Wishful Seeing by Janet Kellough Page B

the shore of Lake Ontario to Cobourg for a few days rest before he and James traded routes.
    For the first hour or so a flush of exhilaration allowed him to ignore his physical discomfort. He had acquitted himself well, although in all modesty he had to admit that the Baptist minister had proved a poor opponent. Still, Thaddeus knew that his efforts could only help the church, and himself, as well. He would have many baptisms to perform and surely many marriages and confirmations and burials would follow. It was a pleasure to labour on such fertile ground. He just wished that the ground he was attempting to sow wasn’t quite so rough.
    After his elation wore off, he realized that he was very tired. First there had been the journey from Cobourg to Cold Springs before his day had even really started, and then the three hours of standing on his feet, preaching. And now another long ride. When he’d first started the itinerant life so many years ago he had ridden for hours every day, and had sometimes been offered nothing more than a pile of straw as a bed at the end of it. Many a morning had begun with nothing more than a bowl of thin porridge. Soft in my old age, he thought, and yet he couldn’t help but look forward to completing his round and returning to his comfortable manse in Cobourg.
    He had moments when he felt a little guilty about claiming such a large house when his assistant shared a modest cottage with his parents and four siblings. But as the senior man, Thaddeus was entitled to the benefit, and he intended to make full use of it. After years of making do in tiny houses and furnished rooms in other people’s homes, he found that he appreciated the space. He would make a start on his memoirs. He would pore through the many years of notes and records he had kept and put them in some kind of order. He would take over one upstairs room entirely as his office, so he could leave his papers and notebooks spread out over a table. And on those nights when sleep eluded him, he could rise, light a lamp, and write the story of his life.
    He shifted in his saddle again to ease the ache in his knee. He carried a supply of willow tea with him now, which he brewed up on a regular basis. His son Luke had told him that it seemed to work best when used regularly and not just when his bones were rattled from the long rides. Luke had also given him a small bottle of laudanum for the really bad times, but Thaddeus didn’t like to use it unless he absolutely had to. It dulled his wits and made him careless. He needed to stay alert. One mistake with his horse and they would both be out of action. He was fortunate that the good weather had lasted this far into the year, for when the fall rains came, the ride would be muddy and treacherous.
    Even so, he much preferred riding alone with no sound but that of the wind and the birds to keep him company. He was relieved to be done with the first difficult week with his assistant. Small felt obliged to supply conversation as they rode, and it had taken only a few hours for Thaddeus to tire of it. Now he could let his thoughts wander without interruption.
    He found that they were wandering far too often in the direction of the Howell woman. He wasn’t sure why she unsettled him so. It was the dress, he guessed: a token of a lost time, a happier time. A memory he thought had been lost.
    He wondered if he should have a word with the husband about the bruise he had seen on her arm. That could be tricky. The Howells were not members of his church. Mr. Howell was, if not an important man, at least a self-important one. He might not take kindly to an admonition from a Methodist saddlebag preacher, someone who, Thaddeus was sure, Howell regarded as a lower order of being. Besides, sometimes confrontation made things worse. But Thaddeus was sure the bruising had not been inflicted by a cow’s hoof as the woman claimed. Someone had grabbed her wrist and wrenched it, leaving the