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girls to stand in two orderly lines. Joseph guessed that she must be a teacher.
    The elderly, sour-faced porter, whose boots creaked just as he recalled they had done two days ago, set two valises out on the step and looked at John as if to say that it was his responsibility to see that they found the rest of their way to the carriage.
    One of the travelers was chattering volubly to anyone who cared to listen—and to everyone who did not, for that matter. The other wept.
    Joseph looked down upon the chaotic scene with avuncular good humor.
    And then Miss Martin stepped out onto the pavement and there was a noticeable hush among the ranks, though the second traveler continued to sob. Another lady came out behind her and addressed them with far more authority than the young teacher had demonstrated.
    â€œGirls,” she said, “did you overpower Miss Walton and drag her out here with you? You said your good-byes to Flora and Edna at breakfast, did you not? And should therefore now be in class?”
    â€œWe came to say good-bye to Miss Martin, miss,” one bold and quick-thinking girl said to the murmured agreement of a few others.
    â€œThat was extremely thoughtful of you all,” the teacher said, her eyes twinkling. “But Miss Martin would appreciate the gesture far more if you were to stand in two neat lines and conduct yourselves with the proper decorum.”
    The girls promptly and cheerfully obeyed.
    Miss Martin meanwhile was eyeing first the carriage, then Joseph’s horse, and then him.
    â€œGood morning, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, her voice brisk.
    She was dressed neatly and quite unappealingly in a gray cloak and bonnet—probably a sensible choice on a day that was cloudy and dreary despite the fact that it was almost summer. Behind her, the porter was lugging one sizable piece of baggage—no doubt hers—across the pavement and would have attempted to hoist it to the roof if John had not firmly intervened.
    â€œGood morning, Miss Martin,” Joseph said, doffing his tall hat and inclining his head to her. “I see I have not arrived too early for you.”
    â€œWe are a school,” she reminded him, “and do not sleep until noon. Are you going to ride all the way to London?”
    â€œPerhaps not
all
the way, ma’am,” he said. “But for much of the journey you and your pupils may enjoy having the carriage to yourselves.”
    It was impossible to know for sure from the severity of her countenance if she was relieved, but he would wager a fortune she was. She turned her head.
    â€œEdna?” she said. “Flora? We must not keep his lordship waiting. Climb into the carriage, please. The coachman is waiting to hand you in.”
    She looked on without comment as the wailing started up again from the orderly lines of girls and the two travelers moved along them to hug each girl individually. She gazed with pursed lips as, before each scrambled up the steps into the carriage, the teacher who had brought order out of chaos hugged them too and even kissed each girl on the cheek.
    â€œEleanor,” Miss Martin said then as she approached the carriage herself with firm strides, “you will not forget—”
    But the other teacher cut her off. “I will not forget a single thing,” she said, her eyes still twinkling. “How could I when you had me write out a whole list last evening? There is not a thing for you to worry about, Claudia. Go and enjoy yourself.”
    Claudia
. An eminently suitable name—strong, uncompromising, suggestive of a woman who could look after herself.
    Miss Claudia Martin turned to the lines of girls.
    â€œI will expect to hear good things of my senior girls when Miss Thompson writes to me,” she said. “At the very least I will expect to hear that you have prevented any of the younger girls from burning the school to the ground or rioting through the streets of Bath.”
    The