Midnight Train to Paris (11 page)

Samuel appears by my side, dressed in an old-fashioned tuxedo complete with a shiny black bow tie and a top hat that makes him look like a buffer version of Fred Astaire. He is dashing and rugged all at the same time, and I can’t help but feel a violent stab of regret for leaving him all those years ago. The regret only serves to make my hands shake as I prepare to slip on the final touch to my own 1930s dinner costume—a pair of long, black, silky gloves.

First though, I need to remove the sparkling emerald from my ring finger. I try to slip it off, but the stunning piece of antique jewelry will not budge. I tug harder, and even though the ring doesn’t appear to be too tight, it still hugs my finger in exactly the same spot—a permanent fixture on my trembling hand.

“Need help?” Samuel offers.

“I’m trying to get this ring off so I can put my gloves on. All of the women in the dining car were wearing gloves, and we’ve already humiliated ourselves once tonight. I’d like to fit in so we actually have a chance to talk to Rosie and the other girls.”

Samuel takes my hand, wrapping his fingers around the ring and pulling lightly, but even for him the ring won’t move. He pulls a little harder, but with each tug the ring actually seems to squeeze tighter onto my finger.

“Do you think this ring had something to do with landing us here?” I whisper, knowing how insane my question sounds. But then again, what about this whole time traveling extravaganza
isn’t
insane?

Samuel shakes his head in frustration after one last unsuccessful tug, then reaches for the gloves in my other hand. “I don’t know how in the hell we got here, Jill. But if we want any shot at making it back, you need to forget about the damn ring and put these gloves on so we can stop whatever is going to happen on this train in the next hour.”

Despite Samuel’s usual cool, collected demeanor in the face of a crisis, even
he
seems to be on edge tonight. Then again, traveling back in time seventy-five years to stop a mysterious train abduction and double murder from occurring isn’t your everyday crisis.

I slide the elegant gloves onto my hands, fitting them
over
the emerald stone and pushing the smooth material all the way up to my elbows. Then I pluck a shiny silver clutch from the suitcase, squeeze the gun into its silky lining, and sling the delicate purse strap over my shoulder.

Samuel holds his arm out to me. “You remember our story? And the plan?”

Even though I have never felt my heart race quite this fast, I give Samuel a confident nod as I slip my arm through his. “I’m a reporter, and I
never
forget a story.”

Samuel doesn’t question me any further as we exit our sleeping cabin and stroll down the fancy train corridor, just another wealthy, married 1930s couple on their way to Christmas Eve dinner on the famous Orient Express.

Even though it is dangerously close to midnight, every beautifully set table in the elegant dining car is occupied. As I cast a quick glance through the heated car, I marvel at each of the women’s luxurious evening gowns, the shimmering diamonds dangling from their ears, the pearls adorning their necks, and the handsome, tuxedo-clad men who accompany them.

Samuel nods toward the back of the car, where two women are dining solo, each at their own table, with their backs to us. We stroll casually in their direction, and I hope that none of the passengers who witnessed the bewildered looks on our faces and our out-of-place clothing a little while ago will recognize us now.

When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the steamy train window, I realize that
I
barely recognize myself. My long violet gown swishes as I walk, hugging my figure in places I wish it did not…although I’m certain by the way Samuel—my pretend husband for the night—combed my body earlier with that intense gaze of his, he doesn’t mind in the least.

As we approach the backs of the two women, I notice that one is donning a showy fur shawl around her bare shoulders while her smooth blond hair twists up into an intricately designed diamond headpiece. The other young woman has silky brown curls that slide over her shoulders as she lifts her striking sapphire gaze to ours.

Rosie.

I just know it’s her.

Samuel doesn’t miss a beat as he flashes the girl with the curls a warm smile.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”
The French rolls off his tongue with ease this time, melding perfectly with his impeccable charm.
“Parlez-vous anglais?”

I notice her left hand instinctively running over her abdomen as she peers at us underneath a set of long, curly lashes. “Oh dear, is it that obvious that I’m the only American on the train tonight?” Her big blue eyes twinkle as she smiles sweetly, revealing that same dimple I noticed earlier in the corridor.

“Well, you’re certainly not alone,” I say. “My husband and I are from Washington, D.C.”

“Oh, how lovely,” the young girl replies. She opens her plump lips as if she’s about to say something else, but then stops herself.

“The late night dinner on the Orient Express must be exquisite. It appears that all of the other tables have been taken,” I say with a lighthearted laugh. “Would it be terribly inconvenient if we joined you for dinner?”

Before she gives me an answer, the blond woman in the fur shawl stands from her table behind us and places a silky black glove on Samuel’s shoulder. “I would love company tonight,” she says in a sophisticated British accent. “Although the ride on the Orient Express is most extraordinary, dining alone on Christmas Eve is still rather depressing. Perhaps we can all join Miss…?” she raises a brow, waiting for the girl with the curls to say her name.

“Rosemary,” the young girl responds. “But you can call me Rosie. And of course you may join me for dinner. It is Christmas, after all.”

Clad in a spotless white coat with a long white apron tied around his waist, the server appears at our table, a matching white cloth draped over his arm and a bucket of champagne in hand.

“
Une coupe de champagne
?” he offers with a charming smile.

Rosie’s curls bob over her shoulders as she shakes her head, smiling politely back at the waiter. “
Non, merci
,” she says quietly as she rests her hand on her abdomen once more.

She’s changed out of the sparkling silver gown I glimpsed underneath her red coat earlier and is now wearing a beautiful, yet modest, black dress. I also notice that she is the only woman seated in this dining car who is
not
wearing gloves. Her fingertips are still bright pink, not yet fully recovered from the bitter cold outside.

I remember the voyage I’ve just made to escape the Morel Château, traveling across the freezing Lake Geneva by ferry, and I wonder if Rosie has just finished the same trip in her efforts to leave her fiancé, Alexandre Morel, and meet my grandfather in Paris tomorrow morning.

Hopefully, we’re about to find out
, I think as I take Rosie’s lead and decline the champagne. As much as I would love to drown my troubles in a bubby glass, I don’t think it’s in my best interest to get tipsy before attempting to stop an abduction from taking place. Especially considering the fact that neither Samuel nor I have the faintest clue as to how this is all going to go down.

The server makes the same offer to both Samuel and the striking blond seated across from him, and they both accept.

Moments later, Samuel takes a quick sip from his sparkling crystal flute, then gets right down to business. “I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t get your name,” he asks the British woman.

“Frances,” she replies, gracefully extending her hand. Samuel clasps her fingers lightly in his before kissing the top of her black glove. “I’m Samuel, and this is my wife, Jillian.”

Frances—who I can only assume must be Frances
Chapman,
the second woman listed in the 1937 abduction report—reaches across the table and shakes my hand. “How do you do,” she says with a nod. The faint creases that line her eyes tell me she is likely several years older than the young Rosie, who couldn’t be more than twenty years old.

Introductions are exchanged with Rosie as well before Samuel continues.

“My wife and I adore traveling Europe by train. In fact that’s how we first met,” he says, shooting me a romantic wink.

I push the thought of Samuel’s rough, tattooed body out of my head and smile back at him. God, that man can really turn on the charm when he wants to.

“Oh, how romantic,” Frances purrs before taking a bold sip of her champagne. “I can only hope to meet my future husband on this voyage. He has until London to board, so there’s still time.”

Rosie giggles, then flashes us all a sweet smile. “I’ve already met the man I’m going to marry. Well, technically we’re not yet engaged, but I’m certain it’s only a matter of time before he asks me.”

“He must be a wonderful man,” I say, thinking of Jacques, the grandfather I never knew. I wonder how things might’ve turned out differently if Rosie hadn’t been taken from him so early in their relationship. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone off to World War II, where—according to my mother’s vague stories of her parents—he would later lose his life.

But then, if Rosie had never been abducted, Jacques might have never met my grandmother, and then my mother would have never been born.

Although the thought of ending my mother’s miserable existence on this earth is comforting in a sickly way, I realize with a start what that would mean for Isla and me.

“Will this love of yours be joining you on the Orient Express tonight?” Frances asks Rosie, the odd chill in her tone snapping me back to the present.

“Oh, not tonight. He’ll be waiting for me when we arrive in Paris tomorrow morning. The anticipation of seeing him after all these months will guarantee me not a single moment’s rest tonight, I am sure of it!”

Rosie’s excitement is so endearing, I cannot stand the thought of anyone harming her. I wish I could tell her what we know is going to happen and take her to safety immediately, but I must stick to the plan. Besides, revealing the fact that Samuel and I have traveled back in time would only serve to alienate us from the women we are trying to save.

“Young love,” Frances sighs, before taking two more long sips of champagne. “I remember it well.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask, what brings you to make a solo Christmas voyage on the Orient Express?” Samuel addresses Frances.

“Oh, dear. I don’t think I’ve had enough champagne to share the details of
that
story,” she says with a shrill laugh. “Let’s just say I was visiting an old friend…and it ended on a rather sour note, unfortunately.” Frances pats her blond hair with gloved hands as she furiously bats her eyelashes, directing her gaze toward the thick snowflakes flying past the train window. Gaining composure, she turns back to the table and levels her gaze at Rosie. “In fact, I believe this old friend of mine may be a mutual acquaintance of ours, Rosemary.”

Rosie’s smile wilts instantly at Frances’s words.

“Am I correct in assuming that you are Rosemary Delaney, daughter of Ambassador Delaney?” Frances asks.

Rosie sits up taller in her seat, fumbling with the cloth napkin in her hands. “My, what a small world. You are acquainted with my father?”

I squeeze Samuel’s hand underneath the table.
Rosie’s father was an ambassador too?
Just like the poor, young Emma Brooks, who, with her brown curls and pretty blue eyes, actually bears a striking resemblance to the young Rosie.

As if this entire situation weren’t creepy enough.

“Not exactly,” Frances says. “But I am
quite
intimate with the Morel family. In fact, I attended the Morel Holiday Gala earlier this evening. I must say, you looked simply stunning in that silver gown you were wearing. Your
fiancé,
Alexandre Morel, seemed quite taken with you.” Frances’s gaze shoots to Rosie’s left hand. “Or should I say your
former
fiancé?”

The color drains from Rosie’s cheeks as her eyes dart nervously around the dining car, where a few of the other passengers have begun to retire to their sleeping compartments. She lifts a trembling hand to her chest, then turns to Samuel and me.