Macha’s warning about the two men wasn’t on my list of priorities. Anne Gibson could not sit back in fear, waiting for them to materialize like the shadows haunting her every waking moment. I had a life to live, such as it may be. I continued to work for Mr. Gadot, saving my money until I had enough for a train ticket.
To St. Louis.
I was lonely and wanted to see Eileen.
My aunt had kindly informed me should I set foot in her quaint neighborhood, that I would not be welcome. I had not seen my sister in over two years and was determined to see how much influence my aunt wielded over her behavior.
Of late, Eileen’s letters were short and full of petty criticisms that dug in like bits of broken glass and festered under my skin. Uncertain of what to do, I asked Mr. Gadot for his advice. He was in the stockroom, as usual, up to his little arms in Hellenic poetry. “I didn’t know you had a sister,” he said, almost as if hurt I hadn’t confided in him. “How old is she?”
“Ten and a half,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears. “I thought since I’m going to have some time this summer, that it would be a perfect opportunity to visit before my aunt takes her back to Cape Cod.”
He wiped his hands on an old rag. “You certainly don’t need my permission.”
“But I wanted your counsel,” I said, helping him with a stack of religious texts. “It would only be for a day or two. My aunt hates me.”
“Does she now?”
I nodded, wandering over to a bookshelf that needed the swipe of my dust rag. I ran to fetch it from the counter, glancing up in annoyance when Mr. Powell waltzed in. I rolled my eyes and dashed back. “Mr. Powell is here,” I announced sullenly. “As I was saying—”
“Why does your aunt hate you?”
“Er… it’s a long story.” I dusted as I explained my dilemma. “My mother’s family resented my father. And since I most resemble him, they see fit to punish me in his stead.”
Mr. Gadot frowned. “That’s not fair to you, Anne.”
“It’s fine. Really. I just don’t know if the expense of a train ticket is worth it. She could very well slam the door in my face.”
“I say go and let the old bat have what for,” Mr. Powell intoned from the doorway. Groaning inwardly, I turned my back on him, concentrating on removing some sort of stain from the bookshelf.
Mr. Gadot found our lack of cordiality troubling, not to mention disturbing. “What do you think, Mr. Powell? I really don’t like the thought of Anne traveling on her own.”
Mr. Powell—I cared little for his first name—sauntered into the room as if he owned the place. Two weeks into his job as Mr. Gadot’s personal attack dog, we had barely spoken three words to each other. I loathed the man. Despised, to put it mildly. He was as arrogant as he was haughty, spewing such nonsense about his wealthy family that I wanted no part of him. He obviously felt the same, if his scornful gaze was any indication.
“St. Louis, eh?” He nodded. “I have some business to attend to. Next week, in fact. I could accompany Miss Gibson and make sure she leaves the train station… unscathed.”
My hackles rose as I struggled to contain myself. A proper lady would have gladly accepted his offer with a polite nod and tepid smile. But I was Anne, and I did not need a nursemaid to wipe the drool off my chin. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Powell,” I forced myself to grate through clenched teeth. “But I am used to traveling alone.”
“Nonsense!” Mr. Gadot cried. “Jonathan will escort you to St. Louis.” He dangled a carrot in front of me. “I will pay all expenses and should you decide to stay for a few days, your accommodations as well.”
“Oh, but—”
Mr. Gadot clapped his hands. “Then it’s settled.” He looked at me, either ignoring my distress or oblivious to the fact I was seething. “When do you wish to leave, Anne?”
“Why, I don’t know,” I muttered, shooting off daggers in Mr. Powell’s general direction. “I was thinking about Friday. Catch my sister at home.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Gadot turned his back to me. “Jon, will you help me with these?”
Mr. Powell edged me out of the way, a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Excuse me.”
“Excuse yourself!” I hissed just loud enough for him to hear. “You insufferable—”
“Anne!” Mr. Gadot cried sternly. “Please finish dusting the counter. Then tally up today’s sales.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hating Mr. Powell with all my heart, I trudged out to the counter, determined to let no man lord it over me. Who did he think he was? I took out my anger on the counter and spent all day filling out the sales ledger. I had never felt so violated. To have my right of choice ripped from me was something Anjuli knew all too well.
* * *
Macha once told me anger can invite angry spirits into your home. I did not heed her warning, and the nightmares soon returned with a vengeance. Even though I had the sari under lock and key, it did not prevent the dark images from permeating my dreams. I dreamed of others who shared Anjuli’s fate. Of murder victims and women with their throats slashed. I dreamed of babies drowning and settlers brutally attacked on the plains.
One such dream left me so shaken the next day I could barely hold a pencil.
I was so sleep-deprived, I nodded off at the counter. Mr. Powell suggested I drink a cup of coffee. “When I want your opinion, I shall ask for it!” I snapped, breaking the pencil in the process. He arched a mocking brow.
“Have you packed for our trip?”
“It is my trip, not yours!” I corrected him sharply. “And you will kindly refrain from insinuating yourself into my personal space.”
“Indeed?”
“I assume we will be sharing a compartment.”
“First-class,” he informed me crisply. “Unless you’d like to travel with the baggage.” He eyed me up and down as if to surmise my weight. “It might be cheaper that way.”
“Why you—”
“Miss Gibson,” he said as though he were addressing a wayward child. “We are traveling companions, nothing more. I do have business to attend to. Once we part ways on the platform, you are on your own.”
“Promise?”
His blue eyes flashed. “You do not like me,” he stated bluntly. “That’s fine. I am not exactly fond of you myself.”
“That’s a blessing.”
With his mustache twitching, I was left to finish totaling receipts.
* * *
On the day I was to leave, I had misgivings about leaving the trunk. I had confided to Mr. Perez that it did not hold my mother’s silver. I made up an elaborate story about my grandmother and how she had once been the obsession of a Hungarian noble who entrusted her with the family jewels. “They are rumored to be cursed,” I said, nodding my head. “Hence, the leaden trunk.”
Mr. Perez crossed himself. “Then perhaps they belong in a museum.”
“The curse only affects the wearer of the jewels,” I explained, much to his relief. “Do you think they will be safe here in my absence?”
“I don’t see why not. But we can lock it away in the basement if you like.”
“That’s fine.”
So into the damp and mold-ridden basement, it went.
I rather got the impression Anjuli found the entire episode amusing.
The trunk notwithstanding, I packed a change of clothes and hopped aboard a train with the most infuriating traveling companion since Sancho Panza in Don Quixote. We shared a first-class compartment, though I would have been perfectly happy in third. Mr. Powell took his seat, and I took mine.
And that was all I could say about the journey.
We did not converse unless it was absolutely necessary, having no common interests aside from Mr. Gadot and the fact neither one of us had received our pay that month. There was some error on the part of the bank or some such nonsense. Mr. Powell could afford not to be paid.
I could not.
There was food to buy, a new pair of boots, and I had worn my petticoats until they were so transparent you could see my stockings. I was alarmed at my financial state, so much so that I accepted part-time work at the behest of Mr. Perez. It was just light housekeeping for a woman he knew, but the extra two dollars a week helped immensely.
Unsettled by the fact that I might eventually have to beg my aunt for money, I concentrated on reading a book I’d brought along. I borrowed it from the library. A book on Hindu mysticism, I also had to borrow one on Urdu just to get my bearings. I was on the second to last chapter when Mr. Powell inquired if I had ever been to India.
“No, Mr. Powell,” I replied curtly. “I have not had the pleasure.”
“Oh well, I have. Lovely country.”
“That’s nice.”
“If you ever get the chance, you must see the Taj Mahal. You know it’s a mausoleum.”
I nodded, wishing he would open the window and step out. His cologne was heavy and gave me a headache. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
“And if you get the opportunity, you must ride an elephant. Majestic creatures.”
I flipped the page, wishing I do could the same to Mr. Powell.
He sat back, his neatly clipped mustache twitching with amusement. “And you must learn the language. It’s a must.”
“I cannot afford a lesson.”
The next suggestion nearly sent me spilling onto the floor.
“If you go, you must wear a sari… a red one. It would match your coloring. And goodness knows you need the color.”
The book closed, almost by itself. I set it down beside me, my lips pressed so tightly together I was certain they were white. “What did you say to me, Mr. Powell?”
He blinked, unaware of how close he was to dying. “Why I was saying you must wear a sari if you visit the Taj Mahal. Most Westerners do not. I think it’s quite insulting not to do so if you want my humble opinion.”
“Your opinion?” I repeated softly. “Thank you for thinking of me, Mr. Powell.” I rose to my feet, suddenly possessed with an impulse to remove his oiled head. “If you will excuse me, I need to… wash my hands.”
“Wash them? Whatever for?”
“I have ink on them.”
“Oh. Well, don’t take too long. They’ll be serving supper promptly at six.”
“What are they serving?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Typical,” I sniffed, hoping I left I fine layer of dust on his shoes as my skirts brushed past. I yanked the door open, taking a deep breath once I was in the corridor. “Insufferable brute,” I muttered, so angry I wanted to claw the wallpaper to ribbons.
Lingering in the powder room far longer than was decent, I splashed water into my eyes, wishing I didn’t have to hear the condescending tone of his voice. I longed for the days of sitting at the kitchen table with my mother and Eileen. I missed my friendly verbal sparring matches with Joshua. And I missed my father most of all—his quiet reassurance needed now more than ever.
The girl in the mirror blinked back at me, her eyes red and swollen from weeping. It wouldn’t do to have Mr. Powell see I was an emotional ruin. I waited until the swelling went down before I departed, hoping in my absence his ticket had been found lacking and he was, at this very moment, being frog marched to another railcar.
On my way through the gently vibrating aisles, I did not notice an impeccably groomed gentleman eyeing me with profound interest.
It was only after my blood splattered had I wished I’d listened to Macha.
