But Denault did not seem the least bit concerned. “Understood,” he said with a smile. They descended in order to make room for two other men who were coming up the steps. “I won’t keep you,” Denault said, tipping his hat. “I know you are in a hurry to return to your lovely bride.” He walked away before Tom could answer.
Tom tried to dismiss the man from his mind. For the moment, he had other things to attend to. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time and saw that it was later than he’d realized. He would have to find a cab quickly in order to reach the railway station on time. He began walking in the opposite direction from Denault, toward the corner where he knew a cabstand was located. After a few steps he stopped short. Margaret was standing at the corner, looking directly at him.
Had she seen him with Denault? She must have. She stalked up to him, her face red with anger. Tom’s astonishment at seeing her turned to irritation when he noticed Stephens following in her wake. She’d reduced his valet to some kind of footman. “I sent instructions for you to meet me at the station,” he said hotly. “Why are you here?”
“Why were you with Paul?” she retorted. “How could you meet with him and not tell me about it? And why were you at Richard’s house this morning?”
Tom threw an accusing look at Stephens, who looked thoroughly guilty and completely miserable. “She forced me to tell her,” his valet said glumly. “She said I was also in her employ now, seeing as how you two are married—”
“That’s enough, Stephens,” Margaret said, not even looking at him. She was still glaring at Tom. “What are you trying to hide?”
Tom had put up with plenty of things this morning, but he was not about to allow himself or his valet to be chastised by his wife on a public street. He took her by the elbow and turned her around, forcing her to walk with him.
“What are you doing?” she protested.
“We are going to catch a cab,” he said between gritted teeth. “And you will keep your voice down and walk with me like a genteel lady. I don’t need you raising a riot right here on the street. Our reputations are in enough trouble already.”
“And whose fault is that?” she hissed. But as they had caught the eye of several curious onlookers, she relented and walked beside him without further protest. Stephens hurried on ahead to locate a cab.
“Don’t think this is the end of it,” Margaret said through a pasted-on smile. “I will get the truth out of you.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the train,” Tom pointed out, and ushered her into the carriage.
“I believe we shall talk about it here,” she contradicted, speaking as soon as the cab was under way. “Tell me why you spent the morning with the two most vile men in London.”
Tom couldn’t find fault with her assessment, but neither would he be pushed around by his wife. “If you will be calm, I will tell you,” he said, crossing his arms and showing he was prepared to wait.
She glowered at him, unspeaking, until gradually her breathing settled. “Very well,” she said at last.
“I felt it was important, after yesterday’s events, that Richard and I reach some kind of truce. Also, I wanted to assure myself that I had not beaten him beyond repair.”
Tom thought he detected the barest hint of a smile. Given how Margaret felt about her cousin, some part of her must surely be happy that he had been thrashed. But whatever Tom saw was quickly gone. She said, “There can be no such thing as a truce with that man. Not after all he’s done.”
Tom held up a hand. “Let’s just say he’s been mollified.” That was a good stretch of the truth, but it was as far as Tom was going to go. He had promised to keep Lizzie’s secret, and he would not break that promise. “As for why I was with Denault, I’ve decided to buy into the railway.” Now that Margaret had seen them together, Tom figured there was no point in trying to hide it.
“What?” she shrieked. “You know that will be like throwing money away. How could you even consider it?”
“It’s my money, Margaret,” Tom cut in. “I’ll do with it as I please. But don’t worry, there’s still plenty left for Moreton Hall.”
It was still a sore point to her pride, Tom knew, that Margaret was dependent on Tom’s money. He hoped his words would sting her enough to make her drop the subject. She rallied, though. “Why didn’t you tell me all these things before?” she persisted. “Why should it be such a secret?”
“I think the way you are acting right now is answer enough,” he said, putting harsh emphasis on the terse words. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”
Margaret fumed, but did not press him more as the cab made its interminable journey to Euston station. Carriages, omnibuses, pedestrians, and crossing sweepers slowed their progress at every turn. Tom heard the driver complain loudly when they were blocked by a wagon stacked twenty feet high with wooden crates and lumbering straight down the middle of the thoroughfare.
As they approached the station, the traffic slowed nearly to a standstill; the roads were choked by everyone else who was trying to get there, too. How much time would they need once they actually got to the station? Tom had never ridden on a train before. He’d have to count on Margaret to show him what to do.
Margaret sat stony-faced, watching the commotion in the streets, never once looking at him. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, her right hand occasionally tugging at her left ring finger. She was wearing gloves, but Tom had the distinct impression that the ring beneath it was chafing her, just like this marriage.
Well, the feeling was mutual. So many things he’d thought he’d be doing when he married her were now thrown into complete upheaval. What was worse, they would spend weeks in Lincolnshire overseeing the harvest when Tom wanted nothing more than to remain in London and keep tabs on the volatile situation with Spencer and Denault. So here he was, sitting in a carriage with a wife he barely knew and could hardly control.
At last they reached the gates of the station. “That’ll be two shillings,” the driver announced.
Tom reached in his pocket to pull out the money, but Margaret said, “Two shillings? That’s ridiculous.” She turned to Tom. “Give him one and sixpence.”
“Now see here,” the cabbie protested. “I drove you all the way from the Strand—”
“—which everyone knows is worth one and four at most. You should be grateful we’re even giving you a tip, after you tried to raise the fare like that.”
The driver crossed his arms and surveyed Margaret. “Well, ain’t you the lady,” he said, shaking his head in admonishment, “standin’ there and tellin’ your ’usband what he should and shouldn’t do.” He turned a cheeky grin to Tom. “You ain’t gonna allow that, are you, govnah?”
Tom knew the cabbie was trying to goad Tom by attacking his manly pride. But Tom didn’t have time to worry about it. A deafening, high-pitched train whistle shrieked from nearby. Tom looked at the coin he’d just pulled out of his pocket, considered it for a split second, then dropped it into the cabbie’s hand. “There’s a half crown for your trouble.” Then he took the still protesting Margaret by the arm and led her to the station door.
“You gave him nearly twice what he was owed!” she sputtered.
“Which would you rather do—argue with the man or miss the train?” He paused as they entered the station, bewildered by the swirl of people moving in all directions through a broad, high-ceilinged entrance hall. “You’ll have to show me what to do,” he told Margaret.
Bessie hurried up to them. “I’ve got your tickets.” She handed them to Margaret. “First-class coach. Track two.”
“Excellent,” said Margaret. “Come along.”
She began walking swiftly along the platform with Bessie, as though she expected Tom to follow along behind like one of her servants. He took hold of her arm, slowing her down. “I said show me the way, Margaret. Not lead the way.”
She looked at him, her green eyes ablaze with all kinds of fury. They may have done
with Spencer and Denault, but in Tom’s estimation they still had a good many things to discuss.
When they reached the first-class carriages, Tom realized there would be no opportunity to speak privately. Every carriage was nearly full. They finally found one that had two free seats facing each other. Two couples already sat in the remaining four seats. It was not ideal, but it would have to do.
Upon seeing that Tom and Margaret meant to enter the carriage, one of the gentlemen—a stout man with graying temples—stood up and moved to the single seat on the other side, leaving two that were now side by side. “Please, take these,” he offered. He looked at the woman still seated there, presumably his wife, although she was far younger. “You don’t mind, do you, Fanny?” he said with a wink. “New acquaintances for you, since you are always so bored with my company.”
Fanny was a petite blonde, dressed in a pink gown and an elaborate bonnet that was probably considered the height of fashion. She studied Margaret and Tom. Her gaze lingered on Margaret’s gown and fine silk shawl, then traveled to Tom’s face, where it lingered even longer. Apparently she approved of them both, Tom thought wryly. “I shall be delighted!” she said brightly.
The other couple, who looked about the same age as Tom and Margaret, gave them a friendly smile. Margaret returned their greeting, but Tom could see she wasn’t happy about the need to keep her anger penned in for the duration of the journey. Perhaps it was better this way, he thought. Perhaps by the time they were able to talk, they would be able to speak more reasonably.
Tom motioned for Margaret to take the middle seat. It seemed more polite than causing the other lady to have to sit so close to a man she did not know—although given the glances she kept throwing in his direction, Tom had the feeling she would not have minded. The whistle blew again, this time so loud and close that Tom thought it would tear out his hearing.
Bessie and Stephens hurried away to take their seats in one of the second-class carriages. The train conductor walked down the platform, stopping at each carriage to check everyone’s tickets. Tom was glad to see that the man carefully secured the carriage door after he did so. Tom had read that trains went very fast—upward of forty miles per hour—and he did not want to risk falling out.
At last, with one final shriek and the hiss of steam, the train pulled away from the station. Tom watched out the window as the station disappeared behind them with astonishing speed.
Just like his old life.
Within minutes they were hurtling past derelict buildings and run-down warehouses. Tom imagined the train was attempting to free itself from London’s seedy edges and find the open countryside. He would be glad to see it, too.
The sky was heavy with dark clouds. They would be passing through rain soon. Tom wondered if trains had a harder time staying on the rails when they were wet. The thought left him uneasy. He turned from the window, settled into the cushioned seat, and looked at the couple sitting opposite him.
They had a comfortable familiarity that signaled they’d been married for a while. The woman’s arm was tucked into the crook of her husband’s in a way that stirred a pang of envy in Tom. He wondered if he and Margaret would ever be so at ease with each other.
The man leaned forward and extended his hand across the aisle. “How do you do. The name’s John Thorsten.” He introduced the man who had given up his seat as his brother-in-law, Mr. Wilson.
Fanny’s face brightened in recognition when Tom gave their names. “You just got married, didn’t you? I read about it in the Times. A whirlwind courtship. How romantic.”
She said this without a trace of irony. She must not have heard about the wedding breakfast.
“Our felicitations,” said Mrs. Thorsten.
“Are you going to Manchester?” Tom asked.
“Yes.” She sighed contentedly. “It’s good to be going home.”
Tom turned to Margaret, hoping this mention of home would stir something in her, but she merely sat with a polite smile frozen on her lips. No doubt these others would think she was the shy and retiring type. Now there was an irony, he thought.
“I dread going home,” Fanny said. “I daresay the house will be in complete disarray.” She fanned herself vigorously. “It’s impossible to find good servants in Manchester,” she explained to Tom. “They can make more money working in John’s cotton mill.”
Tom looked at Thorsten, impressed. “You own a mill?”
He nodded. “Are you also a man of business, Mr. Poole?”
“I guess you could say I’ve done a number of things,” Tom replied, at a loss to describe himself.
“Tom Poole!” Wilson said, snapping his fingers. “Of course. I should have recognized you right away.”
“Have we met?” Tom said apologetically. He’d been introduced to many people over the past few weeks, but did not think the man looked familiar. “At a party, perhaps?”
“Oh, we don’t get invited to very many society events,” Fanny said with a pout. “I daresay we could if my husband would try harder.”
“You would have me ingratiate myself with them,” Wilson replied. “Can’t see the point in it.”
“Nor I,” agreed Tom. He felt Margaret shift in her seat, perhaps bristling at this remark.
“I’ve heard your name, though,” Wilson said. “You’re the man who made a fortune in the gold mines.”
“Gold mines?” Fanny exclaimed, her eyes growing round with excitement. “We’re comfortable, of course,” she added. “My husband is the owner of the Manchester Bank. But a gold mine!” She turned her excited gaze to Margaret. “And here you are, married to him.” With another admiring glance at Tom she added, “I’ll bet it was love at first sight.”
Now Margaret stiffened noticeably. “Well…,” she murmured.
“It doesn’t have to be love at first sight, you know, Fanny,” Mrs. Thorsten said, perhaps sensing Margaret’s discomfort. “You know John and I didn’t even like each other when we first met.”
“You’re stating it too strongly, my love,” Thorsten said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “I for one was immediately devastated by your beauty. Some part of me knew I was in love with you the first moment I saw you.”
“Well, you did a good job hiding it,” she teased.
He cocked his head in surprise. “Is that what you think? Perhaps you just didn’t perceive it.”
This little interplay intrigued Tom. Not only did Mrs. Thorsten resemble Margaret, with her rich brown hair and wide, generous mouth, but also their story seemed to echo his own. “Did she act cold to you at first?” Tom could not resist asking.
Thorsten was too diplomatic to answer this question outright. “Perhaps I should just say that true love breaks down all barriers,” he replied with a laugh.
Mrs. Thorsten chuckled with him. “Indeed, my love.”
Wilson was not about to be outdone by their playful banter. “I thought this little girl was the cutest thing I’d ever seen,” he said, blowing a kiss to his young wife, although she tried to wave it off. Tom guessed she’d married Wilson for his money, and that Wilson didn’t mind this one bit. He grinned at Tom. “It’s their beauty that reels you in, ain’t it, Poole?”
“Yes,” said Tom, intensely aware that the most beautiful woman he knew was sitting so close to him, and yet so distant. “It is.”
Outside the carriage window, the landscape had changed yet again. They were passing through open areas, past homes with large yards for chickens, geese, and other livestock. In a matter of hours the train would cover a stretch of land that used to take days to cross. Tom sighed. If only it were so simple to bridge the gap between him and his bride.
Chapter 23
It was nearly sunset by the time their train journey began to wind down.
Margaret sat idly fidgeting with a handkerchief. She hadn’t said a word since they’d changed trains at Rugby, even though they were the only occupants in this carriage.
Tom had suspected marriage to Margaret
would not be easy, but he was dismayed—appalled, actually—at just how badly it had begun. He hated that he was forced to keep secrets from her. Gaining her trust would probably be fruitless so long as she sensed he was not telling her the whole truth, but he had to try. But how to go about it?
He realized with chagrin that he had not yet prayed today. Immediately he rectified that, sending up a silent plea for help and guidance. He had to find some way to reach her. He looked out over the fields of golden wheat that they were passing at incredible speed. “Are those our fields?” he asked.
She looked up, pulled from her thoughts, and gave him a dark look. He knew that saying “our fields” would annoy her, but he wanted her to get used to the idea.
She gazed beyond him to study the landscape. “No,” she said finally. “Our—Moreton Hall lands do not border the railways until we get beyond Melton.”
“And how far are we from Melton, do you reckon?” He wanted to keep her talking. Even her short answers were better than cold silence and watching her sink into gloomy reflections.
“We’ll be there in a very few minutes, I should think.”
The wheat fields gave way to an open pasture dotted with cows and edged by a wide stream. Tom pulled out the Bradshaw’s timetable once again and thumbed through it until he found the page that corresponded to the route they were taking. The confusing jumble of town names and rail times was slowly beginning to make sense. He checked his pocket watch, which he’d adjusted to match the large clock at the last station, and compared it to the time listed for Melton. If Margaret was right, then the timetable was accurate. How amazing it all was.
And how fast. Even after seven hours on the train he was still amazed at their speed, finding it hard to believe that people could travel like this day after day. The train pulled in to Melton, stopping for less than five minutes as travelers scurried on or off the carriages. Tom had the unsettling sensation that everything was changing in ways he could never have imagined. He looked once more at the timetable. “We’ll be at Bingham in twenty-three minutes,” he marveled.
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