“Sir?” I didn’t know what I’d done to anger him, but it was obvious I had.
“Take this.” He handed me the log book. “See the example I’ve left you here, how to log in the parcel? Log it in, then take the deliveries out that are intended to go. Leave the rest here. Return to the station for the next batch, log those, deliver. Repeat. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t question, I just did as I was told.
I stole a look over at Marigold, but she had her back turned to me. Mrs. Wilson was instructing her on the proper way to put the holiday items they’d just received on the last train out on display for the customers to see.
“Just don’t drop them,” Mrs. Wilson warned. “They’re expensive.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marigold replied, and she went about her work without another word.
Jeremiah and Joseph came into the store to pick up some small parcels and approached me.
“They’re over there,” I said, too busy with the log to pay them much attention as they took the packages into their arms.
“You really did it,” Joseph whispered to me as he took one from the top of the pile and tossed it between his hands.
“Careful! That one’s marked fragile!” Then his words sunk in. “I did what?”
“You should have heard Father last night,” Jeremiah chimed in. “When he found out Marigold invited you for lunch, he took his belt to her. Then he punished her by making her come work for the holidays with Mrs. Wilson because he said…what did he say, Joe?”
“He said he ‘couldn’t abide to look at her’, is what he said.” Joseph replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry.”
“He took his what to her?” I stammered. The idea of her being whipped for showing me a simple kindness infuriated me. I could feel my cheeks burning with heat as anger coursed through my body. “I hope there was no trouble for your mother?”
“Not for Mother. He said she did the Christian thing being hospitable to you. But he said Mari had no business inviting you into our house. So she got it, really good.”
“I bet she doesn’t want to sit down today!” Jeremiah crowed, seeming pleased by what had happened to his sister.
“Shut up, Jeremiah!” Joseph said, reddening. “She didn’t deserve it. She did the Christian thing, too. That’s what I don’t get. One rule for everyone else, and a different one, every time, for Mari. I don’t know why he—”
“Get!” Mr. Wilson came over, broom in hand. “You boys get going about your work or I’ll swat you one! Go!” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You, too.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and as I sat there filling out the log, I suddenly felt as if I were being watched.
I looked up and, in the mirror on the wall, I saw Marigold’s face reflected toward me, even though her back was still turned.
Her eyes were so sad, though she did not cry. She held her head high, and continued lining up little glass ornaments on the shelf one by one. She seemed to stare past me, as if her mind were very far away, and I wondered where it was she went inside her head to escape the cruelty of the life she was living in the present.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AFTER A LONG DAY of delivering packages, I was grateful to come home, change into my spare dry clothes, and eat a hot meal.
Mr. Best and I dined in relative silence. My mind was spinning, thinking about the book, thinking about Sutton’s rage. Thinking about Marigold.
She’d said not a single word to me all day, though we’d worked near and around each other the entire time. Once, she held the door open for me as she saw me struggling with it and a heavy load of packages, and she got a tongue-lashing from Mrs. Wilson for her trouble. Afterward she stayed on the opposite end of the store from me, no matter what happened.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Mr. Best observed. “Rough day?”
“Yes.”
“Tough to be an outsider in this little town,” he observed, finishing his food. “I think that’s why they never stay long. We’re just a stopping point they have no choice but to go through on their way to someplace better.”
“It’s not necessarily better,” I replied, thinking of the world from which I’d come, with homeless people, nations at war, unspeakable crimes happening every day. “Just different.”
“Hmm.” He rose from his chair and cleared the dishes.
“Tonight, I insist on helping you with the washing up. We have a lot to get done before we can get to sleep,” I said, and I stepped up to the sink.
He didn’t argue. “I thank you, Mr. Wainwright.”
He washed the pots and dishes; I dried and put them away. I’d already learned the layout of the small kitchen, the whole place, really, as there wasn’t all that much to it.
Afterward we went down into the jewelry store, each hauling boxes of ornaments and garlands from the attic above my room.
He had a ladder in the back room of the shop, and there was a fresh cut tree, small but dignified, waiting to be decorated near the front door.
He lit the lamps and we began the task of sorting which ornaments he wanted to go where: then I set about climbing the ladder and hanging the garlands as he directed.
“A little to the left. Secure it there,” he said, as I held up one end and prepared to attach it to a nail already in the wall just beneath the ceiling.
It seemed he put them in the same place every year. I wrapped one end of the garland around the nail and then moved on, sliding the ladder over and finding the next nail.
Soon the store was looking much more festive, even if neither of us felt like celebrating.
He decorated the cases with small ornaments dispersed between the trays of necklaces, rings, and watches, then moved on to doing the front windows.
He hesitated when he got to the tree.
“Would you?” he asked. “I would appreciate it, greatly.”
“Of course.” I walked toward the little tree. “Any specific order for the ornaments?”
“Just whatever you think looks best,” he replied. “The tree was Sarah’s favorite thing to decorate. This…” he paused. “This is the first year I’ve had one since she died. Usually, I have avoided it and just used the rest of the decorations. But I think…I think it’s time.”
“I think she’d be glad, sir.”
He nodded, eyes reddening beneath his round spectacles. “Oh, I forgot her favorite part, the angel for the top! I’ll just go and fetch it.”
“I’ll be here,” I said, stringing ornaments up by small hooks on the tree. I tried not to think about last year, when Grandfather’s health was failing, yet he still directed me just how to decorate the tiny, depressed looking tree we had in the apartment.
When Best returned, he looked paler than before, and I assumed it was because he was unhappy to see the decoration that reminded him most of his wife.
I was wrong.
“You have a book, on your bedside table,” he stammered.
Damn, I thought. I left it out, I meant to put it in the drawer. How stupid could I be?
“Yes,” I said casually, taking the angel from his hands and noticing they were trembling.
I placed it gently atop the tree and sought his approval. He was too preoccupied now to pay it any mind.
“Where did you get it?”
“At home,” I answered, one-hundred percent truthfully. “It was donated to the library where I work.”
“It is a singular book. I’ve only seen its like one place before.” He gave me a very stern look, and I met it with honest eyes. “Do you know where I’ve seen a similar book before?”
“Yes.” Again, I answered truthfully. It was time to take a leap of faith, and hope I really could trust this kind, gentle man. “In the home of the Stationmaster of Wishing Cross.”
“Exactly, and I know for a fact Samuel has those books custom made by the shoemaker. So how on earth did you come to be in possession of it? The truth, please, this time.”
“I did tell you the truth,
I swear it,” I said evenly. “The book was donated to the library as part of an estate. I set about doing some research to find out where it’d come from.”
“And that research brought you here.” He breathed more quickly now and sweat broke out on his brow. “You’re not here by accident, are you?”
“No, sir.”
He stumbled a step backwards and leaned against the wall for support. “Then the stories could be true.”
“Stories?”
“About the special. About it coming not just from far away but…” He paused, looking up at me from over those spectacles. “From another time.”
Now I falsely scoffed. “What on earth would make you believe such a thing?” I wasn’t ready to reveal my entire hand just yet.
“Because you’re not the first man to come here from another time, Mr. Wainwright,” he answered softly. “I had hoped the first would be the last.”
“Who was the first?”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I am wondering if it is wise to continue this discussion.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” I said, turning away. I took the ladder back into the stockroom and prepared to leave the conversation there for now. Best finally followed.
“His name…the man who came here before on the special…” Mr. Best whispered, forcing me to move closer to him to decipher what he was saying. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of him, where you come from, but he claimed, at least, that his name was John Fox.”
“John H. Fox…” I paused, whispering to myself now more than to him. “J. Howard Fox.”
“Yes!” Best clapped his hands together, then brought them to his lips in a look of horrified surprise. “His given name was John Howard. How in the world could you know?”
“Because, sir, where I come from, he was one of the most powerful men who has ever lived. The heir to a fortune in oil, a man of industry, innovation, and science. The college I attend is named after him.”
“Come, come with me,” he entreated, leaving the empty ornament crates where they were and beckoning me to follow. “We have much to discuss, Mr. Wainwright.”
***
He put on a pot of tea, then we sat at the kitchen table again. He remained silent for a long time, and then all at once the words tumbled out, one on top of the other.
“My wife was dear friends with Aurelia Belle Sutton,” he began. “Best of friends, you might say, from the moment Samuel brought Aurelia to town and left her and Samuel Junior to set up house at the station while he finished up business back at his previous assignment.”
He stood again and paced the small room; it seemed he needed to move as he spoke. “He’d been working at another station, and this was a big promotion for him, even if Wishing Cross were a small town at the end of the line. Or, at least, we were the end of the line for some time. Since then, they’ve built small depots beyond this point.”
“So he was finishing up business at the other station. Who was running this one?” I asked.
“A very old man, name of Smith. He rented a room from Mrs. Sutton and went about his business. His health was failing, and so he was forced to give up the post. Still, he managed until Samuel joined his family here. Aurelia Belle was his second wife.”
Best continued, though I already knew, based upon Sutton’s notes in the book and my conversations with Mr. Wilson and Marigold. “Samuel was born to him by his first wife, Grace, whom I never knew. Aurelia Belle…she was a bright, outgoing young woman. Everyone in town was quite taken with her. She hated being alone, always loved the company of others. She and Samuel ate many dinners with us, and us with them, in those first weeks they were in town. Then…”
“Then what?”
“I’m not certain I should continue,” he said. “It’s not proper to speak ill of the dead, let alone a woman my wife, and I, were so fond of.” He looked at me briefly as he poured tea into china cups on the table. “Does the book belong to Samuel, by rights?”
I didn’t immediately answer.
“I thought so. But you came into possession of it in the future? How did it get there?”
“Someone must have taken it with them from Wishing Cross when they left,” I said, knowing full well who had done so.
It could only be one person: J. Howard Fox. Why did he take it with him?
“I have a theory,” I said, locking eyes with Mr. Best now. “My theory is, J. Howard Fox found his way back in time, to Wishing Cross Station, the first time by accident. During that time, he became acquainted with one Mrs. Aurelia Belle Sutton. Very well acquainted.”
Best looked away.
“I’m betting his first visit wasn’t the only one though,” I continued.
I had no proof of this, but I was trying to draw Best out.
“I’m not sure,” Best replied, “If he did return, I never saw him, and Sarah never mentioned it.”
“I think I have some more reading to do,” I said, quickly drinking my tea and rising from my seat. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“You shouldn’t have the book, you know,” he replied as I turned away. “Wherever it went and however you came into possession of it, it belongs here. In this time, in Wishing Cross.”
“I agree.”
“So what are you going to do with it? I am not so foolish as to expect you would just walk up to Samuel Sutton and offer it to him as a Christmas present.”
“That is the last thing I intend to do with it. To be honest, sir, I’m not certain yet what should happen to it,” I said, and I wasn’t. “I’m not sure if it should go back into the library it originally came from, replaced there without Sutton knowing how it got there and only discovering it after I’ve left, or,” I looked him straight in the eyes, “if it should be destroyed.”
“Why would you want to destroy it?”
“Because I was led to believe it is the means by which people can still travel here, from my time. I think if the book were destroyed, the…” I sought a word he might understand, given the time I was in, “passageway connecting my home and yours would close forever.”
“I just don’t know. I don’t understand any of this.” He looked away. “Think carefully upon the matter, Mr. Wainwright. I must think, too, because there is more you should know, and I don’t know how much of it is contained in your book, or what may be known only to me, since Sarah has now left us.”
I nodded. “If there is anything more you wish to share with me, I would be most interested to hear it.”
“Not tonight,” he replied. “I need to ponder first.”
“And I need to read. Goodnight, Mr. Best.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Wainwright,” he said softly, adding, “whatever you do, be careful. Believe me when I say Samuel Sutton is a man to be taken most seriously.”
“Believe me, I do.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I SETTLED INTO BED and, by the light of fresh candles, opened the covers of the book again.
At least I felt as though I weren’t entirely alone in this anymore. I had an ally in Mr. Best, I was nearly certain of it. Nearly, because I was sure he didn’t much like or trust Sutton any more than I did. Still, I hoped he wouldn’t go running to Sutton first thing in the morning with the book in his hands, saying I’d stolen it. I was nervous, unsure just how Best felt about me now. I knew he was withholding information from me, and I wondered if that information could be used to my detriment.
Just to be cautious, I decided I had better hide the book somewhere from now on when I left the apartment, in case I was wrong about Best and he was a danger to me, and to Marigold.
Marigold…
I felt so horrible at the thought of her taking physical punishment from her father because she had been kind to me. Sutton knew and saw just about everything that happened at Wishing Cross; he must have known I came in on the Aurelia Belle, meaning I came from the same place as the man who had, if I were right, destroyed his life and his second marriage.
&nb
sp; I searched for margin notes, knowing I need not pay much attention to the log itself; it was between the lines this story was told.
I was surprised when I reached the center of the book. Something fell from between the pages and landed in my lap.
It was a small, faded photograph of a uniquely beautiful woman with distinctive features; I’d seen them before.
At first, I thought the photograph must be of Marigold; it was only upon turning it over and seeing the words Aurelia Belle, 1862 inscribed upon it that I realized just how strong a resemblance she bore to the woman who had brought her into the world. The only difference was the mother appeared to have dark eyes, where her daughter’s were a bright, crisp blue.
What color, I wondered, were J. Howard Fox’s eyes?
I noticed immediately the handwriting in the margins of the book had changed; it no longer matched the script Sutton had been adding up to this point.
This handwriting was neater, easier to read, though even smaller than the notes which preceded it.
For the record, after the fact: An account of the events of November 1861, I read softly, It was then I arrived at Wishing Cross when testing the new locomotive, as yet unnamed. Uncertain what happened, but I was blinded by a flash of light, then I lost consciousness, and when I awoke, I was out of my world…out of my time.
Oh my God, I thought. J. Howard had written these words himself…
No one in town would have anything to do with me, except for the wife of the man set to take over running the Station soon. I had no idea how long I’d be stranded there, out of my rightful place. The engine vanished before my very eyes, and I had no idea when it was coming back…if it were ever coming back.
There were log entries missing from the book now, and instead, all of the words were handwritten upon pages that appeared to have been added. I examined the binding of the book again as closely as I could, and I saw the original stitching, and beside it, another row. It had obviously been rebound at some point, and I had no doubt by whom.
“J. Howard, good God, man…” I whispered, and then my cheeks began to burn red.
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