They’d just passed a young lady and a girl who’d stepped into the grass so his vehicle could race on by. They had satchels strapped to their backs as if they were vagabonds, and the young lady was dragging some sort of bedding contraption. It looked as if there was a . . . a . . . dog lying on it? Was she pulling an injured dog?
He was positive it was Miss James. Who could forget that gorgeous red hair? It couldn’t be anybody else.
“Stop the carriage!” he shouted, and he pounded on the roof. “Stop please!”
The driver called to the horses, and the conveyance rattled to a halt. The team hadn’t expected to be reined in, the driver either, so it took a minute to completely cease its movement.
He’d been loafing at Barrett Manor with Libby Carstairs and Caroline Grey, the other Lost Girls who’d survived the shipwreck with Miss James. Miss Carstairs was marrying very soon, and they wanted Miss James to attend the wedding, to sit in the front pew as an honored guest with Miss Grey. Miss Carstairs’s fiancé, Lord Barrett, had sent Howard to fetch Miss James to his estate.
He was in Lord Barrett’s coach, accompanied by several of his servants, which made him seem grander and more important than he actually was.
He was a newspaper reporter for the London Times, and he’d written the stories about Miss Carstairs being Little Henrietta Pendleton. He’d also found Caroline Grey—Little Caro from the shipwreck—and after he’d delivered her to Barrett, Miss Carstairs had decided he was a handy fellow to have around. He was working valiantly to ingratiate himself so he’d have a good seat during the wedding ceremony.
The entire nation adored Miss Carstairs and wished they could attend, but there was limited space in the church, so only a few dozen people would view it in person. Howard would pen articles, and describe it so perfectly, that everyone in the kingdom would feel as if they’d been there too.
At his having summoned the driver, the servants were disconcerted. They knew they were traveling to transport Miss James to Barrett, and they were excited to have a role in bringing the third Lost Girl to Miss Carstairs.
An outrider peered in the window. “Is there a problem, Mr. Periwinkle?”
“Did you see that woman we passed?” he asked. “I think it’s Miss James.”
“We’re still a distance from Ralston,” the man said. “Why would she be walking on the road? I hope she hasn’t encountered some difficulties.”
“Open the door so I can talk to her. We flew by her so fast; I’m not totally certain it’s her.”
Howard jumped down and went toward the pair, and he waved to her. “Miss James? Joanna James? Is it you?”
The woman studied Howard as if she couldn’t place him. Finally, she nodded. “Yes, I’m Miss James.”
He kept on, trying to appear harmless. “It’s me, Howard Periwinkle. We met recently. I write for the London Times, and we chatted about it being the anniversary of the shipwreck.”
“Oh, yes, hello, Mr. Periwinkle. Our conversation might have happened a century ago. Why are you in the area again?”
He was close enough to discern she was in a dire condition. The girl too. Their faces were smudged black, their clothes dirty, and he could smell smoke emanating from their possessions. Miss James’s hands were wrapped with bandages, as if she’d injured them.
When he’d bumped into her earlier in the summer, she’d been pretty, vibrant, and full of vigor. Now she looked beaten down, abused, and without a friend in the world.
“What’s wrong, Miss James? You’re a tad undone. Why are you so far from home?”
“We’ve had a spot of trouble.”
The girl piped up with, “Our landlord evicted us, and we were supposed to depart at dawn, but before we could, our cottage caught fire. We barely escaped with our lives.”
He peeked down at the makeshift bed Miss James was pulling with straps attached to her shoulders, and he said, “Is that a . . . dog? Is he hurt?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “Whoever started it—”
“Someone started it? Deliberately?” He was aghast. What type of fiend would commit such a crime?
“Yes, someone started it”—the girl’s fury was evident—“and he attacked our dog, probably with a hatchet.” The girl pointed to Miss James’s bandages. “Joanna burned herself, trying to grab our bags out of the inferno.”
“I’m most distressed by this news,” he told them, “and I’m so glad I’ve arrived!”
Miss James seemed to find her manners. “Mr. Periwinkle, this is my niece, Clara. And our dog, Mutt. I apologize for our being in such a sorry state.”
“Don’t fash yourself, Miss James. I’m relieved to have stumbled on you when you could obviously use some assistance. Will you allow me to provide it?”
“Normally, I’d be too proud, and I’d insist I don’t need any help, but in light of our predicament, I shouldn’t act so stubbornly.”
He gestured to the carriage, to the driver and outriders who were watching the scene unfold.
“I was on my way to Ralston to speak with you,” he said.
“Is it time for the reunion?” Tears welled into her eyes. “I fear I’m not in much of a position to meet my old companions.”
“It’s better than a reunion. Miss Carstairs is getting married shortly.”
“That is splendid to hear,” Miss James said. “With it being such a terrible day in my own life, I’m happy to know there’s a celebration occurring. Who is her husband to be?”
“She’s marrying very high. To Lucas Watson, Lord Barrett? They’ve sent me to fetch you to the wedding. Will you come?”
“We’re in such bad shape. We can’t show up at Lord Barrett’s door, looking like homeless waifs—which is exactly what we are.”
Clara said, “Beggars can’t be choosers, Joanna. I believe we should go with Mr. Periwinkle. Maybe your friends at Barrett can explain what we should do next.”
“Just so, Miss Clara,” Howard agreed. “There is a kind and considerate group of
