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

by Jennifer Moore

  Luc turned around to sit on the rock beside her. He tugged the goat along with him. “The poor Frau Maven you left asleep on the Orient Express while you got on the wrong train?” He bumped her arm softly with his as if sharing a joke and hoping she’d laugh.

  “That is precisely why I needed a chaperone in the first place.” She wiped her wet cheeks with her fingers. “I took the wrong train, got off at the wrong station, disarranged the nursery, killed Fleur, and now here we are, in the rain with the wagon stuck in the mud, and three goats.” She waved a hand toward the wagon, where the mother goat and the other baby chewed on the umbrella. “Je suis incompétent,” she said. Frustration made her words come out as a whine. “I try to do things right, to help and make things better, but I just make it all worse. I ruin everything.”

  “Not everything.” Luc offered his handkerchief.

  It was wet, and between the rain and her tears, Julia didn’t think it would make much of a difference. But she took it, appreciating the thought anyway.

  “You don’t ruin everything,” Luc continued. “I haven’t seen Gabi so happy for a long time.”

  “I only straightened her kitchen,” Julia said.

  “And it made all the difference.” The goat was pulling on the rope. Luc gave it a tug to bring the animal close. “You saved a goat family from separation,” he continued. “And planted the olive seedlings for me.”

  “But—” Julia began to protest but stopped when Luc held up a hand.

  “Not to mention, I quite enjoyed your train-station cake.”

  She gave a small laugh, appreciating that he was attempting to make her feel better. “I need to remember that I don’t always know what’s best for everyone,” she said, turning around the folded handkerchief in her hands. “I just want so badly to help, but—”

  “That is something you must never apologize for,” Luc said. He stretched his legs out in front of him and sat quietly, giving her time to compose herself.

  Julia considered what he said. The words were simple, and perhaps the warmth in her chest had more to do with the man who said them. She sighed, resting her cheek on her hand. It had been years since she’d cried so hard, and it had made her tired. “What do we do now?” she asked. The problem had not gone away. They were both soaking wet, Luc was covered in mud, and the wagon was still stuck.

  He blew out a breath and looked back along the road. “We passed a farmhouse about a mile ago. Hopefully, someone there can help.”

  The idea of walking so far was discouraging, but to get out of the rain, Julia thought she’d do just about anything. She looked toward the wagon. “What about . . . ?”

  “I’ll bring the horse,” he said. He put the rope in her hand. “You’re bringing the goats.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The two humans, one horse, and three goats trekked down the muddy road. The sounds of crunching footsteps on the wet gravel and the pattering of rain were accompanied by the occasional bleat.

  Julia had found it difficult to manage all three goats at once and had finally tied the kids’ ropes to their mother’s. They seemed content to follow along if she could keep the mother moving. But the goat apparently had other plans, tugging the rope toward every patch of shrubs they passed. And when she did, she pulled her two babies and Julia along with her.

  “Come along, Honey. No stopping,” Julia said. She dug her heels in and held the lead firmly. The rope was slippery, and one of the baby goats stumbled as it splashed through a muddy puddle. All of this would be much easier if it were not raining.

  “Honey?” Luc asked.

  “Oui. It is the English word for le miel. I thought she was rather honey-colored,” Julia said. “At least, most of her.” She used both hands to pull the goats. “And in English, it is also a term of endearment.”

  Luc grunted. He walked steadily with the horse, rain dripping from his hat rim.

  “Do you think Alice will like the name?” Julia asked. The goat stopped again, pulling Julia’s arm backward.

  “Watching you lead those animals, I’m surprised you’re considering any kind of endearment.”

  “It’s not their fault it’s raining,” she said, pulling the rope over her shoulder and holding on to it with both hands. She leaned forward as she walked, using her leg strength to keep the animals moving.

  When she glanced at Luc again, she thought his lips twitched. No doubt he wanted her to ask for help, but she would not. The goats were her responsibility. And she could be just as stubborn as Honey.

  They reached the farmhouse at last, stopping at a break in the low wall that led into a well-tended garden. Julia made certain to keep the goats back, near the road, away from the herbs and flowers. Asking someone for assistance while one’s animals destroyed their yard seemed a poor idea.

  The mother goat found a patch of grass beside the wall to munch on.

  The baby goats found their mother.

  Luc squinted, looking at the house and the vineyard beyond. A stone building with a wide door that appeared to be a barn stood on one side of the garden.

  She glanced at him, wondering what he was looking at. “What is it?”

  “Young vines,” he said.

  “They do look small.”

  Luc nodded. “In the spring, they are cut back to the main stem before the sap starts to rise. That is why they look small. But the stems, they are slender. From America, I imagine.” He tied the horse’s lead to a metal ring in the wall.

  “Why would the vines be American?” Julia asked. She leaned back against the stone wall, letting the rope slacken as the goats ate. Her arms ached from pulling them. The rain continued steadily, but it had lightened to a drizzle.

  “American vines are resistant to the phylloxera aphid,” Luc said. He pulled the knot tight and patted the horse. “Though it’s still unproven, it’s thought American vines caused the blight in the first place. Wine growers brought the vines from California for grafting, and they were immune to the pests that killed the European vines.”

  “It must have been terrible,” Julia said. From what she’d heard of the blight, it had plagued the vineyards since before she was born, ruining many who had been in the wine business for generations.

  “It was,” Luc said. “A vine in the middle of a healthy vineyard would yellow and die without warning. Then the others around it would do the same. It spread fast, and nothing could stop it.” He took Honey’s lead rope from Julia and tied it to a ring on the other side of the wall’s opening.

  “You remember it?”

  “The most devastating years were in my father’s and grandfather’s time. But the effects are still felt in Provence.” He offered Julia his elbow.

  “Are we pretending to be married again?” she asked.

  “If you’re amenable to it. I don’t know these people.”

  “Very well.” She took his arm, her heartbeat speeding up. She enjoyed the charade quite a lot but did not dare to say it.

  “Viens alors.” Luc glanced at her, his lips pulling into a smirk. “Honey.”

  Julia’s blush burned up her neck and over her cheeks.

  When Luc knocked, the farmhouse door was opened by a young woman Julia estimated to be close to five years her senior. She held a baby on her hip and studied them with a cautious gaze. A small girl with dark curls peeked around the woman’s skirts.

  Luc explained their trouble, and the woman’s face softened. She opened the door wider. “Madame, please come inside, out of the rain. Monsieur, my husband tends the vines. Go to him. He will be happy to help.” She glanced toward the road. “You may put your animals in the pen, behind the house.”

  Luc thanked her. He glanced at Julia as if to make certain she was agreeable to being left with a stranger.

  His concern gave her a thrill, and she looked away, embarrassed that yet another blush heated
her face. She nodded. “I will be all right.”

  “Not to worry, monsieur. I will take good care of your wife.” The woman smiled. She opened the door wider, and Julia stepped over the threshold into a main room that served as a kitchen, eating area, and parlor. The furnishings were simple and worn, but everything was clean.

  Julia’s skirts dripped, making a puddle on the stone floor.

  The woman instructed her to leave her muddy boots beside the door. “I am Sylvie Deschamps.”

  “Julia W—” She stopped, her cheeks growing warm again. “Julia Paquet.”

  “Bienvenue, Madame Paquet.” Sylvie stepped to the side, urging the small girl forward. “This is Élise.”

  “Bonjour, Élise.”

  “Bonjour,” the girl said in a shy voice. She stepped back behind her mother.

  “And here is little Adrien.” Sylvie bounced the baby on her hip.

  Adrien sucked on his fist, and Julia smiled.

  She untied the wet knots in the laces of her boots, and by the time she stepped out of the boots and set them by the door, Sylvie had returned and handed her a towel. “I put dry clothes in the washroom.” She motioned toward a door that led from the main room. “I think we are close to the same size. We can dry your dress by the fire.”

  “Merci,” Julia said. In the washroom, she found clothes in a style very similar to those she’d borrowed from Gabi. Sylvie was a bit taller, and the skirts brushed the floor. Julia made certain she still had her wristwatch and hung the other timepiece around her neck. She wrung out her wet clothing and brought it back out to the hearth.

  Sylvie had set up a wooden drying frame, and she laid Julia’s clothes over it.

  “Thank you again,” Julia said.

  “So much rain!” Sylvie tsked and shook her head. “But the grapes will be all the plumper for it.”

  “Your house is lovely,” Julia said.

  “Merci.” Sylvie put a log into the fire.

  Julia looked around with interest as she dried her hair with the towel. Much of the farmhouse’s style reminded her of Gabi’s. But there were distinct differences as well. Instead of cupboards and shelves overflowing with dishes and knickknacks, Sylvie had very few items for display. The things she did own appeared functional and meticulously taken care of, even if they were well used. Her home was simple, but Julia could see the woman took pride in it.

  “You must be chilled,” Sylvie said, motioning toward the kitchen table. “Come, sit. I will make vin chaud.”

  “Let me help you,” Julia said, feeling uncomfortable with the prospect of being waited on, especially since she was the one imposing.

  Sylvie considered for a moment, then handed Adrien to her. “Do you mind?” She shook out her arm and rubbed her back. “That one, he is becoming too heavy to carry all day.” She leaned close to the baby and waggled a finger in pretend chastisement. “Your maman’s arm is tired, mon cher.”

  Julia held the baby on her own hip, the same way she’d seen Sylvie do, wrapping an arm around him to keep him from falling. The baby was heavy, and after a few moments, she shifted him to her other hip, trying to imagine how difficult it must be to hold him as well as tend to the household chores.

  “How old is he?” Julia asked.

  “Nine months.” Sylvie poured wine into a saucepan and lit the stove beneath it. She looked at the baby with fondness, then down at the little girl. “And Élise, tell Madame Paquet how old you are.”

  “Julia, please,” Julia said. She directed her words to Élise and her mother, hoping to set the little girl at ease.

  “And call me Sylvie,” the woman said. She patted her daughter on the head. “Élise? Come, mon amour, don’t be shy.”

  Élise poked out from behind her mother’s skirts. “Cinq.” She held up five chubby fingers.

  “Quite a young lady,” Julia said. Adrien squirmed, and she bounced him on her hip. “And this baby here.” Julia pointed to a doll in a tiny cradle by the sofa. “Is she yours?”

  “Oui.” Élise took a few hesitant steps closer. “Elle s’appelle Belle.”

  Julia squatted down to Élise’s height, and then, feeling as if the baby’s weight might cause her to lose her balance, she knelt and held Adrien in her lap.

  Élise knelt beside her, holding Belle. She rocked the doll carefully and smoothed out its dress, then straightened the doll’s pillow in the cradle.

  Julia could see right away that she was a deliberate little girl with a serious mind. She smiled, recognizing aspects of herself in Élise’s personality.

  The smell of oranges and spices mixed with the hot wine filled the farmhouse, and a moment later, Sylvie brought her a mug. “This should warm you.” She lifted the baby, kissing his cheeks. “Come along, little one. Time to sleep.”

  Julia stood, brushing off her skirts, and sat in a chair. It seemed as if the young mother was always moving from one task to the next. Julia wondered if she ever got the chance to sit in the middle of the afternoon and enjoy a mug of vin chaud. Probably not.

  Sylvie took the baby into a bedroom, and while she was gone, Julia sipped the hot drink and watched Élise.

  The young girl pretended to feed her doll from a toy bottle. She rocked Belle, humming quietly, and then set her in the little cradle, laying a blanket carefully over the stuffed body.

  Julia smiled, feeling extremely content watching the girl. The home was tidy and pleasant. Her insides warmed with the hot drink. She only ever had vin chaud at Christmastime, and it was a delightful treat. She felt sleepy.

  Sylvie came from the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. “At last.” She gave an exaggerated sigh and smiled. “Now, a moment for maman.” She poured herself a mug of the warm drink and joined Julia, resting back into the sofa.

  Élise climbed up beside her, laying her head down on her mother’s lap.

  Sylvie ran her fingers over the little girl’s hair. “Such blessings, these little ones. But they do leave a mother tired some days.” She took a sip and looked at Julia over the rim of her mug. “You and your husband hope to have children soon?”

  “Oh.” Julia blinked, sitting straighter and clearing her throat. The question was so unexpected, and she had no idea how to answer.

  Sylvie laughed. “By your blush, I can see you are still newly wed, non? I should have known based on the way monsieur looked at you.”

  “How he looked at me?” Julia asked, her voice sounding creaky. She could tell the blush wasn’t going away anytime soon.

  “Eh, oui.” Sylvie winked. “Gentle eyes, adoring glances, the close way he watched you. He was so worried to leave you behind.” She sighed and laughed again. “The look of a man newly in love.”

  Julia thought perhaps the woman had drunk too much wine. She tried to calm the shaking Sylvie’s words caused and, in the end, leaned forward to set down her mug, lest she spill. “And your husband does not . . . ?” She figured if Sylvie could make so personal an inquiry to someone she’d just met, Julia would do the same. Besides, a part of her really wished to hear more about how Luc had looked at her.

  “Oh, of course. Pierre and I, we love one another very much. But in the beginning, it is different. So much desire, the longing. You do not want to leave one another’s sight. And when you are apart, you ache for each other.” She put a hand on her heart. “Très romantique.”

  “Oh my.” Julia put a hand to her cheek. She didn’t think it was possible to blush any deeper, but she was entirely wrong.

  Élise raised her head and looked between the women with her nose wrinkled as if disgusted by the entire conversation.

  Sylvie laughed, kissing her daughter’s nose. “You will see one day, ma chérie, when you fall in love yourself.”

  Élise’s lip curled, and she looked as if that was the last thing she intended to do.

  Julia’s hands had stopped
shaking, but her insides had not. Sylvie of course had a misconception about the relationship between herself and Luc. But still, could what she said be true? Could Luc Paquet love her? The thought set off a reaction inside her that was both confusing and terrifying. And, if she were honest, hopeful.

  But of course Luc didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her. She had been nothing but trouble to him from the moment she arrived in Rivulet. He’d told her only a few hours earlier that she’d brought him nothing but bad luck. And . . .

  But what if it were true?

  Her heart felt as if it melted, and she smiled, looking toward the window.

  “Ah, you see?” Sylvie said. She rose and took Julia’s mug with her own to the kitchen. “You miss him. But do not worry. Pierre will return him soon.” She set the mugs in the washbasin. “Well, it’s back to work, eh?”

  “How can I help?” Julia asked, glad for a change of subject. Her thoughts were fanciful, and she was being silly to even entertain them. She looked around the snug little cottage but couldn’t immediately see anything needing attention. “Do you need assistance preparing dinner?”

  “Not for a little while yet.” Sylvie pursed her lips and glanced toward a basket by the hearth. “I do have nuts to shell . . . but I’ll not ask you to do that. Would you play with Élise instead? Between the baby and the housework, she gets less attention than she used to, and I know she would love to show you her drawings.”

  “Oh, are you an artist, Élise?” Julia asked.

  The little girl studied Julia for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. She went into a bedroom and brought out a large notebook and a wooden box.

  She sat at the kitchen table, and Julia joined her.

  Sylvie sat next to the fire and set to work cracking the shells off almonds with practiced movements and dropping the nuts into a bowl.

  “May I?” Julia asked. Seeing Élise’s nod, she opened the notebook and carefully turned the pages, commenting on the drawings the young girl had made.