Читать книгу The Mistaken Widow - Cheryl St.John - Страница 7

Lower New York State

April 1869

Wet and weary travelers, eager to return to their seats in the passenger cars, crowded together in the moonlight on the small wooden platform beside the station. Each time the train stopped for coal and water, Sarah Thornton feared she wouldn’t have time to find the primitive facilities, wait in a line and return before the train left without her. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.

Cold rain drizzled beneath the red-fox collar of her double-breasted wool coat that had been the height of Boston fashion just last winter. Right now the fur looked and smelled more like a drowned animal slung around her neck than the most stunning feature of the coat, which had kept her warm on outings in the Boston Common, trips to the theater and the most exclusive social events of the season. Now the garment wouldn’t close over the girth of her burgeoning belly.

She gritted her teeth against the pulsing pain in her lower back and bent to retrieve the bulging leather satchel she’d toted at each stopover for fear of losing her last few precious belongings. Her hand met nothing, and she glanced down at her feet where the bag had been only minutes before.

“My bag!” Panic raced through her shivering body, and she stared at the wet boards, unable to see more than the dark cluster of feet and trouser legs.

“All abo-oard!” The conductor began admitting passengers, and the crowd thinned. She searched the platform in desperation, seeing only a few soggy papers and the sizzling stub of a cigar.

It had to be here! It had to! A sob lodged in her throat. A few straggling passengers clambered past and boarded the train.

“Comin’, ma’am?”

Sarah ran awkwardly toward the black-uniformed conductor, who wore his billed cap pulled low against the rain. “My bag is gone!”

“Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to report it to the stationmaster.”

Up ahead the whistle screamed and Sarah wanted to echo the broken cry. “I won’t have time! The train’s leaving.”

“Make up your mind. Get on or stay.”

Torn, she considered her last few pieces of jewelry, her journal and personal items. She still had a trunk of clothing in the baggage car and a silver and emerald bracelet sewn into the lining of the reticule she held. She stepped onto the platform.

“Ticket, please,” the conductor intoned.

Sarah stared at him blankly, her mind whirling. The ticket had been in her bag. “I don’t have it.”

“Then I’m sorry, you can’t come aboard.”

“But—”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“I have to get on this train! My other luggage is on it, and I have nowhere else to go!”

“Rules is rules. You got a ticket, you get on. You got no ticket, you don’t.”

“But, sir, you don’t understand—”

“Lady, I’ve heard ’em all. How many freeloaders you think we get a day, trying to hitch a ride?”

“I am no freeloader.” Her Boston accent came across sharply as she straightened her aching back and squinted at him through her dripping hair and the falling rain. “I have a ticket!”

“Off,” he said, taking her firmly by the shoulder and urging her toward the portable steps.

She caught her balance by grabbing the cold metal rail. “Wait—!”

“Off, lady.”

“Is there a problem here?” a masculine voice asked from behind Sarah.

She turned and looked up into the handsome face of a tall stranger.

“This lady don’t have a ticket, and she’s holding the train up.” The rude man tried once again to move Sarah from the metal platform.

“I do so—”

The stranger wrapped his hand around her coat sleeve, helping her keep her balance, and in surprise she blinked up into his warm brown eyes. “Honey, you’ve forgotten,” he said kindly. “I have the ticket.” He reached into his pocket while she stared at him. “My wife will catch her death of cold standing out here. You shouldn’t have detained her in this weather. She’s just a little forgetful lately.” He showed the conductor a ticket that must have satisfied him, for he moved aside, a contrite expression on his rain-streaked face.

“My apologies, ma’am,” he said, with a brief touch to his cap.

Shivering, Sarah allowed the gallant man to escort her into the car and along the aisles, until they’d passed through into another car. This stranger had saved her from the rain and from being stranded, but she didn’t know him from Adam, and she would not accompany him into one the compartments defined by rows of narrow doors, which he led her toward. She stopped abruptly and pulled back from his steady hold on her wet coat sleeve.

He gave Sarah a conspiratorial grin and raised his hand to rap on a door. It opened immediately.

A tall red-haired woman appeared in the opening, her look of pleasure at seeing the man turning to a question, and then concern when she saw Sarah. “Who’s this?”

“She was having a bit of a problem with the conductor.”

“Come in, darling,” the young woman said kindly, and Sarah realized the endearment was meant for her, not the man. Immediately, the woman helped Sarah out of her wet coat.

The compartment was tiny. Two narrow berths folded down from the walls for sitting or sleeping.

“I’m Claire.”

Sarah noticed the woman was younger than she’d first thought. It wasn’t her coppery hair or the rouge and lip color on her freckled face that made her appear older, but something more, something indefinable about her eyes and mouth. And as she moved around the tiny cubicle, Sarah noticed she was every bit as pregnant as she herself.

“I’m Sarah,” she said, relaxing a bit.

“Well, Sarah,” the man said with a warm smile. “I’m Stephen Halliday and this is my wife, Claire.”

“I don’t know how to repay you…for helping me out back there. Someone must have stolen my satchel with my ticket.”

“No need to repay me. We all need a little help once in a while. Just do a good turn for someone else in a fix,” he replied.

“Well…thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. Claire, love, why don’t you find our guest some dry clothing and make her comfortable? I’ll go order us a late dinner and come back for you. We’ll eat in the dining car and Sarah can rest here alone for a while.”

Claire nodded and cast her husband a loving smile. The adoring looks on their faces touched an aching spot within Sarah’s heart. They were in love. Claire’s baby would have a loving father and a stable life. She blinked away the sting of tears and stiffened her back against another gnawing spasm.

Stephen Halliday left them alone in the compartment, and Claire chattered to Sarah as she found her a long satin gown and wrapper. “Isn’t he a dear? Some days I wake up and marvel that being his wife isn’t just a dream. He’s a playwright, a talented one, too.” She pulled a pair of man’s socks from a valise and dangled them in the air. “Sorry, my slippers are all packed. These will have to do. We’ve just returned from a honeymoon in Europe, and I had no idea how to plan for the trip.”

“These are fine.” Sarah took the socks.

Claire helped Sarah out of her dress and shoes, then turned her back when Sarah hesitated to remove her damp underclothing. Quickly, Sarah changed into the nightclothes and struggled with pulling the wool socks on her cold feet.

“Isn’t he somethin’? I met him in New York when I was designing costumes for a play he wrote. He’s taking me to meet his family in Ohio. I doubt they’re going to like me, though.” Claire turned back and took Sarah’s wet clothing.

“Why wouldn’t they like you?”

“Let’s just say I’m not cut from the same cloth as the Hallidays. They’re rich. Stephen’s father started an iron foundry years ago, and now they send stoves and such all over the country—even to Europe.”

Halliday Iron? Sarah remembered seeing that imprint on the cast-iron stove the cook used in her father’s Boston home.

“My daddy was a factory worker in New York before he died when I was little. My mama and I hung on any old way we could. Not exactly blue bloods, you know.”

“I’m sure they’ll like you anyway,” Sarah said, placing more hope than certitude into the thought. She knew exactly what the upper crust thought of those they considered lower class. She knew how important social strictures and appearances were to well-to-do men and women like her father. Stephen, however, didn’t seem like Morris Thornton or his snobbish acquaintances.

Claire rambled on, and Sarah fought to keep her eyelids from drooping. Finally Stephen returned, bringing Sarah a tray of steaming meat and vegetables and a cold glass of milk. Her stomach rumbled at the smell, and she was so grateful she could have cried.

“We’ll be in the dining car,” he said. “You eat and rest. I’ll bring Claire back later, then I’ll find a game of cards to keep me occupied the rest of the night.”

His generosity at giving up his berth for the night warmed Sarah more than Claire’s wrapper and his wool socks. Her thanks were inadequate, but all she had to give. She ate the delicious food, better than anything she’d tasted since leaving home several months ago and, ruminating her stroke of luck, made herself as comfortable as possible on the narrow bunk.

Thankfully, neither Stephen nor Claire had mentioned the fact that Sarah was quite obviously pregnant, nor had they asked any prying questions or expected an explanation. That was why she’d begun this dreadful journey in the first place. Rumor said people were less strict the farther west one traveled. In the newly developing country of cattle ranches and mines and railroads, people weren’t asked nosy questions about their backgrounds.

She had no idea how far she would have to travel before she found work and a place to stay, but she had no choice.

Every week the Boston Daily printed dozens of announcements for women wanted. Western men needed wives; Sarah knew how to plan a dinner party and set a formal table, but her experiences with men hadn’t given her a great desire to marry one and suffer his temperament.

Establishments needed cooks and waitresses, but her skill involved planning a menu and instructing servants. Teachers were in short supply, though, and she’d been to school. She prayed she’d find a place where she and her baby would fit in. Perhaps Indiana or Illinois would be far enough. Sarah squeezed her eyes closed and tried not to cry over the pain in her back and the fear of being alone and solely responsible for another life.

Sarah placed her hand over her extended abdomen and fought tears. Yes, she was a foolish girl, just as her father had accused. Yes, she’d been rebellious and gone against his wishes, ignoring the young men he’d chosen for her, and accepting an offer from one less appropriate.

Gaylen Carlisle, without intentions of marriage or fidelity, had seduced her, then abruptly left for the Continent when she’d voiced her fear of pregnancy.

Sarah had waited until she could no longer hide her condition before she confessed her transgression to her father. Outraged, he had immediately tossed her out of his home before she could cause him further embarrassment.

She’d found a room over a butcher’s shop until last week, when her funds ran frighteningly low. Due to her father’s intervention, no one in Boston had been willing to give her a job or take her in. She’d sold a necklace, one of the pieces of her mother’s jewelry that she’d inherited, and tried to make her way toward a new life. One thing after another had waylaid her, until this last, and worst, predicament.

The nagging pain in Sarah’s back snaked around to her abdomen, and she nearly groaned aloud. But the rhythmic rocking of the train as it chugged its way westward combined with the soothing warmth of the dry clothing and bedcovers as well as the contentment of having food in her stomach. Exhaustion overcame discomfort, and she drifted into a sound sleep.

A sudden jarring movement and the deafening sound of scraping metal woke her. Disoriented, Sarah had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but the compartment remained dark. A sense of vertigo overtook her, and the motion of the railcar was all wrong. She clamped her teeth together, and with a scream, she was flung from the bunk toward the opposite wall.

The last coherent thought that crossed her mind was fear for her baby.