Marrying Winterborne

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.