Lucy's piping voice floated back to the wagon on a gusty breeze. Belle looked up from the petticoat she was making for her child, a hand atop her hat to keep the wind from stealing it. Because the day had dawned clear and cloudless, they’d stripped the wagon of its canvas covering, which meant there was nothing to block her view save the arched ribs of the canopy's frame. Lucy was perched atop the forwardmost of the two horses pulling the wagon. Caught in the safe circle of Richard’s arm, she leaned far out over her steed to look back at her mother. “You are, my love,” Belle called to her, answering the same question for at least the dozenth time in the last hour. Lucy's face glowed with the praise. Or perhaps it was the sun. Despite Belle's warning her daughter had removed her hat. With a wave, the child straightened, the sound of her happy chatter filling the air. “Why didn’t we think to let her ride with Richard days ago?” Peg asked, peering up at Belle from beneath her hat’s broad brim as she took another stitch in her own project.
