Chapter 7
Florence Mills had never spent so long with a stranger as she had with Mrs. Kendall in the four days since Chicago.
The other woman had appeared in her carriage on the first morning out, a quiet, polite woman in a traveling coat that had seen weather, with a husband in another carriage who never showed his face.
Mrs. Kendall had taken the seat opposite Florence without asking, and she had said good morning, and after a hesitation Florence had said it back.
By the second day they had spoken of weather and of cousins and of the price of tea.
By the third day they had spoken of God, in the careful way two women spoke of God when they had only just met, and were each waiting to see whether the other took such matters as seriously as they should.
By the evening of the third day, in a sentence Florence afterwards could not exactly remember, they had begun to speak of right and wrong.
That conversation Florence remembered.
She had said, more than she had meant to say, about being a woman in a house where the men did things she could not abide and could not report.
She had not given names. She had said only that one could love people and not love what they did.
Mrs. Kendall had listened. When Florence had finished and looked down at her gloves, Mrs. Kendall had said, "I think you've thought about it more honestly than most people I've met. "
Florence had not known what to do with that. She had folded her gloves and folded them again, and laughed once, and said, "I haven't done anything about it."
"You've left. That's something."
"Is it?"
"I think so."
Now it was the fourth morning, and the train was slowing into a junction, and Mrs. Kendall was crossing the carriage toward her with a canvas bag in her hand and a careful look on her face.
A man who might be her husband stood in the doorway at the back of the car behind her, with his hat in his hand.
The brakes hissed under the floor. Outside the window a square of dusty wooden platform slid past and then steadied. A bell rang somewhere up the line.
"Miss Mills."
"Mrs. Kendall."
"I have an awkward favor to ask."
“Go ahead."
Mrs. Kendall didn't sit. She held the bag in front of her in both hands, the way a person held a basket. It was a plain valise, scuffed at the corners, fastened with two leather buckles.
"My husband and I have to step off the train here for a few minutes. We'll be coming back. I don't want to carry this bag through what we have to do. It would be safer with someone we trust. I wondered if you might look after it?”
Florence looked at the bag and then at Mrs. Kendall's face. It was a kind face, and a tired one.
"Of course," she said.
"You're sure?”
"Yes."
"Bless you."
She set the bag at Florence's feet. It was heavier than it looked. The corner pressed into the side of her ankle.
The bell rang again.
Mrs. Kendall hesitated. She bent and put her hand briefly over Florence's. Through the thin glove her fingers were cold as coin.
"You're a good woman, Miss Mills."
"Florence."
"Florence."
"I'll keep it safe."
"I know you will."
She straightened. Then went to join her husband in teh doorway, and the two of them disembarked.
Florence was a little surprised, because she’d been under the impression that this was a short stop.
Not long enough to tend to any business then return to the train.
But she didn’t believe that Mrs. Kendall was mistaken.
She didn’t seem like the sort of woman who made those kinds of mistakes.
She watched them step down. Mr. Kendall stepped off first and turned his shoulder to the far end of the platform. Mrs. Kendall paused, looked up, found her, and lifted a hand. The hand stayed up as the whistle blew and the platform began to slide.
The platform slid away. The town slid away. The pines came up at the window.
Florence sat. The bag at her feet did not move. She didn’t move.
She sat with her hands in her lap and listened to her pulse in her ears, and watched the pines. Then she bent and lifted the bag onto her knees, and undid the two buckles. She didn't pull the canvas wide. She opened it only the width of her hand and looked in.
It was money. Money and gold. Bricks of gold.
There was a folded letter on top of the bricks. She slid it out. The hand was small and even.
Mrs. Mills — Florence, if I may —
She read it twice, sitting upright, with the bag on her lap and her hand over her mouth.
We came by this bag by accident. It has no owner anymore. We don’t want it, but we believe that you can and will use it for the right thing, whatever that may be.
She lowered the letter. The pines rushed past the window. The carriage rocked.
She thought, very clearly… this is stolen.
She thought, after that… and now I'm the one carrying it.
She refolded the letter. She tucked it inside the buckle.
She set the bag on the floor between her feet, where it would not be seen.
She put her gloves back on with hands that did not feel like her own.
The carriage rocked. The man waiting for her in Prosperity had no notion of what was sitting at her feet.
The pines turned to scrub, and the scrub to long brown grass, and somebody else's secret sat balanced against her ankles.