Epilogue

Camelot

Adam stepped out of the line shack and ran his eyes over the horizon. The sun had risen only two hours earlier, the grass was still wet with dew, but the milky blue sky promised a mild late summer day. The scorching days had gone; the early September had already brought some much longed for cooling. An ideal day for travelling.

Juliet had finished her rummaging in the saddlebags, and joined him at the door, her hands hidden behind her back. She cast a short glance into the shack, and then leaned over and gave Adam a peck on his cheek.

“I’ve made you some biscuits, Adam,” she said, producing a small cloth bag from her back.

“Biscuits.” Adam accepted the bag and peeked inside. The baked items were crudely shaped, but their smell was delicious. Ever since Juliet had surprised the town with an article about that newly published book on household management, Adam had been provided with the trophies of her exploits in Isabel Beeton’s realm of cookery and baking. Mostly her artifacts were fabulous, but Adam suspected that she simply suppressed her failures. Cooking seemed to be a new adventure for her, and she approached it with the same thoroughness and determination she had shown when she had learned how to shoot. As far as he knew, he was the only one on whom were bestowed the benefits of her new found occupation, and he took great pride in it.

“Lemon biscuits, to be precise.” She pointed to the bag. “Come on, try one.”

He grinned and obeyed. “Mmh, they are good,” he proclaimed, and smiled at her obvious joy. “But these are cookies, Mylady.”

“Pfrt.” She tilted her head. “They may be cookies when Hop Sing bakes them; but since I made them, they are biscuits.”

“Oh. I see.” Adam chuckled. “And if Mrs. Hawkins made them?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Then they’d be stones.”

She kept her serious expression for exactly two seconds before she joined in his laughter.

Adam munched another cookie, or rather biscuit, then turned and called into the shack. “Get a move on; here are bis—err, cookies waiting for you!”

He returned his gaze to Juliet just in time to see her leaning back and crossing her arms dramatically. “You are redistributing my biscuits?” she asked teasingly, her left eyebrow scarcely below her hairline.

“You said they were mine. And I like to share.” He smiled smugly. “Maybe I want to show off my girl’s—” He was cut off by a slap to his midsection.

“Show off your own qualities, my boy.” Juliet’s finger wagged in front of his face; then she strained to peek over his shoulder into the hut. “What is that man doing for so long? We said nine o’clock, didn’t we?”

“We did; and it’s only about a quarter past, Juliet,” Adam placated her. “Be easy on the poor fellow, he’s still recuperating from a nearly fatal injury.”

“It’s been four weeks now; and Doctor Martin said he was fully recovered. And really, he hasn’t got that much to pack anyway.”

Adam was saved from a response when he was shoved out of the doorway by a pale hand from behind, and a slightly hoarse voice asked, “Did I hear cookies?”

“Yes, you heard right, Mr. Poole,” Juliet said, snatching the bag out of Adam’s hand and shoving it into Poole’s. “And Mr. Cartwright is eager to share them with you.” Had she been a little girl, she’d have stuck her tongue out at him, Adam felt certain.

Poole looked at Adam, puzzled, and at a nod helped himself to a cookie. The man was still ashen-faced, but he had put on some weight in the past week, and his pallor looked much less unhealthy than it had only a few days ago. Maybe the gunslinger wasn’t quite as fully recovered as Paul had made Juliet think, but Poole was a tough fellow, and he would be all right. He just couldn’t afford more time to heal completely. Every day more he spent here at the line shack could be the one too many. It was more than a small wonder that their schemes hadn’t been revealed already. The sooner Poole left the district, the better.

Juliet went back to her horse and took a bundle of papers and a book out of the saddlebags. When she returned with them, her face had lost the mock-annoyed expression.

“We’ve assembled everything in this portfolio,” she said looking at Poole. She opened the folder and held up an envelope. “This is the money. You will have to buy the tickets yourself, Mr. Poole. We thought about ordering them, but the telegraph office is not the most private place in town, and it would have been very suspicious if Mr. Cartwright ordered a ticket to New York, and then never went there.”

“The next ship to New York leaves San Francisco in two weeks; you shouldn’t have trouble getting there in time,” Adam chipped in. “In New York you immediately embark on the Great Eastern; she leaves for London shortly after you arrive. And don’t forget to keep your head low as long as you’re on land; it would be a real shame if you ran across your dear friend Mr. Raymond.”

“I don’t know,” Poole drew out. “I sure could have a word or two for him.”

“Rubbish,” Juliet admitted no contradiction. “You wouldn’t want to spoil our well-laid plans, would you?” She indicated the papers. “Here’s the letter to my solicitor, Mr. Lorbander. The address is Limeburner Lane, quite easy to find, near the Old Bailey. He will help you with all further arrangements. I requested in my letter that he take you to Barnstoke Hall and introduce you to John Rigby, the caretaker. You’ll hand Mr. Rigby this letter,” she displayed another envelope, “and then you just leave it all to him.”

She shoved all the papers back into the folder, and handed it Poole, along with the book. “And I highly recommend you read this book on the passage to London, Mr. Poole,” she added, looking deeply into his eyes. “Mr. Rigby won’t accept a gardener who doesn’t know anything about gardening, so you better learn to be a knowledgeable one.”

Poole studied the book’s cover. “A Dictionary of Modern Gardening,” he read. “You have a book on everything, don’t you?”

“Well, on everything important. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Landreth tell you all about gardening in this book. Please pay special attention to the chapter about pruning roses—I don’t want you ruin my Queen de Bourbon.”

“Your Queen de—what?”

“Never mind, Poole,” Adam jumped in before Juliet could get verbose about rose varieties. “Just don’t kill any flowers.”

“Or people, Mr. Poole.” Juliet held a hand up when Poole opened his mouth to protest. “I know, you already said you won’t exercise your former profession anymore, but…you have to understand, Mr. Poole, that English people are…different. They have a strange sense of humour which might—“

She raised an eyebrow at Adam’s low “You don’t say,” and, rolling her eyes, shook her head.

“…which might make you think they are insulting you, but they aren’t. Just don’t take it personally, stay cool and learn to laugh at yourself.”

“Maybe you have a book on that too?” Poole asked with a sarcastic smile.

“I could offer you the Ladies Book of Etiquette,” Juliet replied; and she let a little smirk perform a dance on her face while her eyes twinkled. “But I assume you will be able to survive without it.”

She chuckled, and then offered the ex-gunslinger and soon-to-be-gardener her hand. “I’m certain you will manage. Fare well, and good luck, Mr. Poole!”

Langford Poole, six feet two, westerner through and through, hired killer for the last two decades, adopted a stunning resemblance to Josiah, the stable-boy, as he shuffled his feet, then shook her hand with emphasis, and said sheepishly, “Thank you, ma’am. I won’t let you down; and I promise to look after that Queen of Whiskey-flowers.”

Juliet bit her lips, pressed out a choked, “I’m glad to hear that; thank you, Mr. Poole,” and then turned away abruptly.

Adam, barely able to suppress a chuckle of his own, clapped Poole on his shoulder. “Before you start I’d like a word with you alone.” He turned to Juliet. “If you’ll excuse us….”

She smiled. “Yes; certainly.”

Adam and Poole watched her making her way to where the horses were waiting. When she was out of hearing range, Adam spoke up.

“Poole, there’s one thing—“

“San Francisco.” Poole narrowed his eyes. “Changed your mind about not wanting to know?”

“No, I don’t want to hear it. And I want you to forget it.”

Poole raised his hands. “I said I wouldn’t tell if you took me on. Well, you took me on, and I won’t tell. It was a fair trade.” He let his hands fall back down. “I told you once I always keep my promises. I’m a man of honour!”

Adam contemplated him for a moment. “Yes, I remember. Sorry, I just…I’m dead serious about this, Poole. No one, neither here nor in England is to know that. No one, understood?”

Poole snorted. “I told you—Are you sure you don’t want to know? It’s really—”

“I’m sure.” Adam nodded. “I am sure.”

Both men’s gazes wandered to Juliet, who was rummaging in her saddlebag, arranging and rearranging things: a picture of forced activity.

“Why are you doing this, Cartwright?” Poole broke the silence, tapping the leather folder.

“Because I believe everyone deserves a second chance. Because I think you will make the best out of it.”

“And for the lady.”

Adam hesitated, then smiled slowly. “And for the lady.” He watched Poole’s face, his knowing nod, and on sudden impulse he asked, “And you? You are doing this for the lady too, aren’t you?”

Poole stared at his feet. “Yes,” he said very quietly.

“I thought you didn’t like her. If I recall correctly you called her a ‘snobby smart mouth.’”

Poole, baring his teeth, squinted his eyes at the still-low sun. He chewed on his cheeks for a while, then looked back at Adam. “Yeah, well, she’s kinda strange. But she grows on you, y’know?”

Adam laughed. “Oh, yeah, that she does!”

They shook hands without changing more words, and then Langford Poole fastened his small bundle to the saddle of the horse Adam had brought him, and mounted up. Adam watched his figure getting smaller and smaller while he rode into his future.

The man he had nearly killed, even though he had tried not to. The man who had nearly killed him. And what for?

He felt commotion at his side, and then there was Juliet’s arm sneaking around his, and her fingers entwining with his. She squeezed his hand and laid her head on his shoulder, nibbling with her soft lips at the tender spot on his neck, just behind his ear.

“Are we doing the right thing?” she breathed.

“It’s a bit late to ask that now, don’t you think?” He raised their entangled hands, and kissed her fingers, one by one. “Anyhow, when Mr. Proudfoot asked, and Paul, you were very convincingly adamant that it was the right thing. They wouldn’t have played along if you hadn’t.” He buried his face in her silky hair and inhaled her scent of honey and perfume. “Don’t worry. Poole’s going to be fine. He’ll make it.”

He didn’t just say it. He truly believed it. The more he had talked to Poole these past few weeks, the surer he had become that the man was ready for a change. And Juliet’s choice of profession for the gunslinger was as much of a change as a man could make: from a hired killer to a paid protector of plants. When Adam had marveled at the coincidence that just one particular position had to be filled, Juliet had grinned. “There is no such thing as coincidence, Adam,” she had said. “I thought it was highly appropriate.”

“Yes, he’ll make it,” she said now. “But if he murders my Queen de Bourbon…” She turned to look into his face, smilingly sending him a shower of sparkles from her eyes, then her glance fell on their interlaced hands. “It’s unbelievable,” she said while tenderly stroking the soft, pink flesh of his palm. “Even your thumb finally healed. I really thought it was a lost cause.”

“I promised you it would heal.”

“Yes, but you nearly couldn’t keep that promise.”

“In the end I did. In the end I kept all my promises.”

“In the end, yes. But it was a long way.” She bent over his hand, and pressed her lips on his palm.

Adam opened his hand and cupped her cheek. She leaned into his touch, and they stayed like that for a moment until he pulled her to his chest.

“All is well that ends well, Mylady,” he said and kissed her forehead.

Juliet leaned back in his embrace and lifted an eyebrow. “And just because Marlowe has said that, you think I’ll accept it?”

“I think you’ll accept it because it’s true.” He drew her back. “And it was Shakespeare who said it, Juliet.”

“Oh, Marlowe, Shakespeare, whatever you call him.” Her low voice was muffled even more because her face was buried in his shoulder, but he felt the telltale twitching of suppressed laughter.

“Yeah,” he said. “Whatever you call him. I prefer Shakespeare though; and I just love his immortal words: Come live with me, and be my love; And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.”

“Now that is really Marlowe, Adam!” Juliet’s face suddenly was in front of his, very indignant with tightly pressed lips and reproachful eyes.

“Oh, Marlowe, Shakespeare,” Adam said gaily and pulled her back to his chest. “Whatever you call him, Mylady.”

He felt her trembling again, and then heard her saying silently, “Say it again, Adam.”

“Say what?”

“The…immortal words.”

“Come live with me, and be my love…”

And she sighed.

___________________________________________________________________

When we are no longer able to change a situation,
we are challenged to change ourselves. ~ Victor Frankl

Who ever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight? ~ Christopher Marlowe

*** finis ***