Wrong Train to Paris (Romance on the Orient Express, #2)

by Jennifer Moore

  M. Paquet opened his mouth as if he’d say something further but closed it again. He frowned and left the Lavender Room, closing the door behind him.

  Julia felt a pinch of guilt. She’d been unkind, finding fault when she should have been offering thanks for the effort he’d made in her behalf, not to mention his saving her from the scorpion. But his acting without consulting her was just like her father’s hiring a chaperone when one wasn’t necessary. Why did neither of them consider her input on matters directly affecting her own life? Why did nobody trust her judgment?

  Once Julia made up the bed, Fredric made himself at home among the pillows. Julia continued to fret as she dressed, tying the borrowed apron and arranging the scarf over her hair. She took her time, straightening the room, not wishing to meet M. Paquet on the stairs—or worse, in the washroom.

  Finally, hearing his footsteps descend the stairs, she waited a moment longer, then opened her door. The smell of breakfast filled the house, and Julia wished she’d hurried down to help Gabi with the meal instead of hiding away in her room. Today it felt as if she couldn’t do anything right. She stepped down the stairs but paused in the entry hall beside the painting of Gabi’s house as she heard M. Paquet’s voice in the kitchen. He did not sound happy at all.

  “I always keep my cup right here, on this shelf by the sink,” he said.

  “Well, now it is put away properly,” Gabi said.

  “And what happened to everything?” M. Paquet continued. “Where is the sugar?”

  “In the pantry, where it belongs. Juliette has arranged it all; isn’t that wonderful?”

  M. Paquet grumbled something Julia couldn’t hear. She assumed it was because he had moved into the pantry. And from the tone of his voice, she didn’t think what he had to say was exactly charitable with regards to her or to the tidied kitchen.

  “I do hope the olive seedlings survived their journey from Athens,” Gabi said.

  “An extra day inside the crate didn’t help,” Luc said. “They are already delicate. I should have planted them immediately upon my return.”

  “But you did a very good thing, riding all the way to Monteaux. A father’s mind is at ease, and that is worth more than the few shoots you might have lost.”

  M. Paquet grumbled something else.

  Julia’s pinch of guilt tightened.

  “I can help plant,” Gabi offered. “The chore will go faster with two.”

  “You’ve your own work to do this morning,” he said. “Coquette will miss you, and your garden will as well. I’ll manage in the nursery.”

  “Mon cher, you seem unhappy today.” Gabi’s voice was concerned.

  “I’m happy,” Luc said. “Just a little tired from all the travel.”

  “Ah yes. Few things are as uncomfortable as a long horse ride. The stiffness in your back and the chafing in your—”

  “I’ll see you at lunch, Gabi,” M. Paquet interrupted, sounding as if he were holding back a laugh.

  Julia heard the kitchen door open and close.

  “Childbirth’s no holiday either,” Gabi muttered. “Or arthritis.” She turned away from the door and smiled when Julia entered. “Ah, Juliette. I didn’t wish you a proper good morning.” She kissed both of Julia’s cheeks. “It’s a lovely day today, non? And my kitchen is so orderly. It puts me in high spirits.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Julia said. She sat in the chair Gabi motioned her to and took a slice of bread. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard you mention that M. Paquet was unable to take care of his seedlings yesterday.”

  “Eh, oui. They should be planted as soon as possible. And I know he hopes to graft the new buds now, when the weather is still cool. Farmers—always they must depend on the weather. And with last year’s drought and the years before with the blight on the vines . . . Provence, she has not been kind to those who depend on her for their living.”

  Gabi spoke with a smile, but Julia could see sadness in her eyes. And worry. “Do you think . . . should I help him plant today?”

  “Oh, I think he would love that, ma chérie.”

  The two finished breakfast, and Gabi left to tend to her goat and garden. Julia remained to clean the dishes. While she worked, the tight feeling remained in her stomach. She must apologize to M. Paquet for her discourteous words this morning and thank him for his kindness. Helping plant the seedlings might just be the way to clear the air between them.

  The sounds of Gabi yelling startled her, and Julia almost dropped the plate she was drying. She set it down and rushed outside to see what was wrong.

  She found Gabi pulling a rope with a protesting goat at the other end toward a short, squat woman on the far side of her property. Julia wasn’t certain whether Gabi was yelling at the woman or the goat, and as she got closer, she realized it was both.

  “. . . again in my garden,” Gabi was saying. “I shall have no mint left, and she trampled down an entire row of rosemary.”

  “Fleur is a clever goat,” the woman replied, arms folded. “She can escape her pen as well as give the sweetest milk.”

  “It is my garden that makes the winning chèvre so sweet,” Gabi said. “Yet you take home the prize every year.”

  “Jealousy does not look good on you, Gabrielle.” The woman folded her arms.

  “A stained apron does not look good on you, Alice, but I am too polite to mention it.” Gabi glared at her.

  Alice looked down at her apron, which was indeed stained, and frowned at Gabi. When she saw Julia approach, she raised a brow and looked back at Gabi with a questioning expression.

  “Alice, this is my guest, Juliette Weston from Paris.”

  “A guest?” Alice said. “When have you ever had a guest? And how do you know someone from Paris?” She looked Julia up and down. “She doesn’t dress like she’s from Paris.”

  Gabi ignored the woman’s commentary. “Juliette, this is Alice Laurent, my neighbor.” She spoke the last two words with a sigh, as if having a neighbor were a burden she endured stoically. She motioned with her chin toward the house close to hers.

  “Bonjour, Madame Laurent,” Julia said.

  Alice continued to study her. “Is she Luc’s friend? I’ll wager she is Luc’s friend. It’s about time he brought a young lady around.” She spoke as if Julia were not present or as though she could not hear. And since the woman’s questions apparently didn’t require answers, Julia didn’t offer any.

  A man’s voice called out a greeting, and the three women looked toward the Laurents’ house.

  “Mathieu Laurent,” Gabi told Julia as the man approached. “Alice’s husband.”

  The man was short and wide like his wife. He walked toward them slowly, limping as he leaned on a cane. A little dog followed at his heels. “How pleasant to look through my window this morning and see three beautiful women.” In spite of how painful his movements appeared, he spoke with twinkling eyes.

  Alice huffed through her nose.

  “Good morning, Mathieu,” Gabi said. “This is my dear friend Juliette Weston.”

  “A tremendous pleasure, mademoiselle.” Monsieur Laurent swept up Julia’s hand and kissed it. “We receive few visitors here in Riv, and each one is a gift.”

  Alice rolled her eyes and let out another huff.

  “Un plaisir, Monsieur Laurent,” Julia said, remembering she’d seen his name at the train station. “You are the stationmaster?”

  “Eh, oui.” He shrugged.

  From his tone, Julia didn’t think he took his position very seriously.

  “I found Fleur in my garden again.” Gabi pulled on the rope, tugging the dark-brown goat away from the patch of grass the animal was eating.

  “Encore?” Mathieu groaned, shaking his head. “This goat! She is such trouble. She has learned to unknot her rope.”

  “We cannot bla
me the goat for being too clever to remain in her pen, Mathieu,” Alice said. She took the rope from Gabi and scratched Fleur beneath her chin.

  “We can blame her for ruining my garden,” Gabi retorted. “My Coquette, she is so well-behaved.” Gabi pointed toward her own goat pen, where a light-brown goat with white spots munched on a wad of something.

  “Your garden will recover,” Alice replied. “It always does. And if anyone is to complain, it is myself. I know my hens have been laying in your garden, and you’ve kept the eggs.”

  “If the eggs are in my garden, they are my eggs,” Gabi said. “How am I to know which chicken laid which? Ask them?”

  “My hens lay pink-colored eggs, and yours do not. Perhaps you need spectacles.”

  “Perhaps you need to learn to manage your animals.”

  The women’s argument escalated, their voices speaking over one another until Julia couldn’t hear anything besides angry yelling.

  Mathieu shook his head. “They will go on like this all day,” he muttered in a low voice.

  Julia smiled. She patted his dog on the head. “Perhaps I should go. I planned to help M. Paquet in the nursery today.”

  “You should make your escape now, or you’ll be drawn into it.” He widened his eyes, giving a warning, but his expression held a tease.

  “Excuse moi, Monsieur Laurent,” Julia whispered.

  He tugged on his soft hat’s brim and winked.

  Julia followed his advice and hurried away, hearing the ladies’ arguing behind her the entire way through the garden and down the path to the nursery.

  Chapter Seven

  Julia hesitated outside the nursery. She studied the building for a moment. It was constructed of the same peach-and-gray rock as the other structures on the property and had a tile roof. Stacks of pots were piled around the walls, and heavy wooden shutters hung at the windows. Instead of sky blue like the shutters at Gabi’s house, the wood appeared to have been painted red at one time, but most of the paint had peeled away.

  She stepped onto the threshold. Should she knock? Call out? Enter? In the end, she did all three. She knocked and pushed the door open. “Monsieur Paquet, are you here?” she called as she stepped inside.

  She saw him right away and felt foolish for using such a loud voice in the small building. M. Paquet was in the center of the crowded room, holding a shovel. When she entered, he glanced toward the door, then returned to his work.

  The smell of damp earth was nearly overwhelming. Julia stepped through the space, careful to avoid trays, buckets, and pots of various sizes holding dirt and plants. Garden tools and more pots were on the worktables along both sides of the room, and still more were beneath. Pots were stacked chaotically in the corners, and here and there, a larger container held a bush or a small tree. She stepped around the two crates from the train and avoided shards of broken pottery and branches sticking out of a bucket of water. It appeared the man had inherited his aunt’s organization skills.

  M. Paquet was shoveling dirt and what appeared to be . . . different dirt . . . into a wide barrel and stirring to blend them together. He didn’t glance up, even when Julia stood directly in front of him.

  She grimaced. He was obviously still bothered by her dismissive reaction earlier. “Bonjour, M. Paquet,” she said in a careful voice.

  He grunted and scooped another shovelful, pouring it into the bucket.

  Julia stepped back to keep a spill of dirt from landing on her shoes. “Monsieur, I thought perhaps I might help you this morning. I know your seedlings need to be planted quickly, and riding to Monteaux has already put you a day behind schedule.”

  M. Paquet straightened. He rested his arm on the shovel handle and his gaze on her, one brow raised.

  He may need more convincing. “Monsieur, I would like to apologize. I neglected to thank you for what you did. I did not mean to react so poorly. I was rather flustered when I found the scorpion and worried about—” She stopped, not wishing to get into the details of her relationship with her father. “Anyway, I am sorry. And I thank you for what you did.” She picked up a pair of dirty gloves from a worktable and pushed her hands inside, brushing them together. “Now, where would you like me to start?”

  M. Paquet studied her for a moment, then pushed the shovel deep into the barrel, leaving it there and motioning with a tip of his head. “Venez ici.”

  He stepped past her and pulled open one of the crate lids, then crouched down and reached inside.

  Julia crouched beside him.

  He lifted out a small plant about six inches long with a piece of cloth tied around its roots and inspected it for a moment before handing it to her.

  Julia took it, cradling the ball of roots carefully in her palm as he had. She recognized the slender olive leaves.

  “These are the new seedlings, as you can see,” he said. “Fifty of them.” He lifted off the other crate’s lid, revealing the rest of the bundled plants. He reached inside and took out a pouch. “And here are the new seeds.”

  “And they all must be planted?” Julia asked.

  “Most of the cuttings will be grafted onto the existing trees.” He pointed to the bucketful of branches. “And I must do that today or tomorrow, at the very latest. But the others, oui. They need planting.”

  “Very well.” Julia rose, holding the seedling gently. “Show me what to do.”

  “I’m preparing the soil for the seedlings now.” He led her back to the barrel of dirt with the shovel. “They will be planted in those pots.” He motioned to a haphazard pile of small containers in one corner of the room.

  Julia set the seedling on an empty spot on a worktable and picked up one of the pots, then brought it back to where he had gone back to mixing the soil. “There is some dirt in here; should I dump it out? Or put the fresh soil in with it?”

  “Dump it,” he said. He pointed to another bucket.

  She found a small shovel on the worktable. She poured out the old dirt and scooped new soil into the pot, noticing that it was very fine, like sand. Once the pot was filled, she set it on the worktable.

  M. Paquet came to stand next to her. He showed her how to hollow out a spot for the new plant with her fingers, then to remove the cloth wrapping from the roots of the seedling. “Attentivement,” he warned. “Disturb the roots as little as possible.”

  Julia set the seedling gently into the little hollow, glancing up at her companion to make certain she was doing it correctly.

  He nodded and pressed the soil around the roots. “Et voilà. She is planted.”

  Julia smiled. The task was simple and surprisingly satisfying. She admired the little seedling in its pot. “How long before it grows into a tree?”

  “A few years,” he said. He pointed to one of the larger trees in the nursery. “This one was planted two years ago. It will be ready to go into the ground this spring—once the nights are warmer.”

  “I see,” Julia said.

  “It will be at least five years before it bears any fruit.”

  “Such a long time.” She was surprised. “It must be frustrating to wait.”

  He motioned toward the branches in the bucket of water. “The cuttings will grow faster, grafted into the existing trees. Some should bear fruit as soon as next year.”

  “Why do you not use cuttings exclusively?” she asked. “What is the advantage of seeds and seedlings when they take so long to grow?”

  “There are a few reasons.” He picked up the little pot with the seedling inside. “This variety was chosen because of its fruit. It is especially favorable for oil. Others produce olives better suited for pickling.” He set the pot back on the table. “Some of my family’s trees are hundreds of years old. Their roots are strong enough to withstand the Mistral winds, and they will survive extreme temperatures. But disease has killed some of the branches; others have simply sto
pped producing fruit. If the roots are strong and the tree is healthy, new buds can be grafted into the bark, and the tree will bear fruit once again.” He brought another seedling from the crate to the table. “An olive tree grows slowly, but it will last for generations. So what we do today is not just for now but for . . .” He motioned with his hand.

  “For your grandchildren,” Julia finished.

  “Oui. Things of great value—they take time to build.” He smiled softly. “Mon père used to say that.” He looked toward the window. “These trees, this grove, it is more than just a farm. It is my family’s legacy.”

  Julia wondered whether he carried on out of duty or whether he enjoyed the work. He certainly felt strongly about it. As she listened to him, she considered that she had not been entirely fair in her judgment of Monsieur Paquet. He was curt at times and rather sloppy, but hearing him talk about his family’s work, seeing the intensity in his expression . . . a wiggle moved through her middle, and heat rose to her cheeks. She realized the man stood very close.

  She pushed the newly potted plant away from the edge of the table and got a new pot from the corner. This one didn’t have dirt in it, but there was a spiderweb inside. She shivered, remembering the scorpion, and felt grateful for the thick gloves.

  Monsieur Paquet set the pot with the seedling back on the table and returned to the task of mixing the soil.

  Julia scooped soil into the pot, prepared it, and planted the next seedling, setting it beside the first. The worktable was already crowded with tools and twine and more containers, and she knew fifty small pots would not fit in the space. “Might I move these to make room for the others?” She waved her hand toward the cluttered table.

  “Oui.”

  She was glad for a project to focus her thoughts and calm the strange emotions that had arisen so suddenly from . . . somewhere. Having things in order was just what she needed. She removed the empty containers from the table and stacked them with the others. Then she moved the pots holding plants to the back of the table, against the wall. She transferred the tools to the other worktable. Finding a cloth, she wiped away dirt until she had a clean workspace, then began emptying out the little pots, pouring out the old dry dirt and wiping away spiderwebs. She stacked the pots neatly in rows on the table. When she glanced up at M. Paquet, she saw he was watching her with an amused expression.