Page 34 of The Wordsworth Key (Regency Secrets #3)

‘They have but I cried off, claiming a prior engagement, which is true enough. The gentlemen did invite us to the Rush Bearing first.’

‘But not to dinner.’

‘A convenient excuse then.’

‘Mr Wright is missing. Can you see if anyone knows where he is?’

‘I’ll ask Moss. He and I have a truce of sorts between us.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Take care. If Knotte is guilty of any of this, he must be an unpredictable and dangerous man. Where are you going exactly?’

‘Michael’s Fold.’

‘Ah yes, I know it– you’re going up Green-head Gill.’

‘If I don’t come back, send out the search parties.’

‘That’s not funny, Dora.’

‘And I’m not joking.’ She pressed his fingers in return and headed back to her escort.

* * *

After the other gentlemen passed up the chance to visit a ‘mouldy old sheepfold’– that was Cooper’s strident assessment– Knotte led her out of the village towards the Swan Inn, which she remembered passing on the day they had ridden to Cockermouth.

The tavern was on the road north to attract custom from those crossing over to the next valley.

‘Do you know the poem about the fold?’ he asked, producing a much-thumbed copy of Lyrical Ballads from his pocket. He looked set to declaim it.

‘I believe Dr Sandys read it to me the other day,’ she replied quickly, hoping to put him off the idea of a recital.

‘Then you’ll know it is a very moving story about an old shepherd disappointed in his son– every word of it is true– ask anyone in the valley,’ said Knotte. ‘What times we are living in where the matter of our everyday life here is thought the stuff of poetry!’

‘Indeed.’

They passed the inn and headed up a steep track that followed the tumbling path of a stream.

‘Mr Wordsworth is right in his description of the place– this is a hidden valley.’ Knotte gestured around to the hillside. It folded in a steep V with the gill rushing down the bottom. ‘You do not have to stray far from the public way to find “an utter solitude”.’

Dora did not like his emphasis on how alone they were. ‘Except for other visitors making the pilgrimage to the sheepfold. He must’ve made the place famous.’

Knotte laughed but it wasn’t a generous sound, more like someone on the verge of hysteria.

The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling.

She didn’t feel personally in danger, more that she was too near to a powder keg and sparks were flying.

‘You would be surprised. His poetry has not yet found the audience it deserves. Only a few of us disciples really understand him. We are the ones who read him seriously, whereas others mock him without trying to comprehend.’

‘People like Mr Moss?’

‘Mr Moss?’ He scowled. ‘I can’t bear the man.

It is only because he is Cooper’s friend that I didn’t object more strongly to him joining our summer party.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, you know?

He invited himself at the last moment to attend the ball at Rydal Hall and yet still he hangs on. Nobody wants him. Good– here we are!’

They arrived at a heap of stones set in an uneven square with rounded corners. There was something dejected about the unfinished state, as though the effort had been too much and they’d slumped in despondency.

‘Remind me, what’s the story of the fold?’ she asked brightly, pretending to ignore the malignant atmosphere of the place.

He opened the book to a well-thumbed page. ‘As it says in the poem, Michael was one of the proud shepherds of the valley, rather like the man who is considered to be my father.’

What an odd way of putting it, thought Dora.

‘He had one son, born when he was already old,’ continued Knotte.

‘He had foolishly stood as surety to a relative who failed in business and the debt was called in. Michael was ruined and his son was sent away to earn his living in town. Before he went, Michael made him place the first stone in this sheepfold, saying they would complete it when the son returned a rich man. What do you think happened?’

‘I can’t remember the end, but I do recall it is sad– there’s no prodigal son return to the story.’

‘You remember rightly. Ripped away from the roots he had here, the son went bad– how could he help it?– and he fled abroad. Michael was often seen at this unfinished sheepfold, lamenting the collapse of his family and his hopes. Then he died.’ Knotte turned to Dora. ‘What do you think of that?’

She thought that she would much rather to be here with Jacob, or anyone else for that matter. ‘I think it is very wise of Mr Wordsworth to choose this poignant story for his verse. It has lessons for us all.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ He beamed at her as if she was a clever pupil giving the right answer. ‘When I first read it, I felt like I’d been struck by lightning.’

‘In a good way, I hope?’ she said, offering a smile to jog him back to a less intense tone.

‘You see I realised that it was a message to me. My father was called Michael, and I am Luke.’

‘Common enough names, surely?’ Dora was rapidly doing the calculation. The poem had been published for over a decade. It couldn’t be about this young man before her. He would have been not much more than a child when it came out.

He didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Oh, I know it isn’t literally about me– but Wordsworth chose the names on purpose, to attract my attention.’

‘Well, er, how interesting.’ She was getting the distinct impression that her companion was not a well-balanced individual.

Life on the road had taught her never to upset or run against the wishes of the mad people you often met on the king’s highway.

Let their insanity flow past you; don’t make yourself the target.

‘I’m sure he would be flattered to find it spoke to you. ’

‘You don’t understand, do you?’ Knotte gave her the brittle smile of one in possession of a secret.

‘You are the expert, Mr Knotte. You must tell me what I’m missing. Shall we head back?’

He nodded curtly and gestured to her to take a different track.

‘We’re not going back the same way?’

‘This takes us to Wright’s lodgings.’

‘Oh.’ She paused, uncertain. It looked rather like it would take her in the wrong direction.

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘Of course I do!’ she protested quickly.

‘We are returning past Alcock Tarn and Dove Cottage– a very scenic route. You said you were a good walker.’

‘And I am.’

‘Then follow me.’