for available rooms tonight instead of wasting valuable time tomorrow. With all the restrictions Mr. Dunworthy had put on where she could live, it could take her days to find a room, and she’d already lost one day.
She glanced over at the aristocratic gentleman, but he was still reading his Times. She looked around at the others, wondering if there was a newspaper in the stout man’s coat pocket or tucked into the white-haired woman’s knitting bag, but the only one she could see was the one the dog’s owner had spread out to sit on, and he showed no sign of moving.
None of them did. They were clearly settling in for the night. The white-haired woman was putting away her knitting, the other women had covered themselves with their coats and leaned their heads back against the wall, and the mother had closed the fairy-tale book. “And the prince found Cinderella and took her back to his castle—”
“And they lived happily ever after!” the littlest one burst out, unable to contain herself.
“Yes, they did. Now, time for bed,” she said, and the two older girls curled up on the floor beside their mother, but the littlest one stayed stubbornly upright.
“No! I want to hear another story. The one with the trail of bread crumbs,” which Polly assumed was “Hansel and Gretel.”
“All right, but first you must lie down,” the mother said, and the little girl obediently put her head in her mother’s lap. The stout man next to Polly folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and immediately began to snore, and so did the man with the dog.
I’ll have to wait till morning to look at the rooms to let, Polly thought, but a few minutes later the dog’s owner stood up, bent and patted his dog, and walked over to the far end of the cellar, followed by his dog. He edged past the screen and bookcases and disappeared into the darkness.
He’s going to the loo, Polly thought, got to her feet, and walked over to see if the spread-out newspaper was an old one or today’s. If it was, when he came back, she’d ask him if she could look at the “rooms to let” listings.
“You can’t sit there,” the sour-faced woman who’d shouted at her when she came in called out. “That space is saved.”
“I know,” Polly said. “I only wanted to look at—”
“That newspaper belongs to Mr. Simms.” She heaved herself up and started across the room as if to do battle.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—” Polly murmured and retreated to her own space, but the woman wasn’t satisfied.
“Reverend Norris,” she said to the clergyman, “that newspaper belongs to Mr. Simms.”
“I’m certain the young lady didn’t mean any harm, Mrs. Rickett,” he said mildly.
She ignored him. “Mr. Simms,” she called to the dog’s owner as he came back, “someone tried to pinch your newspaper.” She pointed accusingly at Polly. “She walked over, bold as brass, the minute you were gone.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal it,” Polly protested. “I only wanted to look at the rooms to let—”
“Rooms to let?” Mrs. Rickett said sharply, obviously not believing her.
“Yes, I’ve only just arrived in London, and I need to find somewhere to stay,” Polly said, wondering if she should stand up again and go over to Mr. Simms to apologize, but she feared that would only escalate the situation, so she stayed where she was. “I do apologize, Mr. Simms.”
“The newspaper’s to mark my space,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” Polly said, though she hadn’t known, and that was the problem. By walking over to his space she’d apparently broken some rule, and, from the looks everyone was giving her, a crucial one. Mrs. Wyvern and the knitter were both glaring at her. Even the dog looked reproachful.
“Did she do something naughty, Mummy?” the littlest girl asked.
“Shh,” her mother whispered.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Polly said. “I promise it won’t happen again,” hoping an abject apology would put an end to it, but it didn’t.
“Mr. Simms has sat in that space every night,” the stout man said.
“Respecting another’s shelter arrangements is vital,” Mrs. Wyvern said to the clergyman. “Don’t you agree, Reverend?”
Help, Polly thought. Colin, you said if I got in trouble, you’d come rescue me. Well, now would be a good time.
“If she wanted a newspaper,” Mrs. Rickett said, “she should have purchased one at a newsagent’s—” and stopped, looking at the aristocratic gentleman. He’d stood up, holding his newspaper, which he’d folded in quarters, and