Page 22 of Just Think of the Scandal (The Fairplace Family Novellas #2)
Excerpt
Violet rubbed her forehead, grateful the frantic hustle of getting off the ferry, to the railway station, confirming the tickets, and then getting aboard the train was over.
Night had fallen, she and Alma had skipped supper due to the travel, and now all she wanted was to fall into a bed and sleep for three days straight.
Alma glanced around the room. “Thank you for springing for a first class sleeper.”
“You’re welcome.” Violet knew it was extravagant, but as two women traveling alone overnight she thought it worth the cost.
They’d moved back onto a train run by a Swiss and French company, which meant the cars were older and less nice than the German ones she’d ridden on earlier that week. The Germans had apparently picked up a style from the Americans, making a second class car long with seating for up to forty people and an aisle down the middle. It was far nicer, especially for women traveling alone, than the French and English method of each carriage having four to six individual compartments that let out directly onto the platform.
Still, the French had sleeper compartments and those were amazing, so Violet couldn’t really complain.
“Why is your trunk in here, Mrs. Lloyd?”
“Hmm?” Violet opened her eyes and glanced around the tiny room. It had two velvet upholstered bench seats that could pull out to become narrow beds, and the gas light on the wall had a small bottle of paraffin hanging beside it. Most of the floor was eaten up by—her trunk.
“That’s not supposed to be here,” Violet said. “Why on earth did they do that?” She started toward the trunk. “Alma, is yours here, too?”
Alma shook her head. “Mine’s in the break van, I assume. Where it’s supposed to be.”
Violet reached inside her reticule for the key to her trunk’s lock. She narrowed her eyes at the lock. It was broken. Had someone stolen from her while on the steamboat? Dread pooling in her stomach, she touched the lip of the lid, ready to see the damage.
A knock came at the door.
Violet paused and turned toward the door. “I thought we’d finished providing tickets to the conductor,” she murmured and opened the door.
Two large men stood outside, hats in hand. In the dim gaslight of the station platform she could just make out their clothing—wool coat, serviceable trousers, waistcoat. One man was blond with a beard, the other had heavy features and cauliflower ears of a former boxer.
They wore typical clothing of a clerk or shopkeeper, no uniform. So not railway workers. She did not like the look of them.
Violet straightened, eyeing them carefully and gripping the edge of the door. “Messieurs,” she greeted.
“Hello,” the blond man said English with a German accent. “We beg your pardon for disturbing you.”
“Yes?” Violet glanced over their shoulders, gauging the environment. The train was supposed to depart in three minutes.
“We are looking for a man. He’s tall, lean, with too-long curly hair. Have you seen anyone that matches that description?”
“No,” Violet said carefully. “Why? Is there a criminal on the loose?”
The blond man smiled reassuringly. “Not to worry, not to worry. We are just police trying to make sure someone doesn’t leave the country before some legal matters are settled.”
Violet eased. She still didn’t trust strange men, but this seemed like a legitimate reason to knock on train compartment doors. She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. We haven’t seen anyone like that. I hope you get him, though.”
They bowed their heads in thanks, fitting their hats back on their heads. “Thank you. And please, if you do see anything odd, let us know.”
Violet’s brow furrowed. “We’re leaving in just a moment.”
At her words, the engine rumbled to life several cars ahead. The vibrations shook the carriage and she relaxed with relief that they would soon be on their journey away from whatever trouble this was.
“We’ll be on the train,” the former boxer said gruffly, in such a thick accent Violet had difficulty understanding him. Her own German was not very good, though, so she couldn’t complain.
“I wish you luck,” Violet said, and firmly closed the door. Alma sat on her seat, yawning. Violet turned and went to the upholstered bench seat that would become her bed. A pile of thick blankets sat folded at one end with a tiny pillow atop.
“Alma, do you want to dress for sleep now and I’ll make the beds?” She reached for the sheet and unfolded it.
Alma squeaked.
“Alma?” Violet asked, bending to tuck the edges of the sheet.
Alma didn’t reply.
Violet turned her head. “Alma, what—” she broke off, seeing Alma’s ghostly white face staring at the far side of the tiny room.
Violet turned and looked in the direction of her trunk. Her heart stopped.
A man stood in her trunk.
Her mouth dropped open and she staggered backward a step before hitting the carriage wall.
He must’ve pushed her trunk lid open when her back was turned and now swayed on his feet, wearing just trousers and a white shirt—no waistcoat, coat, or necktie. Blood drenched one shirtsleeve, dripping between his fingers.
Violet’s first thought was that he was ruining her clothing with his dirty shoes and dripping blood.
“Bitte,” the man said, face pale as he brandished his knife.
“Alma.” Violet spoke English, forcing her voice to remain calm even though her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears she could barely hear herself. “Come away from there. Instantly.”
The girl leaped to her feet and darted to Violet’s side, clutching at Violet’s outstretched hand with a whimper.
Violet pulled the girl behind her as best she could in the tight space, never taking her eyes off the dangerous man.
“You do not belong here,” she told the man, switching to her broken German. “Get out.” She pointed to the door.
The train rolled forward, sending everyone off balance. Alma stumbled, toppling and nearly yanking Violet on top of her. She spread her feet, planting herself more firmly in the moving carriage.
The man, already swaying on his feet, faltered and his shins hit the edge of Violet’s trunk. That sent him over the edge, and he spilled out of the trunk and onto the floor with a loud groan. His hand still held the knife in a grip so tight his knuckles were white.
Violet hauled Alma back onto her feet and reached for the knob of the compartment door. “You must leave,” she insisted, finally getting a good look at the man now some of the shock had worn off. He was tall, lean as could be with thick, muscular thighs and forearms. A mop of curly golden brown hair hung over his forehead, blocking her view of his eyes.
He laboriously shoved himself off the floor and into a kneeling position, holding the knife in front of him.
Violet opened the door, prepared to do all she could to shove him through it. Cold night air whipped into the compartment, sending her hair flying. She fought it back, clawing the strands out of her face so she could see the dangerous man.
Face tight with pain, he glanced at her, then the open door and the moving landscape beyond. A look of amused disbelief crossed his face. “Nein,” he said firmly.
Violet stared at him, suddenly not sure what to do. She didn’t want to push a man off a moving train and accidentally kill him. But she also didn’t want to spend the next four hours with a criminal. He had to be the man the police were looking for.
“Shut the door,” the man said in German, wincing as he curled his wounded arm against his body. His handsome features annoyed her.
Violet didn’t know what else to do, so she shut the door.
The man staggered to his feet and then dropped onto Violet’s bed, mussing the sheet she’d halfway lain out.
Violet’s jaw clenched. She grabbed Alma’s hand, who still stood shaking in terror, and brought the girl over to her bench-bed. They sat together, holding hands, and stared at the man with the knife who sat just four or five feet away from them.
The man stared back.
For several moments they sat there, the only sound the rhythmic rattling of the wheels over the track as it gathered speed and headed for the French border.
“Who are you?” Violet demanded in German, at the same time the man said, “Who are you?”
They stared at one another again, each refusing to go first.
“M-m-my name’s Alma Beauchamp,” Alma said, finally breaking the stalemate.
Violet took a deep breath. This predicament was bad enough. But she had her friend’s daughter with her? Oh, this was bad. How was she going to get out of this without getting Alma hurt?
The man nodded curtly. Alma’s German was better than Violet’s due to her time at the finishing school. He looked at Violet expectantly.
She raised her brows. You first.