Even though the rain descended upon us in a powerful, steady pour, the train station bustled with people. Tranquility’s chauffeur had unloaded our trunks to join the stack beneath the platform awning, but I’d dismissed him before he could hail a porter. I had no desire to lose what few belongings I had to the train to Tewkesbury.
I reached from beneath my umbrella to hand him a pound note and got a cheerful, “Gor’bless, miss!” and a tip of his sodden cap before he left us.
“These three, not that one,” I instructed the porter who approached, likely drawn to Lady Clayworth’s evident wealth, if not her damp glower.
“I do so hate to travel.” She grimaced at all the people splashing past. “Such a bother, all the mud and cinders and the hoi polloi. How does any civilized person abide it?”
“Lottie,” I said loudly, and she faced me. I summoned my dragon voice. “You’re going home now, my lady. You are happy about that. You’re relieved. You can’t wait to get there, and once you’re there, you will feel nothing but contentment.”
“Ah,” she said, her grimace fading.
“You will forget about Gracie and her illness. You will forget my name and my face. Everything now is wholly agreeable, even the rain. In fact, you feel a deep, unshakable joy.”
“How marvelous,” she said, and looked around at the hectic people, the shiny-wet train gushing its smoke, her eyes bright.
“Should anyone at home inquire why you’ve returned, you will tell them you missed Tewkesbury too much to stay away. You’ve missed your friends and servants and the familiar sights of home.”
“Even the ghosts?” she inquired matter-of-factly.
“Er … yes. Even them.”
She gave a nod. “We have so many of them, you know. Oh, that reminds me! She said to tell you good luck. And to thank you for saving her sons.”
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. A corpulent man in an oilskin coat bumped into me without apology, sending me staggering. My umbrella dumped streamers of rain down the side of my skirt. “Who—who said that?”
“Reginald’s wife. Wispy thing. Looks rather like you, doesn’t she? Anyway, I’ve told you, so my duty’s done.”
“Yes.” I gave a small cough. The train let out a whistle, and the porters were calling for stragglers. “Yes, just so. You’re done.”
“Last call!” hollered the steward by the first-class doors.
“Time to go.” I aimed her toward the steps. “Be well, my lady.”
But she was no longer listening. She was boarding the train, looking forward to her future, and I was forgotten, reduced to something even less than a rain-fogged memory. I was a ghost, too.
Armand found me about two hours later.
I was seated on one of the filigreed iron benches lining the platform, snacking on cold fish and chips that I’d bought from a vendor disembarking from the last train.
My feet were propped straight out upon my case, soles to the world. My lips and fingers were smeared with grease and my hat was a soggy ruin, since I’d run out into the storm to stop the vendor without my umbrella. Men of all stations clipped by me without a second glance; respectable matrons, however, had been giving me the evil eye for the past half hour. I was dressed too nicely now to pass for a beggar, so I must have been instead a single young woman of questionable upbringing.
But the battered, vinegary fish was delicious, and the chips even better. I’d eat them every day if I could.
People had been coming and going. I scarcely noticed when a new someone sat on the bench beside me, until he reached for my chips.
“I haven’t had these in ages,” Armand said, taking a bite. “Not since Eton.”
“Leave off. These are mine.”
“Ages,” he said again, and reached for another. I held the cone of oily rolled newspaper out of his reach.
He laughed. “I’ll buy you more.”
“The vendor’s gone.”
“Lora, I’m going to buy us both supper. A huge one. Here in town.”
I lowered my arm, and he ate all the rest. Then he stood, whisking the crumbs from his coat. His hat and shoulders were sprinkled with raindrops; his smile was altogether rakish.
“Come on. The auto’s in the lot, the pubs are open, and I’m starving.”
Chapter 20
He’d meant it when he said it’d be a huge meal. It was.
I’d never dined in a pub before. As far as I recalled, I’d never dined in any manner of public place, but if they were all like this one, I’d gladly return.
Everything was dim and smoky and loud and smelling pleasingly of cider and ale. The tables were worn smooth, their deep coffee-colored varnish marked with paler rings upon rings, proof of generations of sweating drinks. I didn’t even mind the electrical lights, since they were mostly over the bar. Our table was lit by a single drippy candle stuck to saucer that had a series of nicks along its rim.
I definitely fit in here.
I’d allowed Armand to order for us. Roasted chicken, duckling, corned beef. Jacket potatoes and rice and smelts and bread, mutton chops and meringue, potted shrimps.
We devoured it all. Then he ordered more.
“Cor, right away, luv,” said our server, completely smitten because she was plump and plain and he’d smiled at her, and even from across the table, I’d seen that it’d been blinding.
“You’re awfully cheerful,” I said, mashing up the last few grains of rice with the tines of my fork so they’d stick.
“Am I? I suppose I’m relieved, mostly. To be doing something. To be going at last.”
I understood that. There was a certain wretched tension to waiting. I’d felt it, too.
A different woman came by with fresh ales for us both, cold and topped with froth, and when Armand finished his first draw there was a line of foam tracing his upper lip. He wiped it away and looked at me and gave a much tamer version of the blinding smile, but it was still handsome and bright.
Sons. Plural.
“Mandy,” I said slowly. “Are you still all that hungry?”
“I am, actually.”
“Did you not eat today?”
“No, I did.” He sat back and surveyed the table, picking up the last slice of bread and running it through the mutton juice. “Breakfast, at least. Some luncheon. But I had to clear out by noon if they were going to believe I was headed to London.”
That had been the story we’d agreed upon: I was to go away with Lady Clayworth to Tewkesbury, and Armand was to go alone to London, to rattle the cages of any important persons there who might have news of his brother. Both reasons might legitimately keep us away from Tranquility (and each other) for weeks. We didn’t know how long rescuing Aubrey might actually take, but we’d figured the bigger the cushion of time we gave ourselves, the better.
I watched him fold the bread in half and shove it into his mouth. “And do you feel … restless?”
He stopped chewing, looking back at me. Then he swallowed, and his next sentence came flat.
“What do you mean?”
