Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Henry and I make our way to the dining car for breakfast. When we arrive, most of the other travelers are already eating their meals.
Henry nods curtly to Antoine and the other gentleman, while I give a friendly smile to Helen.
As we reach our table, Henry pushes out the dining chair for me, then takes his seat across from me.
The morning sunlight streams through the windows as the train chugs through the northeast of France. Open grassy fields glisten with dew, farm animals wander lazily, and small stone villages dot the hillside. A picturesque view of the peaceful French countryside.
Helen leans across the gap between our tables. “I love your dress. It looks wonderful on you.”
“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind of you to say,” I reply, sipping on a cup of hot tea.
“After breakfast, everyone usually gathers in the lounge room,” Helen continues. “They have a chessboard, a gramophone, and a small library of books. They serve tea and?—”
“—scones. They are called scones, Helen,” Antoine interrupts without looking up from his newspaper.
Helen glances at him blankly. “Yes, thank you, dear. Scones.” She turns back to me with a smile. “If you’re feeling up to it, of course. You don’t have to accompany, but I wanted to let you know since you’re the newcomers onboard.”
“Thank you for telling us. We certainly wouldn’t have known and wouldn’t have wanted to offend any of you with our absence. We will be there,” I assure her, matching her smile.
“Wonderful,” she says, leaning back as we start our breakfast.
Benecio comes to our table with a tray filled with food and drinks. He places a toast rack of four perfectly toasted slices of bread, a small jar of strawberry jam, and pre-cut squares of butter on the table, followed by our own hot kettle of tea.
“Is there anything else you’d like?” Benecio asks. “The chef has boiled eggs, porridge, fried potatoes, fruits, cheeses, and can make you a plate of a full English breakfast if you’d like.”
Henry smirks instantly once he hears the latter. “I’d love a full English breakfast if the chef can make one.” Then turns his face to me. “And for you, dear?”
“Porridge and fruit would be lovely. Thank you.”
Benecio smiles. “It is our pleasure, Mr. & Mrs. Abbott. Your meal will be out shortly.”
“Would you like more tea?” Henry asks when Benecio leaves for the kitchen, refilling his empty cup.
I nod. “Yes, please.”
Wondering how a wife should act in public, I sneak my gaze over to Helen, discreetly observing her.
But what I see saddens me. Helen sits quietly, eating her plate of fruit with her face downcast, not saying a single word to Antoine.
Her husband, on the other hand, reads the newspaper eagerly while finishing his cup of espresso, and crumbs of a croissant are left on the plate in front of him. Not once does he look up at his wife.
I may not understand the intricacies of marriage, but I can piece together what I want mine to look like.
I bring my gaze back to Henry, giving him a bright smile. “How did you sleep, dear?”
Once we’ve finished breakfast, we join the other passengers in the lounge. As soon as we enter the car, Antoine makes his way right over to us.
“Oh, Mr. Abbott, if you have some spare time, I’d like to ask some questions,” he says in his heavy French accent. “You see, I’m a novelist, and I’m writing my next book set in the English countryside and would like to run by some details with you for research.”
Henry peers down at me, raising an eyebrow.
I give him a slight nod, letting him know I’ll be okay on my own. We will still be in the same room together after all.
“I’d be happy to help you, Antoine.”
“Magnifique! We can sit over here on the settee.” He gestures to the red lounger by the window, where a half-empty cup of coffee and a lit cigarette rest on a tea saucer on the tea table. A sprawl of loose papers is spread across the settee’s cushion, filled with Antoine’s notes.
Henry places a hand lightly on my shoulder, then plants a soft kiss on my temple. “This will only take a few moments, dear,” then follows Antoine.
While I’m left alone by the entryway, clutching my journal and Sense and Sensibility, I glance around the lounge for a place I can sit.
Finding an unoccupied brown leather lounge chair in a quiet corner, I sit upright and cross-legged at my ankles.
I pretend to read the novel, when in fact, my eyes are on the journal.
I need to use every spare moment to become as knowledgeable as I can about the artifacts.
For nearly an hour, I’ve been silently analyzing and notating my theories until I feel someone settle into the chair beside me. Peering over the top edge of my book, I see Helen, her bright American grin lighting up her face.
“I love her work,” she says, tapping her pointer finger on the edge of my book.
Slowly, I tilt the book to my chest, hiding the journal away from her sight, hoping she hasn’t caught a glimpse.
It takes a second to brush aside my irritation at her disruption and force a friendly smile. “Do you have a favorite?” I ask, knowing Georgina would entertain her company.
“Emma. No doubt. It’s easily her best work,” she says without hesitation.
“Have you read this one?” I ask, gesturing to the book in my hand.
She nods. “Oh, yes. I’ve read all her novels, in fact.”
I hide the surprise on my face. I wasn’t aware that Americans were familiar with her work, but nonetheless love it as much as we do across the pond. I’m impressed with Helen, as not many have read Austen’s complete works. Up until now, I was the only one I knew who had.
“She had a way of describing what it’s like to be a woman that makes us all feel seen, even though it was written such a long time ago,” Helen adds. “Which one is your favorite?”
“Hmm…I’d have to say either Persuasion or Pride and Prejudice. I don’t think I could possibly pick only one. She was a bit brave to critique society in the way she did.”
Helen smirks. “A rebel, I’d say. I think she would’ve loved to live in our time. The freedoms we’re getting, the way women are loudly expressing themselves, becoming more independent. It’s a shame that some are born much earlier than they were destined to be.”
“It is a shame indeed. But I suppose there needs to be some outliers. How else is society going to change and evolve if we all think alike?”
Helen grins, resting an elbow on the armrest. “I like you, Georgina. You’d make a great American, you know?”
A hearty laugh escapes me. “I suppose I would.”
For a moment, I forgot I’m speaking as Georgina, knowing very well I’ve been chatting with Helen as Clara.
“Have you thought about names?” Helen asks, focusing on my torso.
I nod eagerly. “We decided on William for a boy and Evelyn for a girl.”
Helen’s hand rushes to her mouth, covering her excitement. “Those are lovely! They’re both classic. And their pronunciations with an English accent make them sound so elegant and suave, like royalty.” She nods, smirking. “Those are good choices. I approve.”
Her eyes drift away, glancing between Antoine and Henry, then finally rest back on me. “How long have you two been married?”
I glance at Henry, and a smile forms on my face. The way he is interacting with Antoine reminds me of how he was during our expedition: engaging, attentive, and enthusiastic.
I sense he is genuinely helping Antoine with his book. Even when he is pretending to be someone else, he can’t quite forgo the parts of him that make him, well, him.
“We got married last year,” I answer, looking back at her. “We met half a year before then.”
Helen looks between both of us, a longing expression resting on her face.
“He loves you, you know.” She rests her chin on her hand.
“I can see it in the way he looks at you when you aren’t looking, with such adoration and astonishment.
It’s like he can’t believe that you’re his, and he is yours.
It was love at first sight, wasn’t it?” A dreamy sigh escapes her as she gazes at me in wonder.
“I…uh,” I stammer, blindsided by what she said.
I know we’re convincing everyone we’re a happy young couple in love, but I didn’t think we were selling it that well—just enough where no one could question it. What does she mean by the way he looks at me? Why would Henry be staring at me? And for it to occur often enough that Helen noticed.
“Yes…” I finally say. “It was love at first sight. We met at a horse race in Cheshire.”
It takes me a while to process her observations, my mind still clinging to the fact that Henry watches me. It must be to keep an eye on me, right? What else could it be?
I shake my head, chastising myself for letting the comment get under my skin. It could only mean one thing: he’s acting the part at all times, convincingly enough that Helen believes we’re newlyweds in love.
My mind goes back to Helen, and the longing in her voice that I could not mistake, wondering what her relationship with Antoine is like. As interesting a pair as they are, I’m utterly intrigued to know what their story is. “What about you and Antoine? Was it also love at first sight?”
Helen sighs, her eyes resting on Antoine.
“It was at first…” She pauses. “I was young when I left my small hometown in Illinois to pursue my dream of becoming a professional ballerina in New York—dancing on a big stage. I soon realized that despite one’s talent and perseverance, it would never be enough, which is how I ended up as a dancer in a speakeasy downtown.
I knew it was dangerous to sneak around and dance at an illegal bar, but it was at that bar that I met Antoine.
As I was dancing on stage with the other gals, I noticed the most handsome and charming man I’d ever seen, being mesmerized by me. ”
With a sigh, Helen places her head in her hand. Her eyes looked forlornly out the window, recalling memories she cherishes dearly.