Carla Kelly by Miss Chartley's Guided Tour

the other,
Angela with her thick black hair and Hugh Owen with his long,
friendly face.
    And then Omega
remembered. “Good God, where is Jamie?” she exclaimed as she tried
to struggle into a sitting position. Hugh Owen pushed her back
down. She felt his hand on her bare shoulder and realized that she
was wrapped in a heavy cotton blanket and nothing more. Her face
reddened.
    “ Easy,
Miss Chartley,” Hugh said. “Jamie’s over there, asleep. As to your
clothes, they’re drying by the fire. Angela saw to your
welfare.”
    “ And
Mr. Platter? I think I killed him with my reticule.”
    Hugh laughed out
loud, and then covered his mouth with his hand so as not to waken
Jamie. “ Why on earth do you carry a paperweight in your
reticule?” he asked.
    “ It’s
Alpha’s idea,” she admitted. “He says that any female traveling
alone should have some protection. I ... I couldn’t think of
anything but a paperweight. It contains bits of shot from the
Yorktown Batteries, baked in glass. Papa was there,” she added, as
if that explained her choice of weapons.
    “ Well,
it certainly gave Platter the rightabout,” said Hugh.
    Omega reached out
for him impulsively. “But tell me, please—that wretched man is not
dead, is he?”
    “ Oh,
no. The last we saw, he was floating downstream clinging to a tree
branch. He still had his cigar.”
    “ Odious, odious man,” muttered Miss Chartley.
    “ The
only real casualty of the encounter appears to be your guidebook,”
said the soldier. “We’re going to dry it out, though, because it
could prove useful as tinder for fires.” He held up the book with
its bloated and wrinkled pages.
    Omega settled
herself more comfortably. “Well, I wasn’t finding much use in it
anyway. I seem to have strayed somewhat from my itinerary.” Her
head ached abominably. She reached a hand around to the back of her
neck and felt a rising lump.
    “ You
would not quit struggling, señorita ,” said Angela. “How was
I to get you to shore?”
    “ How,
indeed?” murmured Omega.
    “ Such
a useful paperweight,” agreed Angela. She rose to her feet and
rearranged Omega’s clothing by the fire.
    “ And
did she ...?” Omega looked at Hugh Owen.
    “ Pull
you from the river? Indeed she did.”
    “ And
Jamie?”
    “ Oh,
you should have seen him racing along the riverbank, calling for
help. He ran smack into us.”
    Omega’s brain was
spinning. “But whatever were you doing? I thought you were going in
the other direction? Oh, I don’t understand.”
    She yawned a
mighty yawn then, to her vast embarrassment. To her further
chagrin, water dribbled out of her mouth.
    Hugh dabbed at it
with the corner of her blanket. “You also swallowed half of the
River By.” He intercepted her sudden look. “Yes, the River By. The
farmer whose cattle byre this is told us.” He continued to
interpret her expression. “And don’t worry! He’ll not betray us.
His son died at Vimeiro. We’re practically mates; he won’t give us
up to any Runner.”
    “ I
truly don’t understand,” Omega finished weakly. She wanted to close
her eyes again, but it seemed scarcely polite.
    “ Just
sleep now, Miss Chartley,” said Hugh. “If you need anything, Angela
is close by. I’m going to reconnoiter.”
    Against her will,
better judgment, and sharply honed sense of propriety, Omega yawned
again and closed her eyes.
    When she woke,
there was food, hot porridge—an island of it in a sea of cream,
with a dollop of butter on top—and a mug of tea smelling discreetly
of rum. Hugh Owen and Jamie were nowhere in sight, so Omega draped
her blanket about her to better effect and rested herself on one
elbow as Angela handed her a spoon.
    “ It’s
very good,” said Angela, who sat cross-legged in front of her.
“Hugh told me to see that you eat all of it.”
    She did as she
was told, spooning down the porridge, which settled around all the
river water in her stomach and made her burp.
    “ Goodness,” murmured