“Dammit, Emm, I have to—”
“A strange little note arrived a short while ago.”
“Note? What note? Is it ransom?”
“No. It seems to be from Mr. Galbraith.”
“Galbraith? Ned Galbraith? What’s it say?”
“It was addressed to you, but I opened it anyway.” He put out his hand for it, but she held it back. “I’ll read it to you while you eat.”
She waited until, with a long-suffering expression, he shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Then she read the note aloud: “‘Found your missing package in good condition. Will return it to you at earliest convenience—Friday night or early Saturday morning. E. Galbraith.’” She looked at Cal. “Well?”
He held out his hand and she gave the note to him. He glanced at the signature, then slumped back against the pillows. “She’s safe! Galbraith’s got her.”
“Thank God!” Emm plopped down on the bed beside him. Coffee slopped over, dripping onto the tray, but they neither noticed nor cared. “I thought that’s what the note must mean, but I couldn’t be sure.”
Rose and George burst in. “Is it true? Lily’s been found? She’s safe?” Clearly they’d been listening at the door.
Cal nodded. “Yes, she’s safe. My friend Galbraith has her. He’s bringing her home.”
There was an outburst of relief—laughter and tears and hugging—and when it was all settled, and the coffee well and truly spilled—Rose plonked herself on the end of the bed. “We thought that’s what the note must mean, but why would he call Lily a ‘package’? Why send such a peculiar message?”
George nodded. “Yes, why not just say Lily’s safe and he’s bringing her home?” Her dog, Finn, had followed her in. He sidled up to Cal’s side of the bed and sat down, looking mournful and underfed.
“It was something we learned to do during the war—send messages that on the surface appeared innocuous, but that the person receiving them would understand.” Cal passed a piece of toast to the dog. “When did the note arrive?”
“About half an hour ago,” Emm told him. “It was brought by a young man, dirty, unshaven and mud-spattered, so I wasn’t sure what to think, especially as he claimed he was to be paid five pounds.” She turned the note over and showed him the postscript. “But then I realized he looked much the same as you did when you got home last night. He’s in the kitchen now, being fed, if you want to question him.”
“We already have,” George said. “He doesn’t know anything about Lily, just that this note was sent by a man who arrived at the inn he drinks at, with a girl he claimed was his sister.” She and Rose exchanged glances.
“He said the girl arrived wearing nothing but a fur rug,” Rose said.
“What?” Cal stiffened. Coffee went everywhere and the plate with his half-eaten breakfast slipped to the floor. He took no notice. “What do you mean, ‘nothing but a fur rug’?”
Rose shrugged. “That’s what he said. And before you go and try to shake more out of him, he said he hadn’t seen her himself, but that’s what he’d heard.”
Cal swore under his breath. Emm slipped her hand on his shoulder. “People can get things muddled,” she said quietly. “There’s no point worrying about it now. We’ll see Lily and Galbraith tonight, God willing, or tomorrow, and then we’ll find out what really happened.” She gave the girls a look. “Thank you, girls. George, if your dog has finished with Cal’s breakfast, you can take him outside.”
Relieved, but subdued, the two girls left.
Cal’s gaze burned into Emm. “Naked but for a fur rug?” He groaned.
“Stop imagining the worst. Your friend Galbraith said she was safe—just remember that.” She slipped her arms around him and lay beside him, her head on his chest. “All we can do now is wait.”
Chapter Nine
“You men have none of you any hearts.”
“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY
After a while the journey took on a rhythm. Edward read, chapter after chapter, seeming never to tire of it. Betty soon put her book aside and became engrossed in Persuasion.
Whenever they stopped to change horses, they hastened into the inn to relieve themselves or simply to stretch their legs. And though Lily tried to persuade Edward to take a break—for the sake of his voice, not because she wasn’t enjoying the story—he did for a short while, and then picked up the book and resumed the story.
She suspected he was enjoying it as much as she was.
When he wasn’t reading aloud, when they were all sitting watching the scenery pass by, every time she glanced at him—and for some reason her gaze kept being drawn to him—he was watching her.
Oh, he seemed to be looking at the scenery, but she could see he was really looking at her in the reflection of his window.
It should have made her uncomfortable—and it did make her feel a little warm and sort of tingly and self-conscious—but somehow she didn’t mind.
And once he started reading again and not watching her, she was free to watch him. He really was the most beautiful man.
Every stop was as short as they could make it—they wanted to reach London as soon as possible. They didn’t even stop for luncheon—the large basket Betty’s mother had given them proved to contain a veritable feast. There was cold chicken, salad, an egg-and-bacon pie, bread and butter, a rich fruitcake that Betty insisted be eaten with slices of cheese that her mother had provided, and apples that should also be eaten with the cheese.
The meal was washed down with something Betty called scrumpy, which was a kind of cider that her father made, though there was a bottle of ale for Edward. There was a large wrapped packet of food for Jimmy and Mr. Walton, but they only got a bottle of cold tea to wash their meal down because as Betty informed them,
