In Search of a Memory (Truly Yours Digital Editions)

by Griffin, Pamela

  Except for her companionship with the friendly cook, Nettie, Angel almost wished her aunt had kicked her out. She certainly wouldn’t marry Mr. Crane, old enough to be her grandfather, and felt a bit like Cinderella escaping her evil stepmother and wicked stepsisters. But no glass slippers existed for her, no magical ball to attend, and certainly no prince. Only the distant memory of a forgotten mother urged her down the silent road, along with the faintest recollection of her sweet scent and the gentle wisps of a song, perhaps an old lullaby, crooned in a voice that soothed Angel. The fleeting memory visited her both awake and asleep, and Angel reasoned any woman with such a voice couldn’t be the vindictive monster her aunt described.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt to have a mother people thought of as a traveling carnival oddity, but above all else, she wished to find her. Even the ambiguity of her quest was preferable to the certainty of her future if she stayed in Lanville. Perhaps she might learn what it felt like to be happy like the little girl in the picture.

  Her emotions dictated every action; reason had long fled. She refused to think beyond the flicker of hope that her mother might want to know her, that somehow her absence had all been a dreadful mistake.

  The streets remained eerily quiet; not even a dog barked. Angel kept close to the elm trees, should the need to duck behind one for cover present itself. The neighbors thought highly of her aunt, who involved herself in charitable endeavors, and would no doubt report Angel’s whereabouts should they peek through their curtains and see her skulking in the night with her luggage.

  The windows of the houses remained dark, quiet. Yet her heart raced with each sudden snap and creak, sure she would soon be caught.

  How much time elapsed before she reached the train depot, Angel didn’t know. Her feet in her pumps hurt dreadfully, her legs, almost-numb, throbbed, and her stockings did little to keep out the chill night air. A late March wind blew sharp and cold beneath her calf-length skirt, and she pulled her coat closer beneath her chin as she approached the ticket window and took a place in line.

  “A one-way ticket to Coventry, Connecticut, please,” she informed the bespectacled man when her turn came, mentioning the town she’d seen on the envelope before Faye grabbed it.

  “Certainly, miss. That’ll be three dollars.”

  “So much?” she asked, her hopes plummeting. “I’m only going one way.”

  “That’ll still be three dollars.”

  “Thank you, but… I—I’ve changed my mind.”

  Crestfallen, she moved away. The next gentleman in line quickly stepped up and took her place at the window before the idea surfaced to ask the stationmaster where two dollars and twenty-five cents would take her. Eyeing the line that had grown by half, Angel decided to continue down the platform. She should have taken a bus. She’d had no idea traveling by train would cost more than she possessed, the last of her earnings from working at the soda fountain before Mr. Hanson needed to dismiss her, unable to continue paying her wages. To her knowledge, which tonight had proven sadly deficient, she’d never taken a train; according to the picture in the album, she had. The photograph showed she had actually lived on one.

  Too weary to walk even half a block more, she mulled over what to do. She couldn’t return to her aunt’s home and be forced to marry Benjamin Crane. Angel’s life would then be over….

  The shrill call of a train whistle captured her absorbed attention. Without really giving the linked cars conscious thought, she stared at the long line of them on the nearest track.

  “Mommy,” she heard a little boy ask the woman holding his hand. “Is Coventry very far? How long till we get there? Will we be there soon?”

  “Yes, Coventry is very far, Timmy, and we will get there when we get there. Hush now.”

  Angel watched mother and son move up the metal stairs of the car nearest her. A porter took their bulky case, helping the heavyset woman into the confined area. He looked toward Angel for a fearful heartbeat, and she wondered if he could read her mind. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her face went warm.

  Quickly she averted her gaze down the length of the platform, pretending to look for someone. After a moment she allowed her attention to return and noted with relief the trio had disappeared inside the train. Through a line of filthy windows, Angel watched their progress down the aisle.

  The train began to move. Each entrance glided past. Her heart began to race.

  Did she dare?

  An image of Nettie’s disapproving features filled Angel’s mind, but she was desperate. And besides, she didn’t have that far to go.

  Before the train trundled past, Angel threw her largest case up into one of the last entrances—grateful fate was at least kind enough that the case didn’t rebound and spill onto the platform. Running to catch up, she barely jumped aboard herself, using one hand to grab the rail.

  She made it!

  She took a deep, shaky breath. Once she regained her equilibrium and her satchel, she approached the railcar on her right, wishing to get as far as possible from the shrewd porter and find somewhere to hide.

  The door flew inward beneath her grip.

  She inhaled a startled gasp as both the experience and the abrupt motion of the train’s increasing speed made her stumble forward. A man’s strong hand grabbed her arm to steady her, and for the second time that day, she dazedly blinked up into the enigmatic eyes of the tall, dark stranger who’d visited her aunt’s home.

  two

  Roland stared into a pair of bewitching eyes, as dark a blue gray as the Atlantic at dusk. It took him a moment to realize where he’d seen such eyes, and the jolt made him go stock-still.

  “You,” he said at the same moment her lips silently formed the word.

  A brown hat was smashed down over thick, shoulder-length hair the color of sable, curly wisps blew into her face, and the ruffled edge of a scarf wrapped around her neck covered much of her jawline. But he couldn’t mistake those rich, deep eyes.

  “Did you follow me?” he asked in puzzled amusement. He assumed she hoped for either the opportunity of a handout or the prospect of a good time.

  “F–follow you?” she spluttered. “Of course not! I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

  “No need to go berserk. It was only a question.”

  The dame’s icy courtesy and frosty smiles from that afternoon should have been enough to give him an account of her feelings for his company. She frowned, clearly unhappy to see him again. The cold air from the train in motion whipped through the opening between railcars. With his hand still closed around her arm, he pulled her inside and slammed the door shut behind them.

  His intention of securing a newspaper no longer important, Roland turned to his unexpected guest. With a quick appraisal, he noted her tousled, windblown appearance and breathless manner, as if she’d run a long distance to make it to the train on time. Two spots of red colored high cheekbones belonging to a flawless face—what he could see of it—and she gripped the luggage handles in tight, gloved fists. A real doll, chinalike in appearance. But a hint of panic made her wide eyes even bigger, her full lips drawn and tense, and he wondered if she might lash out at him with her bags if he were to take a step closer.

  He decided not to take the risk.

  “The bends in the track can knock you off your feet. I’d advise you take a seat, Miss…?”

  Ignoring his hint to learn her name, she looked around, her manner distantly assured, as if she had every right to be there and he was the intruder. Her brow wrinkled in confusion when she saw the small drawing room, containing dual leather benches with high backs, the length of twin settees. She moved to one and set her bags down with a muffled thump. Without a word, she sank to the padded seat nearest the dual windows and pulled away her scarf.

  Curious about his new cabinmate, he took the seat opposite, farthest from where she sat and closest to the door. If not for the fact that she gave him directions earlier, he might think her mute. Minute after taut
minute stretched in silence.

  “Something of a coincidence, bumping into you like this.” He tried to initiate conversation, hoping it wouldn’t crackle with tension like the quiet between them did.

  “Yes.” Her expression guarded, she afforded him the barest glance and pulled the fingers of each glove, one by one, removing the peeling leather. They, like the rest of her outerwear, appeared years old. With the nation in crisis, few had the luxury of buying a new winter coat, except for Roland, who could buy the train on which they sat if he wished, paid for with the dirty simoleons earned in others’ blood.

  He grimaced at the thought.

  Her gaze remained fixed to the spotted window and the trees and buildings that hurried past in a dark, watercolor blur.

  “Two strangers meeting twice in one day in the oddest of circumstances and on opposite sides of town—that’s one for the books, isn’t it? And now, here we are, sharing a car on the same train.” He smiled. She didn’t return the favor, behaving in a way similar to what she’d done at the house. Was it just him, or did all men provoke this sort of reaction?

  She pulled a handkerchief from her handbag, put it to her nose, and sniffled. She didn’t appear to be crying; her eyes were dry.

  “Did you catch a chill?”

  She shrugged one shoulder and looked back through the window.

  “It’s nasty weather to be out. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this blustery cold and rain. I suppose we should be thankful it didn’t rain today.”

  She gave him the barest inclination of her head in agreement.

  “Are you visiting family in Connecticut?”

  Her eyes cut to him, shocked, cautious. “Yes. Family.” She sniffled again into her handkerchief. “Please, if you don’t mind, I believe I have caught a chill. I really don’t feel up to small talk.”

  “I can ask the steward to fetch you a hot toddy—”

  “No.” He barely got the suggestion out before she cut him off. “Thank you.” Her words tried to be polite. She fidgeted in a clear attempt to get comfortable in her seat. “I’m fine.”

  Observing her clear distress, Roland doubted that but didn’t insist. He grew silent and wished now he’d gotten that newspaper. Spoiled when it came to a social life, as the minutes ticked by with the clacking of train wheels marking each second, he felt restless. His aloof cabinmate had closed her eyes. Judging by the anxious frown wrinkling the pale skin between her eyebrows, he didn’t think she was sleeping.

  The door to the car swung open, and a Pullman porter appeared.

  “Sorry, sir.” He nodded to Roland.

  The woman’s eyes flew open. Dread inscribed her every feature as the dark-skinned man turned his attention on her and approached like a persistent fox cornering a frightened rabbit. With swift understanding Roland recognized the problem.

  The porter looked between Roland and the woman, clearly noting the taut distance between them. “May I see your ticket, miss?” He held out his hand, palm up, a grim look entering his attentive eyes.

  “My ticket?” Her words came raspy.

  “Yes’m. Your ticket. The one you bought to board this train.”

  “I…” She pushed her shoulders into the seat, cowering within herself, the motion almost undetectable except that Roland intently watched her. “I’m afraid I didn’t, th–that is I don’t–”

  “The lady’s with me.” He captured their startled attention.

  “With you, sir?” The man’s attitude jumped a notch higher to deferential respect.

  “I trust that’s not a problem?”

  “No, sir. Not at all.” The porter literally backed up to the door. If Roland weren’t so disgusted by his name and all it accomplished, he might have found the entire situation bizarrely amusing. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. Didn’t realize you were traveling with a guest, sir.”

  Roland magnanimously waved him off, though his smile felt tight. “Don’t concern yourself. I didn’t mention it when I boarded.”

  “If there’s anything I can get you, sir?”

  “A newspaper would be nice.”

  “Yes, sir. Would a copy of the New York Times be all right, sir?”

  “That’s fine.” He kept his voice pleasant. “And next time, if you would be kind enough to knock first rather than barge inside and scare the living daylights out of the lady, I’d appreciate it.”

  The steward’s eyes grew larger. “Yes, sir. I—I only thought…. Yes, sir, of course, sir.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, backed out, and shut the door.

  Roland turned his attention to the woman. He leaned forward in friendly persuasion, keen for a little conversation. “Maybe now that that little matter has been taken care of, you’d care to relax, miss, and we can get to know one another better?” He hoped for a smile at the least. At the most, words of thanks and a thaw of her chilly personality.

  At least she was no longer coldly distant.

  Her smoky eyes sparked with a fire in danger of incinerating him. Resentment stiffened her shoulders, and he wondered what he’d said or done this time to earn such an unfavorable reaction.

  “Thank you for taking care of ‘that little matter,’ “she said with lips pulled tight, sounding more as if she were telling him to get lost, “though I didn’t ask for your help. And just so we’re clear, I’m not some damsel in distress looking for a wandering knight to rush in and rescue me. I’ll certainly never let you lure me into becoming your… your”—intense color heightened her cheeks—“your floozy!”

  Entirely baffled by her response, he watched as in hot indignation she stood up, grabbed her bags, and whisked from his compartment.

  Angel had no idea of where she was headed. She only knew she must get away from the insufferable Casanova in the car behind her. Had she stayed, she might have blurted something she would dearly regret.

  Juggling her cases to open the door, she went into the next car, finding it to be a sleeping car with curtains covering the berths. She quietly went through another, hearing snores, then another. As she moved through to the next car, she wondered if he tried to make moves on all lone female travelers or if she’d been his only hapless victim.

  An attractive face didn’t always go hand in hand with a pleasant disposition—a morsel of wisdom she’d learned while observing some of the dapper young fellows who visited the soda fountain. A good thing, too, that she knew better than to be captivated by his suave charisma and dashing smile. She understood the foolish danger of allowing herself to be taken in by such a rogue. In that single regard her aunt had not failed her, stressing to Angel that once the truth of her birthright surfaced no decent man would have her. And she didn’t want a man who wasn’t decent. She may have been conceived in sin and loathing, as Aunt Genevieve almost gleefully informed her, but she wouldn’t succumb to a sordid life because of what had happened to her mother or the choices she had made, most of which Angel still didn’t know in full or even if they were true.

  The porter suddenly moved through the opposite door, his newspaper in hand. She tensed as the man noticed the luggage she carried. Rather than call her bluff, he offered a courteous if cool smile. “Is there a problem, miss?”

  Still leery of him, she didn’t answer right away. At least he didn’t ask to see her ticket again, and she felt a niggling sense of guilt that she didn’t have one.

  He studied her as if she didn’t belong there.

  She swallowed hard. “Where can I buy a cup of coffee?”

  His gaze again darted to her luggage, his eyes curious as they lifted to hers. “You’ll be wanting the dining car, miss. Follow me.” Before she could protest that she could find the car alone with his directions, he turned and walked back the way he had come. With no choice but to follow, she did, hoping she wasn’t walking into a trap.

  They reached the car, and he spoke to another man, a steward in a different white uniform. Instead of benches, small tables covered in white cloths lined both sides. She heade
d down the narrow aisle toward one then heard the steward clear his throat. When she looked, he shook his head for her to stop.

  Her heart pounded. Had she been caught?

  The porter left, and the steward motioned she should leave her luggage to the side, by the door. With such restricted space, she had little choice. He led her to a different table from what she would have chosen—far in the back, this one finer. A thin silver vase with a pink rose decorated its center.

  She glanced at her first choice toward the front of the car and closer to her luggage. “I think I would prefer a table in the front—”

  “I was told to seat you here.” The man stood ramrod straight, unrelenting, his blue eyes refusing resistance. He held out a chair. Uneasy, she slid into it, feeling closed in as he scooted her closer. She shook off the crazy notion; the train encounter with the rogue stranger had definitely rattled her trust.