ALONG THE WAY TO Waterloo Station, in a hansom cab that jounced, tilted, and swayed with suicidal fervor, Helen discovered that it was easier to be brave in the presence of a child than when she was alone. She was so determined to keep Charity from worrying that she found herself making ridiculous comments, such as “Isn’t this exciting?” when they nearly crashed into an omnibus, or “How exhilarating!” when the wheels hit a hole in the road and the vehicle was briefly airborne. Charity remained silent, staring at the chaotic world rushing past them. She had a remarkable willingness to endure discomfort or uncertainty without complaining. Whenever Helen had been praised during her childhood, it had usually been for the same quality. She wasn’t certain that had been a good thing.
The hansom stopped on Waterloo Road beside one of the massive train sheds. Helen handed up the payment to the driver and grappled with her tapestry bag as she descended from the vehicle. She reached for Charity, who half-jumped, half-fell into her arms. Catching her neatly, Helen lowered her feet to the pavement. She felt a flicker of triumph. I couldn’t have done that with a bustle. Gripping the tapestry bag on one side and holding Charity’s hand on the other, Helen followed the flow of the crowd as it poured into the station.
The approach to the booking office was a narrow, convoluted path, leading through a collection of temporary structures. The station was in the process of yet another expansion, with the result that the waiting rooms and service areas were crudely constructed and unpainted. Keeping a firm grasp on Charity, Helen waited her turn in line, watching as parcel clerks, booking clerks, and porters rushed back and forth from the row of ticket counters. She reached the front of the line, where a clerk informed her that the train to Alton Station would depart in an hour and a half.
Helen bought two first-class tickets. She was relieved that they hadn’t missed the train, but she wished they didn’t have to wait for so long. Hopefully the twins and the servants could manage to detain Vance long enough to keep him from reaching the station before her train departed. She took Charity to a cluster of stalls that sold newspapers, books, penny journals and periodicals, boxed sandwiches, snacks, and tea. After buying a cup of milk and a bun for Charity, Helen browsed over the bookstalls and purchased a compendium of illustrated children’s stories.
They went to the first-class waiting area, furnished only with backless wooden benches. Some travelers complained about the lack of upholstered seating and the rough, unpainted walls, while others sat stoically. Helen found an empty bench in the corner, and settled there with Charity, keeping her tapestry bag at their feet. While the little girl ate the bun and drank her milk, Helen opened the book and paged through it.
Charity poked excitedly at an illustration of the three bears. “Do that one, Helen. That one.”
Helen smiled. “You’re not tired of it yet?”
Charity shook her head.
As Helen searched for the beginning of the story, she caught sight of another title: “The Red Shoes.” She paused and frowned. “Wait a moment, I have to fix something.” With a few deft tugs, she tore the hated story out of the book. Regretfully, a page of “Jack and the Beanstalk” had to be removed with it, but Helen considered it a worthwhile sacrifice.
Hearing the sound of ripping paper, a woman seated nearby glanced in their direction. She frowned in open disapproval at the sight of a book being mutilated in such a fashion. Feeling rebellious, Helen met the woman’s disdainful gaze as she crumpled the pages in her gloved hand. After dropping the wads of paper into her tapestry bag, Helen said in satisfaction, “There, that’s better.” She found “The Three Bears” and read it to Charity in a whisper.
As the minutes wore on, Helen glanced up frequently, fearing she would see Albion Vance walking toward her. What would she do if he found them? Would he try to take Charity by force? In a public conflict between a woman and a well-dressed, respectable-looking man, the man would almost certainly win. No one would lift a finger to help her.
The room was unheated, and icy draughts of air numbed Helen’s feet. She wiggled her toes until they prickled uncomfortably. The bench became progressively hard, and Charity lost interest in the book. She leaned against Helen, shivering. Wrapping the shawl more snugly around the child’s tiny frame, Helen wished she had brought a lap blanket. People left the waiting area, and others came, and the incessant shouts and train whistles and clamor began to fray Helen’s nerves.
Someone approached her directly, and her head jerked up in alarm, her heart hammering. To her relief, it was not Albion Vance but the small, elderly booking clerk who had sold her the ticket. He had a kind face, and a gray mustache with curled waxed tips that gave the impression of a perpetual smile.
“Pardon, ma’am,” he said quietly. “You’re on the next departure for Alton Station?”
Helen gave him a slight nod, briefly surprised at being called “ma’am” instead of “miss,” until she recalled that she had given her name as Mrs. Smith.
“There’s been a delay for at least an hour.”
Helen regarded him with dismay. “May I ask why?”
“It’s being kept waiting outside the station, as we have an insufficient number of platforms. A special train has caused delays for our scheduled departures.”
Another hour of waiting. Another hour for Albion Vance to find her. “Thank you for informing me.”
He spoke even more softly. “Ma’am, in light of circumstances, seeing as you’re the only one in here with a child . . . would you like to go to a more comfortable waiting area? We don’t always offer it, of course, but the little one seems cold . . .”
“This other waiting area is nearby?” Helen asked warily.
His smile nudged the points of his mustache higher. “The offices in back of the ticket counter. They’re warmer and quieter than here. You could rest in a soft chair while you wait.”
The offer was irresistible. Not only would they be more comfortable, but they would be tucked safely out of sight. “I wouldn’t want to miss my departure,” she said uncertainly.
“I’ll watch the clock for you.”
“Thank you.” Helen straightened Charity’s shawl and hat. “We’re going to wait in another room where it’s warmer,” she whispered. Picking up the tapestry bag, Helen ignored a multitude of small aches throughout her body. They followed the booking clerk out past the ticket counters, and went through a door that opened to a row of private office rooms. Heading to the last one in the row, the clerk opened it for Helen.
It was a nice room, neatly kept, with maps on the walls, a desk piled with schedules, books, and pamphlets, and a shuttered window that revealed a partial view of one of the main platforms. A small chair was positioned behind the desk, and a large comfortable-looking wingback occupied the corner.
“Will this be acceptable, my lady”?
“Yes. Thank you.” She smiled at him, even as her nerves crawled with a sudden feeling of apprehension.
The clerk left the office room, and Helen busied herself with making Charity comfortable. She set her in the large upholstered chair, wedging the tapestry bag at one side for her to rest on, and covering her with the shawl. Charity snuggled down in the chair immediately.
Going to the window, Helen stared at the busy platform.
A thought occurred to her. Had the booking clerk just called her “my lady”?
He had. She was so accustomed to the term, it had temporarily escaped her notice. But there was no way for him to know that she had a courtesy title. She hadn’t given him her real name.
Her stomach turned to ice.
Striding to the door, Helen opened it. The threshold was blocked by a man in a dark suit and a low-brimmed hat. She recognized the hat first, and then the blue eyes.
He was the young man who had come to help her and Dr. Gibson, when they had been harassed after leaving the Stepney Orphanage.
Staring at him in shock, Helen asked unsteadily, “Why are you here?”
He gave her a faint smile that seemed to be intended as reassurance. “Keeping an eye on you, my lady.”
She took a shaking breath. “I’m going to take my child and leave now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll have to wait a bit longer.”
The door closed in her face.
Helen clenched her fists, furious with him, and the situation, and most of all herself. I shouldn’t have trusted a stranger. How stupid she’d been. Tears stung her eyes, and she struggled to keep from losing her self-control. After taking a few deep breaths, she glanced at Charity, who was drifting off to sleep, having absorbed enough new experiences for the time being.
Wandering to the window, Helen widened the shutters and stared at platform eight. A train had pulled in, bearing the same number as the train listed on her ticket. It hadn’t been delayed after all.
Fear and determination raced through her. She went to the chair, picked up Charity, and grabbed the handle of the tapestry bag. Huffing with effort, she carried the sleepy child to the door, and kicked it with her foot.
The door opened, and the young man gave her a questioning glance. “Is there something you need, my lady?”
“Yes, I need to leave. My train is at the platform.”
“You’ll have to wait for a few more minutes.”
“I can’t wait. Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
The door closed again, and to Helen’s furious astonishment, a key turned in the lock. She closed her eyes, despairing. “I’m sorry,” she whispered against Charity’s head. “I’m sorry.” She carried her back to the chair, made her comfortable again, and paced around the office.
In another few minutes, she heard masculine voices outside the door. A brief, low-pitched conversation.
The door unlocked, and Helen moved protectively in front of Charity as someone came in. Her heart began to thud with sickening force as she looked up at him.
“Rhys?” she whispered in bewilderment.
He entered the office, surveying her with hard obsidian eyes. His head tilted slightly as he looked past her to the sleeping child in the chair.
Helen realized that Rhys had never really been angry with her before now. Not like this.
Unnerved by his silence, she spoke unsteadily. “I’m supposed to be on the train leaving for Hampshire.”
“You can take the next one. Right now, you’re going to tell me what the bloody hell is going on.” His eyes narrowed. “Let’s start with an explanation of what you’re doing with Albion Vance’s daughter.”