even to boil water.
The hall was heady with the scent of hothouse flowers and a cacophony of competing perfumes. Rachelâs head swam with the horrible sweetness of it. No time to waste on ifs and might have beens; the train wouldnât wait for her.
There wasnât much to pack in her own little room, only a few skirts and shirtwaists, a handful of books, a hat that had the claim of being a âParis hatâ only by its origin, but not any pretense to style. It all fit in the one carpetbag, a hand-me-down from the vicar.
And then, good-byes.
Anne-Marie, all big brown eyes. âWhy are you leaving us?â In French, but it was no time to enforce English, just time to enfold her in a quick hug.
âBecause she doesnât like you.â Albertine jeered very effectively, but there was something in her voice, so young beneath the scorn, that made Rachel wish she had tried harder with her, had had more time. It wasnât Albertineâs fault that she was so very like her mother.
Rachel tried to put it as simply as she could. âMy mother is very ill. She needs me at home.â
âBut we need you,â said Amelie. She thought a moment. âSophie will miss you.â
Oh, Sophie. Sophie was full of pronouncements. Rachel would miss Sophie. She would miss all of them.
Perhaps, once her mother was on the road to recoveryâ
Rachel squelched that thought. The countess wouldnât take her back. And, even if she did, Rachel had learned, two families ago, that it didnât do to get too attached. Amelie might nestle close to her now, but in another few years, she would be ready to put up her hair and let down her skirts, and Rachel would be on her way to another family, carpetbag in hand.
She might live with them, teach them, even come to care for them, but they werenât her family.
The only family she had was her mother.
By dint of shamelessly lying to the chauffeur, telling him madame had authorized her use of the car, Rachel made it to the station in time for an eleven fifteen train to Paris. The train lurched and swayed; it was deathly cold in the car, the windows so fogged with her breath that she couldnât see out. Outside, she knew, the trees were starting to sprout their first green buds, but she could see none of that, only the ghostly reflection of her own face, her unfashionable hat drawn low around her ears to keep out the chill, her cheekbones too high, her mouth too wide, her hair dark against her pale face.
There was nothing remarkable in that face, just another nursery governess, another woman in a shabby skirt, clutching a carpetbag on her lap. Nothing remarkable except to her mother, who loved her.
On and on through the darkness the train went, the rhythm of the wheels, the puff of the engines, a steady backdrop to her anxiety. Slow, slow, so painfully, horribly slow.
Once, once upon a time, so very long ago, there had been three of them. Rachel could just remember those halcyon days. It couldnât have been summer always, but that was how she remembered it. They had lived in a little house with a garden, and if her father was frequently away, he always came back again, sweeping her up into his arms and spinning her about while Rachel squealed and clutched at his coat.
Until that last time, when he hadnât come back at all.
He had died somewhere, far, far away. He had been a botanist, her father. Something to do with rare plants, or at least that was what her mother had told her. He had fallen ill on one of his collecting trips, in a far-flung country that was just a little spot on the globe, dead of tropical fever.
Sometimes, when she was young, Rachel used to look at those specks in the vast blue of the atlas, specks with names like Martinique and St. Lucia, St. Croix and Mustique, and would wonder on which of them her father was buried. She had, as girls did, spun fancies for herself. Her father wasnât dead at all, just missing. He
The hall was heady with the scent of hothouse flowers and a cacophony of competing perfumes. Rachelâs head swam with the horrible sweetness of it. No time to waste on ifs and might have beens; the train wouldnât wait for her.
There wasnât much to pack in her own little room, only a few skirts and shirtwaists, a handful of books, a hat that had the claim of being a âParis hatâ only by its origin, but not any pretense to style. It all fit in the one carpetbag, a hand-me-down from the vicar.
And then, good-byes.
Anne-Marie, all big brown eyes. âWhy are you leaving us?â In French, but it was no time to enforce English, just time to enfold her in a quick hug.
âBecause she doesnât like you.â Albertine jeered very effectively, but there was something in her voice, so young beneath the scorn, that made Rachel wish she had tried harder with her, had had more time. It wasnât Albertineâs fault that she was so very like her mother.
Rachel tried to put it as simply as she could. âMy mother is very ill. She needs me at home.â
âBut we need you,â said Amelie. She thought a moment. âSophie will miss you.â
Oh, Sophie. Sophie was full of pronouncements. Rachel would miss Sophie. She would miss all of them.
Perhaps, once her mother was on the road to recoveryâ
Rachel squelched that thought. The countess wouldnât take her back. And, even if she did, Rachel had learned, two families ago, that it didnât do to get too attached. Amelie might nestle close to her now, but in another few years, she would be ready to put up her hair and let down her skirts, and Rachel would be on her way to another family, carpetbag in hand.
She might live with them, teach them, even come to care for them, but they werenât her family.
The only family she had was her mother.
By dint of shamelessly lying to the chauffeur, telling him madame had authorized her use of the car, Rachel made it to the station in time for an eleven fifteen train to Paris. The train lurched and swayed; it was deathly cold in the car, the windows so fogged with her breath that she couldnât see out. Outside, she knew, the trees were starting to sprout their first green buds, but she could see none of that, only the ghostly reflection of her own face, her unfashionable hat drawn low around her ears to keep out the chill, her cheekbones too high, her mouth too wide, her hair dark against her pale face.
There was nothing remarkable in that face, just another nursery governess, another woman in a shabby skirt, clutching a carpetbag on her lap. Nothing remarkable except to her mother, who loved her.
On and on through the darkness the train went, the rhythm of the wheels, the puff of the engines, a steady backdrop to her anxiety. Slow, slow, so painfully, horribly slow.
Once, once upon a time, so very long ago, there had been three of them. Rachel could just remember those halcyon days. It couldnât have been summer always, but that was how she remembered it. They had lived in a little house with a garden, and if her father was frequently away, he always came back again, sweeping her up into his arms and spinning her about while Rachel squealed and clutched at his coat.
Until that last time, when he hadnât come back at all.
He had died somewhere, far, far away. He had been a botanist, her father. Something to do with rare plants, or at least that was what her mother had told her. He had fallen ill on one of his collecting trips, in a far-flung country that was just a little spot on the globe, dead of tropical fever.
Sometimes, when she was young, Rachel used to look at those specks in the vast blue of the atlas, specks with names like Martinique and St. Lucia, St. Croix and Mustique, and would wonder on which of them her father was buried. She had, as girls did, spun fancies for herself. Her father wasnât dead at all, just missing. He
Similar Books
Travellers #1
Jack Lasenby
est
Adelaide Bry
Hollow Space
Belladonna Bordeaux
Black Skies
Leo J. Maloney
CALL MAMA
Terry H. Watson
Curse of the Ancients
Matt de la Pena
The Rival Queens
Nancy Goldstone
Killer Smile
Lisa Scottoline
Succession of Witches
Karen Mead