“I wish you would allow me to take care of this for you, Mrs. Cabot. The men here are quite uncivilized, I am sure. Not the sort a lady should have to deal with at all.”
“So you’ve said, Mr. Yorke,” Lillian said, stifling a sigh of impatience. “However, as my father’s emissary, it is my duty to meet with the men responsible for organizing all work on the rail line. He would expect nothing less, nor do I.”
Edward Yorke’s lips thinned in disapproval. It was quite an accomplishment, Lillian thought, when the man seemed to disapprove of so much. If not for the secretary’s perennially pinched expression, Yorke would be quite handsome, in a pampered sort of way. His dark brown hair, fussily trimmed moustache and ascetically thin features fit the mold preferred by many women of her acquaintance. The well-polished boots and clothes tailored to emphasize his slender physique exuded an air of urbane civility. However, the man’s recent tendency to go on at length with dire admonitions of propriety and predictions of disaster grated on Lillian’s nerves. Unfortunately, she couldn’t shake him. Her father mandated his presence. Considering Yorke’s abrasive personality, Lillian doubted he’d be anything but a hindrance to the job at hand.
But with her father only just recovering from a fit of apoplexy, what could she do? She’d practically bullied the servants into defying his orders to pack for the trip while she convinced him to let her go in his place.
Ruthlessly, she let her father believe she needed the distraction, that Boston held too many painful memories of her life with Stephen. She suppressed another twinge of guilt. She consoled herself with the knowledge that Stephen wouldn’t begrudge her the subterfuge. Her husband would have been the first to laugh at the way suitors, both respectable and not, began hounding her the instant she put off her mourning clothes.
“At least permit me to arrange proper appointments with the site boss and the other men while you refresh yourself from the journey,” Yorke pressed.
“Mr. Yorke, the most refreshing thing I can think of at this moment would be to get off this car and into the fresh air.”
The squeal of the brakes accompanied the sudden jittering of the car that made their teacups rattle in their saucers on the piecrust table between the settees. Yorke’s knuckles turned white where he gripped the arm of his settee. His jaw tightened, and Lillian could swear she heard his teeth grinding. Why someone so patently afraid of rail travel would ever consent to work for a man whose business was railroads was beyond her.
Lillian affected not to notice his discomfort, unnecessarily smoothing the crisp fabric of her wine-colored skirts. Adjusting the cream-colored lace peeping from the cuffs of the matching jacket, she said, “Aileen?”
Her longtime friend and companion looked up from her seat across the car, where she worked on an embroidery hoop. “Yes, Lillian?”
Aileen McCurdy’s widowed mother was head housekeeper in the Worthington household, actually related through marriage by some coattail cousin of Lillian’s mother. Of an age, Lillian and Aileen grew up friends and maintained the relationship despite the unconventional nature of it. Any reminder of the blurring of the line between servant and companion, such as now, never failed to elicit an expression of poorly concealed disapproval from Yorke. Ignoring him, Lillian said, “How do you feel about a walk once we arrive?”
“More than ready to leave this car and put my feet on solid ground,” Aileen said with a heartfelt sigh. “I don’t think my bones have stopped rattling since we left.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Setting her needle in the fabric stretched over the hoop and gathering up her yarn, Aileen said, “I’ll have one of the cook’s lads fetch some warm water for us to freshen up a bit. Shall I collect your parasol for you while I’m up?”
“Just a bonnet and gloves,” Lillian decided. “I’m sure the arbiters of fashion will have their eyes elsewhere. I’d just as soon not be encumbered while we take a stroll about the camp.”
Yorke was outraged. “Stroll about the camp—”
Lillian stopped him with a cool-eyed gaze. “Yes, Mr. Yorke. I fully intend to walk around the camp. It is the middle of the day, Aileen and I will remain well in sight of the train, and I’m sure it won’t take long for you to find Mr. Devereaux and bring him to me. We will be perfectly safe.”
A flush rose in the secretary’s cheeks at her refusal to be directed, and he lapsed into silence. Lillian let him stew. When the car at last jittered to stop, he pushed to his feet. His bow perfectly correct, he said, “If you will excuse me, madam. I shall see about locating Mr. Devereaux.” As if he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Please take care.”
She tipped her chin in acknowledgment. “Naturally, Mr. Yorke. Aileen and I won’t be gone long. I’m certain if you locate Mr. Devereaux before we’re back, it won’t take much effort to locate us. After all, this isn’t Boston.”
“Exactly,” he muttered. With that, he stalked out of the car, his disapproval of her as plain as ever. This time, she did sigh.
“Pushy pest,” Aileen observed.
Lillian gave her a wry smile. “So you’ve said, more than once.”
“It bears repeating.” Aileen stowed her embroidery in the basket at her feet and stood up. Shaking the soft wrinkles out of her skirt, she said, “I’ll see about that hot water.”
* * * *
Charles guided his horse through the throng of men unloading the cars. He noted that the wash house was going up fast, the workers’ efforts encouraged by an appreciative female audience. True, the laundresses made good money from men hard-pressed to find the time to wash their own garments. But the fact the women weren’t averse to accepting coin for other, more intimate tasks, didn’t hurt. He paid for his distraction when his horse sidled around a group of men unloading another shack from the hell on wheels, forcing him to grab for the pommel. Tipping his chin to acknowledge their shouts of annoyance, he continued on to the corral. Unsaddling the hack, Charles handed it over to one of the boys responsible for feeding and watering the camp’s animals. Then he hoisted his saddlebags and writing case over his shoulder and started towards the head of the train. Beyond that, the crew car he shared with Conn and a number of senior rail managers and bosses sat on a spur off the main track.
He’d almost reached it when a flash of color caught his eye. Charles stopped in shock. A woman, her femininity jarringly evident in the throng of men, approached him. No, not a woman. A lady. The style of her wine-colored skirt and jacket perfectly complimented her slender figure. Creamy lace peeped from wrists and throat, the folds at her neck graced with an elegant pearl brooch. She wore a confection of a bonnet his sisters would swoon for. Tendrils of dark auburn curls framed either side of her face, and finely drawn brows arched over pale green eyes. He barely noticed the woman who walked at her side, except to note she was also respectably attired and of a similar age, perhaps mid-twenties or so.
The beautiful lady stopped in front of him.
“Hello, Charles,” she said. Her lush lips curved in a pleased smile that sparkled in her eyes. His mind caught up with his frank physical assessment, and he finally placed her.
“Lillian,” he said, inwardly wincing at the faint stutter he heard in his own voice. How embarrassing, to be caught ogling an attractive woman like some unschooled boy. She offered her gloved hand. Quickly, he took it and bowed over it as urbanely as if they’d paused to exchange greetings while strolling through a park in Boston.
“I had looked forward to seeing you again. I just had not expected to become reacquainted so soon.”
“A pleasure to see you again, of course, Lillian. It’s been some time.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “You shocked everyone with your decision to approach my father and offer to write for him.” She introduced her companion.
Charles greeted Miss McCurdy, then returned to her statement. “Not quite everyone was shocked by my interest in writing. I remember your kind words when a few of my articles appeared in The Atlantic Mont
hly.”
She waved off his appreciation with a delicate flick of her wrist. Charles was captivated by the line of pale flesh between her glove and the lace cuff. “Nonsense. You are a wonderful writer, Charles. It takes true talent to convey one’s views with both panache and honesty. That can be a rarity with all the bombastic political ranting and salacious reporting that seems to fill the newssheets every day.”
He was surprised to feel his cheeks flush. “It is kind of you to say so. Regardless, I appreciate your father’s trust in me. This is certainly an adventure I never envisioned for myself.” Charles looked beyond her shoulder at the private railcar still hitched to the back of the train. It would be some time before the rest of the cars were unloaded and the Worthington cars could be added to the others on the spur. “Is your father about?”
The smile faded from her lovely face. “My father decided not to make the journey.”
Charles couldn’t conceal his surprise. “Why not?”
Lillian clasped her hands at her waist, her expression serious. She glanced around to ensure no one was close enough to hear their conversation. “It is not widely known, but my father suffered a fit of apoplexy.”
Without thinking, he took her hands in his. “I am so sorry. How is he?”
Surprisingly, she accepted the familiarity, squeezing his hands in gratitude for his concern. “Thankfully, he is recovering. I expect he will be his old domineering self before we know it. However, the doctors insisted that he rest and allow his health to return at its own pace. They said if he doesn’t, he could suffer a relapse.”
Charles nodded in understanding. “I have heard it is so.”
“That is why I insisted that he allow me to come in his place.”
“I see.” Though he wasn’t certain he did. A raw and uncivilized rail camp was hardly the place for a lady of Lillian’s caliber, escorted by her companion or not.
“It is vital that the excursion we have planned for the investors is a success. If anyone realizes that the foremost principle of the Great Western Rail Company is not in full control…”
Comprehension dawned. “Of course,” Charles said. “I should have realized.”
The Great Western Rail Company, like the other rail companies in the massive race to reach the eastward-bound lines of the California rail companies, relied heavily on outside money and political support. One of the ways to fire the enthusiasm of investors and lawmakers was to host periodic tours of the line, to prove how much progress was being made. Any hint of instability in the ruling ranks would be a blow to the company, financially and politically. Supporters could be a fickle lot when it came to funding.
In just a few weeks, dozens of important men and women would descend on the camp to be feted and ferried around in an exotic adventure into the wilderness. Ordinarily, Theodore S. Worthington would play host to the horde with his usual showmanship and style. With the old boy out of action, it made a kind of sense for his elegant daughter, widow of a war hero, to do the honors.
A breeze fanned an auburn curl free across Lillian’s cheek. Her skin was pale as porcelain and just as lovely. The soft pink of her unpainted lips made the pale green of her large eyes even more luminous. Unselfconsciously, she caught the curl in two fingers and tucked it back under her bonnet. Charles’s cock hardened at the innate sensuality of the simple gesture, then realized she had to let go of one of his hands to tend to her hair.
“Forgive me,” he said, hastily dropping her other hand. “I was just so stunned to see you here. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he finished lamely.
She smiled again. “Oh, I think we’re safe, Charles. The high sticklers aren’t going to pounce on us out here for holding hands.”
He grinned. “No, of course not. The martinets are not something I miss about Boston.”
“I don’t blame you.” She gestured at his saddlebags and writing case. “Those must be heavy. I shouldn’t keep you.”
“I was only returning them to the crew car after helping Conn Maguire photograph the train’s arrival.”
“Oh, yes. I had noticed a photographer on the hill. I look forward to making Mr. Maguire’s acquaintance,” she added. “My father and I have been greatly impressed with his work for the company.”
“He’ll be pleased to hear that,” Charles said, thinking Conn didn’t give a rub for what anyone thought about him or his work.
“Well, as I said, I won’t keep you. Once the commotion dies down, would you bring Mr. Maguire to meet me? I’d like to discuss the expedition with both of you.”
“Certainly, although I can’t promise the commotion will actually subside. The camp tends to be a busy place, and the latest additions won’t change that.”
Miss McCurdy softly cleared her throat. Lillian looked at the other woman and grimaced, obviously divining some meaning from the wordless sound. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Aileen.” Her expression rueful, she said to Charles, “Perhaps you should see my father’s secretary, Mr. Yorke. I believe he is busy arranging my schedule as we speak.”
“Yorke.”
Apparently, his attempt to keep his tone bland failed. She laughed, a low, inviting sound. “I see you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Yorke before.”
“We are acquainted.”
“Poor lad.” Miss McCurdy’s innocent expression belied the barely audible comment.
Charles quirked an eyebrow, but all he said was, “I’ll be sure to make an appointment with Mr. Yorke.”
“Excellent.” Lillian tipped her chin in farewell. “It was lovely to see you again, Charles. Later, we must take the time to share the news from home. I had a lovely tea with your mother and sisters just a few weeks ago.”
Charles thought of all the things he’d rather discuss with this beautiful widow, and his mama and siblings weren’t among them. “I look forward to it.”
“Then we’ll be off,” she said, turning away, her companion at her elbow. “Until later, Charles.”
Charles watched them go, two butterflies among the dull moth tones of the workmen. His cock twitched, reminding him of exactly how long it had been since he’d enjoyed the pleasure of a lady’s company. Lillian’s beauty was the kind that always drew him—refined, but earthy, too. Her confidence and intelligence made her even more desirable in his eyes.
Before the war, she belonged to Stephen Cabot, and poaching other men’s wives wasn’t a game Charles played.
A widowed Lillian Cabot was another matter. Anticipation strummed through him. Whistling cheerily, he resumed his steps, thinking of Lillian’s delicate fragrance and the creamy softness of her skin.
Chapter 3
“In the rough and tumble of the camp, the comforts of home are often worth their weight in gold. Freshly-washed clothes, a new pair of boots or well-cured tobacco all hold their appeal. But the most precious commodity of all for this correspondent? Apple pie.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
Charles wiped the specks of lather from his chin with the towel and used the last of the lukewarm water in the jug to rinse his face. Testing the closeness of the shave with one hand, he picked up his coat and left the room he and Conn shared.
The bare-bones rail car had seen better days. Parked on a spur that jutted off from the main track, the rolling lodgings could be hooked up to an engine and easily hauled to the next stop on the line under construction. It housed about a dozen men, the precise composition of which changed fairly frequently. Surveyors, gang bosses, planners and designers, they worked with the crews, but were higher up the ladder than brute labor. Conn and Charles were among the mainstays. Their shared lodgings were smaller than Charles’s closet at home. A Spartan area in the center of the car served as de facto office and general gathering place, where the men conducted the necessary business aspects of their positions or played cards around the fat coal stove. One cabin served as Conn’s permanent dark room. The chemical stink that seeped under the door gener
ally deterred the curious. Most of their neighbors had learned to use the exit farthest from Conn’s den.
As Charles left their cabin, he noted that the common area was deserted. Small wonder, when there were women, wine and song to be had in the newly sprouted town just steps away. Shrugging into his coat, he headed to the end of the car. As he’d expected, the door to Conn’s darkroom was closed and locked, a slate message board dangling from the knob, “Working. Bugger off.”
Ignoring it, Charles pounded on the door with his fist. He waited a moment for a reply. With none forthcoming, he applied his fist again.
“What?” Conn yelled. “You can’t read?”
“Very well, actually,” Charles said, not bothering to raise his voice
His partner’s muttered, “Shoulda known,” was clearly audible, as was his louder, “What is it?”
“I thought you might like to walk around our newly expanded camp. Get something to eat that isn’t salt beef and over-boiled potatoes.”
He thought Conn wasn’t going to answer, but then came the unmistakable sound of a bolt sliding free. Conn swung the door open on a wave of fumes. Charles made a face and stepped back. “Good God, man. It will be a miracle if you’re still able to father children in a few years after breathing that stench day in and day out. It can’t be good for your lungs, let alone anything else a sane man might value.”
“Like your pen ink is any better,” Conn retorted. He wore the long duster he preferred while working. The battered old thing was virtually indestructible, as far as Charles could tell. The original dark brown of the durable cloth had since faded to a muddy grey. Conn swore it kept off the rain, fended off the cold, turned aside the thorniest brambles and was tough enough to snap a rattler’s fangs. Charles suspected the last was pure exaggeration, but didn’t call his friend on it. Conn never went anywhere without the duster. “Besides, fathering children is overrated. There’s more than enough running around as it is without adding my issue to the horde.”
The Railroad Baroness Page 2
