A Lady Most Lovely (29 page)

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.

I
t 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.

“Not soon enough for me,” Margaret said wearily, leaning her head back against the seat.

“But that means we are going to cover fifteen miles in less than half an hour!” Even with the multitude of concerns crowding his mind, he couldn’t shake the wonder of this first train journey. “Don’t you find that even the least bit miraculous?”

His enthusiasm must have finally buoyed some part of her, too. A faint smile came to her lips. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

The train slowed and pulled in to Bingham, which was the closest station to Moreton Hall. Bright gaslights held the growing darkness at bay. Tom and Margaret stepped out onto the platform as Stephens and Bessie emerged from another carriage and joined them. “How did you find the ride?” Tom asked his valet.

Stephens answered with a grimace, rubbing the small of his back. “No seat cushions in second class.”

“Really? I wish I had known. We might have put you in first class with us.”

“That’s very kind of you to say so, sir, I’m sure,” Stephens said, “but it wouldn’t be my place.”

What a shame,
Tom thought,
that class distinctions should be extended even into railway carriages.
When he was poor, he’d never thought twice about giving way to his “betters,” just as Stephens was doing. But now that others were submitting to
him,
he found these barriers disquieting. Somehow, remembering his
place
seemed a lot harder to do now that he was rich.

“Williams, there you are!” Margaret said as her steward approached, followed by another servant. “You are right on time.”

“As are you,” Williams said. “Like clockwork, these trains are.”

“Hello, Mr. Williams,” Tom said, extending his hand.

Williams hesitated. Was he still holding a grudge over the incident with the stable? Once again Tom found himself thinking that this man needed to realize Tom was here to stay. He kept his hand out, his gaze expectant.

Williams finally accepted his hand, and said, “May I offer you both my heartiest felicitations.” However, the warmth of the sentiment was not reflected in either his voice or his expression.

“Thank you,” Tom said, keeping his voice firm along with his handshake. “That’s very kind.”

Bessie and Stephens went off with the other servant, who had been introduced as Kevin, to locate the luggage. Soon they were all outside the station. Williams and Kevin had brought a carriage for the travelers and a wagon to transport the baggage. Kevin began heaving the trunks onto the wagon. Despite his still-sore ribs, Tom began to help. He’d lifted several of the smaller items onto the wagon before he paused, feeling, rather than seeing, a frosty glare aimed at his back.

He turned to find that, sure enough, Margaret was frowning at him in disapproval. “Kevin can manage the task quite well,” she said.

“I’m sure he can,” Tom replied coolly. “He’ll manage even better with my help.”

“That’s the last of it, sir,” Kevin said, giving the final box a pat for emphasis as he placed it on the wagon. No doubt he was trying to help keep the peace.

Tom helped Margaret into the carriage that Williams had brought. He motioned for the maid and valet to join Margaret inside, and then began to shut the door.

“Aren’t you coming?” Margaret asked.

“I’m going to ride outside,” Tom said. “I want to be able to see the road.” He shut the door to cut off her protests, then climbed onto the high bench where Kevin was already seated, holding the reins.

Williams looked highly perturbed but said nothing. He got into the wagon and prepared to drive it behind the carriage.

“Best get a move on,” Tom told Kevin, who was staring at him openmouthed. “I’m sure we all want to get to our beds.”