then Owen urged, “Remove your cap when speaking to a lady—such a charming lady. Mrs. Lucy Snape, I believe.” With one flick of the wrist Owen knocked the cap from Michael’s head, flipping it through the air and landing it neatly in his trembling hands, then swept a fine bow and a wink before the stewardess.
The fire in the young stewardess’s hair paled beside the fire in her cheek.
Michael blinked, uncertain.
“You are the . . . Here, now, what are you doing here? Do you know this boy?” she sputtered but loosed her grip on Michael’s collar and smoothed her skirt.
“Indeed, Mrs. Snape. And I thank you for finding and keeping my adventurous young cousin safe.”
“Your cousin? I did not know you had a cousin.”
“Most of us have cousins tucked away here and there, Mrs. Snape.”
She colored all the more. “You called him Tim. He said his name is Michael—Michael Dunnagan, did you say?”
“Well, of course it is! Some call him Tim; some call him Michael. Isn’t that so, Timothy Michael Dunnagan?” Owen, all six feet and fourteen stone of him, turned and winked at Michael.
Michael nodded vigorously even as he swallowed convulsively.
“Timothy Michael Dunnagan.” The stewardess chanted the mouthful and tipped her head to one side, clearly not believing. “And where do you hail from, Timothy Michael Dunnagan?”
“Southampton,” Owen said, but not fast enough to drown out Michael’s feeble “Belfast, mum.”
Now we’ll both be caught lying!
“Belfast or Southampton? Which is it, Mr. Allen?” She turned to Owen, frowning.
“Owen George Allen, at your service, mum. I’m flattered you remember me.”
“I have seen you every week in Southampton these past months, as you well know. But how is it I did not see you with your Irish cousin, Mr. Allen?”
He ignored the question. “Ah—the lad needs a fresh start in a fresh country. Born wrong side of the blanket,” he whispered to the fiercely blushing Lucy. “Nothing to be proud of, surely, but just as surely not the boy’s doing.”
Lucy bristled, tugging the hem of her uniform jacket again, but stepped back. “I shall check the passenger list. In the meantime, Mr. Allen, please keep your cousin on the decks to which you are assigned. This—” she pointed to the deck—“is first class.” She lifted a pert nose. “He’s old enough to know better.”
“Absolutely, mum, and my sincere apologies. It’s a trouble with growing boys—always famished and in search of a bite to eat. But you needn’t worry. I shall deal with him directly.” Owen bowed again. “I’m ever so glad you’ve been promoted to first class, Mrs. Snape. God bless you.”
Lucy’s color burned, and even Michael realized that she, too, was not in the place assigned her. Owen grinned, grabbed Michael by the ear, and led him away.
“Ow! Let go!” Michael whimpered.
“Walk with me, Tim lad, or you’ll likely walk the plank,” Owen whispered cheerily, directing them rapidly to the deck below. Michael felt Lucy Snape’s eyes boring into the backs of their heads. “So how did you get here and what the devil do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not stowing away. I’m—”
But Owen raised a brow and tugged the harder.
“All right!” Michael sputtered, pulling back. “I’m going to America—like you. There’s nothing for me, not in Belfast and not in England.”
“Nothing but a job you promised to do for Mr. Bealing—a job I’ve staked my reputation on, not to mention the grandfather you were waiting for—or more likely a mother and father somewhere, worried out of their skins!”
“Dead,” Michael shot back. “Both dead of the fever, six years past.”
Owen stopped short and frowned. But Michael saw no anger in his eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve fended for yourself these six years? Truth, lad.”
“No.” Michael hesitated. “I mean, no, I’ve not fended for myself altogether. I lived with my uncle Tom in
The fire in the young stewardess’s hair paled beside the fire in her cheek.
Michael blinked, uncertain.
“You are the . . . Here, now, what are you doing here? Do you know this boy?” she sputtered but loosed her grip on Michael’s collar and smoothed her skirt.
“Indeed, Mrs. Snape. And I thank you for finding and keeping my adventurous young cousin safe.”
“Your cousin? I did not know you had a cousin.”
“Most of us have cousins tucked away here and there, Mrs. Snape.”
She colored all the more. “You called him Tim. He said his name is Michael—Michael Dunnagan, did you say?”
“Well, of course it is! Some call him Tim; some call him Michael. Isn’t that so, Timothy Michael Dunnagan?” Owen, all six feet and fourteen stone of him, turned and winked at Michael.
Michael nodded vigorously even as he swallowed convulsively.
“Timothy Michael Dunnagan.” The stewardess chanted the mouthful and tipped her head to one side, clearly not believing. “And where do you hail from, Timothy Michael Dunnagan?”
“Southampton,” Owen said, but not fast enough to drown out Michael’s feeble “Belfast, mum.”
Now we’ll both be caught lying!
“Belfast or Southampton? Which is it, Mr. Allen?” She turned to Owen, frowning.
“Owen George Allen, at your service, mum. I’m flattered you remember me.”
“I have seen you every week in Southampton these past months, as you well know. But how is it I did not see you with your Irish cousin, Mr. Allen?”
He ignored the question. “Ah—the lad needs a fresh start in a fresh country. Born wrong side of the blanket,” he whispered to the fiercely blushing Lucy. “Nothing to be proud of, surely, but just as surely not the boy’s doing.”
Lucy bristled, tugging the hem of her uniform jacket again, but stepped back. “I shall check the passenger list. In the meantime, Mr. Allen, please keep your cousin on the decks to which you are assigned. This—” she pointed to the deck—“is first class.” She lifted a pert nose. “He’s old enough to know better.”
“Absolutely, mum, and my sincere apologies. It’s a trouble with growing boys—always famished and in search of a bite to eat. But you needn’t worry. I shall deal with him directly.” Owen bowed again. “I’m ever so glad you’ve been promoted to first class, Mrs. Snape. God bless you.”
Lucy’s color burned, and even Michael realized that she, too, was not in the place assigned her. Owen grinned, grabbed Michael by the ear, and led him away.
“Ow! Let go!” Michael whimpered.
“Walk with me, Tim lad, or you’ll likely walk the plank,” Owen whispered cheerily, directing them rapidly to the deck below. Michael felt Lucy Snape’s eyes boring into the backs of their heads. “So how did you get here and what the devil do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not stowing away. I’m—”
But Owen raised a brow and tugged the harder.
“All right!” Michael sputtered, pulling back. “I’m going to America—like you. There’s nothing for me, not in Belfast and not in England.”
“Nothing but a job you promised to do for Mr. Bealing—a job I’ve staked my reputation on, not to mention the grandfather you were waiting for—or more likely a mother and father somewhere, worried out of their skins!”
“Dead,” Michael shot back. “Both dead of the fever, six years past.”
Owen stopped short and frowned. But Michael saw no anger in his eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve fended for yourself these six years? Truth, lad.”
“No.” Michael hesitated. “I mean, no, I’ve not fended for myself altogether. I lived with my uncle Tom in
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