In Search of a Memory (Truly Yours Digital Editions) (3 page)

He decided not to take the risk.

“The bends in the track can knock you off your feet. I’d advise you take a seat, Miss…?”

Ignoring his hint to learn her name, she looked around, her manner distantly assured, as if she had every right to be there and he was the intruder. Her brow wrinkled in confusion when she saw the small drawing room, containing dual leather benches with high backs, the length of twin settees. She moved to one and set her bags down with a muffled thump. Without a word, she sank to the padded seat nearest the dual windows and pulled away her scarf.

Curious about his new cabinmate, he took the seat opposite, farthest from where she sat and closest to the door. If not for the fact that she gave him directions earlier, he might think her mute. Minute after taut minute stretched in silence.

“Something of a coincidence, bumping into you like this.” He tried to initiate conversation, hoping it wouldn’t crackle with tension like the quiet between them did.

“Yes.” Her expression guarded, she afforded him the barest glance and pulled the fingers of each glove, one by one, removing the peeling leather. They, like the rest of her outerwear, appeared years old. With the nation in crisis, few had the luxury of buying a new winter coat, except for Roland, who could buy the train on which they sat if he wished, paid for with the dirty simoleons earned in others’ blood.

He grimaced at the thought.

Her gaze remained fixed to the spotted window and the trees and buildings that hurried past in a dark, watercolor blur.

“Two strangers meeting twice in one day in the oddest of circumstances and on opposite sides of town—that’s one for the books, isn’t it? And now, here we are, sharing a car on the same train.” He smiled. She didn’t return the favor, behaving in a way similar to what she’d done at the house. Was it just him, or did all men provoke this sort of reaction?

She pulled a handkerchief from her handbag, put it to her nose, and sniffled. She didn’t appear to be crying; her eyes were dry.

“Did you catch a chill?”

She shrugged one shoulder and looked back through the window.

“It’s nasty weather to be out. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this blustery cold and rain. I suppose we should be thankful it didn’t rain today.”

She gave him the barest inclination of her head in agreement.

“Are you visiting family in Connecticut?”

Her eyes cut to him, shocked, cautious. “Yes. Family.” She sniffled again into her handkerchief. “Please, if you don’t mind, I believe I have caught a chill. I really don’t feel up to small talk.”

“I can ask the steward to fetch you a hot toddy—”

“No.” He barely got the suggestion out before she cut him off. “Thank you.” Her words tried to be polite. She fidgeted in a clear attempt to get comfortable in her seat. “I’m fine.”

Observing her clear distress, Roland doubted that but didn’t insist. He grew silent and wished now he’d gotten that newspaper. Spoiled when it came to a social life, as the minutes ticked by with the clacking of train wheels marking each second, he felt restless. His aloof cabinmate had closed her eyes. Judging by the anxious frown wrinkling the pale skin between her eyebrows, he didn’t think she was sleeping.

The door to the car swung open, and a Pullman porter appeared.

“Sorry, sir.” He nodded to Roland.

The woman’s eyes flew open. Dread inscribed her every feature as the dark-skinned man turned his attention on her and approached like a persistent fox cornering a frightened rabbit. With swift understanding Roland recognized the problem.

The porter looked between Roland and the woman, clearly noting the taut distance between them. “May I see your ticket, miss?” He held out his hand, palm up, a grim look entering his attentive eyes.

“My ticket?” Her words came raspy.

“Yes’m. Your ticket. The one you bought to board this train.”

“I…” She pushed her shoulders into the seat, cowering within herself, the motion almost undetectable except that Roland intently watched her. “I’m afraid I didn’t, th–that is I don’t–”

“The lady’s with me.” He captured their startled attention.

“With you, sir?” The man’s attitude jumped a notch higher to deferential respect.

“I trust that’s not a problem?”

“No, sir. Not at all.” The porter literally backed up to the door. If Roland weren’t so disgusted by his name and all it accomplished, he might have found the entire situation bizarrely amusing. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. Didn’t realize you were traveling with a guest, sir.”

Roland magnanimously waved him off, though his smile felt tight. “Don’t concern yourself. I didn’t mention it when I boarded.”

“If there’s anything I can get you, sir?”

“A newspaper would be nice.”

“Yes, sir. Would a copy of the
New York Times
be all right, sir?”

“That’s fine.” He kept his voice pleasant. “And next time, if you would be kind enough to knock first rather than barge inside and scare the living daylights out of the lady, I’d appreciate it.”

The steward’s eyes grew larger. “Yes, sir. I—I only thought…. Yes, sir, of course, sir.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, backed out, and shut the door.

Roland turned his attention to the woman. He leaned forward in friendly persuasion, keen for a little conversation. “Maybe now that that little matter has been taken care of, you’d care to relax, miss, and we can get to know one another better?” He hoped for a smile at the least. At the most, words of thanks and a thaw of her chilly personality.

At least she was no longer coldly distant.

Her smoky eyes sparked with a fire in danger of incinerating him. Resentment stiffened her shoulders, and he wondered what he’d said or done this time to earn such an unfavorable reaction.

“Thank you for taking care of ‘that little matter,’ “she said with lips pulled tight, sounding more as if she were telling him to get lost, “though I didn’t ask for your help. And just so we’re clear, I’m not some damsel in distress looking for a wandering knight to rush in and rescue me. I’ll certainly never let you lure me into becoming your… your”—intense color heightened her cheeks—“your floozy!”

Entirely baffled by her response, he watched as in hot indignation she stood up, grabbed her bags, and whisked from his compartment.

Angel had no idea of where she was headed. She only knew she must get away from the insufferable Casanova in the car behind her. Had she stayed, she might have blurted something she would dearly regret.

Juggling her cases to open the door, she went into the next car, finding it to be a sleeping car with curtains covering the berths. She quietly went through another, hearing snores, then another. As she moved through to the next car, she wondered if he tried to make moves on all lone female travelers or if she’d been his only hapless victim.

An attractive face didn’t always go hand in hand with a pleasant disposition—a morsel of wisdom she’d learned while observing some of the dapper young fellows who visited the soda fountain. A good thing, too, that she knew better than to be captivated by his suave charisma and dashing smile. She understood the foolish danger of allowing herself to be taken in by such a rogue. In that single regard her aunt had not failed her, stressing to Angel that once the truth of her birthright surfaced no decent man would have her. And she didn’t want a man who wasn’t decent. She may have been conceived in sin and loathing, as Aunt Genevieve almost gleefully informed her, but she wouldn’t succumb to a sordid life because of what had happened to her mother or the choices she had made, most of which Angel still didn’t know in full or even if they were true.

The porter suddenly moved through the opposite door,
his
newspaper in hand. She tensed as the man noticed the luggage she carried. Rather than call her bluff, he offered a courteous if cool smile. “Is there a problem, miss?”

Still leery of him, she didn’t answer right away. At least he didn’t ask to see her ticket again, and she felt a niggling sense of guilt that she didn’t have one.

He studied her as if she didn’t belong there.

She swallowed hard. “Where can I buy a cup of coffee?”

His gaze again darted to her luggage, his eyes curious as they lifted to hers. “You’ll be wanting the dining car, miss. Follow me.” Before she could protest that she could find the car alone with his directions, he turned and walked back the way he had come. With no choice but to follow, she did, hoping she wasn’t walking into a trap.

They reached the car, and he spoke to another man, a steward in a different white uniform. Instead of benches, small tables covered in white cloths lined both sides. She headed down the narrow aisle toward one then heard the steward clear his throat. When she looked, he shook his head for her to stop.

Her heart pounded. Had she been caught?

The porter left, and the steward motioned she should leave her luggage to the side, by the door. With such restricted space, she had little choice. He led her to a different table from what she would have chosen—far in the back, this one finer. A thin silver vase with a pink rose decorated its center.

She glanced at her first choice toward the front of the car and closer to her luggage. “I think I would prefer a table in the front—”

“I was told to seat you here.” The man stood ramrod straight, unrelenting, his blue eyes refusing resistance. He held out a chair. Uneasy, she slid into it, feeling closed in as he scooted her closer. She shook off the crazy notion; the train encounter with the rogue stranger had definitely rattled her trust.

A black waiter soon appeared. After convincing him she wanted only coffee, knowing she must be stingy with her meager funds, he left. She took the peaceful opportunity to watch the few diners and figured it must be near closing time. Did the dining car close? A businessman sat alone, reading his newspaper. An elderly couple shared a meal. Two women with similar features, likely mother and daughter, chatted across a table in friendly conversation. Angel found herself studying them in wistful reflection, wondering if she might one day have as comfortable a relationship with her mother… if she could find her.

Engrossed in observing the two women, she took little notice that another passenger had entered the dining car. Not until the steward brought the newcomer to her table did she look up, dismayed to see the stranger. The third time to meet him by happenstance.

Wry amusement lit his dark eyes, but before she could protest to him about sharing her table, the steward moved away, almost bowing and scraping as he promised the man his “usual.” The porter had also behaved like a serf eager to please the lord of the castle. Clearly the staff knew him well, and he was a man of means, accustomed to having his wishes obeyed.

Her observation brought back the feeling of being cornered.

“Well, well, what do you know?” He took the chair across from her, apparently unaware of her mounting apprehension. “We meet again. This is a surprise.”

Angel noted the many empty tables he could have chosen.

“Is it?”

He narrowed his eyes cautiously. “I’m not sure I get your meaning.”

“You accused me of following you. But maybe the shoe is on the other foot and you’re the one following me.” She tried to come across as cool and collected. “I’m afraid I might have given you the wrong impression. I’m not interested in any sort of… alliance. I’m not the sort of girl to engage in… casual acquaintances.” Her face burned with embarrassment as she tried to express her standards in a delicate manner.

He lifted his hand to stop her. “Before you pursue that thought, miss, honest, all I came here for was a ham on rye and club soda.”

“And you chose my table as the spot to eat your meal?” she scoffed with a little huff of breath. “It’s one thing that we coincidentally found ourselves in the same car, but you purposely chose to sit here.”

“Your table?” That irritating glint of amusement again danced in his eyes. “Then you really don’t know….”

“What should I know?” A mounting sense of dread made her slightly ill.