Page 60 of Not Quite a Lady
‘Allerton? No-one of that name here, Miss.’ The harassed man behind the flap-up counter ran a cursory eye down a bulky register, shook his head and began to turn away.
‘Lovell then,’ Lily persisted, her voice rising to compete with the racket from the coffee room. ‘He was here yesterday.’
‘He’s not here either.’
Exasperated, Lily took hold of the book and swung it round, running a gloved forefinger down the pot-hooked and blotted writing. ‘There! Lovell.’
‘That was Tuesday night. He left yesterday afternoon.’
‘But–’But he is wounded! Mr Welch said he should rest all day and all night.‘Where? Where did he go?’
‘Now how would I know that, Miss?’ The man removed the ledger from her grip and shut it firmly. ‘He paid, he left.’
‘You mean you have no record of who catches which coach here?’ Lily demanded. She was not used to be treated in such an off-hand manner and was inclined to put it down to the plainness of her dress.
‘Of course we have.’ The man’s expression made her hackles rise still further. ‘But that’s in the stage booking office, not in here.’ He pointed outside. ‘Across the yard.’
Lily stalked back outside, was ordered to, ‘Mind yourself – got a death wish have yer?’ by an ostler leading a pair of horses and joined the long and noisy queue outside the ticket office.
He has gone. He cannot have gone, he should not be travelling, he is hurt. Where has he gone?Her head was spinning.
Eventually, after a spirited exchange of personalities with a woman with a goose in a rush basket who attempted to push in front of her, Lily reached the desk.
‘Where to?’
‘I do not know. I don’t want a ticket – I want to know where someone went to yesterday.’
‘What time?’ With a definite air of being put-upon the clerk reached for a bundle of waybills.
‘Afternoon.’
‘Have you any idea how many coaches leave here of an afternoon, Miss?’
‘No, and I have not the slightest interest either,’ Lily snapped. ‘How many go to Newcastle?’
‘Under Lyme? Only that’s the Manchester coach from the Belle Sauvage.’
‘Upon Tyne.’ Lily swung round to glare at the woman withthe goose which was pecking at her pelisse now. ‘Will you kindly keep that creature under control?’
‘Name?’
‘Lovell or Allerton.’
The man sucked an inky finger and ran it down the list. ‘Yes. Cove name of Lovell. Ticket through to Newcastle upon Tyne on the three thirty. Inside seat.’
‘What time does it get there?’
‘Half past ten tonight. Fast coach – thirty one hours,’ the man added with pride.
‘Thank you.’ Lily stepped away from the window and made her way back to her carriage.
He had gone. She nodded absent thanks to the footman who helped her in, and tried to work it out. Jack had left at three thirty in the afternoon, having been up at dawn. He had fought a duel, been wounded, had come back here to this noisy bedlam where he could hardly have hoped to rest and then had set out, jammed into the stage with probably five other persons, to be jolted North for a night and a day.
And it was her fault that he was wounded and probably her fault he had left London without finding an investor. And they had parted in anger and with him thinking her forward, vulgar, interfering and overbearing. Someone who thought they could buy anything, including a man. A husband.
Lily bit her lip. She had thought just that. She realised the footman was still standing patiently holding the door, waiting for her orders.
‘Home please. At once.’
