The Railroad Baroness

by The Railroad Baroness (lit)

  Conn pulled the door closed and used his key to lock it. He was fanatical about protecting his work. Charles could understand that. He was equally careful with his dispatches. A strong work ethic was one of the few things they had in common. Together, they headed for the outer door.

  “You had a productive day?”

  “What I could, until they started in on me.”

  “By they, I presume you mean the ladies. Why don’t you take some photographs of them? It would keep them quiet.”

  Conn shrugged. “Then there’d just be more of ’em, wanting their own pictures. Anyway, got some nice exposures, I’m thinking. Building of a town.”

  “How do you think the shots of the arrival turned out?”

  “Good.”

  Charles nodded. Typical Conn, without a trace of either boastfulness or hesitation. If he said it was good, it was.

  Opening the door nearest to the camp, they were met by the completely novel sight of rustic civilization. Light blazed, men shouted, women laughed. Somewhere, an impromptu orchestra complete with tinny piano played a raucous tune. Conn and Charles exchanged grins.

  “Food first?” Charles asked.

  “Aye. My belly’s so thin it’s thinking my throat’s been cut.”

  In perfect accord, they went down the iron steps and headed toward the makeshift canvas and wood town. As they walked, they passed the cars that had been added to their spur earlier in the day. The engine would soon roll back the way it had come, resuming its supply runs, but not all the cars would go with it. Among them was the extravagant private car that had brought up the rear of the train.

  “Did you get a chance to meet Lillian Cabot?” Charles asked. “I was supposed to introduce you, but this is the first I’ve seen of you since this morning.”

  “Is she the new madam, then?”

  “I should say not!”

  “Eh, no need to get tetchy. Why don’t you just tell me who she is instead of getting all high in the collar over it?”

  “Mrs. Cabot is Worthington’s daughter.”

  Conn raised his brows. “The old man’s brought his girl along?” As luck would have it, at that moment a feminine shriek of laughter rose from the din, followed by the boisterous catcalls of a number of appreciative men. Conn frowned. “Not exactly a good place for a lady.”

  “No,” Charles agreed. “But Worthington suffered a fit of apoplexy, and Lillian stepped in to finish preparations for the excursion trip.”

  “Big job.”

  “Of any lady I know, I can’t think of one more capable than Lillian Cabot.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  “Yes.” Charles was surprised when the answer rolled off his tongue without thought. Considering it, he realized he meant it.

  “And the mister?”

  “Cabot died in the war. Shocked everyone when he signed up, though he’d always been a dashing sort. Stuck with his men until he was wounded. He didn’t even last to make it home to his wife. Infection, I think.”

  Conn made a considering sound. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

  Charles gave his partner an amused glance as they reached the first of the tents and shacks. “Like I said, she expected to meet you today. But of course, you stayed out with your camera, then locked yourself in your cave.”

  Unperturbed, Conn shrugged. “It is my job.”

  “Tomorrow, then. And besides, even if Lillian had been the new madam, what made you assume she’d want to meet you right off?”

  Conn grinned cockily and spread his arms wide. “Experience.”

  Charles snorted, but privately conceded Conn had a point. He might not be as tall as Charles, but he was a powerfully built man. Add his muscled physique with chiseled dark looks and deep blue eyes, and Conn had never lacked for female companionship when it was available.

  They stopped outside the pulled-back flap of a large tent. Inside, men sat elbow to elbow at long tables, digging into plates heaped with food. The air was redolent with fried meat, fresh biscuits and, if Charles wasn’t mistaken, apple pie. His mouth watered. The fare the line cooks churned out was an unvarying menu of beef, bread, butter and potatoes, with the occasional game animal thrown in. Thankfully, now that the supply camp had moved up the line to join them, their options would be more varied, if costlier, than the bland fare included with their pay.

  “Come on, Charlie,” Conn said, leading the way to an open section of bench. “I’m starving. Tomorrow’s soon enough to meet Worthington’s girl.”

  Charles trailed after him, enjoying the thought of his friend’s reaction when he finally met the luscious Lillian Cabot. Conn would kick himself.

  * * * *

  Lillian unbelted her robe as Aileen drizzled scented oil into the water. Draping the silky garment over a tufted stool, Lillian went up the small risers beside the tub. Like the rest of the room, the extravagant copper bathing tub was paneled in rich, glossy mahogany. The low glow of the coal oil lamps made the bathing room feel like a warm cocoon. Dipping a toe in, Lillian hissed out a soft breath. It was almost too hot to bear. Almost. Steam heavy with the musky floral scent she favored curled up from the surface. With an appreciative sigh, she stepped fully into the tub and sat down until the water lapped at the upper curves of her breasts. Resting against the raised back, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the total relaxation that beckoned. After a day spent traveling the sometimes less-than-smooth tracks, not to mention enduring Mr. Yorke’s censorious presence, she needed it.

  “Would you listen to that?”

  At the sound of her companion’s voice—part wondering, part shocked—Lillian cracked her eyelids open. “Listen to what?”

  Before she said the last word, what sounded remarkably like a gunshot came from somewhere outside the private car. The rollicking laughter that followed it immediately dispelled her first thought, that someone had come to a violent end. At least, Lillian hoped that was what the laughter meant. Regardless, the unmistakable, if muffled, sound of music and singing continued unabated.

  Aileen, folded towels clutched to her chest, watched her with a raised brow. “Maybe I’ll just go check and make sure the doors are locked.”

  “You already checked twice.”

  “Aye. And maybe third time’s the charm. Next you know, those ruffians will be knocking on our doors, bold as you please.”

  Ignoring Aileen’s tone of doom, Lillian sank a little deeper in the tub. “Those ruffians are our employees. They’re just having a bit of a frolic with the new arrivals.”

  “I saw some of those new arrivals, and I won’t be guessing what kind of frolic they’re about.”

  “Aileen, leave it. The war might be over, but that doesn’t mean a lot of people aren’t in desperate straits. You shouldn’t begrudge those women what they have to do to get by.”

  The other woman pursed her lips but nodded in reluctant agreement. Lillian knew Aileen was well aware of what desperation could do to people. Satisfied, she closed her eyes again. She sensed it when Aileen set the towels on the edge of the tub, then heard a small creak, and surmised that her friend had settled herself on the stool by the vanity table.

  “I’d like to get an early start tomorrow.”

  “I’ll make sure the chef is aware you’ll be wanting an early breakfast, then.” The nearness of Aileen’s voice confirmed her location.

  “Best tell him to plan for an early start every day. There’s much to do, and little time to do it.” Lillian opened her lids just enough to find the washcloth and dip it into the bathwater. Thinking out loud, she rasped the cloth against her collarbone and said, “Maybe it would be best if Charles joins me for breakfast. And perhaps Mr. Maguire as well. I’d like to speak to them about arranging an outing or two for our guests into the surrounding area.”

  “Into the forest? Isn’t that dangerous? I was talking to one of the servant boys earlier, and he told me of some fearsome animals they’ve seen hereabouts. These aren’t the tame parks of Boston, you know.”

/>   “Oh, we’ll send armed guards with them, of course. I also thought a hunting trip might suit the men. Surely, the gunshots would scare off any dangerous predators. Plus, we add any game they bag to the menu, have the chef prepare some truly unique dishes for our guests.” Lillian idly traced her fingertips over the water as she thought. “Yes, that would work. And who better to squire them about than the company’s official correspondent and photographer?”

  “Hmmm.”

  Lillian turned her head to see Aileen’s pensive expression. “Hmmm, what?”

  “You don’t think some of the guests might be put off by, ah, Mr. Maguire?”

  “I don’t see how, as they’ve never even met him.”

  “Neither have you, but that’s not what I’m getting at, as you well know.” Aileen’s light brogue thickened as it always did when she became riled.

  Lillian thought this might be one of the drawbacks of having spent a goodly portion of their girlhood together. Aileen rarely bit her tongue when something was on her mind. Of course, Lillian considered that tendency a great asset, too. It only annoyed some of the time.

  “We just ended one war over the rights of men. If they can’t accept the presence of an Irishman, then I’d really rather not do business with them.”

  “And your father? Would he rather not do business with them?”

  “Father’s not here. I am. Besides, Mr. Maguire’s photographs have garnered a lot of favorable attention in the newssheets, particularly his heartrending images of the prisoner camps. Our guests can’t deny he is very talented. The Great West Rail Company was fortunate to be able to hire him.”

  Lillian had to swallow the lump that formed in her throat. Stephen had been dead more than two years, but talking about the war, even in passing, pained her. She supported his decision to enlist, and did everything she could to aid the war effort. It hadn’t helped Stephen.

  One day she was reading a letter from him filled with the usual anecdotes of hardship mingled with lighter moments. He mentioned only briefly the minor wound to his thigh, as if it were nothing more than a scuffed toe. The letter from Stephen’s commanding officer was written just a week later, but delayed by more than a month in transit. The wound festered. Then the fever came. They wanted to take his leg, but even in his pain and confusion he refused. The fever worsened, and Stephen fell asleep. He never woke up.

  If only he’d let them take his leg. Surely, he’d known she would rather have him alive and with her than not at all.

  She felt a gentle touch on her shoulder and blindly reached for Aileen’s comforting hand. The revelry in the fledgling railway town sounded a world away.

  Several long moments later, Aileen broke the silence.

  “Mr. Lowell Adams seems a likely gentleman.”

  Grateful for the diversion, Lillian squeezed the other woman’s hand and let go. “Likely for what?”

  “Oh, any number of things,” Aileen said dryly.

  “Aileen, how bad of you,” Lillian said, wetting the cloth and turning her attention to washing her arms. “One minute, condemning the ladies who entertain the laborers, the next, sizing up a gentleman for ‘any number of things.’”

  She hid a grin as her friend sputtered in outraged embarrassment. “I never—”

  “Are you playing matchmaker?”

  “No! And as if I would,” Aileen said, getting to her feet and starting to pace the tiny space in agitation. “You can find your own man, I’m sure. Now my Mum, you could count on her to meddle in your affairs.”

  “Then I should have an affair with Charles?”

  Aileen, finally catching on, whirled to face her friend with hands on her hips. “Lillian Worthington Cabot!”

  Lillian’s grin turned into a laugh. “But you’re right, he does look like a likely fellow to have a mad, passionate love affair with. I’m sure it would be quite enjoyable. So tall and strong. Very manly, if I’m any judge of the cut of a man’s trousers.”

  “Now who’s being bad?” Aileen harrumphed and dropped back down onto the stool. Then she started to laugh, too.

  Lillian watched the other woman fondly. Aileen tried to be so prim and proper. Despite her familiarity, she was always conscious of her position as companion and Lillian’s supposed consequence. Absolutely loyal, she was the best friend any woman could ask for, and Lillian loved her dearly.

  Aileen’s laughter gradually changed to sporadic chuckles.

  “To be perfectly serious, I am rather glad that Charles is here,” Lillian said.

  “Oh?” Aileen quirked a brow. “For a mad, passionate affair?”

  The words brought with them an image of Charles’s lean, athletic build and appreciative brown eyes. Putting it aside for the moment, she continued, “What I mean is, it will be good to have a man with his family connections here when our guests arrive. Can you imagine the disaster if Yorke is the only gentleman on hand?”

  Aileen gave an exaggerated shudder. “I don’t remember you mentioning Mr. Lowell Adams before today.”

  “You know his family. His elder sister is married to that soap magnate.”

  “The one with the cheeky lad who was chasing all the little girls at the park?”

  Lillian laughed at the memory. “That’s the one. Well, Charles is a bit of a black sheep. His father and mother wanted him to take an interest in the family’s shipping concerns. Instead, he told them his older brothers were far better suited to the task than he would ever be, then deepened the insult by becoming a travelling correspondent. When the war began, he simply switched to chronicling tales from the war for various newspapers. It was quite the seven days’ wonder. I’m sure the gentlemen in the party will enjoy hearing about his travels. And Mr. Maguire’s as well, for that matter.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Lillian tipped her head back in exasperation. “There you go again. What is on your mind?”

  “Nothing, just…hmmm.”

  “I’m sure.” Lillian lifted one leg and briskly began to lather it with a tiny bar of her favorite soap. “Now, enough about that. It’s getting late, and I still need to write notes for Charles and Mr. Maguire. You can have one of the chef’s helpers deliver them.”

  “And Mr. Yorke as well.”

  Lillian sighed, squeezing the water from the cloth and setting it back on the rim of the tub. “I suppose I have to. That man is a trial.”

  “That he is.”

  Lillian glanced at the wall of the bathing room, as if she could see through it to the revelry outside. “I wonder how late that will go on?”

  “All night, I imagine. We’ll be fortunate to get any rest at all.”

  “It does sound like they’re having fun.”

  “Fun like that, you don’t need.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Lillian laughed lightly. “If anything, now’s the perfect time to find a little enjoyment.”

  “Perfect in what way?” Aileen stood and held open a towel as Lillian got to her feet.

  Wrapping the absorbent sheet around her, Lillian said, “I’ve grieved long enough.” She didn’t know when she’d come to that realization, but it was true.

  “You have,” Aileen agreed, surprising her. “Mr. Cabot was a fine man, a wonderful husband to you. Losing him was a tragedy, and that’s the truth. You mourned as was proper. But now it’s time to start living. He would want that for you.”

  Lillian smiled, glad of the support. “I think so, too.”

  “You have a plan, I suppose?”

  “Well, we are far from Boston.”

  “Yes.”

  “On an adventure, if you will.”

  “Yes.”

  She shrugged into her robe and snugged the belt at her waist. “That’s the thing about adventures. You never know what can happen.”

  And there was the athletic, manly Charles Lowell Adams close at hand. An adventure if ever she’d seen one.

  Chapter 4

  “It is easy to miss the comforts of home when in the wilderness a luxury is
warm water to shave and sugar to put in a man's coffee. But when breathing in crisp mountain air untainted by coal smoke or the clatter of thousands of carriage wheels rolling down the street, one cannot help but think there are compensations.”

  — Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company

  Aileen opened the door to usher in Charles and another man. Beside Lillian, Yorke rose from his seat at the private car’s small dining table. She put the delicate china teacup back on its saucer and smiled in welcome.

  “Good morning to you, Lillian, Miss McCurdy,” Charles said warmly, doffing his hat and hanging it on a hook by the door. Then, as an afterthought, “Yorke.”

  His companion followed suit, also taking off a somewhat battered long coat to reveal a sturdy, muscular build with wide shoulders and lean hips.

  Charles’s eyes sparkled as he held Lillian’s gaze. His lips tilted up at the corners, and he crossed the few feet to the table. Taking her hand, he bowed over it. “You look lovely, madam,” he said. The brush of his lips over her knuckles sent a tingle over her skin. Lillian thought of her private musings about an “adventure” involving the leanly handsome man and felt a blush of pleasure warm her cheeks. Charles released her and indicated his companion. “May I introduce Mr. Conn Maguire?”

  Black hair fell in curls over the photographer’s pleasingly wide forehead. From the intensity of his perusal of her face, she suspected his cobalt blue eyes missed little. Not surprising, really, considering his chosen profession. Observation must be a vital skill. His cheekbones tilted along high ridges on either side of a fine-bladed nose. Even this early in the day, a hint of dark shadow touched his lean cheeks and dimpled chin. He wore a simple brown coat over a brown waistcoat and matching trousers, the pale oatmeal hue of his rough linen shirt making the weather-darkened skin at his throat appear almost bronze.

  Conn Maguire was simply the most beautiful man she had ever seen, with a blatantly male sensuality. In her experience, attractive men tended to have a bit of the peacock about them, even if unconsciously. The Irishman showed no sign he expected admiration of any sort from her. He intrigued her. Instead of bowing over her hand, Mr. Maguire gave it a no-nonsense shake.