by Ruth Trippy
He leaned nearer the window, wanting to make sure which door she entered. A young man had broken away from the group and was escorting her to the train steps. Beneath his hat, his hair showed dark auburn. Did any other family member have hair that dark? The young man gazed down at Miss Thatcher, but not like a brother. Edward’s pulse jumped. Confound it!
As the young man preceded Miss Thatcher up the steps of the railway car, and held out a hand to assist her, she looked at him laughing, then stepped up as well. She was so full of life. Edward’s breath arrested a moment.
The couple entered Edward’s car, Miss Thatcher starting down the aisle with the young man in her wake. He held her valise with a proprietary air. Edward rose and his eyes sought hers, curious to see her reaction on first seeing him. She scanned the car for a seat, then saw him. She startled. Was it a glad light in her eyes?
“Mr. Lyons!”
“Hello, Miss Thatcher.” He waited for her to approach then gestured toward the space next to him at the window.
“What a surprise to see you. Here of all places.” She stopped in front of him. “I—” She was obviously wondering if she should accept the seat. She turned to her companion. “Jack, this is Mr. Edward Lyons, who attends the book discussions at the bookstore where I work.” She turned again to him. “Mr. Lyons, Jack Milford, an old friend from my hometown.”
Jack held out his hand first. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise.” Edward knew the “sir” was the required form of address, but somehow the way the young man said it made him feel old. The whippersnapper. “I can place Miss Thatcher’s valise overhead,” Edward offered.
She nodded her acquiescence.
“Thank you, but I can do that for Celia.”
He called her Celia. Edward stepped aside as Jack stretched up to stow the valise. “Nice of you to help, young man. We’re glad to have Miss Thatcher return; we certainly appreciate the book discussions she’s begun. I wouldn’t miss one.” Had he said that with enough of a proprietary air?
“Book discussions? When I come to visit—” Jack looked at Celia with a decided air, “—you can let me know when you’ll be having one.”
“Jack, that would be lovely. I didn’t know you’d be interested.”
“Well, you always had your father to discuss such things with, so the subject never came up.”
“True, but still—”
“Now, I’ll want to make that visit rather soon, so let me know by your next letter.” He touched her arm. Then reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“All aboard! Last call!”
“Thank you for seeing me onto the train, Jack.” Edward couldn’t tell if her hand returned the squeeze or not. As Jack left, sauntering down the aisle, she glanced after him, a smile on her face.
Edward was tempted to take Celia’s elbow and assist her to her place. But he refrained. He stepped back to let her pass.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’d like to see my family one last time,” and drew up to the window and waved. They all waved back enthusiastically.
The whistle blew. The train gave a warning jerk. Celia lurched and Mr. Lyons reached out to steady her. “Here, Miss Thatcher.” He encouraged her to seat herself.
“Thank you. And a seat by the window, too. Are you sure you wouldn’t like it?”
“I can see just fine. I plan to read so you can enjoy the view in peace.”
“You are too kind.”
“Not at all.” Satisfied arrangements were going as planned, he took out his book.
Celia looked around the mahogany-paneled dining car. Mr. Lyons had reserved a place—she could hardly refuse in light of that.
Their table, covered in white linen and adorned with a red rose, was situated at one end with fewer neighboring tables. It was all so lovely. The waiter had called him Mr. Lyons so particularly. Had bowed, then asked about her comfort, if she had any special wishes. She felt rather overwhelmed with the royal treatment. Was it always this way? Or was it because of Mr. Lyons? She looked across the table at her companion with new regard. And he was looking so well.
“I was surprised to see you on the train. So you went to Boston after all?”
“To see my mother. Mr. Chestley decided me when he needed his prints returned to be framed. It worked out for us both.”
“I know which picture Mr. Chestley chose for the bookstore. Were there others to be framed?”
“The owner of the jewelry store picked the winter scene with the skaters on the river.”
“I liked that one.”
“There was one which particularly caught my attention, the French countryside with the pruned trees.”
She couldn’t resist asking, “What appealed to you?”
He laughed. “The gnarly old trees!”
She joined him in laughter. “They were rather strange looking. Now, tell me why.”
A few moments passed, the laughter in his eyes fading. “For years those trees marked the way down the lane—protective, stalwart hardwoods. . . .”
She leaned forward, encouraging him with her complete attention.
“In those old hardwoods, I saw the shoots of new growth sprouting from the old as if new hope had begun. . . .”
She didn’t want to pry, but the picture seemed to speak so personally to him. Did he see it as somehow representing himself? “That’s—that’s so interesting. You saw hope in what some would declare a somber picture.”
He laughed again. “You have an unusual way of putting it.”
“My father has made the same observation about me.” She smiled and looked up as the waiter set down their teacups, the teapot, then plates of delicious looking sandwiches and tiny pastries. “How delightful. And this hot tea is just what a doctor would order on a cold day.”
After the waiter left, Mr. Lyons said, “Your friend Jack alluded that you talk with your father about books. What else do you talk about?”
“Just about everything. This visit we talked a lot about science and religion, the subject touched on at the Harrod Christmas dinner.” She stopped a moment. This seemed a natural entrée into discovering what Mr. Lyons thought about science and religion, where he stood on matters of faith. “I know you read Popular Science Monthly. Tell me more about it.”
“As I said at the Harrods’ dinner, it’s a publication that advocates the scientific method, the study of facts. Today, scientists want the most accurate knowledge available about the order of the universe.”
“I’ve heard Thomas Huxley also elevates the scientific method.”
Mr. Lyons’s eyebrows raised. “You’ve heard of him?”
“My father and I discussed his ideas briefly.”
Her companion took up his fork and tapped its end on the white napery. “Then you might know his first article of belief is that man is obligated to pursue truth, no matter where it may lead—if necessary to the utter destruction of his most cherished doctrines and institutions.”
Celia took a bite of a diminutive chicken sandwich. She swallowed, then began slowly, “I don’t take issue with scientific discovery or people searching for facts. That sounds noble enough. But don’t you think it’s important how facts are interpreted? How application is made?” She paused. “Hasn’t Mr. Huxley excluded religious belief from his interpretations of the facts?”
“I believe he has.”
“If he has no knowledge of God,” Celia took a sip of tea before driving home her point, “then he has no religious experience with which to measure his facts.”
“You mean to color his thinking, his interpretation?”
“I mean with which to interpret the facts.” She looked Mr. Lyons directly in the eye. “As Job said so long ago, ‘I know in whom I have believed.’ ”
“So you propose blind faith?”
“If I were Mr. Huxley, I suppose it would be blind faith. But my faith is based on facts.”
“Facts?”
“The facts of Jesus’ life. His
death. His resurrection.”
“But suppose all that is myth, that it never occurred? Modern criticism negates the Bible as being wholly factual, so therefore, how can it be totally trustworthy?”
“You think the disciples, the early believers, were willing to die for what they knew to be falsehoods?”
Mr. Lyons sat back from the table, motioning her to continue.
“Who are these people who have the temerity to throw God out of their assessment of the universe? Questioning His reality? Doubting His ability to answer prayer? Skeptical that Scripture can resonate with Truth?”
She took another sip of tea, then held the cup in her hands to warm them. “I venture to say it is because they have little or no experience of God. That they, in fact, spend more time trying to poke holes, find fault with Holy Writ than they do giving it an honest reading.”
Celia put down her cup and asked Mr. Lyons if he wanted more tea. He nodded his acceptance. “I am sure Mr. Huxley and those of his ilk are brilliant men. But a brilliant man can fall in love with his own brilliance. He can come to trust too much in himself and his own ability to reason things out.”
Mr. Lyons’s lips curved up. “I seem to remember your saying something similar in your assessment of Emerson’s writings on our first meeting.”
Celia felt relief seeing Mr. Lyons smile. She hadn’t meant to express her opinions quite so freely while his guest at this delightful tea. He would think her a bluestocking and next time choose a more demure female for company.
“You argue a convincing case, Miss Thatcher. You must be your father’s daughter. I would think you have interesting talks.”
“We do, but I didn’t mean to come at you quite so strong. You are a most gracious host.”
“What you propose is thought-provoking. I can’t say I agree with all you say, but you can certainly stir the nest.”
“I take that as a compliment. Thank you.” She said it softly. If only he would think about all this. Even so, she was now determined to talk of less volatile topics. She cast about for another subject. The red rose against the white napery of the linen tablecloth provided the inspiration. She mentioned its beauty and how she loved flowers, roses in particular. Mr. Lyons then began talking about his rose garden. She said she’d like to see it and asked if he would be entering some of his blooms in the community garden show in June. He’d been approached about it, but hadn’t seriously considered it. He might, however. The remainder of the tea passed very comfortably.
Mr. Lyons motioned to the waiter and after paying the bill, looked at his watch. “We should be nearing our destination. Are you ready to return to our seats?”
“Yes, this tea has been lovely, I will treasure the memory. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.”
They both rose, and when she turned to the door and the car jerked on the rails, Mr. Lyons immediately took her arm. She glanced up gratefully. He smiled back and continued to hold her arm as they made their way back to their places. They were seated only a short while before the conductor announced their station.
Standing in line to climb down the steps to the station platform, Mr. Lyons insisted, “Let me precede you, Miss Thatcher.” On the platform he put down his case and her valise, then stepped up to take her arm, grasping her gloved hand to ease her down.
“Thank you, Mr. Lyons.”
“No trouble at all.”
“Celia!” Mrs. Chestley ran out the station door. She flung her arms around the girl.
Mr. Chestley soon followed and shook Mr. Lyons’s hand. “Did the framing go all right?” At Mr. Lyons’s assent, he added, “I’m surprised you ended on the same train as Celia. How fortunate.”
As they entered the station through the double doors, Celia saw a familiar face staring at them. “Hello, Miss Waul.”
“Hello. I take it you had a nice time home for Christmas. I’m here to collect a parcel for Mrs. Divers.”
Celia couldn’t help glancing at Mr. Lyons. He nodded courteously at his neighbor, but his lips pressed together.
11
Mrs. Divers looked up as Miss Waul rushed into the room. “My! I haven’t seen you hurry like this in a long time. Are you suddenly getting younger?”
“A spurt of energy.” Miss Waul huffed. She handed Mrs. Divers a package, then sat down in the armchair opposite. “You’ll never believe who I saw at the train station.”
“I’m all ears. It’s been so quiet around here with you gone, to say nothing of our neighbor’s absence.” Mrs. Divers sat back in her easy chair, but something in her companion’s expression made her ask, “It’s not about him, is it? Hasn’t gone off and died and brought us relief?”
“Oh no, he’s very much alive. I saw him step off the train just minutes ago.” Miss Waul’s eyes were unusually keen. “Can you guess who was with him?”
“Well now, how would I know that?” Mrs. Divers couldn’t help feeling exasperated. She didn’t like guessing games. “I don’t keep up with all his acquaintances, if he has that many. You know I don’t get around town like I used to. That’s why I sit looking out my window, to see what’s passing by.”
“If you won’t give us a little fun and guess, I’ll just have to come right out and tell you. It was,” Miss Waul paused for added drama, “Miss Thatcher.”
“Miss Thatcher!” Mrs. Divers sat up in her chair, frowning. “You mean they were with each other?”
“Well, he helped her off the train. Took her arm and hand all cozy-like. I can tell you, it was more than a friendly hand down. It seemed . . . well . . . intimate.”
“So, you think they had been sitting and talking with each other? They couldn’t have been traveling together.”
“I don’t know, all I’m telling is what I saw.”
“Let’s see now.” Mrs. Divers figured the possibilities. “Why was he on that train? It was Christmas. Where does that line go?”
“Boston, I think. Yes, that line goes to Boston. His mother lives there, don’t you remember?”
“Of course, I remember. I also remember how she looked me over the first time we met, and remember her so stiff-like at the wedding, all Boston Brahmin-like.” Mrs. Divers harrumphed. “But back to the train—does Miss Thatcher live on the line to Boston? Did she go away for Christmas?”
Miss Waul sniffed. “Well, she must, don’t you think? What else would she be doing?”
“Of course, she must have been visiting her family. Any other thought would be most unkind, and unlikely. But Miss Waul, we must find out more. How could Miss Thatcher be thrown in his way like that? All that man deserves is a greeting in the bookstore. That’s all!” Mrs. Divers’s index finger tapped hard on the stuffed arm of her chair. “If it’s more, we must do something.”
“But what?”
“Well, get us some tea, and we’ll talk about it.”
The nip in the air invigorated Celia. Mr. Chestley had encouraged her to take a short, brisk walk during lunchtime. All morning she’d worked hard to change the displays in the bookstore, freshening them up for the new year.
Last night’s conversation with the Chestleys had gone past their usual bedtime. How hungry they’d been to hear news of her family. They laughed together as she told them they might not have recognized her, playing in the snow like a child. Midway through her visit, a storm had brought a big snowfall and she couldn’t resist getting out in it. That last afternoon she sledded down the hill at Grandma’s with her brothers and sister and felt the fun of being a young girl again—and she at twenty! Her two brothers ganged up on her, smothering her face with cold, loosely bound snowballs. When younger, she would have yelped at being bested. Now, her cry was pure joy at being teased by very dear brothers. She had missed them more than she realized.
As she walked along, she felt something sweet, yet melancholy, deep inside. Often on a Sunday afternoon, she had this same feeling when the week’s activities had stilled. Times like this, life seemed a mixture of the happy and the pensive. S
he would wonder about her place in life—was she doing what she was supposed to?
Sharing this with the Chestleys, she was quick to assure them she wouldn’t trade her present life for anything. But it had been delightful to be home. She glanced at Mrs. Chestley and noticed a questioning gleam in her eyes.
“What is it?” Celia asked.
“I was wondering about Jack.”
“I saw quite a bit of him. He helped my brothers in one of our dastardly snowball fights. And I went to his family party where I felt as welcome as ever. There, are you satisfied?”
“My dear,” Mrs. Chestley said, her face suffused with a merry smile, “you know I like to hear of any progress with him—or with any other young man, for that matter.”
Celia approached the jewelry store. Mrs. Chestley had a decidedly romantic turn of mind. What did Celia herself think of Jack? He’d insisted on seeing her to the train with her family and said he’d come visiting. She inwardly shrugged, not sure how she felt. Well, maybe when he came to visit, when she saw him in these new surroundings, she’d know more.
Glancing inside the store, she saw Mr. Ellis hanging his newly framed print. Mr. Lyons had probably brought it over that morning. He hadn’t delivered the picture for the bookstore yet. She turned and glanced back down the street at the store, making sure no one of his description was approaching. When he brought the print, she wanted to be present.
He had been the perfect gentleman on the train. Her heart warmed at the thought. She’d felt so cared for, and he looked so distinguished. As they walked down the aisle, she saw the respectful glances from other passengers. Curious that he should be sitting in coach; she would have thought he’d be in first class. In fact, it was strange she had seen him on that train at all. But then he said he’d visited his mother in Boston, and it was reasonable to return after New Year’s like she had. Well, the coincidence was all to her good. What an absolutely delightful tea he had treated her to. She had felt like a princess—no, that showed her girlishness. But she had felt like someone very much valued.
