Until Vienna (Romance on the Orient Express)

by Heather B. Moore

It was then she realized that tears were falling down her cheeks. She brushed at them, mortified that she’d cried in front of this man.

  But the professor only moved closer and held out a handkerchief.

  Gigi took it and pressed at her damp cheeks. “I’m sorry for laying so much upon you. I guess I am more affected than I realized.”

  His hand rested on her upper arm. “It is a lot to deal with.”

  Gigi folded the handkerchief, then pressed the backside to her cheeks again because the tears were still coming. “It’s all in the past, except for one thing: you. I can’t bear to think that now we’ve put you in this uncomfortable situation.”

  The professor squeezed her arm lightly, then dropped his hand. “Why don’t you let me talk to your aunt, and I will clear a few things up.”

  This made Gigi feel even worse. “I’ve already spoken to her. She’s promised she’s given up her agenda.”

  “Well then,” he began, “there’s no reason to add in more distress.”

  Gigi nodded her gratitude. “I feel like I am either apologizing or thanking you every time I see you.”

  The professor’s smile was soft, and their gazes clung for a moment. Gigi’s pulse began its upward climb again.

  “You are a good niece to your aunt,” he said. “That is clear, and she is fortunate to have such a forgiving relative.”

  Gigi sighed. “I suppose. Thank you . . . again.” Her smile peeked through, despite her recent tears.

  He chuckled. “You’re welcome—for whatever you’re thanking me for. I have been remiss though, and I should find you refreshment and a place to sit and recover.”

  No one had entered the display room they were in, but that could change at any moment.

  “I will be fine,” Gigi insisted. “I’m not often given over to hysterics, so you are an unfortunate man to witness this one.”

  He tilted his head, studying her closely. And what did he see? Her tear-stained face? And probably a reddened nose. “Did you love him?”

  Gigi went still. She knew what he was asking and who he was referring to.

  “At the time I thought I did,” she said in a hesitant voice. “Now, looking back, I know that perhaps I cared more for him than he did me. He moved on remarkably quickly, without a backward glance, it seems. We weren’t engaged though, so perhaps things were more in my head than what was real between us.”

  The professor only nodded.

  “And you?” she asked. He’d brought up her lost love, so perhaps it was all right for her to bring up his lost love too.

  The professor turned toward the wildlife display again. Clasping his hands behind his back, he seemed to be in deep thought.

  For a moment, Gigi wondered if she’d crossed an invisible line or had offended him. A broken engagement was more of a serious event than what she’d gone through.

  Then he said, “I trusted her. I think that was the most painful part. Yes, I loved her, and I believed she loved me. But the trust was the thing that should have held us together above all else.”

  His words were so melancholy that Gigi almost handed him back his handkerchief, but it was quite damp with her own tears. Besides, he wasn’t exactly tearful. His voice sounded rough around the edges, as if the time that had passed since his broken engagement had been much shorter than a few years.

  “I’m sorry about the broken trust,” Gigi said. “I can’t imagine how hard it would be to go through that.”

  “You’re apologizing again.” His gaze shifted to her, and she was gratified to see the light back in his eyes.

  “I suppose I am.” She gave him a small smile.

  And he returned it.

  “Now, Miss Ballard,” he said, extending his arm. “How would you like to see the Jean Hermann collection?”

  Gigi slipped her hand around the crook of his elbow and inhaled the woodsy scent she was becoming so familiar with. “I’d love to. Lead the way, Professor Haskins.”

  ChapteR EIGHT

  Dear Lillian,

  I hope I’m not boring you with all this talk of Professor Haskins, but he is proving to be the most fascinating and knowledgeable person I’ve ever known. He seems to know a little bit about everything. Yesterday we visited the Zoological Museum, and today we went to Notre-Dame and its museum as well. In addition to listening to his lectures, I had more than one conversation with Professor Haskins, and he is not bothered by Aunt Rowena’s grand matchmaking plan. It is only an amusement to him, which bespeaks of his good nature and unending patience. No wonder these tour members in their “twilight” years enjoy him so much.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking, and you can erase that from your mind completely. I’m not about to fall in love or do anything foolish when it comes to Professor Haskins. He is only a friend, and we both have quite agreed that’s all we’ll ever be. He has his past, you see, and he says he cannot give away a heart that has been broken in half. Yes, he is a bit of a poet. Another attribute I quite admire . . .

  “We meet again,” a deep voice said, pulling Gigi from her concentration. “You have returned to zeh Orient Express, I see.”

  She looked up from her notebook, upon which she’d been sketching a daring design—one of a lady’s jacket with a brooch made from a mounted dragonfly. They’d boarded the Orient Express again and were now on their way to Munich. The dining car was mostly empty following the supper hour, with only a few occupants who were having a late tea. Aunt Rowena and her friends had already retired for the evening.

  The man in all black stood near her table. Nicholas. He wore a hat, as if he’d just come in from outside, and he held his smokeless pipe in one hand.

  Professor Haskins had told her little about this man named Nicholas, and she was surprised to see him yet again. Because the professor hadn’t raised any alarm, she supposed she shouldn’t shy away from speaking with him.

  “How are you, sir?” she said out of both politeness and curiosity.

  “I am vell.” He nodded to the seat across from her, and she nodded back. He sat with a flourish, but a distance had appeared in his dark eyes as if he weren’t really seeing her.

  She didn’t know what to make of him or how this was the second time they were in a conversation without any formal introduction. “I am Georgina Ballard.”

  He took a puff on his pipe, although no smoke came out. “Nicholas.”

  Ah. So their small talk was to be very small talk. She looked down at her notepad and the sketch that had taken form there.

  “You add sorrow to zeh art on your pages.”

  Gigi looked up again at Nicholas. “This is not art.”

  His thick brows pulled. “You are creating something new, no?”

  Her gaze flitted to her sketch. “Yes . . .”

  “Zis is zeh definition of art, Miss Ballard.”

  Something in her chest expanded. She’d never considered herself an artist, and yet . . . perhaps Nicholas was right.

  He took another drag on his pipe, and although there was no smoke, she thought she detected the scent of French baguettes, reminding her of Strasbourg.

  “You are troubled, I see,” he continued unprompted. “You must remember zaht art is one way to work out zeh heart’s grief.”

  Gigi blinked as she felt a slight tremble in her fingers. Was he implying that she still had a broken heart and somehow she could work through it by sketching?

  Abruptly he stood, and she drew back a little, surprised at his brusque action.

  “Have a good evening, Miss Ballard.” He checked his pocket watch, then tipped his hat and strode off before she could reply in kind or ask him for clarification.

  She stared after him for a moment, wondering what the man was about. Where was he from and where was he headed? What type of occupation did he have?

  A waiter appeared and changed her cup
for a new one of steaming tea. She thanked him, then tried to concentrate again on her sketching. She turned the page and began a new design, drawing another ladies’ shirtwaist. She made it tailored but with a gaping hole in the sleeve. After considering it for a moment, she drew over it to make it look as good as new again.

  She felt oddly satisfied.

  “How is your German, Miss Ballard?” someone said.

  She knew it was Professor Haskins before she looked up, and her breathing felt a bit faint by the time their gazes connected.

  “I know a few words,” Gigi said, trying not to smile too broadly.

  “Ah, ones such as how are you and thank you very much.”

  “Precisely.” Their smiles caught, and Gigi was the one to look away first.

  “Do you mind?” the professor asked, motioning to the seat across from hers, just as Nicholas had moments before.

  “Of course not.” She wanted to grin. “You missed Nicholas . . . The man with the pipe?”

  “He is on board again?” the professor mused. “I’m sure I’ll see him soon enough then.”

  He turned his attention to the window. The dark landscape was brightened by the silvery moonlight.

  Gigi peeked at his profile. The gas lamps of the lounge car played upon his features. She’d become well-acquainted with the angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose, his dark brows, his amused hazel eyes, and of course, the waves of his pale blond hair. He was a striking man, and if his heart wasn’t so closed, she had no doubt he would have been snatched up long ago.

  He turned his head toward her, the edge of a smile on his lips. She looked down quickly, willing her face not to flush.

  “What are you sketching this evening, Miss Ballard?”

  “Oh.” She closed the notebook. “A few ladies’ jacket designs.”

  The professor extended his hand. “May I see your designs?”

  Truthfully, Gigi had shown very few people outside her family circle her designs. And never a man. Not even Nicholas had seemed to peer at her sketches when he was sitting across from her.

  “Are they top secret?” the professor asked, amusement in his tone. “Or perhaps scandalous in nature?”

  Gigi laughed. “They’re not scandalous, I assure you. Quite proper, in fact.” She slid the notebook toward him.

  Professor Haskins took his time in perusing the pages. He only nodded a few times, but there was no other reaction, either favorable or otherwise as he examined each design. Some he only looked at for a handful of seconds. For others, he angled the notebook and took more time studying.

  “Well.” He closed the notebook and handed it back. “Why did you not tell me you’re an artist?”

  The second man in so many minutes to reference artistry. Gigi didn’t know what to make of it. She accepted the notebook. “I’m not sure that designing ladies’ clothing is considered art.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Ballard,” the professor said, a smile in his voice. “Think of the paintings and sculptures we have viewed thus far. What are they comprised of?”

  “Most of them have been men or women in various poses or activities.”

  “Yes.” The professor leaned back in his seat. “And what is the artist doing as he creates these pieces?”

  Gigi was stumped. What answer was he seeking?

  “Art is the study of the human form physically and the study of the human mind mentally and emotionally. Do you think if the Mona Lisa were in the nude or David were clothed that would change the nature of the works?”

  Gigi’s brows shot up. “Definitely.”

  “You’re correct,” he said. “So, how can creating that clothing from scratch not be considered art as well?”

  Gigi opened her mouth, then closed it. He certainly had a way with logic. “All right, then. If you insist, I’ll consider my designs art.”

  He chuckled. “I insist.”

  She was smiling, and her chest felt airy.

  “Have you ever considered men’s fashions?”

  Gigi lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Not exactly.”

  The professor motioned to his jacket. “What embellishments would you give a jacket like this?”

  She tilted her head, enjoying this moment of being able to openly study him. His jacket was a deep brown, and it set off his blond hair and deepened his hazel eyes. Perfect, really. But she couldn’t tell him that. She had to find a way to improve the article of clothing.

  “I’d add a second pocket so that there is one on each side of the jacket, then . . .” She paused. “Change the buttons to navy. You could pair the jacket with navy trousers to bring out the color more.”

  Professor Haskins leaned forward. “Impressive. Can you do it? I can go change and bring it back to you.”

  Gigi drew back. “You want me to alter your jacket?”

  His smile was bright. “Sure.”

  She could only stare, and then she laughed. “I don’t think so. I mean, what would my aunt say? Me altering your clothing sounds like a—”

  “Wifely thing to do?” His teasing grin made her skin prickle.

  “Yes.”

  “Or a business woman’s project? I will pay you just as I’d pay a tailor.”

  “Don’t pay me,” Gigi said immediately. “And I am no tailor . . . I’m a dressmaker. Men’s clothing is different.”

  One of his dark brows rose, but his eyes danced with merriment. “How so, Miss Ballard? Men’s clothing has pleats, darts, sleeves, lapels, lace, ruffles, and that’s just the top half—”

  “All right, stop,” Gigi said, holding up a hand. The last thing she needed him to do was describe parts of a trouser or men’s underthings. “I will alter your jacket, but you are not to pay me.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  And before she could respond, he rose from his seat and strode out of the dining car.

  “Well,” Gigi muttered to herself. She couldn’t very well be taking the man’s jacket off his hands when there were a few people still in the dining car. No one she knew, but she didn’t want Aunt Rowena to hear about this from someone else.

  So she left the dining car herself and waited in the corridor of the sleeping car where the members of the tour were staying. She didn’t have to wait long, and when he came out of one of the compartments at the end of the corridor, her heart involuntarily skipped a beat. He’d removed his tie, and that left his collar open at the top.

  The dim corridor lighting made his hair darker, more golden, and his eyes nearly black.

  “Is this a covert exchange?” he asked, his tone low and warm.

  “It is.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Here is the top-secret jacket, and we will rendezvous later when it is finished.”

  “Very well,” she repeated, trying not to smirk. She took the jacket from his outstretched hand, and for the briefest moment, their fingers brushed. Like before, she noticed his were warm and rougher than she’d expect for a man she thought spent a lot of time inside a university. Maybe he had outdoor hobbies or pursuits.

  She draped the jacket over her arm. The weight of it felt like a connection to the man it belonged to. And then everything seemed to go still between them. She was keenly aware that they were standing together in a narrow corridor. The soft lighting, the draw of the man before her, and his woodsy soap scent all made her feel as if she’d stepped into another world.

  And that would not do because now she was thinking about what it might be like if he took her hand, if their fingers intertwined, if he leaned close . . .

  She sidestepped him. “Well, good night, Professor Haskins. I’ll see you in Munich.”

  He turned to watch her go, and as it happened, she had to pass quite close to him.

  Their arms didn’t brush, their hands didn’t touch, and tha
t was a relief. And a disappointment. Gigi must be tired and fanciful. That was all. She and the professor were moving forward into a lovely friendship, and yet her mind was trying to twist things unfairly. Surely, he wouldn’t be so courteous and charming and friendly if he thought she was thinking of him in a new light now. She should walk quickly and disappear inside her berth, where at last she’d be able to take a full breath.

  “Good night, Miss Ballard,” the professor murmured.

  She continued along the corridor, not daring to look back. She could already feel his gaze upon her, and she told herself firmly that he was being a gentleman and making sure she got to her berth without incident. What incident, she didn’t know. It was just something to keep her mind focused.

  He’d paid her a high compliment in asking her to alter his jacket. And she’d do it for free because they were friends. Friends. That was all. And that was how it would remain.

  ChapteR NinE

  Dear Lillian,

  I think I’ve quite fallen in love. Now before you fall over in shock, it is not what you think. I’ve fallen in love with the city of Munich. If only I’d paid more attention in my short stint in German lessons, then I’d inquire at the dressmaker shops and see if they are hiring.

  I’m teasing of course, but oh, how beautiful this place is. In about an hour, we will join the tour and visit the Kunstareal—the museum quarter in the center of Munich. Professor Haskins has promised us that we’ll see many of the old masters. I’m so looking forward to it. You might also be interested to know that I’m working on an alteration of the professor’s jacket. It seems he’s quite enthusiastic for me to rearrange his fashion . . .

  The elegant spires of the towering buildings left Gigi in awe as the tour traveled by horse and carriage along the streets of Munich. The day was cool and overcast—unseasonably so—but that didn’t dampen Gigi’s spirits in the least.

  Aunt Rowena was also in cheerful form.

  By unspoken agreement, they’d dropped the topic of Aunt Rowena’s past interference, and she’d quite agreed upon dropping all designs of uniting the professor with Gigi. So now, when Aunt Rowena addressed the professor with some questions, Gigi no longer worried there was an ulterior motive behind them.