sad. Why, ofttimes the telling alone is of value, and good conversation is priceless on such a journey as ours.”
The trip to London was tedious indeed, yet Adam was not one to confide in others, nor speak of his personal woes to friends, much less to chance-met strangers. He shrugged and turned back to the window.
“A woman?” the graybeard persisted.
Now Adam had to laugh, although there was no humor in the sound. “If I could afford a woman, wife or mistress, I would not be making this desperate, and likely futile, visit to my bankers.”
“Ah, money, then. I should have guessed a well-favored young gentleman like yourself would have no trouble with the ladies.”
No, Adam thought, the old man should have known he was below hatches by the worn boots on his feet and the frayed cuffs on his sleeves, unless the fellow’s seemingly knowing gray eyes were failing. In that case, the granfer should have realized his fellow passenger was badly dipped by the absence of a valet to rectify those same faults. For that matter, a baronet with brass in his pockets hired his own coach and team, instead of riding the common stage.
None of which, of course, was the curious old man’s business, but Adam was nothing if not polite, especially to his elders, so he nodded. “Yes, money is at the root of my problems, or the dearth of it, at any rate.”
“A spot of bad luck, is it?”
Now Adam made a rude snort. “A spot? More like a spill, a storm, a veritable swamp of bad luck.” And without meaning to, he began to tell the old man opposite him about his beloved estate Standings, about the debts he had inherited along with the title and acreage, about the flood and the fire, the blight and the bugs, the drought and the drop in prices for what little the fields could produce. Something about his companion’s interest, the compassion, perhaps, in that gray gaze, made Sir Adam go on to express his hitherto unspoken frustrations that no matter how hard he worked, he never found himself gaining on his deceased father’s debts. For every step forward he took, Fate seemed to send him two steps backward. Now, when he was close to his goal of making a profit at last, he could lose everything instead, if the bank would not extend his credit until the spring. He could make his quarterly payments now, but then he would have no funds left for seeds, for stud fees, for keeping up the wages of his few loyal servants. He would not mind going cold and hungry, but he could not ask the same of his poor tenants and their children.
Instead, he was going to ask the bank to let him delay his mortgage payments, on the promise of spring lambs and cows in calf, well-turned fields and the latest techniques from the farming journals. Surely begging mercy from the money changers was a forlorn hope, like trying to wring water from a stone, but one he had to attempt. Adam hated having to beg, but he hated worse the idea of having no gifts for his dependents on the quickly approaching Boxing Day after Christmas, not even an apple.
“So you see,” he concluded, “my thoughts are as dismal as the state of my purse. You must be sorry you asked, now that I have rambled on about my difficulties through the last changes.” Indeed, somehow the time had sped by in his telling, for they were close to London now, with its increased traffic and noise.
“Nay, I do not regret prying into your affairs, young sir, only that I am unable to be of assistance.”
“I never meant to imply—”
“Of course you did not.” The old man reached into his pocket for a coin. “I would like to offer more, but at least I can give you the penny I promised.”
Adam held up his hand. “No, I cannot take your money.” In his shabby coat and battered hat, the withered relic appeared to be in poorer straits than Adam.
Gnarled fingers tossed the coin in Adam’s direction just as the coach came to a stop at their destination. “Take it. It might change your luck.” With more liveliness than Adam would have thought possible—surely with more enthusiasm than Adam felt for their arrival—the old man jumped down from the carriage, doffed his hat toward Adam, and disappeared into the busy courtyard.
Adam tucked the coin into his fob pocket. Lud knew there was room, for he’d had to sell his timepiece a year ago. Then he took it out again to toss. Heads he would go to his banker first; tails he would hire a room for the night, to brush the dust off his apparel and make a better appearance, as if he were not at point non plus. Heads won, which was not at all what he wanted. In fact, if he never had to see Mr. Ezekiel Beasdale again, he would be far happier.