“That’s enough for now. We will come back for the rest.”
“They’ll be safe here?”
She laughed. “You are strange, Mr. Wainwright. Who in the world would steal someone else’s mail?”
She had absolutely no idea how different her time was from mine.
“Of course, how silly of me.” I said, struggling to control my burden as I forced it through the snow, which was beginning to pile up.
I was grateful for the non-skid soles on my ‘boots from the future’ and had no idea how she was staying upright on her own dainty ones in these conditions.
“Be sure to wipe your feet before you go into the store,” she warned.
I did as I was told, scraping my feet as hard as I could on the bristly mat on the doorstep.
Then she stopped. “Oh no, I almost forgot. We’re supposed to go in the back door. I made that mistake once before, and the lecture Mr. Wilson gave my father resulted in a whipping when I got home.”
My jaw clenched. “Whipping? Really?”
She eyed the narrow patch of snow-covered grass leading to the back. “We can’t take the wheelbarrows over that. We’ll have to carry the parcels in by hand.”
“Then back out again.”
She nodded.
“He can’t come out here himself and do whatever he needs to do?”
“Heavens no! It’s cold and besides…” She shrugged. “He has to log them in. His book would be ruined.”
“All right.” She definitely was used to a harder, and less efficient, workday than I was. I wondered what she’d think if she knew every book we had in my time had a code you just scanned in, and a computer immediately knew everything about it.
Well, almost every book.
“Miss Sutton, you must take a break from the cold. If you wipe your feet and then stand just inside the store, I will bring the packages up, and you can give them to Mr. Wilson so he can begin his log.”
“Are you certain? I assure you, I am quite capable.”
“I have no doubt,” I answered, and it was true. As delicate as she looked, she had already proved that beneath all those layers of clothing was some real strength and muscle. Still, I wanted to spare her what hard work I could, for as long as I was able. “And if we do it that way, less water gets on Mr. Wilson’s floors.”
“That is a good point. All right. Agreed.” She began to shuffle her feet on the mat, and then knocked upon the door so Wilson would unlock it.
“It’s about time, I thought you two decided to wander off and hang the mail!”
“I apologize, Mr. Wilson. The snow made it difficult to push the wheelbarrows. We’ll work faster on the next trip,” I promised.
“You’d better,” he grumbled, chomping again on his ever-present unlit cigar, and gestured for Marigold to set the parcels down just inside the doorway. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.” She took off her coat, hung it on a rack by the door, and rolled up her sleeves, prepared to get to work.
As I shuttled packages back and forth from our shipment, I considered the book and the man it belonged to. Samuel J. Sutton, Stationmaster: the book was rightfully his. But how could I just hand it over to him casually, as if I’d found it on the ground at the station under a bench somewhere? Surely he knew it was missing, and may even know who originally took it. Besides, Seymour stressed that the book had to be returned to this time and if possible, destroyed here.
I could just toss it into the wood stove in my small room and this would all be over. If I did that, though, without knowing what was in it or if it controlled my fate and my ability to return home again, I could be in even greater trouble than I already was. I knew I had to wait.
I had to read the whole thing. I had to figure out what it all meant, how it fit into this place, and if it were, as Seymour claimed, a danger to the people who inhabited it.
***
Time seemed to fly by in Marigold’s company, but once it was just me slogging packages back and forth in knee-deep snow with boots that only came to my ankles, it got old fast. Finally, in my finite wisdom, I thought to ask Mr. Wilson a question.
“Sir, do you have a shovel I can use? To clear the way? We’ll move much faster if there’s a trail.”
“Waste of time, boy,” he snarled. “Expecting it to snow all day. By the time you’re back with the next batch, it’ll be just as high. Keep working. You’re on trial today, mind.”
The yeah but, formed in my brain and almost made it to my tongue, but I clamped it down and kept on working. “Yes, sir.”
Eventually it was time to go back for more mail, and Marigold reappeared in her hat and coat, ready for another run. I was glad she’d been able to warm up. I was freezing, wet, and cold to the bone. My lungs ached, and I wished I’d remembered to bring my inhaler. I hated the thought I might have to go back to my room for it, but knew I couldn’t show it off publicly; it was technology over a hundred years out of its time.
“Are you all right?” she asked as we headed back to the station, and I feared I wasn’t the only one who could hear my lungs wheezing with each breath.
“My lungs are weak. I have medicine for them back at my room,” I confided, knowing I had to.
“Then we must stop and get it. The jeweler’s is just across the street.”
“We don’t have time.”
“If you need it we must make the time, Mr. Wainwright.”
I needed it, and so we did. We hurried across the untouched snow in the street, and I went up the back stairs, trying not to track water in with me but finding it was of little use.
I hurried to take a couple of puffs from my inhaler and tucked it into my coat pocket. I didn’t know where I’d find the privacy to use it around here if I needed to, except maybe in one of the outhouses, which definitely didn’t thrill me. But if I couldn’t breathe, well, nothing else really mattered.
When I came back downstairs I saw no sign of Marigold. It took me a few moments of searching to discover she was inside the shop, talking to Mr. Best.
I opened the door and only leaned in so as to keep the floor clean. “Better now, time to go.”
Marigold nodded, first to Mr. Best and then to me. “It’s been a pleasure, sir. I will look forward to you joining us, then.”
“Thank you for the kind invitation,” Mr. Best said. “Please express my anticipation and gratitude to your father, and to Helen.”
“I will.”
She pulled her gloves back on as she exited the store and picked up the handles of her wheelbarrow once more. “Helen, my step-mother, wanted me to invite Mr. Best over for Christmas dinner. He’s known our family as long as I can remember, and Father didn’t want him to be alone on the holiday.”
“Very kind of him.”
“He can be a very kind man,” Marigold said, her eyes and voice becoming distant. “When he chooses.”
“And your step-mother?”
“Yes,” she continued, as we fought our way up the block. “Helen is Father’s third wife. First was Grace; she was my big brother Sam’s mother. Later, Helen, who is mother to Jeremiah and Joseph, who are thirteen. And of course there is the baby on the way.”
“And your mother?” I looked at her apologetically as soon as I’d asked. Such a forward, personal question, especially during these times.
“She died when I was very young. I barely remember her. I have very little from her, only this necklace. And a few embroidered handkerchiefs. A pair of lace gloves.” She catalogued the small treasure trove with wistful affection as she lifted the chain so I could see the pendant dangling from it. “She said someone had it made especially for her. I remember she was sweet, and very kind to me. I was so small when she died and afterward…”
I glanced at the necklace as she fiddled with it absentmindedly. The symbol was very unique, something I didn’t recall ever having seen before anywhere. I felt like I should say something, but honestly I didn’t know what.
“I’m sorry
, Miss Sutton.”
Her eyes focused upon the ground as she pushed onward.
I figured since I was in this deep, I may as well risk one more question before I changed the subject. “You didn’t tell me what your mother’s name was.”
“Oh, it was as beautiful as she was.” She smiled now. “Her name was Aurelia Belle.”
The air rushed from my lungs; a silent exclamation of surprise. The voice of the Park tour guide echoed in my head: she’d said that Fox never explained who it was he’d named the Aurelia Belle after.
It couldn’t be coincidence that the engine and Marigold’s mother had the same name.
What the hell happened in this town, back in 1862?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AFTER MARIGOLD AND I finished the next round of deliveries, she checked the small watch on a chain at her waist.
“Almost time to eat,” she said, dusting the newest layer of snow from her sleeves and skirts and looking up at me. “Did you remember your lunch?”
“Actually, I forgot.” I shrugged. I’d been in such a hurry to leave on time this morning I didn’t bring the bread and fruit Mr. Best had offered.
“Then you must come eat something with me,” she said. “At home.”
My eyebrows rose. Her father had no use for me; he’d indicated as much clearly during our earlier encounter. “Are you certain? I don’t want to cause any trouble.”
Her laughter was a soft, musical sound. “No trouble at all. You can meet the rest of my family.”
“Does your father have lunch with the family?”
“No, Father never has lunch.” We trudged through the snow and left our wheelbarrows outside the back entrance to the Stationmaster’s house, which was situated right beside the station.
Their home was a long, narrow building. It appeared to have had three rooms added on to one end at some point, to accommodate, I imagined, the Stationmaster’s growing family.
“How long has your father been the Stationmaster at Wishing Cross?”
“Near as I can tell, he started here sometime in the year just before I was born.”
“Near as you can tell?” I pressed gently, not wanting to scare her off but needing more information for things to begin making sense about this place, if they were ever going to.
“We’re not the kind of family to talk much about the past,” Marigold confided, shifting uneasily as she led me up the steps. “Take your boots off and leave them out here. This door is the back entrance to the kitchen, and Helen will take a strap to us if we dirty the floor.”
I’d like to see her try that in front of me, I thought, but I said nothing. I only nodded and did as she asked. “Are you sure this is going to be all right?”
“It’ll be fine,” she encouraged me, tugging on my sleeve slightly. “Come on.”
“About time you got here,” Helen barked. “I’ve already fed the boys, Sam is back at work, and Joseph and Jeremiah are nearly finished with their soup. I have to get back to the ticket booth, you’re going to have to do the washing up now.”
“I don’t mind,” Marigold replied brightly. She indicated me, as I stood several paces behind her in my socks, coat still buttoned in case I needed to make a hasty retreat. “Helen, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought a guest for lunch. Surely we have an extra bowl of soup to spare for our new neighbor, Mr. Wainwright?”
Helen’s eyes bored through me. “Your father mentioned you were working with him today, and all the while the chores around here fall behind.” She shook her head, took two bowls from a shelf and began to ladle them full of what appeared to be chicken soup.
“I’ll catch up on chores, I promise. It’s just Mr. Wilson asked and—”
“I’m aware of the situation, Marigold. Wash your hands and sit down.”
“This way.” Marigold led me to a corner basin with a pitcher beside. She tilted it, then nodded toward a bar of soap. “Go ahead, I’ll pour the water for you.”
I wet my hands in the first drops and then lathered them up, jolting as the water spilling from the pitcher froze my already cold hands. The soap rinsed away, and she handed me a towel.
“Thank you. May I?” I took hold of the pitcher handle with the towel, and she smiled.
We repeated the hand washing procedure with me pouring this time, before she took another clean towel and dried her hands with it.
“Thank you, Mr. Wainwright.”
“Keigan,” I said softly. “That’s my name.”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” she demurred, lowering her eyes. “Thank you, just the same.”
“My apologies, Miss Sutton.”
“Hurry up, you two, before the soup gets cold!” Helen snapped.
She was handing slices of bread to the twin boys at the table, and I watched her set two on the top of our bowls of soup as well.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sutton. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“Thank Marigold,” she grumbled, turning away. “And don’t think you’ll be making a habit of this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, wilting into a chair at the end of the table as far away from everyone else as I could get. I was unwanted here, by everyone except Marigold.
“Who are you, anyway?” one of the twins asked, his mouth full of half-chewed bread.
“Not with your mouth full, Jeremiah!” his mother directed.
He swallowed with a large gulp. “Where did you come from?”
“Far away,” I answered. Words that may have seemed cryptic and avoidant to them, but words entirely true.
“Mr. Wainwright came in on the special,” Marigold told her brother.
The second twin, Joseph, spoke up now. “Wow, you must have come a long way then. Where from, though, exactly?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I wished very much to change the subject. “I’m here for a little while, so I got myself a job straight away, and I intend to work very hard to contribute to the community while I’m here.”
Helen harrumphed. “Out-of-towners tend to be trouble around these parts. That’s why we don’t take to them very kindly.”
“I’ll try not to be any trouble to anyone,” I said, rising from the table. “In fact, I haven’t touched this food. Perhaps it would be better for one of your children to eat it instead.”
I wasn’t going to stay where I wasn’t welcome, no matter how hungry I was.
“Sit down, Mr. Wainwright,” Helen insisted. “It’s already dished out now, you may as well eat it.”
Marigold’s eyes implored me to stay, and so I slowly lowered myself back into the chair, aware suddenly of every muscle I had used that day, working so hard.
“I thank you.”
She ignored my expression of gratitude and moved toward the coat rack. “I’ve got to get back to work, and you’ve got chores,” Helen said to the twins. “Let’s go.”
“A piece of candy from the Store? Please?” Joseph begged. His mother looked at him affectionately, and I was surprised by the change in her demeanor.
“All right, take a little money from the jar. Not too much though, and only after you’ve finished your deliveries, mind.”
“Yes ma’am!” the boys called in unison, as they scrambled to put on their coats and boots and vanished.
“I’ll be just outside in the ticket booth,” Helen said next. “Let me know when you’ve finished everything up. Don’t be long about it, Marigold. You’ve got work ahead of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marigold was eating as quickly as she could, and I followed suit, though the soup was so hot it burned my tongue.
After Helen and the boys had gone, Marigold moved toward the cupboard and pulled out a glass jar. Then she placed a cookie on a napkin beside my soup bowl.
“I couldn’t,” I said, shaking my head. “You’ve gotten into enough trouble on my behalf already.”
“The cookie would be my dessert, anyway,” she said, “Go on. Eat it.”
I reached out and broke it in half. I popped
a portion into my mouth and gestured toward the other. “Now you.”
She laughed again, that sweet, gentle laugh. “Very well.”
Before she’d even finished eating it, she moved toward the stove and took a pot of water simmering on it off, setting it aside. “To wash the dishes with. Too hot to use right now, it has to cool a little first.”
“Can I help?” I asked, as I forgot my manners, tilting the soup bowl to my lips and draining the last few drops of broth.
“You’d better not. I thank you, but it’s my job, and you have yours to do now, as well. I think you know the procedure for deliveries and have been seen around town enough today so you can continue on your own.” She seemed reluctant to send me out alone, but something was pressing her to do it. “Unless you think you still need my help. I know I was supposed to assist you tomorrow as well, but Helen…”
She didn’t need to say another word, I understood. “No, it’s fine. I can manage now. Thank you.”
She nodded as she rushed to gather the pots and pans, and I cleared the table as she worked, bringing her the empty dishes.
“You’re going to be late for the next delivery run,” she warned. “And I’ll be in trouble if they find out you helped me.”
“You helped me today, it’s only right,” I said. I was curious about the house, and mostly, about the small office adjacent to the kitchen.
I leaned far over and peered into the room, with its deep blue walls, wooden desk, and wall of bookshelves.
It was on the bookshelves that I discovered something that sent my head reeling.
There was an entire shelf of books with identical bindings to the one I was hiding in my room back at Mr. Best’s apartment. I was drawn toward them, and without thinking I started to move.
“Oh, please! Don’t!” Marigold saw I was about to set foot in the room and she hurried over. “Please. No one is allowed in Father’s office. Not even Helen.”
Not even his wife? I thought. What was he hiding in there?
Wishing Cross Station Page 7