The Accidental Stowaway (Judith Eagle Mysteries, 3) - Softcover

Eagle, Judith

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1536249580 ISBN 13: 9781536249583

Verlag: Walker Books Us, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

In this rollicking transatlantic romp set in 1910, a plucky girl named Patch accidentally stows away on a glamorous steamship, finding herself in the midst of a mystery.

Twelve-year-old Patch hasn’t found a real home yet, despite being passed like a package from one distant relative to the next. When she runs up the gangway of the massive steamship RMS Glorious, she isn’t planning to hang around. But it’s too late—the ship is setting sail! Patch has become an accidental stowaway. Luckily, she’s fearless and resourceful and finds friends on board in both high and low places. But hiding from the stowaway-hunting chief steward becomes harder and harder. And to make matters worse, Patch’s new friends urgently need her help: it turns out that some passengers are not what they seem, and there’s a mystery that needs solving before they reach New York. Can Patch protect her friends and stop some dastardly criminals? And will she find a home at last, or will the excitement of life on the move keep calling her name? The elegant allure of Titanic-era steamships meets madcap escapades as our intrepid heroine finds adventure on every deck.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Judith Eagle’s career thus far has included stints as a stylist, fashion editor, and features writer. She now spends her mornings writing and her afternoons working in a secondary school library. She lives with her family and her cat, Stockwell, in south London. The Accidental Stowaway is her third novel.

Jo Rioux is the illustrator of The Secret Starling and The Pear Affair by Judith Eagle. She has illustrated young adult novels, chapter books, picture books, and graphic novels. She is the author-illustrator of Cat’s Cradle: The Golden Twine and the illustrator of The Daughters of Ys by M. T. Anderson. Jo Rioux lives in Ottawa.

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One
Right from the start she was known as “Crosspatch.”
   Her real name was Esme Leonard but no one ever called her that.
   In the London hospital where she had been born, it was a doctor who observed she should win a medal for grumpiness. The nurses raised their eyebrows but, in all honesty, they agreed. The baby never gurgled but always frowned! And no matter how much they tickled and cooed, her cross little face remained resolutely crumpled.
   “Crosspatch needs her nappy changing!” they’d call to one another.
   “My word,” they’d say, laughing as though it was the funniest thing in the whole wide world, “look at the face on that!”
   Over time the name was shortened and, like a label on a parcel, it had stuck. To make matters worse, it seemed like Patch was a parcel. Not a fancy one, all done up with shiny paper and ribbons; more of a plain brown one, with paper that has been used several times. The kind of parcel that no one wants to receive and everyone is always passing on.
   “They tell me you are impossible,” Mr. Ringe would say, and her heart would give a little thud. “A ruffian.” Thud. Thud. “A wild animal.” Thud. Thud. Thud.
   Mr. Ringe was the craggy-faced, somewhat gaunt lawyer in charge of securing Patch a home.
   Passed from pillar to post, that was how she saw it. Her mother had run away when she was born; her father had died ages ago of something to do with weak lungs. She couldn’t remember either of them. These were just the plain, hard facts.
   Her journey had started in her father’s three-story house in Kensington, with a nursery at the top and a kitchen at the bottom. She had since been delivered to an aunt in Surrey, a grandmother in Northumberland, an uncle in Essex, and a second cousin twice removed in Islington.
   The aunt’s house had been like a palace, with horses and stables and butlers in uniform. The grandmother had lived in less majestic circumstances, but that didn’t stop her endless fussing about manners and etiquette. Then there had been the uncle, who practiced a kind of godly austerity in his rambling vicarage. And finally the second cousin twice removed, a most disgruntled individual who lived in a flat in a mansion block with only one maid and a measly allowance.
   It was a bit like descending a very long staircase, the advantage being that along the way Patch had acquired an array of skills: she could ride a horse; she knew exactly what cutlery to use at a six-course dinner; she could stretch a chicken to make it last for several meals (the trick was to boil it and serve it with suet pudding); and she could unravel a whole sweater and (with just one extra ball of wool) knit it back together again a size or two larger.
   Her downfall were the scrapes she was always getting into, not, she thought, all of her own making.
   The aunt’s children—spoiled boys, all three of them—had insisted on calling her “No-mama,” and in the end there was nothing to do but punch them.
   The grandmother had so many rules to remember, it made Patch’s head spin, the worst by a mile being “You mustn’t speak unless you are spoken to.” How on earth could Patch, who always had something to say, manage that? The uncle believed that little girls should only read Bible stories. So of course Patch had been forced to creep into the library in the dead of night, frantically tear pages from the forbidden books, and devour them in secret.
   Unsurprisingly, Patch barely managed more than a few years in each place before being sent back to Mr. Ringe.
   “You have been found wanting,” he would say with an air of profound weariness, “yet again.”
   On her twelfth birthday, the second cousin twice removed declared Patch “unmanageable” because she’d shouted at her in public, comparing her to a gargoyle and calling her a child-hater. Patch was sent back to Mr. Ringe with a long note full of grievances, ending with the declaration that the second cousin twice removed never, ever wanted to see the child again.
   “Well,” announced Mr. Ringe, pulling despondently at his right ear, which Patch couldn’t help noticing was fractionally larger than his left one, “I would’ve preferred a bit more notice. While we await instructions, temporary arrangements will have to be made.”
   “Instructions” were something Mr. Ringe often alluded to. Who made them, or where they came from, was a mystery that was never shared with Patch. Patch stared hard at the lawyer, and he stared back. Hard stares were one of her specialties. Mr. Ringe blinked first and awarded her one of his historically long sighs. “The thing is, young Patch, we have quite run out of relatives.”
   It was Meg, the second cousin twice removed’s maid of all work, who came to the rescue. Meg was the sort of person who left little cakes in Patch’s pockets when she was sent to bed without any dinner, and, more than a few times, she’d lent Patch her comics. The comics were full of adventure and derring-do—about girls just like Patch, but with better luck, who became top-notch spies or ran away to join the circus.
   “A girl like that, in a home like ours?” Meg’s mother had said when she had been sent for. Mrs. Jenkins didn’t mean to sound rude, but she was a practical woman. Life in Lambeth was rough-and-tumble. She wasn’t sure if this odd little girl would survive.
   “Patch will be fine,” said Meg firmly. “She’s as tough as old boots, aren’t you, Patch?”
   “I am,” Patch agreed, looking down at the lace-up boots peeping out from under her red dress. She clicked the heels together twice and tapped the toes. It was the sort of “theatrical gesture” that would have driven the second cousin twice removed mad. It was true that Patch did have quite fervent theatrical ambitions.
   “And Mum won’t be out of pocket, will she, Mr. Ringe?” asked Meg.
   “A stipend will be paid for the girl’s board and lodging,” concurred the cadaverous gentleman, and Patch saw, quick as lightning, the doubt in Mrs. Jenkins’s eyes disappear.
   And it had been fine. More than fine.
   Patch was adaptable. You had to be if you were a parcel, constantly being passed from pillar to post. Soon she had added to her repertoire of skills: talking pure Cockney like she had been born to it; zooming around on one roller skate, which was all the rage; and minding Mrs. Jenkins’s youngest—who didn’t seem to have a name; everyone just called it Baby—on one hip like the other girls in the street.
   At the Jenkinses’ there wasn’t time to be cross. Even if she had been, they probably wouldn’t have noticed.
   Still, Patch was careful not to get too attached. She knew that once “instructions” had been received, a new summons would arrive.
   And it did.
   Mr. Ringe’s brief note, delivered by the postman as Patch was gobbling down her breakfast bread and dripping, hinted that it was time for the parcel to be posted on. And when she arrived at the lawyer’s office later that day, he wasted no time in delivering his news, rapping out the words in a tense staccato.
   “Instructions have been...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Walker Books Us
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1536249580
• ISBN 13: 9781536249583
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Zeichner: Rioux Jo
• Anzahl der Seiten: 270
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Giunti Editore; n.pederzini@terminaldistribuzione.com; ; Via Bruno Buozzi, 24/26,; Granarolo dell'Emilia BO,; 40057; Italien