Chapter One
Blackburn, Lancashire, June 1873
Evelyn cast a sidewaysglance at the young woman sobbing on the train platform. She was a slip of a girl, her face slick with rivers of tears, her tiny hands clutching pathetically at a soggy handkerchief that was no longer of any use.
And the keening, goodness, the keening. Evelyn tried to maintain a neutral expression. Mercifully, it soon began tapering off, drawing closer to a natural conclusion of heaves and sniffles.
Looking away, Evelyn pretended to focus on the station’s giant clock, though she wouldn’t have been interested in what it read even if she could make out the position of the hands at this distance. She didn’t need to know, for Wright had delivered her to the railway station, purchased her ticket, thrust it into her hands, and told her to board the next arrival. Wright was always such a hand at these things. Strange things like rail travel. Evelyn couldn’t remember how they’d gotten on back before he was with them.
She’d only been to London once, as a girl, and it had been enough excitement to last her until now, her thirty-first year.Wright had been so worried upon their arrival at the station that he’d begged once more to accompany her, or at least remain on the platform to see her situated on board. But Evelyn had shooed him away. This was something she ought to accomplish on her own, without her family’s butler as a chaperone.
A sharp, guttural wail cut through her thoughts, signifying a new spell of sobbing.
Evelyn shook her head, tutting.
Even though she should sympathize with the girl, with her own spirits having been rather low these six months past, she could not fathom what misfortune might compel one to put on such a maudlin—and worse,public—display. Why, when Wright had informed the family of her brother Edmund’s passing last winter, she’d certainly felt wretched, but to lower herself to sobbing? Actual sobbing? A Wolfenden would never.
When the poor soul honked again into her crumpled rag of a handkerchief, Evelyn could bear it no longer, and went over to her.
“Please,” she said, extending her own crisply folded square of white linen in the girl’s direction, all the while keeping her eyes toward the tracks before them. “Do take mine. I think yours is rather done in.”
Evelyn felt the handkerchief yanked away. She kept her gaze politely averted as the girl scrambled to compose herself amid a flurry of sniffs and hiccups.
“Thank you,” came a sputtering voice, high and timid. “I don’t mean to make such a fuss, and oh, I’m sure I look a fright!”
“Well, now,” Evelyn said, venturing a glance to gauge the girl’s recovery, “you’ll be set to rights soon enough.”
The girl blinked, two final tears rolling down her cheeks as she stared at Evelyn, wide-eyed as if waiting for her to say something more. The thought of continuing the exchange held little appeal,to put it mildly, so Evelyn looked away again, concerning herself with the very boring brick wall on the other side of the tracks.
A hesitant tap on her shoulder interrupted her count of the bricks. She turned to find herself face to face with her now soiled handkerchief.
“Thank you ever so much, miss.”
“Oh, er, you keep it.”
“It’s just I’m missing my lad, is all,” the girl continued, pulling her hand back as she clenched the square of fabric for dear life. She babbled on, barely stopping for a breath. “I’m to Wigan for work and he’s staying here, and I can’t help but feel it’s a terrible thing, our separation. Especially since he’d been talking about marriage and all. Perhaps I ought’ve stayed, but the pay is too dear and… oh, I don’t know!”
Egad, isthiswhat passed for small talk in the world these days? Evelyn did not think herself a total naïf; she did leave Methering Manor at least once a year to spend August with the Goodens in Yorkshire, after all. But she found herself perplexed by this girl’s rough manners and easy familiarity. So she looked to the brick wall once more. Hopefully that would send the intended message.
“Oh, begging your pardon, miss, I didn’t mean to go on,” the girl’s voice hitched.
Evelyn did not wish to endure a third round of the Wigan-bound girl’s lamentations, but she turned back toward her anyway. But what ought she say? She did not know.
Head lowered, the girl wiped at her nose with Evelyn’s former handkerchief, sniffing as she twisted the cloth over in her hands. A small hat sat atop her head, almost like a sailor’s cap but generously trimmed with grosgrain ribbon.
“E.W.,” the girl said slowly, thumbing the embroidered initials on the handkerchief. “That’s pretty, isn’t it? E.W.”
Were trains often this late? And so early in the morning, as well! Evelyn looked back to the giant clock and squinted. It seemed to be half past…
“What’s it for, if you don’t mind my asking? The E.W.?”
Oh, but she did mind. Evelyn could not imagine a greater argument in favor of the cautionary nature and homebody tendencies that had been ingrained in her since birth than her experience so far today. And she hadn’t even boarded the train yet. She ought not have ventured out like this, alone, even if itwasto save her family. She turned once more to the girl, her face expressionless save for one raised eyebrow.
“Wolfenden. Evelyn Wolfenden.”
The girl gasped, giving Evelyn a start. She stepped back.
“Oh! But I’m from Knockton! My whole family, going back ages! Even my great-granny was born there.”
