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“I know I’ve told you never to speak to strangers, Eunice, but I’m glad you spoke to that one.” Isabel had almost suffered a spasm when she’d gone looking for Eunice and found her talking to the hero of her very life.
“I wasn’t sure at first, Mama, but I thought it was him.” Eunice frowned and corrected herself. “I think I mean he.”
“I’m so glad he didn’t go down with the ship,” Isabel whispered. “So, so glad.”
“I am, too, Mama. He seems to be a nice man.”
Isabel glanced sharply at her daughter. “Yes, he did. However, I don’t want you to bother him anymore, Eunice. Even though he saved our lives, he’s still a stranger, and he seems to have work to do.”
Eunice frowned, but Isabel knew what she was talking about. Mr. Somerset FitzRoy was a big, muscular, tanned, and very handsome man, with lovely dark hair and gorgeous brown eyes, and Isabel, while she’d worship him for the rest of her life, didn’t want anything to do with him. She knew too well that big handsome men were nothing but trouble.
“I think Mr. FitzRoy is a real gentleman, Mama.”
“Possibly,” Isabel said under her breath.
“And he did rescue us,” Eunice reminded her.
“Indeed, and I’ll be forever grateful to him, but we . . . we mustn’t bother him, Eunice.”
After pondering this possibility for a couple of seconds, Eunice said, “He didn’t seem to be awfully bothered.”
Bloody hell. Isabel meant blooming daffodils. She said, “He’s an American, Eunice. The standards are different. Until we figure out how people live here, and until you’re given permission from me, you are not to speak to anyone. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Isabel glanced sharply at her daughter. But Eunice, as usual, had no expression on her face.
Every now and then, Isabel wished she’d given birth to a normal child.
Chapter Three
It was late when Somerset entered the dining car. He’d meant to go to dinner earlier so that he could find a good table, but he’d become so involved in his drawings—and, he was annoyed to realize, in thinking about Isabel Golightly—he’d lost track of time.
Losing track of time happened to him quite often. Mooning about a woman didn’t, although he found the phenomenon interesting. For the first time, Somerset wondered if he should marry somebody—Isabel Golightly sprang to mind—if only to keep him fed on a timely schedule. Of course, Mrs. Golightly might have something to say about that. Not to mention Mr. Golightly.
Don’t be an ass, he advised himself.
“How do you do, sir?” A white-coated dining-car waiter smiled at Somerset, who had lost track of time yet again. He snapped to attention at once.
“I don’t suppose there are any empty tables.” Somerset scanned the car without hope. It looked mighty packed to him. His stomach took that opportunity to growl. He couldn’t remember, but he thought he’d forgotten to eat luncheon.
“I’m afraid not,” the waiter said. “But our passengers are congenial.” He chuckled in a manner Somerset supposed he’d practiced until it came almost naturally. “May I find a table for you?”
“I suppose so.” Somerset repressed a sigh. He hated having to make small talk with people he didn’t know. Nobody ever shared his interests, and most people considered him eccentric, which wasn’t true. Well, except for his one tiny little interest in horticulture, which might be considered an eccentricity, but only by illiterate bumpkins. Anyhow, Somerset endeavored to read at least one daily newspaper so that he could converse about politics and baseball with the odd passing stranger with whom he might come in contact—but he usually forgot.
“Here we are. You don’t mind sharing a table with several lovely ladies, do you, sir?” The Pullman waiter grinned as if he were doing Somerset a favor.
Somerset noticed the three woman and the little girl sitting at the table, all of whom peered back at him uncertainly, and decided the waiter was correct. This truly was a favor.
He was overjoyed to find Miss Eunice Marie Golightly and her mother seated with two other ladies, both of whom appeared formidable enough to give Somerset hives, but whom he would endure for the sake of Mrs. Golightly. Fortunately, his digestion was sound, so even if the two alarming ladies turned his meal to vinegar in his bowels, he probably wouldn’t suffer much. Anyhow, it would be worth it in order to deepen his acquaintance with Mrs. Golightly, even if he had to do so while being scrutinized by a couple of strangers.
Determining to make the best of the situation, he smiled, removed his hat, bowed politely, and said with somewhat forced heartiness, “Greetings, ladies. We meet again, Miss Golightly. Mrs. Golightly.”
“Hello, Mr. FitzRoy.” Eunice smiled up at him.
“Oh!” said the lady with the brown hair and the grim expression which lightened considerably, “Are you the gentleman who rescued Eunice and Isabel the night of that terrible accident? We’re so happy to meet you! They told us all about your kindness and about meeting you on the train this afternoon.”
Bother. If there was one thing Somerset didn’t want to endure, it was being lauded for doing something as basic as trying to save the lives of a woman and her child. Hoping to turn the subject, he said, “Indeed. Miss Eunice and Mrs. Golightly and I introduced ourselves this afternoon.”
“He was drawing a weed,” Eunice said, the ends of her mouth turning downward. “I still don’t know why.”
“A weed?” The brown-haired lady blinked at Eunice. Then she turned abruptly toward Somerset. “But I’m forgetting my manners. Please, allow me to introduce the rest of our party. My name is Miss Loretta Linden and this lady—” She indicated the redhead seated next to her. “—is Miss Marjorie MacTavish. It’s so good to meet you and to know that you, too, survived the tragedy.”
Somerset bowed generally at the ladies. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all under much more pleasant circumstances.” He smiled at Miss MacTavish, who gazed up at him like a scared rabbit and didn’t smile back. After sighing and wishing he were more of a ladies’ man, he sat and gave his order to the waiter. “Why were you drawing that weed, Mr. FitzRoy?” Eunice asked after a short and awkward pause. “I should genuinely like to know.”
Somerset decided this was as good a topic for conversation as any other, and it was much better than baseball. “It wasn’t a weed, in particular, Miss Golightly. Its botanical name is panax quinquefolius L. It’s an American species of an Asian plant that has been used for hundreds of years in a variety of medicinal and ceremonial purposes.”
“That’s very interesting, Mr. FitzRoy. Why were you drawing it, though?”
Somerset gazed at Eunice, wondering if there was something wrong with the child. She couldn’t be much older than six or seven, but she sounded like an elderly and excruciatingly refined gentlewoman.
“I intend to publish a compendium of flora native to various regions in the North American continent, Miss Golightly. The book will detail traditional and medicinal uses of the different plants. I had wanted to compare the specimens with some I gathered in Great Britain, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to do that.”
Eunice’s eyes grew even larger than they had been. She appeared to be curious, although Somerset couldn’t credit such a reaction from so young a child. “That’s very interesting, Mr. FitzRoy. Thanks awfully much for telling me about it.”
Puzzled, Somerset murmured, “You’re more than welcome, Miss Golightly.”
“My mother made me let my snake go.” Eunice went on. “I had wanted to study it because I want to be a biologist when I grow up, but perhaps I should study plants instead.”
Somerset swallowed a laugh, perceiving that Eunice hadn’t meant her comment to be funny. “Er, yes, I believe plants might be more acceptable to most mothers than snakes.” He glanced at Isabel, who was looking at her daughter in mild reproof. “Er, I should be happy to give you a lesson or two.”
“Really?” E
unice’s lovely eyes sparkled with excitement.
“I’m sure you don’t want to be bothered by my daughter,” Isabel said, and a faint color crept into her cheeks.
“Oh, but, Mama, I—”
Somerset interrupted them both. “Nonsense. I enjoy sharing my interest in botany and horticulture, Mrs. Golightly. Miss Eunice won’t be a bother at all.” He looked at Mrs. Golightly, hoping she’d volunteer to attend her daughter’s botany lessons.
“Well . . .” Isabel cast a searching look at Somerset, who attempted to appear friendly and helpful, and not as if he were a man who wanted to get to know her better. “If you’re certain you won’t mind having Eunice pester you.”
“I won’t pester him!” exclaimed an indignant Eunice.
“She won’t pester me,” Somerset agreed. “I’d be pleased for the diversion.” He paused, took a deep breath, and dared add, “Perhaps you would care to join us, Mrs. Golightly. I’ll be happy to teach you about plant life here in the United States.”
“Oh, do, Mama!” Eunice said, enchanted with the idea.
“What a lovely offer,” said Miss Linden, smiling at everyone at the table in a narrow-eyed, short-sighted sort of way.
“Oh,” said Isabel in a faint voice. “How kind of you.”
She was utterly charming. Even if she didn’t care a rap about plants—and he could tell she didn’t. Somerset thought her accent was wonderful, too. It wasn’t at all akin to the broad, strange accents of the farmers he’d met when he’d visited Yorkshire; he couldn’t even understand half of what they’d said to him. Her accent was much more refined than theirs.
“What a delightful way to spend a long and tedious train trip,” Miss Linden said. Somerset noticed that she seemed quite eager to promote camaraderie between himself and Mrs. Golightly. He hoped she wasn’t one of those match-making females. Somerset preferred to do his own courting. Not that he ever had. “After all, you’re from the north of England and Mr. FitzRoy—” She smiled myopically at Somerset. “—is an American.” He noticed a pair of eyeglasses resting on the handbag in Loretta’s lap.
“That’s right,” Somerset said. “I’d be interested in comparing American plants with those you remember from Yorkshire, Mrs. Golightly. You see, I spent three months in Great Britain on a specimen-finding expedition, but all my specimens and my notes were lost with the ship. If you’re willing, I’d appreciate any help you can give me in reconstructing my lost research.”
Doubtfully, Isabel said, “Well, I’m sure I can try, although I don’t know how much use I’ll be, since I don’t know much about plants.”
“Thank you.” Somerset gave her a bright, friendly smile, which seemed to embarrass her. Her color deepened, at any rate. “Perhaps you can help me with common British names of various species.”
Isabel took a sip of water from her glass, squinting at him over its rim as if she were stalling for time, although Somerset didn’t know what he’d said that could be considered the least bit complicated. He feared her intelligent child got her brains from her male parent.
But that was unkind. Somerset didn’t even know Isabel Golightly. Perhaps she was merely uncomfortable around people she didn’t know. He could understand that. Didn’t he read sports news for that very reason?
“I can tell you one thing,” Isabel said at last. Then she didn’t tell him.
Somerset prodded. “And what’s that?” Hoping to poke a hole in her resistance to his charms, if he had any, he smiled what he hoped was a winning smile.
“I don’t know any plant called panax-whatever you said.” She turned a vivid shade of crimson.
Somerset stared at her for a second, then burst out laughing.
It was clearly the wrong thing to do. Isabel thumped her water glass on the table and glared at him, even as her cheeks glowed with color. He checked his laughter, not having intended to embarrass her, of all people. He wanted to impress her, not humiliate her. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Golightly. I tend to forget that not everyone knows Latin.”
She smiled. It was a chilly smile. “Fancy that. I’m afraid my Latin is a trifle rusty.”
Miss Linden gave a trill of laughter. “Nobody uses Latin nowadays,” she said hastily, as if she wanted to iron out the burgeoning strain between Somerset and Isabel. “Only physicians and professors.” With a glance at Somerset, she added, “And botanists, of course.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you, Mrs. Golightly, but at myself. I’ve become so accustomed to calling plants by their Latin names that I forget not everyone is familiar with them, you see.”
“Ah,” said Isabel. He sensed she wasn’t ready to forgive him quite yet.
So, apparently, did Miss Linden, who said in a rush, “That plant you were drawing, Mr. FitzRoy. What is that in American?” Her smile was almost pleasant enough to make up for Mrs. Golightly’s.
Somerset appreciated her a lot. He directed his answer at her, since Mrs. Golightly still looked as if she intended to stab him with her butter knife as soon as he turned his back. He got the impression she was sensitive about something, perhaps her education or class or something else. The British were so touchy about those things.
“It’s very much like the Asian species of ginseng. I suppose it might be called American ginseng. In New Hampshire, where I found my specimen, the people I spoke to called it five-fingers, although one old farmer called it Tartar root, which I found interesting.”
“Oh, my, yes,” said Eunice, climbing into the conversation as if she belonged there. Somerset had never met a child who seemed so at ease among adults. “That’s very interesting, Mr. FitzRoy. The adjective ‘Tartar’ might harken back to its Oriental origin. You know, like the Tartar hordes.” She looked uncertainly at her mother. “Or were they Tartan hordes? I don’t remember.”
“I believe they were Mongol hordes, actually,” said Isabel, easing up a bit for her daughter and offering Eunice a small smile.
Eunice’s little nose wrinkled. “Where’d I get Tartar hordes?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Isabel sounded as if she were having trouble not laughing.
Because he remembered what it was like to be a curious child who sometimes got things wrong, Somerset said, “I believe many of the Mongols were Tartars, Miss Eunice.”
“Ah,” said Eunice, her troubled expression clearing. “That’s probably it.”
“Probably,” Isabel said. She relieved Somerset’s worry by smiling at Somerset, probably because he’d saved her daughter from embarrassment.
Very interesting family, the Golightlys. And there didn’t seem to be a Mister Golightly anywhere in sight, a circumstance that vaguely gratified Somerset. Maybe dinner wouldn’t be unpleasant after all. When he glanced at the other two ladies, he encountered the same blank, unfocused expression he was accustomed to seeing on the faces of people who didn’t share his horticultural fascination.
Only slightly dismayed by the disinterest of his audience, he cleared his throat and went on. “Yes. It’s as if somehow, lost in the mists of time, a Chinese root was being acknowledged by the old farmer, who hadn’t a clue that there’s another plant in the Orient that people have used for hundreds of years as a virtually magical cure-all.”
“My goodness,” said Miss Linden politely.
Miss MacTavish gave him a vague smile. Somerset suppressed his sigh.
It was Isabel who saved the conversation, much to Somerset’s surprise. Her porcelain brow wrinkling slightly, she said, “I think I’ve heard of ginseng, Mr. FitzRoy. Mrs. McNally, the old witch who taught me what little I know about plants and which ones were good for what, had a supply of it that she’d got from a Gypsy woman, but she only used it in dire emergencies.”
“Ah,” said Somerset, wondering what to say to that.
“She wasn’t really a witch,” said Eunice, as if to reassure Somerset.
Isabel smiled—really smiled—for the first time, and Somerset blinked. She had quite a smile when she chose to use it.
&n
bsp; “Of course she wasn’t,” Isabel said with her soft lilting accent that made Somerset’s toes curl. “That’s just what she wanted people to think. It gave her a certain status in Upper Poppleton. The Gypsy woman was a real Gypsy, though. In a caravan and everything.”
“There aren’t really any such things as witches,” Eunice pronounced. “Although there are lots of Gypsies in England.”
“True,” said her mother.
“What constituted a dire emergency,” Somerset asked, curious.
“Oh, if a woman . . .” Isabel stopped speaking, caught her breath, and shot a glance at her daughter. “Uh . . . well . . .”
“I think the root was used by ladies who wanted babies,” said Eunice.
Everyone at the table stared at her. Isabel, whose cheeks had again bloomed bright red, put a hand over her mouth, as if she was trying not to laugh. Loretta appeared both shocked and amused. Miss MacTavish gasped. Somerset wanted to laugh, too, but knew if he did, he’d never get to chat with Eunice’s mother about herbs and plants and the British and American common names thereof. Or ask her if she’d marry him.
Stop it, he bade himself silently.
“I’ve heard that,” he said.
Then something good happened. The waiter returned with everyone’s dinner. Somerset couldn’t have planned the scene better if he’d had control of the entire Pullman empire.
After they were served, Somerset made an attempt to salvage the conversation. “Speaking of dire emergencies, Mrs. and Miss Golightly and I were survivors of the recent Titanic disaster. Were you ladies aboard the ship, too?”
Marjorie MacTavish’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Somerset might be imagining things, but it looked to him as if she had paled, too. He hoped he hadn’t just put his foot into something smelly.
Stillness settled over the group, and Somerset could have kicked himself for his inattention to social amenities. Of course, the ladies wouldn’t want to talk about the tragedy during a meal. He knew better than to bring up unpleasant subjects at the dinner table. His strict old grandmother, if she were watching from Above, was undoubtedly shaking her head over him in dismay.
Perfect Stranger Page 4