Three Words for Goodbye

by Hazel Gaynor

  “Goodbye, Daniel.” I stormed away, furious for trusting this man who wasn’t who he said he was and furious with Charles for not trusting Clara. And what was this business about misdemeanors? This was about keeping Clara under his thumb, just as he always had. He’d encouraged her to maintain friendships with a shallow group of financiers’ daughters, instructed her “gently” on what to wear, always ordered for her at the table. I’d tried to tell her he was a controlling, stuck-up, no-good . . . chump! And now there was also the matter of his purchasing the tenements. I should tell Clara exactly what I thought about that, too, even though she wouldn’t want to hear it.

  I fumed as I made my way back to our sleeper car, anxious to tell Clara everything, but as I stepped inside the room, I paused in the doorway. My sister’s lovely dark hair cascaded over her pillow as she slept. She looked like the little girl I remembered, asleep in the bed beside mine. My fury with Charles and Daniel was replaced by a fondness for her; by a need to protect her.

  She stirred as I tossed my coat over the chair and kicked off my slippers.

  “Oh, you’re back. Did you find out why we stopped?” She sat up, propping herself against her pillows. “What on earth’s wrong?” she asked. “You look like you’ve swallowed a swarm of bees.”

  “You’ll never guess who’s on the train.”

  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Who?”

  I was so angry, so disappointed for her. “This isn’t easy to say.”

  “Well, go on,” she pressed. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”

  Her tone was gentler toward me, more tolerant than usual. I hesitated, hating to be the one to show her just how unpleasant Charles was.

  “Daniel is here,” I said as I sat on the edge of her bed. “Daniel Miller.”

  “What? Again?” She sat up straighter. “Why is he here?”

  I took a deep breath, poured us both a large sherry from the decanter, and began to explain.

  Clara

  I didn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night. I couldn’t fully grasp what Madeleine had told me: that Charles had hired someone to follow us, and that Daniel Miller wasn’t a theater critic at all, but an architect in Charles’s firm and some sort of part-time amateur spy. I thought about all the conversations I’d had with Daniel—on the Queen Mary, outside Notre-Dame cathedral, over lunch in Amiens, during the balloon ride—and all the occasions he’d unexpectedly become a part of our plans. Now I understood why.

  I was furious, hurt, confused. How many other lies and schemes were we yet to uncover? It didn’t make any sense, and I didn’t want to believe that Charles was capable of planning something so sneaky. I knew Charles used his power and money to influence his business transactions, but I’d never thought he would go as far as this, using people—me!—as if they were stocks or shares or a building to be acquired. He’d made me feel as if I were just another of his deals.

  Madeleine woke me the following morning with a cup of coffee she’d ordered to the room. I forced myself to drink it and made myself presentable for breakfast, but found I had no appetite when we were seated at our table in the dining car.

  I pushed my elegantly fanned melon slices around my plate.

  “Pass them here,” Madeleine said. “I’ll put them out of their misery.”

  I pushed my plate toward her. “How could Charles do such a thing? I might not be as tough as you or Auntie Nellie, but I’m not some silly fragile woman, incapable of traveling through Europe without a man to assist me. Even if you’re right about political instability and the Nazis, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Yes, Clara. You are. We all are. And I’m glad you’ve come to realize it.”

  I blinked back a tear, refusing to give in to my anger and confusion. “I’m sure his intentions were good”—at this, Madeleine raised an eyebrow—“but I hate the way he’s gone about it with all these lies and people following us. It’s unseemly.”

  “Unseemly!” Madeleine leaned back in her chair. “I’d say it’s downright dastardly. I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.”

  “Who? Charles, or Daniel?”

  “Both of them.”

  We talked about nothing else all morning, but while we shared our recollections of things Daniel had said and done, which we now saw in an entirely different light, what I didn’t say out loud to Madeleine was the thing bothering me the most: that Charles didn’t trust me, understand me, or respect me.

  As the train hurtled along, past the snowcapped peaks of the Swiss Alps, shock and hurt turned to anger and resentment, and there, among it all, was Edward, rushing through the crowds at the dockside in New York, quietly pressing his thoughtful gift into my hands. He’d taught me to understand that while every artist’s intention was to capture an image perfectly, whether the wildest storm or the mirrorlike surface of a calm sea, few ever managed to get it just right. “We aim for perfection, Clara, but must often settle for something less,” he’d once said.

  Did the same apply to matters of love? Charles had his flaws—more, evidently, than I’d thought—but perhaps he was the “something less” I would have to settle for. Was I seeking a perfect marriage that didn’t exist? I gazed numbly through the compartment window, the passing scenery muddled and blurred. This journey kept asking me questions. I hoped Venice would provide some answers.

  * * *

  LATER THAT MORNING, I went to the lounge car to sketch a portrait for Eliza Wainwright, as I’d promised. I’d enjoyed the process of capturing the girls’ individuality in a close-up study of their faces and expressions. They would take the mementos with them as a reminder of their Grand European Tour and their time on the Orient Express—if I could get the details right. My frustration at Charles and Daniel seemed to bleed into my concentration and I couldn’t capture Eliza’s expression that morning at all. Her face was petite and yet full of quiet resolve, not as obviously pretty as her sister’s and yet far more compelling.

  “Is something the matter?” Eliza asked, sensing my hesitation. “Is it my features? Mother says they’re irregular.”

  “Your features are perfectly regular and very lovely,” I replied, trying to hide my irritability by offering her a reassuring smile. “And your mother shouldn’t say such things. I’m just a little tired this morning. Perhaps we should continue later.”

  I could tell she was disappointed but she agreed that we might both perform better after a break.

  Part of me also wanted to track down that scoundrel Daniel Miller and tell him what I thought of him. It wouldn’t change anything, but it would be a load off my mind, at least.

  My chance presented itself sooner than I’d anticipated. As I was packing away my materials, a familiar voice interrupted me.

  “Ah, Miss Sommers. I was hoping to run into you.”

  I stood up straight and squared my shoulders. “Mr. Miller. What a surprise, or should I say, not a surprise in the least.” I glared at him.

  He looked deeply uncomfortable. “Ah. Madeleine told you.”

  “Of course she told me. She’s my sister. We tell each other everything.”

  My words caught me by surprise. We used to tell each other everything, and I realized that I’d missed having her to turn to for advice and reassurance.

  He stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. “Of course. And I’m sure you’re furious, and you have every right to be.”

  “I have every right to alert the police and inform them you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself.” I paused, for dramatic effect. “But I won’t. Not yet, anyway. First, I want you to tell me exactly how the arrangement with Charles came about. Exactly what was said.” I sat back down and motioned for Daniel to take the seat opposite.

  The details of the scheme were as absurd and insulting as I’d expected. Charles had essentially bribed Daniel into following us and had given him specific instructions to report back regularly, to make sure we weren’t mixing with anyone disreputable, and so on and
so on.

  “I think I’ve heard enough,” I said after listening for five minutes. “I presume you’ll leave us alone once we arrive in Venice. There’s little point in tailing us now that we know who you really are.”

  “Of course. You won’t be seeing me again.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed him.

  He mumbled another apology before leaving me to work out what on earth I would do next. Should I write to Charles to tell him I knew about his spying? Should I send a message to Edward’s hotel to let him know when I’d arrived, or should I tell him it would be better if we didn’t meet after all and encourage him to patch things up with his wife?

  I decided to ask Madeleine for her advice.

  “If it were me, I’d ditch the pair of them,” she said, “but you’re not me.”

  She passed me a handkerchief as I dabbed at the tears that threatened to come in great torrents if I didn’t keep myself in check.

  “Sometimes I wish I was you,” I said. “That I didn’t care about men at all.”

  “It does keep life simpler,” Madeleine agreed. “But you’re not me, Clara. You’re you, and neither Charles—nor Edward—should ever make you question that.”

  She was right, of course.

  “Anyway, I say we book ourselves into a different hotel when we arrive,” she continued. “Charles must have asked Violet to share the whole damned itinerary with him. Hopefully, we’ll lose Daniel completely, and we can concentrate on finding Matthias Morelli. Enjoy Venice and get on with what we came here to do. What do you say to that?”

  I offered a weary half smile and thought, again, of the pocket watch Violet had given to me as a good luck talisman for the journey.

  “I say never turn back. Onward, we go.”

  Maddie

  As morning dawned, I stood at the window to watch the sunrise over beautiful Italy. Golden rays illuminated the newly green pastures and rolling hills and the tender vines that would soon be bursting with grapes. Cypress trees dotted the landscape in shoots of dark green that reached for the sky. There was still so much excitement ahead, so much to learn and see and do. And, in truth, I also had a more serious intention while I was here. I wanted to study Mussolini’s fascist regime up close, to take stock of how he molded and shaped the Italian people, and to see if there was any real connection to what I’d read about the Nazi Party.

  With only a few hours left aboard the Orient Express, I dressed quickly. Clara set out to finish her sketch of Eliza Wainwright, while I headed to the dining car to meet Mr. Wainwright for breakfast. We’d come to something of an understanding since our first meeting, and I enjoyed talking with him. I’d learned he was a retired English professor, and that he’d dabbled in a little writing himself. He’d asked if he might see some of my writing, and promised to share his thoughts with me. His wife, Mary, had thanked me for taking him off her hands for a while, and for keeping him entertained.

  I took a seat at a table beside the window and ordered a café au lait and a chocolate croissant.

  “No elephants today, miss?” the waiter asked. He’d come to know me, and my sense of humor.

  I smiled. “A lady never eats elephant for breakfast!”

  My stomach jittered with nerves as I waited for Mr. Wainwright to arrive. I was anxious to hear what he thought of the article I’d shared with him. For all intents and purposes, he was something of an expert after years of teaching literature and composition classes, and I couldn’t imagine what he would think of my lean style of writing, which, I liked to think, echoed Hemingway’s—or Nellie’s—but with its own flair. Besides, I hadn’t shared my work with anyone other than Violet since Billy had proved himself to be such a lout. I hoped Mr. Wainwright would let me down gently. Better that than be falsely supportive.

  When the coffee arrived, I stirred sugar into the strong brew, and placed Violet’s notebook on the table. I reread some of my favorite clippings of Nellie’s articles, noting the voice and tone of each, and studying the headlines.

  Nellie Bly Describes War Horrors

  Nellie Bly Finds a Home and Father for Little Waif

  Nellie Bly: Inside the Madhouse

  The range of her journalism was far more impressive than most people realized. I continued to be amazed by her, even after all these years.

  A long shadow fell across my page, and I looked up, startled back to the present.

  “What’s that you’re reading?” Mr. Wainwright said as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “It looks interesting.”

  “Good morning, sir.” I smiled, noticing his blue eyes were filled with good humor. “I was just looking through my grandmother’s old notebook. She was a great admirer of Nellie Bly.”

  “Ah, yes. Miss Bly was quite the journalist,” he said, waving the waiter over and ordering his breakfast and an espresso. “I imagine she is something of a heroine of yours.”

  “She’s the reason I’m a writer,” I replied. “She was a family friend. In fact, Clara and I called her Auntie Nellie.”

  “Is that so? Well, she was clever, if a little too outspoken at times, at least for some.”

  I laughed. “She was certainly outspoken, but what good journalist isn’t? She encouraged me to write, much to my father’s frustration,” I continued. “He didn’t agree with his young daughter exploring such manly pursuits.”

  The waiter returned and set a plate of cured hams and cheeses in front of Mr. Wainwright. “It’s a difficult thing to be the father of girls,” he continued between bites. “We men are stuffy awkward beings and don’t always understand the fairer sex. But our intentions are only to do the best we can for our daughters. I expect your father only wanted the same.”

  While I wasn’t entirely sure about that, I decided to take Mr. Wainwright’s words in the spirit in which they were intended.

  “Nellie told me to always write from the heart and with conviction. ‘Don’t let others dissuade you, Madeleine,’ she would say. ‘Trust your gut.’”

  “Sound advice, I’d say.” He sliced another bite of ham and seemed intent on finishing his meal without further conversation.

  I longed to ask him about my article, but for once, found my forward nature failed me and my courage fled. As he ate, I sipped my coffee and thought about the varied nature of Nellie’s stories. She’d reported from the Front during the Great War, worked as a foreign correspondent in Mexico for six months, exposed the state of orphanages and found homes for orphans. She’d even posed as a madwoman for ten days in a New York City asylum to challenge a system that punished women, simply because society didn’t understand them. She’d braved so much, just for the story. But that was it—it was never just a story. She covered issues and events that defined people’s lives. She brought injustices to light. She was exactly the type of journalist I longed to be.

  “Perhaps you’ll be another Nellie Bly one day,” Mr. Wainwright offered as he put down his knife and fork and patted his mouth with his napkin. “In fact, I’d say you’re well on your way, Miss Sommers.”

  He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, carefully rolled so as not to crease it. My article. I’d given him my finished piece on Hancock Enterprises, exposing the truth about the tenement buildings and the displacement of hundreds of occupants.

  “This is very good,” he said. “Very good, indeed. You write with conviction. Your arguments are well researched and maturely constructed, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  A lump rose in my throat. “Thank you, sir. I . . . thank you.” I couldn’t explain how much his compliments meant to me, coming from a gentleman who was clearly very well read, and not always easily persuaded by an argument.

  “Do you have anyone you can send this to?” he asked. “It seems to me that people need to know what this Hancock fellow is up to.”

  I thought about the encouraging note I’d received from the editor at the New York Herald Tribune.

  “I do actually, yes. I know exactly who I’ll send it
to.” I just needed to talk to Clara about the content of the article first.

  “Good. And I wish you luck with it. You know,” he said, stroking his mustache, “if you’d ever like to share anything else, I’d be happy to take a look and offer suggestions. And perhaps I could share some chapters from my novel with you?”

  Pride, excitement, and gratitude followed in rapid succession. “I’d like that very much!”

  He gave me a business card. “I’d be delighted to hear from you.”

  “Thank you, Walter. Sorry, Mr. Wainwright.”

  He patted my hand. “Walter will do just fine. I consider you a friend now, and I can never be bothered with all those dreadful formalities.”

  After another cup of coffee, we said our farewells, and I made my way back to our accommodation, still pondering his praise.

  Wishing Clara a hasty good morning, I rushed to the desk, flipped open my notebook, and, heart racing, hand flying over the page, wrote down several new ideas.

  Has gaining the right to vote truly changed women’s roles in society?

  How much autonomy is too much for sisters, wives, or mothers?

  Should a husband decide if his wife may join the workforce?

  Will the number of women in the workplace eventually exceed those who are homemakers?

  My hands shook with excitement as I jotted down additional thoughts beneath each idea.

  “Did your muse find you today?” Clara remarked as she observed my flurry of activity.

  I sat back in my chair. “Hmm?”

  “Your muse? Has she appeared?”

  “Yes! She has.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said with a smile. “But I think we’ve arrived.”

  I threw the last of my things into my suitcase as the train pulled into the station with a final huff of steam and shuddered to a stop.

  As we made our way through the ornate corridors for the last time, I envied those passengers, like the Wainwrights, who were continuing on to the exotic delights of Istanbul.

  As we descended the steps to the station platform, Eliza and Juliette Wainwright raced over to us, giggling and flushed, clearly excited for the next stage of their journey.