“Boo. I never sleep well without you,” I said, peering over Nick’s shoulder at his laptop screen, which showed a caramel-wood-paneled sleeping car.
“It’s not like we’d be getting it on with Gran on the other side of the wall,” he said.
I flicked his ear. “I was talking about actually sleeping,” I said, laughing. “You perv.”
The train was even tinier inside than it looked on the computer—my bathroom was narrower than my wingspan—but twice as tactile. Everything that could be covered in velvet was, 85 percent of the wallpaper was flocked, and the furniture was a careworn collection of secondary antiques that had been well polished and tended but still bore the nicks and scrapes of a century of being exactly where they were. My sleeping car was a prim affair with a scratchy lacy comforter—the aura of the spare bedroom in which you’d stick the maiden aunt of whom you’re particularly fond. There was a small pile of books on the table next to it. They were all about God.
We’d seen Eleanor only briefly, for the photo at the station before we boarded and pushed off. She had declined what I termed the Bid Farewell to Your Wartime Sweetheart press opportunity, for which the three of us waved out the windows and Freddie blew a theatrical kiss, preferring instead to disappear into her own quarters. We didn’t cross paths with her again until dinner. It turns out it’s complicated to eat a formal meal on a swiftly moving train; we had to skip the soup course because no one wanted to risk spilling bisque on Eleanor, and I had to hold on to my glass of water with my nondominant hand the entire meal.
“We should have just gotten Burger King,” Freddie said as the empty teacup in front of his place rattled. “Much less perilous, and no need for the fine china.”
“It is a sign of breeding if you can navigate a full supper in less than ideal circumstances,” Eleanor said, and truly, somehow her crystal glass was the only one without a dribble of claret trickling down the side, as if the laws of physics didn’t exist in her bubble. In contrast, the cloth around mine was a dappled mess, and when we got up to adjourn to the sitting room for digestifs, it was obvious I’d spilled more on my lap.
“Strike one,” I said.
“At least,” Eleanor said as Freddie took her arm.
We carefully transferred into the adjacent car, which had plush booth-style seating along one set of windows and a series of sofas built in under the others. A bar cabinet in the corner had a key swinging beguilingly from the lock. Freddie deposited Eleanor at one of the window seats, where she rested her right elbow on a table between two of them, and caught his balance before unlocking the bar and carefully beginning to pour us all some port.
“I’m sure you’ve all wondered why I’ve called you here tonight,” Eleanor said as she accepted hers.
“Uh-oh,” Freddie muttered. “I knew I was right to bring the cigarettes.”
Eleanor chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to say that,” she said. “Your expressions were priceless. Rebecca, you’ve not improved your poker face at all.”
“Good to know,” Freddie said, handing Nick his port. “On that note, poker, anyone?”
“Careful with these nightcaps,” Eleanor said. “Being drunk on a train is a nightmare and the morning after is worse. Henry and I did a whistle-stop tour of the southern coast after Richard was born, and we both overindulged. We look nauseated in all the photos.”
She crossed her ankles. “Besides, I should think too much of that would be bad for your attempts to conceive.”
“Not mine,” Freddie said, overly jovially.
“Any minute now with my port,” I told Freddie.
“Gran,” Nick said, a warning note in his voice.
“It’s a perfectly reasonable topic of discussion between family members,” Eleanor said lightly.
“We’re taking a little break right now,” I said.
“A little break,” Eleanor repeated. She drummed her fingers on the red velvet arm of her chair. “Did I fail the other day to impress upon you the importance of this task?”
Freddie handed me a full glass of port and raised an eyebrow. “May I be excused?” he asked. “This is not my business.”
“Sit down, Frederick,” Eleanor said.
“It’s nobody’s business, actually,” Nick said to Eleanor. “With all due respect.”
“This family is my business,” Eleanor said. “And I should have been informed earlier that we might have another Queen Ingeborg situation on our hands. No heirs, and a shift to the left for the whole line.”
“It worked out for you,” Freddie said.
Eleanor fixed him with a steely stare. “Would it work out for you?”
Freddie slowly sat down.
“We need a solution,” Eleanor said. “To this.” She waved in the general direction of my uterus. “I am aware of how many science experiments you’ve done, and it’s rather a lot for there to be no results yet.”
“It’s me,” Nick said, looking directly at his grandmother. “I’m doing everything I can to, er, improve what I’m offering.”
“It might also be me, though,” I said quickly. “It’s going to be fine, Eleanor. I promise. We’re…exploring it. Discussing our options.”
Eleanor cradled her port glass. “Enlighten me.”
“The options mostly seem to be, keep trying,” Nick said.
“You’re telling me your impressive specialist hasn’t mentioned using a donor?”
Nick shook his
