Her Outback Rescuer. Marion Lennox

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      ‘The dining car has windows, too, and I like meeting people. If your grandfather was here, he’d have taken me to the dining car.’ Maudie had groped for her handkerchief, and so, of course, the thing was decided. To the dining car they went, where tables were filled to capacity—which meant, Platinum Class or not, they had to share.

      With Granite and Prehistory.

      At least let this meal be better than lunch, he demanded silently of fate. It could hardly be worse. For their first meal on board they’d been stuck with a middle-aged couple who recognised Maud and exuded sympathy as a form of pleasantry.

      ‘We read about your husband’s death. Oh, you poor thing. But he had such a fabulous life. You can’t really mourn someone so rich who dies so old, can you?’

      Then, as Maudie failed to respond, they’d turned to Hugo. ‘And you’re home to take over your grandfather’s company. It’s about time. The gossip magazines have been wondering about you for years. No one’s ever been able to understand why you’ve stayed in the army so long, and in such awful places. And what a waste when you’re so rich…’

      He’d wanted to do violence, but his grandmother’s dignity had made him reply in an almost civilised fashion. Maudie had grown quiet with distress but she was one brave lady. She’d returned for dinner, to take another chance.

      With Granite and Prehistory.

      ‘Would it be an imposition if we sat with you?’ Maudie asked the stone women, deferential, even though in the democracy of the train dining room there was no choice.

      Granite gazed up from her book. She was in her late twenties, Hugo thought. Her fair hair was hauled into a scrappy bunch of curls which spoke of little effort, and the smile she offered was perfunctory. She looked… absent, he thought, and he wondered if she’d been ill.

      ‘Hello,’ she said softly. ‘Of course you can sit here; isn’t that right, Amy?’

      The woman beside her—Amy?—lowered her book. They looked like sisters, Hugo thought. They were both slight, maybe five feet four or so. Both had soft blonde curls and clear brown eyes. They were both a little too thin.

      What was more important than their appearance, though, was that neither looked gushers. Granite was already returning to her book.

      The one called Amy, however, seemed slightly more interested. She glanced briefly at Hugo, and then at Maud.

      Maud gazed back, eighty-three years old, recently bereaved and obviously anxious. Despite her assumed bravery, Sir James’s death had devastated her, and the ordeal of lunch had left its mark.

      Her eyes locked with Amy’s.

      Be nice to her, Hugo silently demanded, but he got no further. No silent demands were needed. Prehistory-transformed-into-Amy made her decision and she beamed a welcome.

      And that beam…

      She was exquisite, Hugo thought, as stunned as if the sun had come out right over their table. She was simply, gloriously lovely.

      Granite, the shadowed one, was wearing jeans, sneakers and a plain white shirt. Amy was dressed for comfort as well, but very differently, in black tights, ballet flats and a soft blue oversized sweater. Her hair was looped into an unruly knot, with wispy curls tumbling free. Unlike her sister, she was wearing a little make-up. Her full lips were glossed the palest of pink and there was a touch of sparkle around her eyes.

      But with a beam like hers, Hugo decided, Amy didn’t need sparkle. Maudie was returning her smile, and what a smile.

      Amy hadn’t smiled at him, he thought.

      Um… so what? He was here to keep Maudie happy, and if Amy could do it…

      Please don’t gush, he demanded silently of her. Please don’t do the… Oh, you’re Dame Maud Thurston.

      She didn’t.

      ‘Save me from rocks,’ she said simply.

      Maudie smiled back. She slipped into the window seat and Hugo sat beside her, but no one was looking at him. Granite was back in her book and Amy had eyes only for Maudie.

      ‘Rachel thinks I’ll enjoy this journey more if I understand what I’m seeing,’ she said, still beaming her pleasure at Maudie’s arrival. ‘But rocks…’

      ‘We’re seeing some interesting rocks,’ Maudie ventured, and Hugo saw a hint of a twinkle in his grandmother’s eyes.

      A twinkle. That was what he was here for.

      His grandmother had planned this journey with his grandfather, had looked forward to it, had persuaded her ailing husband it was just what he needed to restore his health, but tragically James had died four weeks before departure. Maudie had sunk into desolation so deep it scared him, and taking this journey in his grandfather’s stead had seemed as good a way as any to distract her. So far it hadn’t worked. Hugo hadn’t seen Maudie smile for a month, yet here was her smile again, and he felt a knot unravel in his gut that he hadn’t known had been knotted.

      All his life he’d tried to stay detached, but right now he wasn’t detached at all. In the face of his grandmother’s grief he was helpless.

      ‘You’re a dancer,’ she was saying to Amy in tones of discovery, and Amy’s smile faded a little.

      ‘Um… yes,’ she admitted as Hugo looked on in astonishment. Rather than the woman recognising Maudie, the situation was reversed.

      ‘Oh, my dear, you’re Amy Cotton.’ Maudie seemed awed. ‘You danced in Giselle last July. We went backstage and were introduced…’

      ‘I was only in the corps de ballet,’ Amy said, looking flabbergasted. ‘How did you…’

      ‘I know all our dancers,’ Maudie said. ‘And you’ve danced many more major roles. You used to be…’

      ‘A long time ago I used to be,’ Amy said flatly, her beam fading to nothing. ‘And now I’m completely retired.’

      ‘Oh, of course. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.’ Maudie’s twinkle gave way to distress. She reached across the table and touched Amy’s hand, a fleeting touch of genuine contrition. ‘You know my James died a month ago? Everyone keeps wanting to talk about his death and I hate it, yet here I am, the minute I see you, launching into talk of your retirement. At the level you danced, I know it must hurt almost as much as losing James. I’m so, so sorry. Can we talk about rocks again, or would you like to go back to your book?’

      There was a moment’s silence. Granite had looked up from her book and was watching Amy with concern. Not Granite. What had Amy called her? Rachel.

      ‘You don’t have to read it,’ Rachel ventured. ‘I only suggested it…’

      ‘As a way to distract you?’ Maudie ventured. ‘Like my grandson keeps telling me to look out of the window. “Look, Gran, there’s a camel,” Hugo says, when all I’m seeing is James. But you know, even if it hurts to think of James—and it does—there’s no way camels work as diversionary tactics. I suspect books on rocks might even be worse.’

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