3. Chapter 3
Simon
Simon Balfour despises being enclosed. His soul is big and loud and bursting for release.
Yet he sprawls out in the dark against steamer trunks and bags as the baggage car rocks and sways.
That terrible tightness eases in his chest. Exeter is behind him, and no policeman would bother to hunt for him in faraway St. Ives.
He sinks down into the shadows, shaking with exhaustion.
Yet now he’s part of some madcap scheme.
What in all heaven had made him say yes?
A beautiful face.
No, a compelling one. There’s an urgency about this woman, the sense of a pleasant cyclone sweeping up everyone nearby and enticing them into her designs.
And that name on her lips—Silas Snow.
How could she have even known that name? Simon grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. He won’t answer any of her questions. Not yet. He’ll let the dinner unfold and see what this woman is about—and what cause she has to search out a vagrant from Exeter.
The brakeman has abandoned his little desk in the rear of the car, so Simon is hemmed in alone, the space cluttered with luggage and only one high window to grant him light.
But that light is sufficient for sketching.
Fumbling about for scraps of dropped charcoal, Simon unleashes a restless, frantic energy upon the loose butcher paper lying about, imposing order upon the images bombarding his mind—images of snow falling upon broken men, police officers…
and a vibrant figure in a long cape. He draws to keep his hands from shaking—lines, crosshatches, shading—until the chaos under the bridge shrinks to something he can master.
Permanence always eluded Simon Balfour. Drawings, however, are a lasting record of fleeting moments.
In stark images he continues the scene under the bridge and adds a wonderful bright spot in the chaos—snow swirling around a lovely velvet cape.
It soon dominates the entire image, and the figure glows as something celestial. An avenging, rescuing angel.
He closes his eyes, hand splayed over the dusty paper, and forces a long, deep breath. She’s not given him one reason to trust her. So he won’t.
Metal tumblers rumble and a door bangs open, fresh evening air whipping through the stuffy car.
He springs to his feet, crouching behind steamer trunks.
A figure is silhouetted in the doorway—the full-color manifestation of his drawing, with her long red cape and white trim framing a face that resembles the glow of a candle flame.
That cape furls around her until she slams the door shut and the car falls dark again.
Embarrassed, he kicks his sketch between two crates.
“At last, I’ve found you,” she says in that lovely melodic tone. It’s sultry and straightforward rather than the high and tight voices to which he’s accustomed from ladies. It slides beneath his defenses, stirring everything that has lain dormant for months.
Her boots tap toward him, and there’s a rustling as she perches somewhere nearby and releases a long sigh.
Velvet brushes his skin and he flinches, pulling back soot-smeared hands.
She doesn’t ask why he’s alone in the luggage car, rather than in third class where she left him.
She must have heard—or guessed—at the humiliation that drove him here, the moment he deigned to sit beside ordinary working-class folk.
“You had every right to stay in that car, you know,” she says.
“This one stops at all the same stations.”
“You’re in the dark.”
“Which I happen to prefer.”
She’s silent for a moment. Her profile is much softer and lovelier now, a silhouette with loose wispy waves escaping the hair pinned back and a remarkably luscious mouth.
Her nose is what catches his notice, though—petite and well formed, it flares at the slightest provocation.
She’s an advocate of some sort who never shies away from a fight, for he can tell it flares often.
The car lurches, and she braces.
“No need to torture yourself,” he says at last. “The dark isn’t for everyone.” He feels the need to let his tense muscles unspool. He cannot do that with her here.
Her boot heels click across the car again, then a match is struck and warm lamplight glows, casting shadows over the trunks. She returns, haloed in light. “I’ve come to bring you this. Kindly put it on when I go.” Something soft drops in front of him—clothing. The material is rough wool.
He despises wool. “Why?”
“Because it’s a great deal better than what you have now.”
“Not if it’s itchy.”
“With these, you may sit in a passenger car. With people.”
He runs a hand over the offering, his cracked skin catching on the fabric. “Thank you.” Dare he sully these perfectly clean garments with his unwashed self?
“I’ll fetch you finer things when we reach Dunn House.”
“No. That isn’t necess—”
“Yes. It is.” She twists to face him, nostrils flared. He will not win this argument. “We’ll need your measurements. A comb and a nice pair of shoes wouldn’t be unreasonable, either.”
Heat rolls up beneath his layers of clothing. “I’ll dine in the kitchen with the staff. And keep my own things.”
“I’ll not hear of it. You are my guest, and I’ll make certain you’re welcome at our table.” Her eyes demand it of him.
He tugs at his dirty collar. “I’m not one for small spaces.” Or strangers.
He cannot risk it.
She laughs. “There’s nothing small about Dunn House, Mr…”
“Balfour. Simon Balfour.” His heart thumps. This will be the end of him, won’t it? “Your description is far from enticing.”
Her gloved hand finds his in the shadows and her fingertips slip into its rough contours. “Mr. Balfour. I’m Rosalyn Snow.”
He sits up. Snow?
A relation of Silas Snow?
She takes a breath. “I’ll ask you again, Mr. Balfour. Do you know where Silas Snow is?”
He closes his eyes for a moment. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”
“But you do know him.”
“I won’t be of any use to you, Miss Snow.” He feels about for his rucksack. “I’ll be stepping off at Plymouth.” There must be someplace he could sleep there, as well as in Exeter. And she’d taken him away from that place, if nothing else, into blessed obscurity.
She studies his face, deciding something. “Do you like the sea, Mr. Balfour?”
A foolish, childlike delight stirs and he shifts his legs. “More than I can say,” he manages with a gravelly voice.
She smiles. “Then I’ve just the place for you. An escape if the house proves too much at times. It’s a lovely cottage, and you’ll be on friendly terms with the sea.”
His face relaxes into a smile and he closes his eyes, feeling the misty spray on his skin already. Perhaps this trip won’t be complete torture. “Just for a night, then.”
She falls silent and his eyes flick open.
There’s more she wishes to say. From the expression twisting her features, he won’t like it.
“I shall see that a bath is made available for you. I hope you will… avail yourself of it. And of the clothing.” Her lower lip twitches, then she bites it.
“I could have the bath warmed. But you’d have to come to the house for that, and... ”
And she’d rather he didn’t. Not before the bath. “I’ve been clean before. Sorry to say, it didn’t last.”
She blinks at him. “Certainly you’re not refusing—”
“The bath, I’ll accept. The clothing… no.”
She shoots him a look. “You would never dare present yourself at dinner in such a manner in a respectable house.”
“You overestimate my vanity.”
She catches that lower lip between her teeth again.
“I’ll have a look at least.”
“Wonderful.” She lets out her breath in a quick puff. “I’ll have everything sent out with the straight razor and shears, if you’re not opposed. I presume you know how to—”
“No. The beard stays.”
“You cannot come to any dinner in a respectable house in that.”
“Can’t I?” He grins wickedly. Suddenly the air shifts. The aroma of challenge has been waved beneath his nose.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“What I wouldn’t dare is accept charity.”
“A gift! Yes, I shall give you a gift of clothing, so then it isn’t charity at all. It’s nearly Christmas, you know.”
He shifts, restless. Grief has dulled everything for months, but now she’s come and the world has edges again. She’s sparking him awake when he’d rather not be.
“I shall have the tailor sent ’round after your bath and shave. A haircut is in order as well, I believe, and the rest can wait until after the house party. I do hope this shall be a memorable holiday for you, Mr. Balfour.”
He stiffens. “House party?”
“It’s Christmas, Mr. Balfour. Of course it’s a house party, and you are to be one of the guests.”
Dread solidifies around his chest. “I must ask one favor of you, Miss Snow.”
She huffs. “Besides the new clothing, the bath, and the dinner?”
He straightens against the steamer trunks. “I’m afraid I’ll need a look at the guest list.”