“I’m sorry. I was just surprised by the sight of those books over there. They look like one I’ve seen before.”
“That’s impossible,” Marigold replied, certain of what she was saying. “Those are Father’s Stationmaster’s Logs, and he has those books bound for him by Mr. Jamison, the shoemaker. The man can make anything out of leather, even sew books together.”
I looked down at the desk again and saw a typewriter…the typewriter…I was certain it had been used to type the pages of the book in my room.
I had in my possession a missing volume of the Stationmaster’s personal logs.
He must know it was missing, and he would have my head if he knew I had it.
I’d never be able to explain how I ended up with it, because I wasn’t entirely sure, myself. I mean, I knew it came from Mr. Donahue’s son, and according to Seymour J. Howard, Fox was supposed to have had it in his possession at one point and was supposed to have returned it to its rightful owner. But I couldn’t verify any of that except the part where I got it from Donahue.
I looked at Marigold now, and I wondered. How did all this fit together?
It was a mystery that wouldn’t be solved today, and reluctantly accepting this, I scowled. There was little I hated more in life than a puzzle with missing pieces.
“You’d better go,” Marigold admonished, her tone conveying her regret. “Do something for me? Return the wheelbarrow I borrowed to the shed at the station, please? I’d be most grateful to you, Mr. Wainwright.”
“That’s the least I can do. Of course I will.” I smiled at her, but she had turned back to her work and didn’t see, adding as I laced my boots, “Thank you for your hospitality. I appreciate it more than you know.”
Now she did glance over. She took note of my footwear and tilted her head in curiosity.
“I’ve never seen boots like those before.” She blinked. “You really must have come from quite a distance. A big city, I’d imagine?”
“Compared to Wishing Cross,” I answered, widening my eyes and lowering my voice. “Huge.”
A moment of silence seemed eternal as neither of us spoke, only stared.
“When will I see you again?” I blurted, before I realized what I was saying.
A slow smile parted her flawless lips. “I’m all over town every day. I won’t be hard to find.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER FINISHING MY DELIVERIES for the day, I received approval for my work from Mr. Wilson and was sent home to warm up and dry out.
Before I left the store, though, I made the decision to purchase a third set of long underwear and socks for sleeping in; that way, I could have my wash drying by the small stove in my room and still not freeze to death or have to sleep in tomorrow’s clothing.
I hurried ‘home’, and found Mr. Best already in the kitchen making supper.
“Look at you, son, you’ll catch your death,” he said, truly concerned. “Get out of those wet clothes and back in here as soon as possible. Warmest room in the place. I’ll make you some tea.”
“Thank you, sir.” My teeth rattled together from the cold.
I was never more grateful for a change of clothing in my life as I was for the one I had now. I wrapped one of the blankets from the bed around my shoulders as well to try to slow my shaking as I made my way back to the kitchen.
“There’s warm water to wash your hands, and the tea is ready,” Mr. Best said, indicating the basin on the far wall. “Dinner will be in about half an hour. You must be starving.”
“I am,” I admitted, too tired in the moment to say much else. The warm water wash and the tea revived me some, and I was content to sit in a chair as close to the stove as I dare and soak in the glorious, radiant warmth.
Dinner smelled delicious, and I wondered what it was.
“A soup recipe I got from Mrs. Sutton,” he explained, gesturing toward it with the spoon. “Potatoes and such. It’s a favorite of mine. I hope you’ll like it.”
I didn’t want to admit to him that I’d eat anything by this point, but the truth is I would have. I felt like I’d never eaten in my life.
I was still shaking despite my best efforts to stop, and he refilled my teacup. “Drink up, and maybe I should put a little something extra in it to help ward off the chill.” He took a small bottle of spirits from a cabinet in the corner and poured a splash into my tea.
I sniffed at it and then took a sip. My drinking career was non-existent, since I was one of the few people who believed in obeying the law and not drinking underage. I had no idea what kind of booze he’d put into it; I didn’t care, either. It tasted good and made me feel warmer on the inside. I drank up in a hurry.
By the time I was on my third cup of tea, he began slicing bread and placed it and some butter in front of me. “Help yourself.”
I did, and between bites, I analyzed the man carefully. He was a kind soul, slight of build and of stature but large in heart and spirit. I wondered how much I dared trust him with. I knew I needed someone in town I could trust, and he had already trusted me enough to allow me to rent his spare bedroom.
I decided I had no choice but to take him into my confidence, not if I were going to unravel the mystery before me in time to figure out what I should do with the book now: return it to Sutton’s library somehow without being discovered, or destroy it the way Seymour wanted me to.
“May I ask you a question, sir?”
“Of course.” He stirred the pot again. “Ten more minutes until dinner, in case you’re counting down.”
I nodded. “Thank you. My question may seem a bit odd, but I have my reasons for asking it.”
Best replied, turning to face me with the spoon still in his hand. “All right. I’ll try to give you my best answer.” He took another spoonful of soup and was about to taste it when he added, “Ask away.”
“Did you know Aurelia Belle Sutton?”
He choked on his soup, coughing mightily for a moment before managing to clear his throat. “What?”
“Were you living here when Samuel Sutton had a wife called Aurelia Belle?”
“I was,” he replied at last, with a great, long sigh. “I’ve lived in Wishing Cross all my life. Born here, like most of the people still living here.”
“What happened to her?”
He looked away, uncomfortable. “I’m not sure it’s our business to speak of the late Mrs. Sutton.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was. “I didn’t mean to step out of line. Forgive me.”
We ate for several moments in silence, me devouring every drop in my bowl, and him rising to take it to the stove and refill it from the large pot.
At last he spoke again. “Why do you ask about her?”
“I have several reasons,” I said, and I did. “One of which is I came into town on a train called the Aurelia Belle, but no one here calls it that. They only call it the ‘special’. ”
“That’s Sutton’s doing,” he answered plainly. “Aurelia Belle is someone he’d rather see erased from history. His, his family’s, and Wishing Cross’s.”
“But why?”
“Again, son, I’m not sure it’s our business to discuss it,” Best replied, placing bowls down for each of us and returning to his seat.
“Of course.” I ate again in silence, but my mind was running a million miles a minute. Marigold said Aurelia Belle was her mother’s name…and yet the woman was to be erased from history by her own surviving husband? Even though she’d given him a beautiful daughter?
What did you do, Aurelia Belle, to deserve such a fate? And why exactly did J. Howard Fox decide to name the train after a woman the Stationmaster himself wished to be forgotten?
I finished my bread and second bowl of hearty soup and finally felt full.
“More?”
“No thank you, sir. I’m exhausted, I need to wash up, and I need to wash out my clothes. I’m grateful I was able to buy the second set. I hadn’t intended to use them for work, but it seems I
’ll have no choice. Mine will never dry in time for me to wear them in the morning.”
I sighed, unsure if I should wash them with water in the bathtub, just scrub them up a bit with the bar of soap I had, or how to proceed. How I missed the small stackable washer and dryer Grandfather and I had at the apartment back in 2015. Even though I had despised the machine for its smallness before, it seemed an unimaginable luxury now.
“Something tells me you’re not familiar with the best way to wash your own clothes,” Mr. Best said, as he began to clear and wash the dishes. “Are you used to someone doing it for you?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “Back home, things are very different.”
“Well, I’m happy to give you a lesson, and you can hang them on the line here in the kitchen.” He unwound a line of rope and secured it on a nail across the room. “They’ll dry faster with the heat from the stove.”
“Thank you, I would appreciate it.”
He brought a small tub out from beneath the basin. “Fetch your clothes.”
He proceeded to pour a mixture of hot and cold water into the tub and added some soap flakes. Then he actually washed my clothing for me; apparently I looked too tired to do it.
He was right, I was.
He scrubbed and rinsed them, and in no time my laundry was hanging to dry on the line.
Mr. Best dried his hands. “You get one more set of clothes, and it might be worth it to you to have Mrs. Thompson up the street take your things in. She’ll accept two days’ worth of clothing at a time as a minimum. Since you’re not going to be here long, and you’re making a decent wage at Wilson’s.”
He never mentioned the money I owed him for pawning the watch; he was too much a gentleman to speak of such things outside of the business environment.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I replied. “Thank you.”
“You’d best get some sleep now, morning will be here before you know it.”
“Can I help you with the washing up?” I asked, indicating the pot on the stove.
“Thank you, but it’s all right, Mr. Wainwright. I can manage.”
“Still, you helped me, I’d like to repay the kindness.”
“Maybe another time,” Best replied. “You get on to bed now. I could lose sleep, worrying about you.”
I thought about it a moment and realized he was old enough to be my father, yet he was a childless man. How kind it was of him to worry about me and look after me the way he was.
I wished we had more men like William Best in 2015.
Soon I was settled into my bed, with the light of two candles burning now instead of one on the night table beside me. I opened up the pages of the logbook anxiously, trying to decipher the sort of shorthand Stationmaster Sutton wrote most of his notes in.
Date: January 1, 1862: Assigned to post of Stationmaster at Wishing Cross Station, I read softly to myself. Then I turned the book sideways and read the handwritten notes in the margin. Just returned from three months away. Samuel Junior has grown. He looks like his mother, rest her soul. Grace, you’d be proud.
Hmm, I wondered, where was he for three months?
I continued reading. Notes of goings on at the station, engines assigned to and reassigned from; notes on construction around town, including a new jewelry store owned by a man who had formerly worked in the General Store for years; a “Good Mr. William Best”. I flipped through the pages, scanning. No more notes in the margins…not until months later.
March 15th, 1862. Aurelia Belle has informed me she’s with child; our first together. Says she put off telling me until she was sure things would be all right…the doctor has been concerned. In the last week her condition has become visibly apparent. So early; I wonder if it might not be twins.
Then more everyday station business…on and on and on for pages and pages. Neatly typed, abbreviations consistent; it didn’t matter to me what they meant, really. I was only interested in the personal notes between.
I found the next one, and sat up in bed… this one really got my attention:
July 2, 1862. Marigold Belle Sutton born. 5 pounds, 2 ounces. Early. Doctor amazed at her good health despite being born much too soon. The handwriting was shaky here, and I could barely make out the notes scribbled beneath.
I pray she survives.
Next personal margin notation, two weeks later:
July 17th 1862: I have my worries, my fears, and my doubts, but the baby is thriving.
Then, in the tiniest of script beneath:
The timing does not fit.
So…Samuel Sutton was worried about the timing of his daughter’s birth. Given he’d been absent for three months…was it possible that his wife…no, couldn’t be.
Could it?
I read on.
There is talk of a stranger in town while I was away…gossip says he’d been seen often about the station. In Aurelia Belle’s company. I don’t know what to believe, the chatter of the town busybodies or the word of my own wife.
I stopped reading, my stomach sinking. Who was this stranger, someone associated with J. Howard Fox? Where had he come from, and had he been successful in somehow seducing the wife of the town Stationmaster while the man was away for three months on business?
Was the child Aurelia Belle gave birth to actually fathered by her husband…or was she…was Marigold…the daughter of another man?
How did all this tie in with the book ending up in my time?
I had more questions than answers swirling in my mind as the candles burned down to near nothing, and I snuffed them out. I laid my head upon the pillow and surrendered to sleep, with the book so much a mystery still clutched in my icy hands.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MR. BEST WAS UP earlier than usual the next morning, and I smelled coffee. It was an amazing, welcome smell, and I needed some desperately.
“Good morning, Mr. Wainwright,” he said cheerfully as he gestured toward the small pot on the stove. “Do you like coffee?”
“I love it, sir,” I replied, sounding as desperate for caffeine as I was.
He smiled slightly.
“Then bring your cup up here.” He used a kitchen towel to pick up the pot by the handle and poured the steaming liquid. I wrapped my hands around the cup as I settled into my seat at the table, immensely grateful, in the moment, for this small comfort.
I ached all over from the day’s work yesterday, and I knew today would be no easier.
“I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Wainwright,” Best said, as he placed some bread and jam down in front of me. “I need to decorate the store for Christmas this evening. Windows, interior, exterior. I was wondering if you might not be willing to assist me.”
“Oh.” My face fell, I couldn’t hide it. I was dreading Christmas this year, whatever century I was in. My Grandfather had loved it so, and the reminder of his absence was not a welcome one. I forced a smile. “Of course, I would be happy to help.”
“You hesitated,” Mr. Best noted, pouring his own coffee and sitting across from me. “I know why I dread the holidays, Mr. Wainwright. Would it be too intrusive of me to ask why you do?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. My Grandfather passed away recently, and it was his favorite holiday. We shared an apartment back home…this will be the first year I’ll be celebrating without him.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, staring into his cup and watching the black coffee swirl there as he spooned in some sugar, taking a sip and looking at me. “This is my second time alone. It’s never the same for me, not without Sarah and her carols. Always singing the carols. But the customers like the trappings of the holiday, so what am I to do? I decorate. I try to get through it as quickly as I can. With your help, the task will be much more quickly accomplished. Then I can ignore them until it’s time to take them down. By which time, you won’t be in Wishing Cross any longer, will you? You said you were only staying the month.”
“With any luck, I’ll be on my way back
home before New Year’s Day.”
“Putting some distance between you and your grief?”
I was surprised he asked such a direct question. “Not exactly, but I won’t lie and tell you the distance from home isn’t welcome right now.”
I drew from my coffee cup; it was stronger than I’d ever tasted, and it was just what I needed to get through the morning.
I ate my bread and rose to gather my coat and boots for work. “Would you prefer to start before or after dinner?”
“After,” Mr. Best replied. “You’ll have worked a much longer day than I by then. I can’t deny a man his dinner before I ask such a favor of him, climbing ladders to hang garlands.”
“Fair enough. It really is my pleasure to help you, though. You’ve been so kind to me, sir. I thank you.”
He gave a dismissive wave. “Think nothing of it. It’s not like you’re living here for free. You’re paying your way.”
“Kindness is something you can’t put a price on,” I answered. “I am indebted to you.”
“You are a curious young man, Mr. Wainwright.”
“I will take that as a compliment, Mr. Best.”
“Good,” he said, draining his coffee cup dry. “It was meant as one.”
***
I hurried to the station and picked up the first batch of packages, and I was surprised, upon arrival at the General Store, to find Marigold standing behind the counter.
She looked pale and drawn, her eyes shadowed and swollen as if she’d been crying. She avoided looking at me as I attempted to wish her a good morning, so I left her alone and went about the business of unloading the packages for Mr. Wilson to log. He stopped me, cigar dangling from his lips as ever as he spoke.
“Hold up there, boy. Seems you have too much time on your hands, and you have your wits about you, so I’m going to put those wits to work along with the rest of you.”
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