Happily, Spinster Beakman had found herself a husband at last, a widower with two children, a fellow of middle years hired on by the squire, Sir Romney Embleton, as both a surgeon for the inevitable accidental injuries on his estate, and as a dispensing apothecary in his off-hours. Both the brick-works and the tannery used this new-come Mr. Archer's services, sending their sick and hurt to him with coloured paper chits which required him to treat or dose them for free, though both establishments paid him an annual retainer, as did Sir Romney.

"They've one o' them new cottages, east near the brick-works," Will Cony told them, "an' ol' Beakman's set up proper by their fire in his old age, thank th' Lord… though he does tramp in 'ere when th' weather's good, fer th' newspapers, th' ale, an' th' ploughman's dinner." That would have been an apple, a slab of cheese, a pint of beer, and perhaps a hunk of bread; a fixture on every rural tavern's chalked menu board the whole nation over. "Fall off yer 'orse, Cap'm Lewrie, an' Mister Archer'll fix ye right up, no matter 'ow many bones that ye break!"

After the better part of an hour spent in pleasant nattering, it was time to get on. The day was drawing to a close, the sun was lowering, the temperature was dropping, and damned if it didn't smell like there might be more snow in the offing. The hired coach-and-four could put themselves up at the livery stables for the night (at Lewrie's expense), but it would take longer to unload the dray waggon of all of his goods, and most-like the waggoner and his beasts would have to put up in Lewrie's barns for the night… and he'd have to feed the man, to boot.