A memory so strong it shocked her came to Mary. Her father was singing that same song, holding her hands and turning her in a circle as they danced together. They were in his study. He was smiling as he lifted her high. Across the aisle the little girl sang out “Pop! Goes the weasel” and giggled.
Jesse said something, but Mary’s mind failed to register what it was. She closed the door on those sudden memories. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
“Nothing important. The buckwheat griddle cakes with Vermont syrup were the best I’ve had since I left California.” He peered closely at her. “Are you all right, Miss Sherwood?”
Something about the mother daintily wiping her fingertips on a napkin captivated Mary. Her own mother had long, tapered fingers like those. She looked away. “I’ll return in a moment,” she said, standing.
Jesse moved into the aisle. She hurried away, avoiding three lively children running races up and down the aisle. Jesse’s young friend, Nate, was in the lead.
Back in the tiny, curtained-off areas allotted for washing and grooming, she gripped the metal bar beneath the open window. She longed to feel the cool air on her hands, but black ashes from the engine spiraled past the window. She picked up one of the thin cloths lying on the narrow ledge beneath a mirror and dipped it into the water basin. Even though the basin was anchored to the wooden counter, the water rippled with the movement of the train.
Dabbing the wet cloth to her temples, she struggled to gain her composure. She reasoned that it was natural for a memory of her father to surface now that she was on her way to him. Those memories, somewhere inside, lay hidden beneath her refusal to recognize them. Someone wanted in, so Mary took a deep breath and dropped the cloth in the hamper.
Weaving through passengers in the aisles, some reaching up into their overhead spaces, others simply standing because they were tired of sitting, so many smells assailed her. Food, perfumes, unwashed feet, and smoke coming in an open window. She got back to find the young boy, Nate, sitting cross-legged in her seat. He jumped up and climbed onto the seat back perching close to Jesse. Jesse dusted her side of the cushion, and she eased in past Nate’s legs. He and Jesse busily twisted and tied lengths of twine in multiple knots.
Glad of this opportunity for reflection, she gazed at the bold sweep of the mountains with great expanses of pine trees and an occasional log cabin. Soon the k-nick k-nock of the wheels slowed as they passed a scattering of horses and cows browsing on the cold hillside.
Nate climbed down and ran back to his grandmother. “Nimble little fellow.” Jesse shook his head, smiling. “He’s a fast learner.”
He turned his attention to Mary. “So, what brought you to Massachusetts?”
She was going to answer his question and keep her past out of the conversation. But he was so easy to talk to, she found herself telling him how she, Eugenia, and Lolly made their way north on the Underground Railroad. “We were headed for Canada, as far away as we could get, but found a home in Kimberly with Mrs. Palmer.”
“She seems like a good woman.”
“Yes. She’s a teacher, retired now. She helped Lolly and me through school.” She smiled, remembering. “And filled in the gaps in social graces we all lacked.
“My mother wasn’t there to instruct us.” She spoke so softly she wasn’t aware he’d heard her. But his eyes filled with tenderness.
Neither one said a word for a few seconds, then Jesse asked, “How did your mother die?”
Just thinking of it upset her stomach. She didn’t know if she could talk about it.
He touched her hand lightly. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
She wanted to, but it had been so long since she’d thought about it, she wasn’t sure where to begin. “I haven’t thought of it for years. Until two days ago,” she said, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I suppose I’ve been numb.”
He nodded, his eyes searching her face.
“She died when the house was burning.” Her voice broke. “Genie, Lolly, and I were hiding in a secret place in our woodshed when the Yankee soldiers… when they—”
Jesse gently pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her eyebrow again. “How old were you?”
“I was six, and Lolly was three.” She shuddered and hugged her arms close.
“You’re fortunate to have had Eugenia take you under her wing.”
Mary was surprised at how easily she told him personal things she’d never tell an outsider. But Jesse didn’t seem like an outsider. He was somehow different. Still, she thought they should keep their conversation on lighter topics.
The train ground to a stop, the wheels screeching. A bell clanged outside, and the conductor opened the door. “Thirty minutes for breakfast!” he cried.
They hurried to the restaurant. Many passengers ate on the train as enterprising young boys came through the cars selling boiled eggs, milk, strong tea, and other foods. Jesse and Mary rushed through a stack of buckwheat pancakes with Vermont syrup as delicious as he’d said. Outside, the train lurched and slammed as it was being rearranged.
They got on just in time as the front of their divided train went south, while they were whisked toward Buffalo. They passed through more beautiful mountains and miles of dark pine and spruce. In one area narrow pavements of lengthwise peeled logs streaked down the hill amidst little streams of water. Huge trunks, stripped of bark, came shooting down like lightning to gray sawmills and shining ponds below. There were more undisturbed forests, then sloping, cleared fields with white stumps waist high, some lying roots upward.
The man in front of them bowed forward, moaning. Mary leaned between him and the boy with him. “Sir, is there anything I can do for you? Shall I call for the conductor?”
The man shook his head, took a gasping breath, and sat up. “Tommy, get my bottle of stomach bitters.” The boy rummaged around in the suitcase on the floor and brought out a small bottle of dark liquid. He chewed on his lower lip and glanced at Mary. The man glared at her, and she sank back into her own seat.
He took a long drink of the elixir and leaned back with a sigh.
Several passengers rushed to the windows, pointing and exclaiming. Mary looked out on a huge chasm and a river leaping at least seventy feet over rock walls, a glittering sheet of snow, diamonds, and topaz. Jesse and Nate arrived, and Nate slipped in beside Mary.
“We’re going over the highest wooden bridge on the continent!” said Nate. “The conductor said so.”
Jesse agreed. “That’s the Genesee River.”
“Beautiful!” breathed Mary.
Jesse gazed down at the man in the seat in front of him, a look of concern on his face. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked.
The man cursed, scowled, then slumped sideways. The boy with him scrambled from his window seat and stared down at his companion.
Jesse quickly knelt beside the man, loosening his collar. He held his hand out to the frightened young lad. “Come here, Boy.” He shyly approached Jesse, glancing down. “What’s your name, Son?”
“Tommy.” The boy put his hand in Jesse’s and looked up at him.
“Is this your father, Tommy?” Jesse felt the man’s wrist for his pulse.
“No, sir. He’s my uncle, Wilfred Taylor.”
“Has he been sick like this before?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jesse glanced at Mary, a touch of concern and question around his eyes and mouth. “Nate, I’d like you to find the conductor and bring him here. Mary, would you take Tommy to the dining car and get him a glass of milk?” Jesse reached into his pocket and brought out some coins.
The boy squeezed Jesse’s hand and gave Mary an uneasy look. Mary approached him with a smile. “It’s all right, Tommy. I’m a teacher, and I like children.”
The dining car had only two people in it—a young couple who leaned close to each other over their hot cups and ignored Mary and Tommy. Between sips of his milk, the lad told her he was traveling with his uncle to Omaha where his
grandparents awaited them.
Her heart ached with sympathy for this boy’s dilemma. His mother died of the fever, and in great grief his father had gone to sea on business, leaving his uncle to accompany Tommy to his grandparents. He spoke quietly, becoming more withdrawn as they talked.
Saying a quick prayer for the right words, she asked Tommy if he knew Jesus. He shook his head. She covered his small hand with hers. “Tommy, I know what it’s like to lose your mother. But even more important, God knows. He loves you very much.”
“My mother used to tell me that.”
“She was right.” Mary took a deep breath. “God loves you so much He sent Jesus to live in your heart and carry your troubles for you.”
For the first time, she saw a glimmer of hope in Tommy’s eyes, then he looked away in despair. “My heart hurts. He won’t want to come in.”
They talked for a few more minutes and prayed together. When they returned, Jesse was in Tommy’s seat with Mr. Taylor’s head in his lap. The man looked asleep.
Jesse offered her a small smile, then shook his head. “Tommy will sit with you for awhile. Is that all right?”
Mary squeezed Tommy’s hand. “Perfectly. We’ve become friends.” She let Tommy slide in first so he had the window seat. Outside, low hills covered with orchards dotted with apple and cherry blossoms glided past.
Tommy sat quietly beside her, and Jesse gazed out the window most of the time, looking back at her occasionally.
Soon Mr. Taylor was sitting up, talking with Jesse. He ordered Tommy to behave, and Mary assured him he was being good. She gave him her trip journal and watched him draw a picture on the last page.
When they got to Buffalo, Jesse drew her away from the press of people leaving to transfer to other trains. “Thanks for being such a good sport about Tommy.”
Mary smiled. “It was nothing. He’s a delightful child.”
“They need our help.” Jesse drew her farther away from the hissing of the steam engine. “The conductor wants to put them off here, but I convinced him to let them ride to Chicago.”
“What’s the matter with Mr. Taylor?”
“It’s a stomach problem, similar to,” he paused, raised his eyebrows, then continued, “to that of another older gentleman I know. They both contracted the illness in prison camps. In the case of the other man, I helped him through it, so I’m familiar with the ailment.”
“Are you a doctor, Mr. Ha—” As his dark eyebrows momentarily slanted in a frown, she paused before saying his name softly, as if testing it. “I mean, Jesse?”
“No, just an assistant.” He looked as if he wanted to say something more. Instead he looked away, watching the family that had been across from them departing. “I’m going to go into the restaurant and get a meal for all of us.”
He took a few steps, then turned, and said, “It would be a hardship for Tommy to be left here all alone with his ill uncle. I don’t think he’s old enough for the responsibility. As I said, I’ve had experience with this ailment and can help Mr. Taylor at least as far as Chicago.”
He looked down at his feet for a second, then back up to her face. “If this is all right with you, that is.”
“Of course it’s all right. I don’t mind Tommy’s company; in fact, I like him very much.” She told him the sad tale Tommy told her.
He nodded. “Yes, Mr. Taylor told me a little of it. I’m going to see about that parlor car for the four of us. It will be much more comfortable for Taylor and you, too.”
Mary inclined her head in a small gesture of understanding. “Of course it will be more comfortable for him, but I’m all right where we are.”
Jesse grinned. “You’re a lot like… a certain gentleman I know.” Before she could say anything, he looked toward the eating house. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Mary went back to her seat beside Tommy.
Jesse hurried to the food line, pondering an emotion that flitted across Mary’s face when she’d told him of her travel from her home. Her sudden tension when he mentioned her father again worried him. He’d have to find a way to help her face the truth before they got to San Francisco. It would break Mr. Sherwood’s heart to see her so hurt and angry. He wanted a better reunion for them than Mary’s stiffly acknowledged greeting, then her turning away to leave. And he knew that was what she intended to do. Yes, he had to help her change her mind. Whether she liked it or not.
Chapter 4
March 18, 1874
Some memories are beginning to surface. It’s probably because I’m going to see my father. I don’t want those memories and will try to think of other things when they arise. J. still wants to talk about my father. I don’t, but I have found him easy to talk to and did share a few things.
He is a kind man though, giving aid to a fellow traveler. He wants to secure a larger accommodation for us, in order to help the sick man. I too felt sorry for them, especially the young boy traveling with him. Concern for his fellowman seems to be J.’s way of life.
In Chicago the next day, the train had a three-hour wait, so Jesse and Mary took an omnibus to the hotel for sightseeing. The elegant hotel’s great halls and parlors were filled with people, walking arm in arm through the high front doors, seated on plush chairs and sofas, and standing in line at the registration desk.
They walked a few blocks, admiring store window displays of Indian items. A replica of an Indian village with miniature teepees caught Mary’s attention. “I’ve read of them, but this makes it seem so real!”
Jesse pointed to a figurine of a brave on horseback. “One time at the village near our home, your father and I—”
“I told you, we are not going to talk about him.” Mary turned on her heel and indignantly walked away. Thick-headed man. She ignored him calling her. He probably wanted to recite another anecdote about her father. Well, she wouldn’t hear it!
“Miss Sherwood! You’re walking the wrong way.” She stopped and glanced back. “The hotel is back this way.” He stood, relaxed, smiling at her. Arrogant too.
Back at the hotel she stood on tiptoe, concentrating on the view outside the large window, hoping to see the omnibus. She settled back on her feet and turned to him. “Mr. Harcourt, I have something to say to you.”
“Oh, now you’re being formal again.”
“I think that’s best. After all, we’ll never see each other after this trip, so even a friendship would be superfluous. I suggest you keep your stories to yourself, or I will ride in another car.” If he thought she was crazy or rude, she didn’t care. She didn’t have time for Jesse Harcourt or tales of her father. Her goal was to get to San Francisco, pay her respects, then return to her life in Boston.
“You can’t do that. I have your ticket.” His voice was firm and final.
“You yourself said it. It’s my ticket. And I will decide where I sit.” She lifted her face, glared at him, and put her hands on her hips.
He smiled that mischievous, charming smile and linked his arm through hers. “The omnibus is here.” She wrenched her arm away and fumed all the way to the omnibus. She found a vacant seat between two gentlemen and took it, studiously avoiding Jesse.
Back at the station, Mary stayed with the Taylors while Jesse visited the ticket window. He returned with parlor car tickets for the four of them as the conductor called “All aboard!” Jesse assisted Mr. Taylor as the four of them found their car near the end of the train.
Mary was caught off guard by the difference from the coach they’d traveled in so far. She entered a small, square room, the whole width of the car, with a narrow passageway on one side. The carpeted room had a long sofa, two arm chairs, two shining spittoons, plenty of mirrors, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The quiet and privacy must have cost a lot of money. But she wouldn’t miss the press of people, the smells, the cigar and pipe smoke, unruly children, and general chaos of a small area full of people.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Taylor leaned his gaunt frame in the par
lor doorway scowling, refusing to enter. “Tommy, come back here.” The boy ran to his uncle’s side. The station outside slid by as the train moved forward.
Jesse grinned at Mary and swept his arm around the room. “This is a parlor car.”
“Harcourt! We ain’t staying here.” Taylor swayed as the train lurched forward.
Jesse took his arm and helped him to the sofa. “The young lady and I have reserved this room. You can call yourselves our chaperons. Your fare to Omaha is covered.”
Taylor grumbled. “Too fancy.” He closed his eyes wearily, then snapped them open to glare at Tommy. “Mind your manners, Boy!”
“Yes, sir.”
Mary opened one of the two doors, and to break the tension she said, “Look, Tommy! A little room.”
The boy walked into the tiny closet. He wasn’t tall enough to see himself in the mirror over the washstand basin. “What’s the other door for?”
“I don’t know.”
Jesse answered, “It’s the door to the other drawing room. We share the water closet.”
Mr. Taylor’s voice behind him said, “Highfalutin iron horse twiddle, if you ask me.”
Mary thought the poor man couldn’t be as bad as that bristly shell he showed them. “Just think how comfortable you’ll be until you get to your dear family,” she said.
“Dear family!” He snorted, waving her away. “Don’t need ’em.” He grimaced and arched his back. “Feels like a mule kicked me in the gut.”
Jesse was instantly at his side, telling him to lie on his stomach. Taylor refused, with an oath. “Boy! Get my bitters.”
Tommy ran to their valise and drew out the bottle, his eyes downcast.
Jesse put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Mr. Taylor, for the sake of the boy and the lady, I ask that you refine your language.”
Taylor glared at Mary as if she were at fault. “I’m not staying here.” He started to rise, then doubled over as pain gripped him.
Jesse eased him back onto the sofa. “Rest now. We can talk later.”
His concern is real. There was something about Jesse that held her attention. As if he knew she watched him, Jesse glanced up at her. She turned away and walked to the window. This land was strange, not like the hills in Tennessee, nor the mountains on the horizon back in Kimberly. The farther she traveled away from home, the more her footing seemed unsure and disconnected.
Where the Heart Is Romance Collection Page 38