The Enchantment (8 page)

Emma's mouth dropped open in surprise. Relief buckled her knees. She grabbed the bench's hard wooden back to steady herself. Suddenly the fifty dollars in her purse swelled like a fortune. "Why, Dr.

Digby, that's very thoughtful of you," she managed.

"I figured we'd never get to sit together unless we purchased the tickets early. So I sent my assistant right over here after you left my office. He was able to get you a seat next to mine. And the very last one.

How's that for luck?"

Emma's relieved smile froze. "Next ... to you?" "Yes, isn't it great? I'll be able to tell you all about 66

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Cibola. Why, by the time we get there ..." He frowned. "Are you all right, Miss Hatter. You're pale."

Emma's retort was cut in half by the loud whistle of a train and the booming words: "All aboard!"

"That's it!" Digby said excitedly. "That's the number Eighty-Two to Albuquerque."

Emma's fingers curled around the ticket in her gloved hand. Five days—and nights—on a train with Dr.

Dimwit at her side. Her teeth ached at the thought of it.

She'd almost rather be poor. Almost.

"Let's go." Without waiting for Digby, she gathered her handbag, satchel, and parasol, and headed toward the train. Her expensive, scallop-edged twelve-button walking boots clattered like a Gatling gun as she marched toward the uniformed train attendant standing alongside the car nearest her. At her approach, the dark-skinned man offered her a warm, welcoming smile.

Emma cast a quick glance behind her. Larence was reaching for his ridiculously overstuffed, out-of-date valise. She breathed a sigh of relief. It would take him a while to flag down a porter and get their trunks and bags loaded on the train. She had a few precious moments without him.

She handed the attendant her ticket. "I'd like to trade this seat for another. Anywhere."

The man didn't even bother to look at her ticket. "Sorry, miss. Train's full up."

"I have money."

"I'm sure you do, miss," he said, taking her bag, "but that don't give this train mo' seats. Now, if you'll follow me ..."

Emma's lips stretched into a tense smile. "Fine," she said between clenched teeth. "Lead on."

The uniformed attendant climbed the creaky metal

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steps leading onto the car, then turned and offered his big, pinkish brown palm to her. Emma placed her white-gloved hand in his, hiked up her heavy wool traveling skirt, and followed him into the train.

The train. She thought of the two words as capitalized. The Train.

The Train in which she'd be sitting next to Dr. Dimwit from New York to New Mexico.

If only she were one of those people who suffered fools gladly.

If only he weren't so easily cast in the role.

Emmaline perched stiffly on the edge of the plush burgundy velvet seat, edging herself as close to the window as possible. Her hands were wadded in her lap, her back was ramrod-straight.

She waited for the telltale clomp, step, clomp, step of Digby's ponderous gait. At each passenger's entrance on the train, her vertebras tightened.

Calm down. It wouldn't do a scrap of good to go working herself into a snit. She was riding cross-country in this—her gaze shot to the small settee opposite her, and she groaned—this minuscule compartment with Digby, and that was that.

She breathed in and out slowly, forcing herself to calm down. Squeezing her eyes shut so that she wouldn't have to greet Digby when he finally worked his way to their seat, she leaned against the thick brocade shade that covered the window. The musty scent of aged fabric crept to her nostrils.

Then she heard it: Clomp, step, clomp, step . . .

"Here you are, Dr. Digby: 62-A."

Emma heard something land on the velvet settee op-

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posite her. She could almost see that ragged old duck valise bouncing on the squabbed cushion.

"Thank you," Digby said in a voice that could only be described as breathless. "I hope that grandson of yours feels better soon."

Grandson? The idiot had asked the train attendant about his family? Emma groaned silently, waiting for the attendant to leave before she cracked one eye open. Across from her, Larence scooted to the edge of his seat. Emma felt the soft brush of his wool-clad knees against hers. Before she knew what he was up to, he'd reached over and patted her clasped hands. One quick touch and then his hands were back in his own lap.

She stiffened in shock. People so rarely touched her. . . .

He smiled. White teeth flashed at her. "Isn't this great? I 've been reading about ..."

He launched into another monologue. Emma grimaced. It was time to set some ground rules. "Let's get something—"

The train lurched forward; she flew backward, cracking her head on the bench's mahogany back. As quickly as it had moved, the train stopped again. The car rattled, hummed, shook.

A headache burst to life at the base of her neck. Closing her eyes, she pressed two fingers to her temples and eased herself deeper into the settee. "Would you hand me my gladstone bag?" Nothing. Not even a stupid answer. She opened her eyes hesitantly. Digby had his nose buried in a scruffy, dog-eared copy of Century Magazine that was dated 1882. She stifled a groan. Only Digby would bring an eleven-year-old magazine to read.

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She cleared her throat.

He looked up. Emma craned her neck for a look at the article's title: "An Aboriginal Pilgrimage."

She made a mental note not to accept any reading material he offered her. ' 'Would you hand me my glad-stone bag?"

"What gladstone bag?"

"The one I handed to you at the concourse." She glanced around the tiny compartment. "Where did you stow it?"

"I didn't."

Emma's headache intensified. "Didn't what?"

"Stow your bag."

"Then what did you do with it?"

"Nothing."

The train lurched forward. Emma's stomach dropped. "What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean nothing. I didn't touch it."

With a cry, Emma snapped to her feet. The train bucked forward, and she staggered back, flopping onto the velvet seat. She yanked the gold silk tassel beside her. The shade jerked once, then bounced up the window and clapped around the metal rod that housed it.

Emma's gaze shot to the bench. There, piled neatly on the hard wooden surface, were her traveling bags.

Leaning up against the bench was her expensive Crystal Maine iron-bottomed trunk. The leather trunk tag with her name and address swung forlornly against the wooden-slatted side.

Her hands flew to her mouth. For a heartbeat she was speechless. The she shouted at the top of her lungs: "Porter!"

The train pitched forward. She heard the long, drawn-

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out squeal of reluctant wheels, and then the slowly building chug-a-chug-a-chug of the mighty engine as the train started rolling forward.

She pressed her hands to the cold glass and peered out. Her breath clouded the pane until she couldn't see anything except the hazy outline of her bags on the bench, and then nothing at all.

The train wheezed out of the station. The inky black fist of night pressed itself against the window.

Emma stood frozen in shock. A desperate sob caught in her throat. Everything was in that trunk.

Everything. Her toilet case, manicure set, hand mirror, Chlorate Dentrifice tooth powder, her favorite Hoyt's German perfume . . .

Clothes. The word crashed through her brain, bringing with it a tide of queasiness. Forget the tooth powder—she could purchase that in Albuquerque. What in God's name was she going to wear?

She spun away from the window and glared at Digby. What had he done? Just had his own trunks loaded and to hell with hers? "Who in the world would walk away from trunks without paying a porter to load them?"

11 You did."

Emma's flimsy hold on her temper snapped. "I handed you my bags."

"And I piled them on the bench. I thought—"

"Ha!" Emma knew there was a hysterical edge to her voice, but she couldn't help herself. All she could think about were the gowns and garments and toiletries she'd packed so carefully. They represented everything she had left in the world. Now she had nothing. Nothing ...

"You didn't ask me to carry them onto the train for

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you," he said in a reasonable voice that made Emma want to smack his face.

"A lady doesn't have to ask a gentleman to carry her things. He just does it."

"He does?"

She lowered herself slowly onto the seat, feeling suddenly old and alone. "Of course he does. Where have you lived all your life—under a rock?"

Something—maybe pain, maybe embarrassment— flashed in his eyes and was gone. "Do gentlemen really do that?" he said earnestly. "Always? Without being asked?"

She thought about saying nothing to him at all, or about yelling at the top of her lungs, or marching away.

But what was the point? Nothing she did would get her trunk back.

Besides, it was her own fault. She was the one who'd walked off without her bags. She'd spent so much time with men like Michael Jameson and Eugene Cummin that she'd forgotten that gallantry wasn't universal.

And even worse, she'd relied on Digby. What kind of a fool would do that? By God, she deserved what she got.

"Who says?" he asked unexpectedly.

She frowned, trying to remember what they'd been talking about. "Who says what?"

' 'Who says men have to run along behind women and make sure their trunks get loaded on trains?"

"I don't know. Women, I suppose."

"Oh." He paused. Then, "I don't know many women."

"No surprise there."

Larence leaned forward, and for one horrifying mo-

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ment she thought he was going to touch her again. "You had your name and address on everything, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Then what's the problem?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

She sighed heavily. What was the point? Only someone who'd lived in poverty could really understand the value of possessions. "Forget it, Digby. All I want right now is to go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up, I'll find that this was all a horrible nightmare."

"Yes, I'm sure it will all look better tomorrow."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure it will."

Her sarcasm bypassed him completely. "That's the spirit, Miss—"

"Call me Emmaline."

His eyes rounded. "Really?"

Hers rolled. "Really. What do I call you—Larry?"

"No," he said sharply. "Larence is good."

"Fine. Whatever. Call the porter, will you, and get him to let down our beds."

He looked quickly away.

Emma frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"That depends on your point of view, actually; I mean, we're both adults and ..."

"What are you talking about?"

"My assistant, Ted—he's really a bright young man, good student—anyway, he tried to get you a sleeper ticket, but there weren't any. Except this one. He knew I wanted to sit with you. ..." His sentence trailed off.

"And ..." she prompted.

"And the upper berth is broken. We only have the one we're sitting on."

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Emma stiffened. "Are you telling me we only have one bed for the two of us?"

"Yes."

Her gaze cut to the brass pull-ring embedded in the mahogany overhead. It was almost impossible to believe that there was a bed lurking behind that elegant wooden facade; it was even more unthinkable that there

wasn't.

She saw the hairline crack that slithered from one end of the wood to the other. With a sinking feeling, she examined the remaining berth. Two seats—Larence's and her own—faced each other, forming a four-foot-by-six-foot enclosure. Tonight, when the porter came by, he'd fill in the space between the seats, slap a sheet on the mattress, and viola! a bed would appear. Abed.

She grimaced. One bed. Two bodies. And not just any body—but Dr. Dimwit himself. "You propose to share this bed with me, then?" she said thinly.

"Well, actually, it's my bed." She gasped. "You mean you'd actually—" Larence's mouth tilted in a quickly suppressed smile. ' 'I suppose a gentleman would give up his bed without a fight?"

She nodded stiffly. "He would." A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Duffey's etiquette book didn't say a word about relinquishing one's bed."

It took Emma a moment to realize he was teasing her. She had no idea how to respond; it had been years since someone had joked with her. She stiffened, trying to maintain a cool, emotionless facade. "I believe this is the sort of thing the author would take for granted."

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"I guess you silver-spooners know a thing or two about unwritten rules."

She blanched. "I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth," she said quietly. "Quite the opposite."

Larence focused on her with the same single-minded concentration he'd shown his magazine. An unexpected intelligence, deep and penetrating, shone from the bottle green depths of his eyes.

Emma shifted on her seat. She didn't like the way he was looking at her, as if he were searching her soul for secrets. God knew she had enough of them.

They stared silently at each other. Across the aisle an elderly gentleman coughed. The phlegmy sound vibrated in the thick, pipe-smoke-filled air.

"I think maybe I knew that," he said finally.

Emmaline's throat closed up at his quiet observation. She didn't like the turn this conversation was taking.

Not one bit. It was getting entirely too . . . personal. "So," she said, restiffening her spine and hardening her stare, "do I get the bed or not?"

"Of course."

It was strange, really, the way the victory made her feel. Almost disappointed. Not at all as she usually felt when besting someone. "Where will you sleep?"

He shrugged, and she could tell that it was a heartfelt response. He really didn't care where he slept. She shook her head in amazement. It was astounding how happy he was just to be.