“Oh, yes. He loves it when people tell him how to run the country.”
Lord Howley strode off to find the King, who tended to paperwork in a nearby section of the gardens, and Azalea exhaled in relief. Several minutes later, she stood at the edge of the garden stream, a picturesque thing with a stone bridge arched over it.
After looking into the rushing current, Azalea lost hope. The stream was too deep and choppy to see the bottom. She balanced on a rock, leaning over to spot any glints of silver, and when she couldn’t, daintily leaped to another rock in the middle.
Something out of the corner of her eyes caught her attention. A dark figure—not black, but dark brown, broad shoulders, holding a tall hat and a stack of books. Azalea had a moment to take in the rumpled hair—
—before she lost her balance and crashed into the stream.
Ice water enveloped her. The shock slapped air from her and she flailed, the current pulling her crinolines and skirts. The world muffled into freezing, garbling underwater sounds of heartbeats in her ears. Azalea panicked.
A warm arm grasped her about the waist and pulled her to the surface. Gasping for air, Azalea found herself looking into an even warmer pair of soft brown eyes. Mr. Bradford!
Azalea coughed and sputtered, flushing because the water was only waist deep. And then she flushed deeper, because Mr. Bradford had his arm around her waist, keeping the current from taking her.
“Are you all right?” he said. Water dripped down his face and long nose.
He’s talking to you! her mind yelled. He’s talking to you! Say something clever! Say something clever!
Azalea said, “Mffloscoflphus?”
“The water is rather cold,” he said. He pulled her to the bank. Azalea chattered and shivered and coughed, and he continued asking her if she was all right. She wasn’t. She was morbidly embarrassed, that’s what she was.
“Thank you,” said Azalea, through chatters. She managed a shivering smile as he helped her to the broken path. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to return the books I borrowed,” he said. Even dripping wet, his hair still stuck up in tufts. “I’ve been looking for the King.”
Azalea guessed he had gotten lost—she still could get lost in this part of the gardens. She insisted on taking him to the King, who wasn’t far. She also insisted on helping Mr. Bradford gather his books and hat, which he’d thrown down pell-mell and which lay in a jumble over tree roots and fallen leaves.
To his credit, Mr. Bradford did not ask what Azalea had been doing in the stream. Together they walked over the uneven path, ducking tree branches, leaving a trail of water on the old brick.
“What would you do,” said Azalea, to keep from chattering as they hurried on. Their boots oosh eesh oosh eeshed with every footfall. “I mean, if you did win a seat in the House?”
The light in Mr. Bradford’s eyes brightened.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Gutters for the Courtroad bridge, so it doesn’t get icy?” Azalea teased. Mr. Bradford grinned bashfully, and absently smoothed down his wet hair.
“I’ve been thinking about transportation and things,” he admitted. “Railways.”
“A railway!” said Azalea. “In Eathesbury?”
“I went to the Delchastrian Exposition last year,” he said as they progressed into the tamer part of the gardens, where the trees actually stood in rows and the trellis above them didn’t have too many vines hanging in their faces. He had a spring to his steps and was more animated than Azalea had ever seen him. “Such technology, it is beyond me! They’ve a new engine; the pistons utilize the steam differently so it harbors more energy. It’s a wonder. I could only think, if Eathesbury had that! All our imports and exports are through ship and cart—”
He spoke on, of roads and checkpoints and imports, surplus and expenses, and in his excitement, Azalea could only think, Egads. Fairweller was right. You would be a good M.P.
“…I suppose it’s a bit boring,” he admitted, when he had finished after several minutes. “But I could talk all day about it.”
“Not boring at all,” said Azalea, smiling. “Mr. Bradford, why don’t you run for parliament? You would be quite as good as your father.”
Mr. Bradford’s cheerful demeanor went out like a snuffed candle. He fell quiet, his eyes solemn and serious.
After a long moment, he said, “Government wore my father down.” His rich-cream voice was low. “After my mother died. It etched in every line of his face and pushed him to breaking.”
Azalea reached out a soggy glove and touched his arm. Softly, just at his elbow. She wanted to give him toast. The sort that had melted butter and a bit of honey spread on top. It was a stupid thought, but there was something comforting about toast.
Mr. Bradford turned, and though his eyes were sad, they were hopeful, too. He placed his own soggy gloved hand over Azalea’s. Azalea’s heart nearly exploded.