Chapter 19 #2
“What did he say?” Henry asks before we step out into the streets of Paris.
“The Gare du Nord station has a train line that stops at Calais. The next train on that line leaves in one hour.”
“Perfect timing. We can keep moving and hopefully steer Richmond’s men away from where we’re headed.” Henry reaches for the door, gesturing for me to lead.
I couldn’t agree more.
Despite our exhaustion from all of our traveling, the sooner we reach Canterbury, the sooner we’ll be in safety. The tension and anticipation that someone could be coming for us is slowly eating away at my sanity.
Several times, I flinch when someone brushes past me, or when a car horn or traffic whistle sounds. My paranoia is drawing attention to us, exactly what we’re trying to avoid.
It takes less than twenty minutes to reach the Gare du Nord, where we find the line heading north. Sparing no chance of encountering a stranger who could be another Mr. Meier in hiding, we purchase a first-class ticket to secure our own compartment.
As soon as Henry slides the compartment door shut behind us, I sink onto the bench and lean my head against the chilly window, letting my exhausted, sore body finally relax.
The silk scarf loosens around my neck, drifting closer toward my collarbone, but I’m too bothered to fix it.
No one else will be in this compartment after all.
“It’ll take a few hours for the train to reach Calais,” I say, glancing down at my wristwatch.
Henry nods, leaning his head against the window with tired eyes.
Now that I’m sitting directly opposite him—and with his face under the sunlight—I can see the dark circles under his eyes. After all the traveling we did today, and the lack of sleep we got last night, I know he must be exhausted, as I am.
“You should get some sleep,” I advise.
Henry shakes his head. “I want to keep an eye on that door. I don’t trust whoever is on this train with us.”
His determination pulls on my heartstrings. I hope he still doesn’t blame himself for what happened last night. But from the way he’s been extra protective and cautious during our travels, I think he still is.
“I’ll stay up and keep guard on the compartment while you sleep.”
“But what about you? You need rest as well.”
This moment feels like I’m back with Grandad, fighting against Henry’s stubbornness. But knowing he will find some reason to go against this idea, I offer him the best option I can think of to make us both satisfied. I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
“How about this, for the first half of the trip, I’ll take watch of the compartment while you get some shut-eye. And for the second half, we switch places. That way, we both get some rest and can keep a watchful eye on the compartment.”
Henry must be utterly exhausted, as he nods a few seconds later, unable to find a reason to say no.
“Alright, but you promise to wake me up if you hear any trouble?”
I nod. “I promise.”
Not long after I give him my promise, does he fall soundly asleep.
And with my own strong-willed determination, I manage to stay awake during the first half of the trip with not a single person walking by our compartment.
When his time is up, I lightly wake Henry up, and am greeted by a warm, sleepy smile on his face.
As promised, we change turns, and I’m able to get two and a half hours of solid rest. I wake up to Henry’s voice whispering my name and the feeling of a hand softly jostling me.
“Clara, wake up. We will be at Calais in a few minutes.”
Our weary bodies manage to haul ourselves and our luggage off the train. The thought that we’ll dock at Dover and reach Canterbury in a few hours gives me the energy I need to keep moving.
“How far is the ferry port from here?” Henry asks as we walk along the train platform. “Can we walk, or do we need to hail a taxi?”
“I’m not certain, but let me find out.”
Further down the platform, I spot an older man, near Grandad’s age, peacefully reading a book on a bench by the station. I walk my way toward him with a smile, hoping he is willing to help us.
“Excusez-moi,” I say as I approach.
The man peers over his book with a confused look, then lowers it when he realizes I’m talking to him. “Oui?”
“Mon mari et moi devons prendre le ferry pour aller à Douvres. Le port est-il loin d’ici?”
The man nods. “Oui, le port est à cinq kilomètres. Vous ne pourrez pas y aller à pied.” The man glances down at his watch. “Il doit rester quelques taxis disponibles à cette heure-ci.”
I smile down at the man. “Merci, monsieur. Bonne soirée.”
Reaching for Henry’s arm, we make our way through the train station. “The port is too far to walk. He said there should be some taxis available for us to take.”
Wind breezes along the streets of the port city as we step outside. My skirt sways around my legs, as my hair brushes into my face. Pushing aside a lock of hair from my ear, I spot a telegraph office across the street from the station.
I nudge my head toward the building. “We should notify my father of when we should arrive at Dover.”
Henry nods and points to the two black Renault AG1 taxis by the curb. “And we shouldn’t have issues getting a cab.”
Within thirty minutes, we send out our telegram to the military base and arrive at the port of Calais. Checking the ferry schedule, I’m relieved to see that it takes several trips between Dover and Calais throughout the day, with two trips still scheduled to depart by the time we arrive.
While we wait for our ferry, Henry and I sit on a wooden bench, overlooking the choppy waters of the Channel.
The cold wind blows against my short hair, which I still haven’t adjusted to yet.
Seagulls fly overhead as children play on the beach nearby.
The warm sun breaks through the white, puffy clouds in the early evening sky.
Drowsiness weighs on my eyes, and I close them for only a few minutes.
The sound of waves crashing ashore and the scent of salty sea air lull me into a light slumber.
I dream of the English horizon, where the tall White Cliffs of Dover peek over the grey, moody storm clouds clinging to our island.
I feel the pulse of England at my fingertips, ready to drag me deep inside once I reach for it.
I miss home.
“We’ll be back soon,” Henry whispers, so close to my ear that I didn’t realize my head had fallen onto his shoulder while I was resting my eyes. Nor did I know I’d muttered aloud what I thought had been a subconscious thought.
Opening my eyes, I lift my head and give Henry an apologetic smile—for disturbing his space, and for his comforting words. “I know. It still feels very far away, though.”
“Home or the end of this whole ordeal?” Henry suggests, knowing me well enough to tell what truly unnerves me. It’s unfathomable how he can read me so easily in such little time.
Sighing, I rest my head back on his shoulder. “All of it, I suppose.”
“It feels far away now, but soon this will be all over and behind us. I promise.”
Looking out at the water, I spot our ferry approaching the docks.
I release a sigh of relief, knowing in less than two hours we’ll be back on English soil—the place I know like the back of my hand, the place that will protect us against the dangers from this frenetic journey.
I never thought I would miss—nonetheless, be thankful for—home this much.
A few weeks ago, I had been desperate to run as far away as I could.
Now, I’m running back into its welcoming arms, finding profound solace.
Soon, we embark on the ferry, and within half an hour, we are sailing across the English Channel.
As we drift across this narrow stretch of the water, the bright sun is swallowed by the voluminous, stormy clouds of the British Isles, the skylight darkening to meet the moody aura of our incoming environment.
With no minute to spare, the horizon grows foggy, and light raindrops cascade down the window glass.
Goosebumps prick my spine as I know we’re approaching home.
Our journey across the Channel takes just over two hours. We finally dock at Dover in a downpour, one of the many summer storms that sweep the coast. Henry and I, in our knackered state, make our way from the boat to the arrival gate.
At the end, I spot two men in full dark khaki military uniforms, holding large black umbrellas, being drenched by heavy rain.
They regard us quizzically as we stop short in front of them.
No doubt these are the privates my father said would take us to the military base in Canterbury, but why do they look like they aren’t expecting us?
“May we help you, ma’am?” the shorter one asks in a curt tone. He looks so young. He could still be in secondary school—a reminder of the everlasting damage the Great War left on our country, despite it ending so many years ago.
“I’m Clara Fairfax, and this is Henry Ashford,” I reply. “I believe you are the privates my father informed me would be taking us to Hullbeck Barracks.”
Once more, they regard us as if I’ve spoken in a foreign language, or worse, with two heads. Then they look at each other with shocked expressions.
“You’re Miss Fairfax?” the first private repeats incredulously. His companion glances down my body, stopping at my torso, then looks between Henry and me, confused, perplexed, or possibly scandalized.
Looking down, I realize the terrible mistake we’ve made—one we could have easily avoided if we hadn’t been so exhausted. Too focused on returning home, we didn’t stop to consider when we should forgo our disguises.
We now stand before these privates not as Clara Fairfax and Henry Ashford, but as Georgina and Edward Abbott.