Before I even arrived in London, my brother-in-law Charles had sent word to my parents’ home that he would pick me up at the station. Catherine would no doubt be busy at home with the baby, and as eager as I was to see her, I wouldn’t dream of asking her to bring my niece to the station just to pick me up. Though, I did wonder how much Charles knew of Catherine’s troubles. Had she informed anyone but me that something was wrong? What would he think was the reason for my visit?
Catherine had sent me a telegram despite knowing it would take me a few weeks, at best, to get to her, so what kind of emergency could it really be if several weeks was enough time for me to respond?
I sought to downplay the serious tone of the message, but then I remembered the way Charles and Catherine had both been waiting at the station the last time we had visited. Catherine told us they’d been there for half an hour, awaiting us eagerly. So, why was Charles not already here? Especially since the train had been delayed twenty minutes.
Had something happened to hold him up?
Was I too late to save my sister from whatever trouble had caused her to write?
The thought hit me like a blow to the chest, and I took a deep breath and set my shoulders.
No, everything would be fine. If something terrible was set to happen before my arrival, Catherine would have informed Charles or someone else who could have helped. Everything was all right.
I clung to this thought even as minutes passed by without any sign of Charles.
The railway station in Batley was rather large, with several lines that once connected passengers to other railway stations throughout West Yorkshire. However, those lines had ceased operation as an economy measure during the war a decade ago and were now vacant.
Soon after settling in Yorkshire, Catherine had written about how grateful she was for Charles’ employment. It was never something she’d considered before—nor I, given our family’s financial blessings throughout our lives—but in Yorkshire, many of the coal and textile mills had closed, leaving people without a job or wages. Though Catherine and Charles lived a comfortable life, according to the letters we’d received, many of their neighbors did not.
I felt as though I could sense that desperation in the station. The unswept floors and the whistling of the wind through the empty platform made it feel abandoned, and I was eager to be around people again. Preferably my family.
I sat on a bench closest to the road, watching as cars drove past the station, kicking up whirls of dirt. Finally, forty minutes after my train’s scheduled arrival time, a car pulled up to the curb, and a rumpled Charles Cresswell climbed out of the driver’s seat.
I grabbed my case and hurried towards the car, analyzing his appearance for any sign of distress.
He smiled as I neared him, but I could see the dark circles beneath his eyes and the new wrinkles adorning his face. He looked wan and exhausted as he walked around the car and reached out a hand for my suitcase.
I set the case on the ground before I reached him and wrapped my arms around his middle, surprised by my relief at seeing him.
My brother-in-law had always been a reserved man, very unlike Catherine. He was kind, but not overtly so, and he never showed any special interest in forming a close relationship with me.
Still, the fact that he was alive and seemingly well allowed me to take my first full breath in weeks.
Reluctantly, Charles placed one arm around me and then, slowly, another. Finally, he patted my back with his palm, and I felt him exhale, the breath rustling my hair.
“Thank God you’ve arrived, Alice.”
2
Charles drove the car confidently through the small town, past the town hall with its stone pillars holding up a central pediment. It struck me as rather fanciful compared with the rest of the town. Though, it wasn’t the only thing that seemed out of place.
Charles, too, looked strange against his rural backdrop.
He wore the fine clothes similar to what he’d worn when I first saw him in New York City years before, yet, he did not have a driver. He’d picked me up from the train station himself and drove the car confidently as though used to doing so. When I looked closer, I could see the loose threads around his seams and the slight fading in his clothes, and I realized for the first time that Charles and Catherine may not have been as comfortable as they claimed.
Catherine had assured us over and over again that she and Charles were unaffected by the financial troubles the rest of their neighbors faced, but I wondered how true that really was.
“Thank you for picking me up,” I said, trying to work out how to bring up the topic of his home’s staff without being rude.
“We let our driver go some time back,” he said plainly, looking over at me from the corner of his eyes. “I work from the house more often than not, and there aren’t many reasons for Catherine to leave home these days, so it seemed an unnecessary expense.”
“That is sound reasoning.”
I folded my hands in my lap, trying to warm up my chilled fingers. When we were children, Catherine had talked about how fabulously wealthy her future husband would be. While my dreams didn’t extend beyond being included in adult after supper conversation, Catherine had big plans that involved a sprawling home with manicured lawns, an important spouse who was well-respected in social circles, and beautiful gowns that would send her peers into stunned silences.
Now, she did not even have a driver.
I did not judge them for this, but part of me wondered what Catherine thought about it. Mama had taught us that love could cover a multitude of sins—not to mean lacking money was
