Abandoned to the Prodigal - Mary Lancaster Page 0,7

dog in front of him. His fellow roof-passenger, who had slept most of the first stage, now woke up and yawned. He proved to be a cheerful young man called Gordon, a schoolteacher by profession, and the possessor of a pack of cards. Since Dan had no money, they played for imaginary guineas. Dan was ten up by the next change.

“You are clearly a lucky man,” Gordon said disconsolately.

“Only when the stakes aren’t real,” he replied, letting Gun jump down.

“Good Lord,” Gordon said with awe. “Who is that goddess fending off your beast?”

“Miss Smith,” Dan said with a surprising surge of protectiveness.

He managed to send a porter running to fetch her lemonade, which she drained almost at once before bestowing on him a dazzling smile of gratitude.

“Are you comfortable enough in there?” he asked her.

“Considerably more than you must be,” she replied. “Though I suppose you get the better view.”

“Your traveling companions pleasant enough?” he asked casually, catching the gaze of the oily merchant striding back from the inn.

“Most interesting people,” Juliet said unexpectedly. “Mrs. Harper is going to find her missing daughter, who was last seen in Kidfield of all places. Mr. and Mrs. Brown are taking their daughter to become a nursery maid at a big house near Newcastle. And Mr. George, there, is making a fortune in paraffin oil. Isn’t that astonishing?”

“No,” Dan managed breathlessly before he saw her own eyes dancing. Clearly, she had a similar opinion of the merchant. He grinned and snapped his fingers to Gun.

“A damnably lucky man,” Gordon observed when he resumed his place on the roof. “Any chance of an introduction, old fellow?”

*

By the end of the afternoon, for Juliet, the novelty of stagecoach travel had definitely worn off. Uncomfortably cramped, rattled, hungry, and bored, she had too much time to think as her fellow passengers lapsed into silence. Mr. George, the merchant, was reading a newspaper—it looked more like a scandal sheet to Juliet—and sniggering. Mrs. Brown and her daughter were talking in whispers, while Mr. Brown snored gently. Mrs. Harper, of the missing daughter, scowled over her knitting, her thoughts clearly even less pleasant than Juliet’s.

By the time they stopped at Stamford for a meal, it was after eight o’clock in the evening. Juliet, squashed against the door by Mrs. Harper’s knitting arm, almost fell into the fresh, evening air, her limbs stiff, her stomach rumbling.

Mr. Stewart, dangling precariously off the roof on his front, was shouting something to a porter who ran off, hopefully, to do his bidding. Her friend grinned, rolled, and more or less slid to the ground before her.

“Supper is ordered, but we only have half an hour,” he said, offering her his arm.

Just as she took it, a sudden, deafening bark rent the air, and Gun shot past her in joyful pursuit of something. There was indeed justice to the dog’s name. Someone yelled, and a crash of falling tin was heard, followed by a tinkle of glass and a roar of wrath.

“Oh, the devil,” Daniel said in resigned tones. “Excuse me, one moment…”

He ran off after Gun, and Juliet, amused, accompanied Mrs. Harper into the inn. It was already busy, the noise deafening and somewhat disorienting. But as she sat down, Mr. Stewart strode in with Gun at his heels once more. The innkeeper remonstrated with him over the presence of the dog. Juliet didn’t hear what was said, but the dog slunk past her under the table, and his master soon sat down, too.

“All well?” Juliet asked him across the table.

“I had to grovel, but the only breakage was an empty bottle.”

A bowl of soup appeared in front of her, and, taking her cue from Daniel, she drank it as quickly as she could. A further course arrived before they had finished—a meat pie of some kind with vegetables. Daniel promptly tipped his into the tin bowl he took from his satchel and passed it across the table to her. Under the shocked gaze of Mrs. Harper, Juliet added her pie to the bowl, though there was no room for any more vegetables. She passed it back to Daniel, who closed the lid and carried on eating his soup.

“Don’t give him your food, dear,” Mrs. Harper murmured. “He should be ashamed—”

“Oh, no, ma’am, we’ll share it,” Juliet assured her. “Mr. Stewart shared his breakfast with me this morning when I had nothing.”

“My dear, men like him don’t give anything for nothing,” Mrs. Harper hissed, glaring at Daniel. “They merely take advantage of