Ridley said, “Roen must have mentioned we had reservations.”
“Ridley,” said Ben. “It’s done now.”
“It’s all right,” Lily said. “Roen did tell me. It’s what I expected, which is why I appreciate you respecting my wishes. That meant a lot to me, that you trusted me to know my own mind.”
“Don’t make us regret it, Lily.” Ridley looked meaningfully at Roen. “Don’tyoumakeherregret it.”
“No, ma’am.”
When Ridley merely continued to stare at him, Ben said, “How come you don’t say anything when he calls you ma’am? I seem to recall that when I did it, you made it a point to tell me you were a doctor, not a ma’am.”
“True, but he’s younger than you.”
“Not younger than I was then.”
“He’s better looking than you. That counts for something.”
Ben affected a hurt look that was so out of proportion to the slight that Roen and Lily both laughed. Tension broken, precisely as he’d intended, Ben said, “Someone told me there’s almond cake at your house.”
“Indeed, there is,” said Lily. She released Roen’s arm and took Ridley’s free hand in hers. “You’ll join us, won’t you?”
Ridley gave Lily’s fingers a light squeeze. “Of course. We love almond cake.”
•••
Victorine Headley turned away from the bleak, white landscape outside her private rail car. The sumptuous interior of the car no longer cheered her. She felt as trapped as she imagined the passengers in the utilitarian cars ahead of her were feeling. They were crowded on wooden bench seats like cattle. The one time she had to go forward in search of a porter depressed her. That wretched man was apologetic in the extreme when she came upon him, and to her credit, she thought, she had not berated him publicly. She gave him the sharp edge of her tongue when he arrived later carrying her luncheon.
Her father had warned her that the weather on the plains could be unpredictable when she told him what she wanted to do. Wind built snowdrifts so high and deep they brought the most powerful engines to a halt, and a stopped train was vulnerable to being buried. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him; she simply believed it could not happen to her.
It galled her that she was wrong. By now her father would have heard what happened. It would amuse him. The oddest things amused him, and most of them because they occurred at her expense. It was not her fault that her mother had died giving birth to her any more than it was her fault that she bore her mother’s Nordic features. Her father could barely look at her, let alone tolerate being in her presence for extended periods of time.
It wasn’t fair, it just was.
Victorine ran a brush through her hair. When it crackled with static, she smoothed the flyaway strands with her palm, then gathered a shock of it to examine in the lamplight. Her hair was so pale as to be almost colorless. It was the lamp’s flame that added gold and a hint of orange to the threads. Some people said that her hair was her finest feature, but they didn’t know her well, and she suspected they said it because her hair made her easy to spot in a crowded restaurant orballroom. Her sisters at Barnard told her it was her figure they all envied. She was tall and svelte and looked like the women in the fashion plates they favored. Victorine didn’t disagree with her female friends, but she preferred to hear her admirers wax poetic about her eyes, comparing them to the translucent waters of a lagoon or the shimmering blue center of a flame.
It was not particularly comforting to recall what acquaintances, friends, and admirers said about her, not when she was more than a thousand miles from the heart of the city and was unlikely to hear praise in a similar vein anytime soon. Roen had never been free with compliments, and Victorine had no expectation that had changed in her absence. Shooting him had added a layer of complication to their somewhat unorthodox relationship. She had not been allowed to see him during his recovery, though whether that was at his request or his parents’, she wasn’t sure. Her purpose in visiting had always been to make amends, to explain what had pushed her to such a mad end. He bore some of the responsibility; she wanted him to concede that as well. It wasn’t fair that she should bear the weight of that near tragedy on her shoulders when it was an accident born of misunderstanding.
She would explain that to him, and all would be well. She’d been rehearsing what she would say and how she would say it since before leaving Manhattan. The silver lining of being trapped in a snowdrift was the opportunity to further refine her speech. She had some regret about the telegram she’d sent, primarily because it was done on a moment’s impulse when the train stopped in Chicago. Acting on impulse was something she had vowed to do less, but since she’d made that promise impulsively, it was hard to know how badly she should feel about breaking it.
The private investigator that she’d hired to find Roen cautioned her against sending word that she was on her way. He didn’t know her well enough to realize that she was inclined to act the opposite of advice. He should have kept his counsel to himself.
Mr. Martin Cabot had a seat three cars forward. She’d paid for him to accompany her but not associate himself with her. She thought of him as a ghost companion, someone who would remain peripherally aware of her movements but notinterfere unless her safety was at issue. There had been little contact between them since leaving New York, which was exactly what she desired, but Mr. Cabot had inserted himself into her view when she went to send the telegram. That brief conversation was the longest they’d had and came close to being their last conversation. She still didn’t know why she hadn’t ended his employment right there. It consoled her to imagine he was likely dwelling on the same thing and regretting his decision to pocket the extra funds she gave him for a sleeping berth in favor of sitting up and catnapping the entire trip.
One of Mr. Cabot’s assets, which he pointed out in his interview, was that his countenance was unremarkable. There was no particular feature that attracted notice. He was average in all things, from his height to his weight to his gait. He was clean-shaven, kept his nondescript brown hair trimmed above his collar, and wore no spectacles except for reading. He dressed conservatively, no plaids or stripes or colorful vests. He wore black with the sobering style of an undertaker. Mr. Cabot did not smile overmuch, nor did he keep people at a distance with a grim aspect. He was polite but not obsequious, friendly but not chummy.
The confidential nature of his work meant that his recommendations were largely anonymous. Victorine recognized two names that were not and she made subtle inquiries. She was satisfied with what she’d learned and hired the man, whose very age placed him in the middle of an average life expectancy.
Except for the incident in Chicago when he had overstepped, Victorine was satisfied with Mr. Cabot’s performance. He’d located Roen, which had been the purpose of the exercise. It wasn’t that Roen Shepard had set out to disappear once he’d recovered, but that he’d managed to keep the details of his exit a secret from her. All of her inquiries ended in frustration. His parents offered no information and discouraged her efforts. Artemis did not deign to see her even though Victorine was a devoted supporter of the opera company. Apollonia was out of reach and likely out of touch in Vienna, and Rand Shepard had turned the tables on her and wanted information about her affair for his new book.
She knew that Roen no longer had a contract with her father’s company, but that was only one of many possibilities, and Roen did not contract solely with the railroads. He had experience with government contracts at every level, and although it had pained her to go to Brooklyn, she had accompanied him across the East River on a bridge of his design. She was no longer sorry that she had pretended interest in his drawings for proposals requested by Albany and Buffalo. The field was wide open because he was immensely capable. Still, she suggested to Cabot that he begin with the railroads. She had been paying enough attention to what Roen said that she knew the railroads were his first love.
Victorine gave her hair a few more hard pulls with the brush before she tossed it aside. She picked upPeterson’sfashion magazine and idly thumbed it, pausing at last over the plate of an ivory satin and lace gown with puffed sleeves and yards of fabric in the train. She remembered packing a pearl choker with her jewelry that would be the perfect complement to the gown. She wondered if there was a seamstress in the frontier outpost that was Frost Falls with the talent to construct her wedding gown.
She aimed to find out.
Chapter Fifteen
Lily helped Roen make up the sofa. She snapped a sheet over the cushions, and they tucked it in together. He added the quilts and woolen blanket that she had directed him to carry down from the linen cupboard while she wrestled a pillow into its case.
