A Curious Beginning

“Would you be so kind as to procure me a little ginger beer from the refreshment rooms while I wait? My aunts always said there was no sounder cure for digestive troubles.”


The jubilation he had been hard-pressed to conceal slipped a little. He did not care to let me out of his sight, but I had given him no choice. My confession of digestive upset was painfully banal—and something no lady would admit to a gentleman without urgent necessity. Every rule of custom and society dictated his response, and he did not disappoint. “Of course,” he said again. “I shall go at once and wait for you directly outside the ladies’ conveniences,” he instructed. “Do not depart from there without me.”

I gave him my assurances, and the second his back was turned as he made for the refreshment rooms, I bolted, plunging into the crowd of travelers. I took the stairs two at a time, heedless of the stares I attracted and the muttered complaints of those I jostled on my way to the platform. Mr. Stoker was there, striding about like a prowling tiger as he waited. The train stood upon the tracks, puffing out great clouds of black smoke as it began to ease forward.

“It’s about bloody time,” he burst out as he caught sight of me. “Where the devil have you been?”

I gave him a wintry smile. “I had a little difficulty with my hat. But it’s quite all right now,” I assured him as I slipped Mr. de Clare’s card into my pocket.

Mr. Stoker grasped my hand and shoved me ahead of him, tossing me lightly onto the steps of the moving train. He followed, and as I turned to glance over his shoulder, I saw Mr. de Clare emerging onto the platform, his countenance ruddy with anger and thwarted purpose. I gave him a smile but resisted the urge to wave. It would have been unseemly.

We found an empty compartment and Mr. Stoker secured the door as I arranged myself comfortably. Now that I had leisure to consider my actions, I found it interesting that I had so instinctively thrown in my lot with Mr. Stoker rather than seizing the opportunity to elude him. It would have been the work of a moment to appeal to a passing policeman for aid or to accept Mr. de Clare’s offer of assistance.

But to what end? My subconscious had understood what I finally had the chance to reason out logically: if I involved the authorities, our adventure was at an end. This impetuous flight from London would be over before it began. Clearly Mr. Stoker feared apprehension by them, for reasons I did not yet understand. His insistence upon playing a lone hand was no doubt dictated by sound purpose, and I longed to discover it. I was mindful, too, of the baron’s implicit trust in him, a trust dictated by his own long acquaintance with the fellow. Well, I was up to the task of taking care of myself, I thought stoutly, but it seemed a good deal wiser to stay the course the baron had set me upon. He had apparently known Mr. de Clare and still chosen to deliver me to Mr. Stoker.

Why then did I refuse to share with Mr. Stoker the story of my meeting with Mr. de Clare in the station? I ought to have made a clean breast of things, but it nettled me that Mr. Stoker insisted upon such high-handed secrecy. He had not even confided where we were bound, and so long as he insisted upon secrets, I felt entitled to a few of my own. Besides, I reasoned, should Mr. Stoker prove a less than satisfactory partner in adventure, I now had a viable means of escape. I could afford to trust him until he gave me cause not to, and that was a comforting thought.





CHAPTER EIGHT


“I wish I had known earlier we were embarking upon a train journey,” I mused aloud as I rummaged in my bag. “I would have brought more food. And you needn’t have bothered with first-class tickets, you know. I would have been perfectly comfortable in third. Indeed, the trains in certain remote regions of Eastern Europe make no marked distinction between the two.”

Mr. Stoker, who had been watching the lights of the city with a decided intensity, relaxed as the metropolis fell away behind us. “There is no privacy in third class,” he reminded me.

“Have we need of privacy?”

He did not reply. Silence lay between us then, heavy and unpleasant, and I thought I would run mad if it persisted for the duration of our journey. He had still declined to tell me exactly where we were bound, and the omission nettled me. My frustration demanded relief, and in my experience, men could often be goaded into speaking if one could only lay a hand upon the correct inducement. In Mr. Stoker’s case, anger might well do the trick, I surmised, and I decided to prod his temper to discover any tender spots I might use to my advantage.