Toward the Sea of Freedom by Sarah Lark Read Free Book Online Page B

relative, and surely she would have found a coat to better equip Kathleen for the cold. Likewise, Kathleen would have worn her Sunday dress for a visit to town.
    “We, we don’t have anything to give,” she explained briefly. “I’m going to offer my aunt comfort and company.”
    Ian laughed. “I could use some of that as well,” he teased her. “So if you’d like to offer me a bit, there’s still a spot open next to me.” He knocked on the box.
    There was also a bench in the back of the two-wheeled cart where Kathleen would have much preferred to sit. But saddlery and tools lay strewn about, and beggars could not be choosers. So she climbed onto the box and took a seat next to Ian. He had the horses trot onward again. Behind the cart followed two more horses and a mule.
    “And, and you?” Kathleen asked, though she was not at all interested. “Where are you going?”
    Ian raised his eyebrows. “Where does it look like? Do you think I’m taking the nags for a walk? The horse market in Wicklow. Early morning in the square off the wharf. I hope I can make some money from these three.”
    Kathleen glanced at the horses. She knew one of them.
    “The black one isn’t young anymore, is he?” she asked.
    That horse had pulled the cobbler’s cart since Kathleen was a little girl. Or was she mistaken? Wasn’t the cobbler’s horse already gray around the eyes? And didn’t it have a saddle sore on its back that was white? The horse that was now behind the cart was a gleaming black.
    “That one? He’s six years old and not a day more.” Ian acted insulted. “Look at his teeth if you don’t believe me.”
    Kathleen shrugged. The teeth would not have told her anything, but she could have sworn she had picked dandelions when it was waiting for its master in front of the cobbler’s workshop. Those were better days, when people did not cook the weeds on the roadside into soup. The horse had a sort of twirled mustache over its nostrils. Kathleen had never seen that on an animal before, and the cobbler must have thought it peculiar, too, or he would not have called the horse Blackbeard. But Kathleen did not want to argue with Ian. She was much too happy about getting a ride for that. The dappled horses trotted merrily onward. Surely, it was not more than an hour or so to Wicklow.
    So Kathleen tried to move the conversation from the horses to more innocuous subjects. She asked about Ian’s father, whose business, according to Ian, was going rather badly.
    “Doesn’t have any money at the moment,” Ian said casually.
    This surprised Kathleen. Ian’s father was a tenant of Lord Wetherby too, but he was in a much better position than the others. Patrick Coltrane was not working off his rent, since he paid it with his income from livestock trading.
    “At least not from cows and sheep,” Ian added, almost contemptuously. “What would they eat anyway? People are digging up the last roots themselves, after all.”
    “But you can sell horses?” Kathleen wondered.
    Ian laughed. “There are always a few rich gentlemen. In Wicklow and Dublin, some still need a horse—or want one. You just need to make it clear to them that a horse’ll make a lord out of a chandler. And in the country, the nags are cheap now.”
    Kathleen wondered just how much these chandlers knew about horses. They might well buy old Blackbeard once Ian made them believe it came from Lord Wetherby’s stables.
    “But I won’t be staying here long,” Ian ultimately revealed to her. “Not much money in this country. Enough to live, but if you want a bit more, no, I’m off overseas. I want to make a fortune.”
    “Really?” Kathleen asked, suddenly interested.
    Ian was the first she’d heard speak of emigrating out of true excitement rather than pure need.
    “A, a friend of mine also talks about that,” she said. “And I, I . . .”
    Ian looked at her curiously. “You want to as well? Well, that makes you the exception. Most of the girls