"What about staff? You can't manage the entire house on your own," he insisted, escorting her along the tracks and to the baggage compartment.
"I have a list, in my desk. I doubt everyone has found a new situation. By day's end I'll have a skeleton crew at least! It's kind of you to worry, though."
"Well, at least I can help you with your baggage."
"The porter will manage it, sir," answered a soot-covered rail-hand, wiping palms down his worn coveralls. "He'll bring 'round the wagon, and see everything to the stage hub directly."
Patrick scowled away the man's cheery helpfulness and shrugged at Amelia. "So, this is where we part, then."
"It is," she agreed, beaming, and stuck out her hand. "And I thank you, Mister Field, for the adventure."
"Likewise, Miss Blake."
He stared and nodded, and she stared back.
"You have your payment?"
"I do! Yes. Settled in my trunk, thank you." It had become an afterthought the closer they'd gotten to London; on arriving he'd forgotten it entirely.
"I thank you! It's happily parted with, in exchange for our time together."
He nodded again and swallowed down words through a too-tight throat. He took her in, tried to commit her to memory just as she was in that moment, wise but innocent, and luminous against a gray afternoon.
"Here's the wagon," he offered needlessly, because it had clattered up beside them with all the quiet dignity of four draft horses and a slat-sided cart.
"Here it is," she agreed. "I should start for the stage." She caught a yawn in her tiny glove and uncovered a dimple with her sheepish smile. "I'm not certain I'd last another hour at the station."
Her things were loaded now, and there was nothing left to say, nothing he could shape into words. Patrick raised his hat and helped her up onto the footboard. "I wish you the best, Miss Blake."
"Likewise, Mister Field. I'm sure our paths will cross again, eventually."
"Eventually," he agreed, but the word caught and foundered on his lips.
Reigns jingled and snapped, and the driver barked his command, and the wagon lurched forward. Patrick watched her go, hat in hand, growing smaller across the yard. She stared back at him over her shoulder until he lost sight of her in the milling crowd.
"Is this the lady's, sir?" asked an attendant checking the compartments, holding up a pink and brown hat box.
"It bloody well is!" He grabbed the box and turned, and realized he had no hope of catching her before she boarded the stage. "Thank you," he muttered to the stricken-faced boy, fishing in his coat pockets for a paper where he'd scrawled Amelia's direction that morning.