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short conference, they decided to make do with it. As for dinner, no private parlors were available and no tables to be had in the public dining room. However, the chambermaid said, if they did not mind waiting for an hour or so, and they did not mind eating in their chamber, she would bring them soup, cold meats, and bread.
    After washing and tidying themselves, they decided to go for a walk to stretch their cramped limbs. They took Eric’s parcel with them and were agreeably surprised to learn from the landlord that the school was within walking distance.
    “Mind, Aunt,” Jo said as they struck out along High Street, “we’re not calling on Eric, we’re simply delivering a parcel for him. Anyway, it’s more than likely that he’ll be in bed.”
    “I’m sure you’re right. And I don’t particularly want to see Eric. After all, he’ll hardly have had time to settle in. No. It’s the school that interests me. Did you know that he was there before, but he ran away from it? The vicar’s wife told me. That’s why his grandmother took him in. And now that she can’t look after him, he has to go back to the school.”
    Jo gave Mrs. Daventry a keen look. She knew her aunt only too well. She had a soft heart. People were forever taking advantage of her.
    She said quietly, “The boy needs discipline. Those are the vicar’s exact words, so let’s not interfere in something that does not concern us.”
    As it turned out, they learned nothing about the school. A porter met them at the gate and refused to let them enter the building.
    “Only by appointment,” he said, and if they cared to return tomorrow, they could make an appointment to see the headmaster then.
    This they could not do, since they would be setting out early the next morning. But at least the parcel would be passed on. There was a maid at the gatehouse who’d brought the porter his supper. She took the parcel from them and promised to give it to Eric.
    On the way back to the posthouse, they said very little, absorbed in their own thoughts, but their spirits lifted when the chambermaid brought their dinner. Not only was there an excellent mulligatawny soup, but she’d also managed to procure a steak-and-kidney pudding with new potatoes and vegetables.
    Mrs. Daventry went to bed soon after, but Jo was too restless to sleep, so she sat down at the table and reread Chloë’s letters, going so far as to make notes. It didn’t help. Chloë didn’t seem to have a care in the world.
    Until the last cryptic message.
    She drummed her fingers on the table. She got up and took a few paces around the room. She felt cooped up, but there was nowhere for her to go, not without a chaperon. If she were a man, it would be different. She could come and go as she pleased.
    Her paces slowed, then halted. She knew what Chloë would say, that she was the proprietor and publisher of a successful newspaper. She’d done things that other women could only dream about. Then why was she dithering like this? If she wanted to go for a walk to clear her brain, who was there to stop her?
    She went to the closet and, after putting on her pelisse, gloves, and bonnet, quietly left the room.
             
    The small town of Barnet, which sat at a crossroads, was bustling with travelers, most of whom were making for London. Every postinghouse and inn seemed to be doing a brisk trade, and no one paid any attention to Jo. She didn’t intend to go far, only to the end of the High Street, where she’d turn and retrace her steps.
    The walk helped. Instead of stewing about Chloë and the robbery at the
Journal
, she began to take an interest in the various inns and postinghouses she passed on the way. Lights blazed from every window. Vehicles of every description disgorged their passengers, then passed under the arches that led to the stable block. Wheels rattled over cobblestones; horses whinnied; ostlers and postboys were shouting across each other. It didn’t look as though