Julia wondered if she’d heard him correctly. A strange man indeed.
Nicholas returned the pocket watch to his waistcoat, flipped over a card, and tossed it onto the stack without a glance. “Zaht, I believe is zeh game,” he said.
“Oh, well done, sir!” Frau Maven clapped her hands as the pair won again. “You do have a skill for cards.”
Nicholas did not respond, as he was already pushing back from the table. He gave a bow, putting on his hat and tipping it to the ladies. “Perhaps you vill join me for a drink and a smoke before dinner, Herr Klausman.”
“Ja, of course.” The other man looked surprised at the sudden termination of the game. He stood, still holding his cards, and bowed to the ladies as well. “I will see you at dinner, then, miss?”
Perhaps when Herr Klausman’s mouth was filled with food, Julia might actually have a chance to participate in the conversation. “That would be—” Julia began.
But Nicholas had already turned Herr Klausman around. He took the cards from the man’s hand, set them on the table, and then gave him a firm pat on the shoulder that appeared to be more of a push. Herr Klausman turned back once more, but Nicholas, hand still on his shoulder, maneuvered him toward the end of the lounge car. The two walked at a quick pace through the door leading to the next car.
Julia stared after them, trying to understand the reason for the suddenness of the departure. “Nicholas is terribly eccentric, isn’t he?” she said to the other woman.
“Such fine men.” Frau Maven fidgeted with her scarf, her cheeks pink. She didn’t appear to have heard Julia’s assessment. She rose. “Come along. We must dress for dinner.”
Chapter Two
Nearly six hours later, Julia set down her book on the small table beside her berth and put on her wrap. She’d not changed from her evening gown, thinking Frau Maven would be suspicious if she were to discover Julia wearing a different, practical dress so late in the evening. She hadn’t changed into her nightclothes, either, not wanting to change twice and risk the noise awakening her companion in the next compartment. She slid her handbag onto her arm and stood still, listening at the door that joined the sleeping compartments.
A mighty snore rumbled from within.
Julia nodded to herself as she checked the timepiece pinned with a ribbon at her waist and her wristwatch. Two minutes. She left the compartment and walked along the outer passageway of the sleeping car until she reached the conductor’s seat at the far end next to the door.
“Bonne nuit, mademoiselle.” He stood and tipped his hat.
“Bonne nuit, monsieur.”
The whistle blew, signaling an approach to the station, and the clacking of the rails grew further apart as the train slowed. Julia thought through her plan again. The Igney-Avricourt station was not as large as others on the route, but the stopover was longer than most.
Taking this same journey a few times per year, Julia and her father had developed a tradition. After dinner, the two would stay up late or, if Julia fell asleep, her father would wake her after Strasbourg. They would disembark at Igney-Avricourt and make their way inside the station to the cart with the old woman named Frau Spreitzer, who according to Julia’s father, made the best gugelhupf in all of northeastern France.
The whistle blew again, and the lights of the station came into view. As they approached, Julia could see the crowds of people moving beneath the street lamps. Neither the late hour nor the remoteness of the locale prevented the station from being one of the busiest on the line. Frau Spreitzer’s cart stand was located in a corner of the station opposite the main doors. Julia had only to walk along the main platform, enter the station, cross through to the far corner, purchase the cake, and then return. The entire endeavor should take less than seven minutes, leaving her at least sixteen until the train departed again. Once she was back in her compartment, she would hide the cake in her valise, change into her bedclothes, and hopefully be exhausted enough to sleep through Frau Maven’s snoring. She would wake, refreshed, hours later to the sound of the conductor’s knock, thirty minutes before the train arrived in Paris. She nodded to herself. If there was one thing Julia knew, it was how to make and carry out a plan.
The train stopped, and the conductor stepped out to stand at his station beside the door. He took Julia’s hand and helped her descend onto the platform.
She glanced at both watches again, appreciating that a train that traveled more than a hundred miles in a day could keep such a precise schedule. Twenty-three minutes.
Taking a deep breath, Julia started along through the clouds of steam from the cooling engine toward the main platform, veering around piles of luggage and porters carrying trunks. Families blocked her path here and there, bidding farewell or welcoming a loved one. Voices around her chattered and called out in various languages—some she recognized and others she didn’t. She felt conspicuous, dressed as she was in a silk evening gown with feathers in her hair and pearls at her neck. But with the bustling of travelers moving about, she didn’t think anyone bothered to notice.
Another train whistled, and a man rushed past, one hand on his bowler hat to prevent it from flying off. Others moved at a more leisurely pace, breathing the night air and stretching their legs between long hours in the confined space of a locomotive.
Julia glanced back, making certain she could see her train among the others stopped at the station. She located it easily, with the familiar gold crest on the side of the cars and the immaculate uniform of the Orient Express conductors stationed at each entry. Reassured that she could find it again, she continued on.
When Julia stepped through the doors into the train station, she found the inside even more crowded than the platforms. Voices and the sound of luggage carts clattering over the brick paving stones echoed off the high ceilings. She didn’t remember ever seeing the building so full. But of course, Igney-Avricourt was a main station—a crossroads for quite a few lines—on the way to Paris, which, at this time, would be the most popular destination in the world as people from every nation journeyed to the World’s Exposition.
She clutched her handbag closer and pushed her way through the crowd, reaching the far wall and continuing along to the corner of the station. When she arrived at last, the vendor’s cart wasn’t there. Instead, a row of raised chairs stood against the wall beneath a large sign offering shoe-shining services. Julia would never have imagined anyone to need their shoes shined in the middle of the night, but every chair was filled and other smudged-shoe patrons waited in a queue for their turn.
A pang of disappointment poked in her belly. Had Frau Spreitzer stopped selling her cakes?
Julia looked along the walls, seeing a newspaper stand and, farther on, a man selling cigars from a box attached by straps to his shoulders, but there was no sign of a bakery cart. Glancing in the other direction, she saw only a sea of people in the waiting area.
When she inquired of the cigar salesman, he told her the bakery cart had moved to a new location in the front of the station, near the stagecoach stop.
Julia thanked the cigar man and glanced at both watches. Five minutes had already passed. Tinges of worry started at the disruption to her carefully planned agenda. But quitting now would be foolish—the stop was twenty-three minutes, and if the errand took a few minutes longer than she’d allotted, she would still return to the train with plenty of time to spare. She exited through the doors at the front of the station and relaxed a bit when she inhaled the familiar aroma of the cakes. Following the smell, she found Frau Spreitzer’s cart just where the cigar man had said it would be and joined the queue. Thankfully, it was short.
When Frau Spreitzer saw Julia, she grinned, her round cheeks lifting until her eyes were almost completely closed. “Bonne nuit, mademoiselle. You have come for the gugelhupf, no?”
“Oui,” Julia said. “Merci.”
“But you are alone today.”
Frau Spreitzer wrapped the cake in paper, speaking French with the unique German accent of the region. “Your father, he remained on the train?”
“I am to meet him in Paris,” Julia said, handing a bill to the vendor and accepting her change. Noticing that she was tapping her foot, she stopped.
“Oh, the Exposition Universelle.” Frau Spreitzer motioned with her chin toward the people moving in and out of the station. “I have never seen such crowds.”
“And shall you attend the exposition as well?” Julia put her money carefully into her change purse and closed her handbag.
“Oui, bien sûr.” Frau Spreitzer handed the cake to Julia, leaning over the cart’s top and speaking as if sharing a confidence. “But sadly, this year I will not see Guillaume le Buffle.” The older woman raised and lowered her brows. “The American cowboy, he is très beau, non?”
“He certainly is,” Julia said. Apparently, Buffalo Bill Cody’s admirers extended as far as Lorraine, France. A pity he would not be at this year’s exposition. His Wild West show had been quite well received eleven years earlier. Julia remembered her father purchasing her an American cowboy hat and introducing her to Annie Oakley. “Merci.” She tucked the parcel under her arm and checked the time. Panic flickered in her chest. The train would depart in only eight minutes.
“Enjoy the fair, mademoiselle. And I will see you again, oui? Perhaps in Paris?”
“Bien sûr. Au revoir.” Julia smiled, then hurried away toward the station doors. She crossed through the indoor waiting area and exited into the steam and confusion of the crowded train platform.
She started toward the train but stopped, feeling unsure as she studied the rows of tracks and the different locomotives. She stepped around a stack of trunks and made her way to the platform where she thought her train waited, but the conductor’s uniforms weren’t those of the Orient Express staff. Moving back, she walked to the next platform and started along that way.
Again, she didn’t recognize the train or the uniformed men standing at the doors to the cars. Had the train moved? Or was she simply turned around? She quickened her pace, hurrying back toward the station to find a platform attendant.
Stepping back around the stack of trunks, she nearly bumped into a pair of men. A wave of relief flowed over her when she recognized the one in a black coat. She hadn’t seen Nicholas since before dinner, and even then, it was only very briefly. Herr Klausman had been walking toward the table where she and Frau Maven sat in the restaurant cart when Nicholas had caught up to him, stopping him and introducing him to the diners at a different table, then joining him. Herr Klausman had glanced Julia’s way throughout the meal with an apologetic expression, but she had left before his dinner was finished. Frau Maven had been extremely disappointed to miss out on the gentlemen’s company and had voiced her displeasure continually, ruining what should have been a splendid dinner. Julia always looked forward to the meals on the Orient Express. The cuisine was created by world-renowned chefs and served on sparkling china and crisp white linens with artistically folded napkins. One could not dress too formally, and watching the parade of the most fashionable attire from various countries had always been a favorite part of the journey.
She had been more than happy to bid the woman good night and retire to her own compartment.
“Monsieur Nicholas,” Julia said. “Thank goodness. Please, can you tell me—?”
“Mademoiselle Weston.” Nicholas’s eyes lit up, and he removed his pipe. “Zeh very person I hoped to see.” He stepped to the side and motioned to his companion. “You must meet mon bon ami, Monsieur Luc Paquet.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Paquet.” Julia kept her voice polite but couldn’t help but glance back toward the trains.
Nicholas hung the pipe back in his mouth and held out his other hand toward Julia with a flourish. “And here we have zeh delightful Mademoiselle Julia Weston.”
Monsieur Paquet pulled off his hat to reveal a head of dark-blond hair. He bowed. “Un plaisir de vous rencontrer, mademoiselle.”
Julia determined immediately that M. Paquet was French but not Parisian. His accent was rural, as were his manners—the deep bow was rather old-fashioned, as was the greeting. What could a gentleman such as Nicholas possibly have in common with a man with such a low social status?
Monsieur Paquet lifted his gaze to hers. Deep brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes looked into her own. The color was surprisingly warm, and just for a moment, she stared.
At that instant, a puff of smoke came from Nicholas’s pipe, filling the air with a lavender scent.
Julia shook her head, thinking her worry and lack of sleep must have her imagining things. Pipe smoke didn’t smell like lavender. And she was nearly certain Nicholas’s pipe hadn’t been lit.
“Monsieur Paquet returns to Provence from Athens,” Nicholas said.
“How nice.” Julia looked back at the trains again, pulling her wrap tighter around her shoulders and shifting the cake into her other arm.
“He brings a shipment of olive cuttings for his orchard,” Nicholas continued.
“Ah,” Julia said, willing herself not to check the time again. “I see.”
Monsieur Paquet’s gaze flicked to the feathers in her hair. And though the politeness never left his expression, Julia got the impression he thought her attire ridiculous for a train station.
Heat moved up her neck, and she lifted her chin. She didn’t give one fig about this rustic’s opinion of her appearance. His faded trousers were wrinkled, his bouclé coat worn, and his thick boots could benefit immensely from a few moments at Igney-Avricourt’s new shoe-shining booth. A tickle of guilt wiggled in her stomach at her unkind thoughts, but Julia’s worry over missing her train overrode any remorse for the harsh judgment.
“Nicholas, I’m afraid I’m rather lost,” Julia said. “Can you show me to the right train?”
The man in black turned fully toward her, tipping his head and taking his pipe out of his mouth with a slow movement as he considered her. “Sometimes zeh right train is not zeh right train, eh?” He glanced at his silver pocket watch, closing it with a snap.
Frustration and worry tightened her chest. She had no time for riddles. The train would depart at any moment. “Please, sir. I must hurry.”
“Come along, zen, mademoiselle.” Nicholas offered his arm, tipping his hat in farewell to the other man. “I shall see you safely aboard.”
“Thank you.” She took his arm. “Au revoir, Monsieur Paquet.”
“Au revoir, Mademoiselle Weston.”
Julia allowed herself to be led along a smoky platform to the stairs leading onto the train. The conductor was apparently helping another passenger, so Nicholas assisted her as she climbed aboard.
Now that her worry had abated, exhaustion took its place, leaving her more tired than she’d been before. “Merci, Nicholas,” Julia spoke through a yawn. “I’m afraid I was quite lost for a moment.”
He looked up at her from the platform and tipped his black hat. “As we say in my country, ‘Sometimes one must lose himself to find himself.’” He chuckled as if he’d told a joke. “Or in zis case, herself. Au revoir, mademoiselle.”
“Au revoir.” Julia yawned again. She walked along the darkened corridor and retired to her sleeping compartment for the night, so pleased with her accomplishment that Frau Maven’s snores didn’t bother her at all.
Chapter Three
Julia heard a voice outside her compartment door. “On arrive!” the conductor called, moving down the passageway.
She rolled over, stretched, and winced at the tightness of her bodice. She must have fallen asleep in her gown last night, something she’d never done before. The very idea of not hanging the dress properly in her closet and changing into the nightgown she’d carefully laid out was utterly unaccepta—
She looked around the sleeping compartment, registering
what she was seeing, and all thoughts on garment care halted abruptly. She sat up. The deep mahogany wood and velvet curtains had been replaced by durable-looking benches and window blinds. The porcelain basin and its stand were gone altogether, as were Julia’s clothes and luggage. Her cake sat on a small wooden table attached beneath the windowsill.
Now fully awake, she jumped up from the berth. Surely, she couldn’t be in the wrong compartment. Impossible. But there was no mistaking the disparity in her surroundings. This was clearly not a first-class sleeping car on a luxury train.
How could this have happened?
She forced herself to take a breath, sit down, and think through the situation rationally. Last evening she’d boarded the train, bid good night to Nicholas, and then . . .
Then what? She blinked, trying to remember. After leaving Nicholas, her memory was fuzzy. She remembered moving down the corridor, and she must have found her compartment number on the door. But in her sleepy state and impaired by darkness, she hadn’t realized she was in the wrong car. What other explanation could there be?
Her predicament was embarrassing but easily corrected. She’d have to walk through the train in her wrinkled gown with squashed feathers in her hair to her real sleeping compartment. But with any luck, most of the other passengers would be busy in their own quarters, preparing to disembark in Paris. She looked at both of her watches, noting that she’d been woken later than usual. Much later. Had the train been delayed? Her father would not be pleased at having to wait for hours at the Paris station.
Wrong Train to Paris Page 2