The Kennedy carriage was far more comfortable than the mail coach he'd ridden to Portsmouth. Even still, after a few miles the bumping and swaying began to work their misery on his innards. Archie had made the journey several times and knew the countryside well. Horatio soon lay back against the cushions, content to listen while Kennedy rattled on about the little hamlets they were passing through.
With him such a poor conversationalist, his friend often lapsed into silence too as the miles stretched on. He even caught an unusually pensive expression on Archie's face, now and then, though the air of melancholy was generally quickly punctured by a new commentary on the comeliness of a farm girl they were passing, or the quality of the ale in a village's tavern.
They stopped some little while before noon, to rest the horses. Though it was a cold, gray day, Kennedy proposed a walk around the town, rather than staying in the inn, and Horatio gratefully accepted. He began to feel himself again as they strolled down the one main street and into the surrounding countryside. The sight of a couple cows, nosing about for uneaten weeds, and the jumbled earth of fallow fields made him suddenly homesick for Kent. Archie just seemed happy to be stretching out, even trying to coax Horatio into a race along the lane that he didn't have the energy to agree to, no matter how pleasant it was not to be confined to the bare yardage of a ship's deck.
By the time they returned to the carriage, the coachman was ready again, a cold lunch stored in a napkin for them. Even the simple fare of fresh bread, butter, and cheese, with a bit of ham, tasted like heaven after weeks of hard tack and burgoo. They ate the whole loaf between them with hardly a pause, and searched the fabric for crumbs before retiring to their opposite seats to attempt the luxury of an afternoon nap.
When his belly began to rebel again, however, Kennedy noticed immediately, and offered to read aloud. Horatio gratefully accepted the distraction. The book Kennedy had chosen for the journey was a rather lurid tale of murder and illicit romance. After a few pages, he recognized it as that Scottish melodrama Archie had begun weeks ago, while propped against his stomach in Justinian's light room. It had been their last good day, though it had seemed uncomfortable enough at the time. Horatio remembered the weight of that bright-haired head, and wished for a moment that he was laying across the other bench instead.
While Horatio had known already that Kennedy read well, his friend turned this recitation into a performance. Archie slipped without effort between several Scottish and English dialects, each character unique and the narration delivered with appropriate pomposity. Despite the risk to his insides, Horatio couldn't help opening his eyes to watch Archie.
His reader's attention was thoroughly captured by the material, so Horatio was free to let his gaze linger on curving and curling lips, on the hand waving and fisting then draping across a wide forehead with a despairing sigh. The story was ludicrous, and the writing overwrought, but Horatio was sad all the same when Archie finally pleaded a sore throat and had to stop.
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