With Mr. Arthur bringing up the rear, the three approached the great iron beast huffing and puffing on the tracks. Burning coal wafted through the air in swirling clouds of black, while a fog of steam, dense and moist, rolled along the ground. Behind the mammoth locomotive, a procession of railway carriages formed their own neat queue in order of social class. A portly conductor stood at the entrance of their first-class carriage and requested their tickets. Each was produced, marked, and returned. Having verified their passage, the conductor offered a hand of assistance to Mum. “Watch your step,mevrouw.”
Mum returned his offer with a smile that grew more strained and awkward with each passing second that she failed to move. She turned to Clara, softening the lines of her mouth as she whispered. “I can’t accept the man’s hand if you don’t let go of mine, ducky.”
“Hmm?” Clara’s gaze fell to her strangled grip on Mum’s glove. Oh, right. Heat from the locomotive’s billowing steam rose from her boots to her pearl-studded ears. She forced a wobbly smile at the conductor, and one by one, pried her rigid fingers from Mum’s hand. Thus liberated, Mum boarded the train with the agility and swiftness of the mountain goats she so admired.
Then the conductor extended his hand to Clara, his thick brows curving in a pair of question marks. “Ready, miss?”
Not in the slightest. Trepidation threatened to suffocate her from within, but she refused to let it win out. By might and main, she would do this thing. For Mum and for Grand.
Grasping the conductor’s hand, Clara hefted herself up the carriage’s ominous black steps. Mr. Arthur followed, and together, they proceeded down a narrow passage in single file. The interior of their designated carriage was not dissimilar to a traditional horse-drawn one. Two seats faced each other with a window situated betwixt. Each seat was upholstered with tufted velvet that matched fringe-trimmed pillows andshort curtains drawn back with tasseled cords. Yet unlike its horse-drawn counterparts, this carriage contained an inherent danger that raised more gooseflesh on her skin than even the thought of a fiery crash.
Railway madness.
Just the sort of malady a family accused of lunacy ought not to hazard.
The last few travel guides Clara had added to her library had included excerpts from medical journals, cautioning travelers against the dreaded condition. The jarring motion of a speeding train was alleged to unhinge the mind and shatter the nerves, causing violent outbursts. She recalled the accounts of sane individuals turned mad and the recommendations for avoiding such a fate. Minimizing sensory exposure was the number one advisement. As Mum made herself comfortable and Mr. Arthur situated their bags, Clara drew the curtains. There. No fast-moving landscapes to overwhelm the eye.
The clanking of iron drew her attention to a lanky, uniformed guard with a set of skeleton keys. He addressed them in Dutch, then again in English. “Good day. If you require assistance during our journey, please knock on the door. I’ll be locking it now for your privacy and safety.”
Clara gulped as the lock bolted. For their safety. Isn’t that what the Tottenham victims had been told—the ones who’d perished because they couldn’t escape their confined carriages? The train whistle blew, strident and startling, and with the ear-grating screech of iron grinding iron, the carriage lurched forward. As did her thrashing heart.
Why couldn’t they have hired a team of grays?
A pair of draught horses?
One incredibly robust mule?
Why, oh why, did Grand have to insist on the train?
Grasping a handful of velvet in either fist, Clara braced herself as the carriage rolled along the tracks. On her left,Mum reclined with gloved hands folded in her lap, and soon her head lolled against Fred on her shoulder, her snores competing with the locomotive’s percussive clickety-clacks. Sweat beaded along Clara’s temple as her right eye twitched incessantly. She ought to have brought cotton to protect Mum’s ears from the thunderous sounds. Ought to have brought something—anything—to safeguard her against harmful jolts. Was Mum’s mind even now becoming unhinged?
Prying her hands from the bench, Clara wedged a pillow on either side of Mum’s hips in a vain attempt to keep her secure. Then she reaffixed herself to the bench with whitened knuckles.
Mr. Arthur eyed her from the adjacent seat, posture annoyingly relaxed. “If I try to comfort you, will you bite my head off?”
Clara’s response came out short. “I’d never do anything so unsanitary.”
“So I’ll come to no harm if I offer you another pillow?” Mr. Arthur held up the solitary pillow on his side of the carriage.
Was he insinuating that she hadn’t done enough? That her efforts to shield her own mother were insufficient? The trembling within swelled against her chest, and her words spewed forth in a scorching flood. “I don’t want your stupid pillow. I don’t need your stupid pillow. Neither do I need your comfort or your charity. I may be forced to endure your company, Mr. Arthur, but I have no need of you. I can carry on quite well without your assistance, so please. Leave me be.” Her chest heaved, out of breath. Out of words.
Mr. Arthur’s expression remained unmoved by the torrent. “You know, Miss Stanton. There’s a drawback to spurning the assistance of others.” He propped Mum’s head with the cushion so it no longer lolled precariously, and then sat once more. “If you constantly profess to have no need, eventually people are going to believe you.”
CHAPTER
14
Fortunately, Mum survived the perilous locomotive journey to Prague without succumbing to railway madness. Unfortunately, that meant her mental faculties were well equipped to conduct a stern interrogation the morning following their arrival.
“Out with it, ducky. What did you say to Arthur?”
Holding on to a bedpost in their room at theSto VežInn, Clara stared at the butter yellow quilt where Fred slept while Mum laced her corset. She normally performed the function herself, but her mother had insisted on “lending a hand” this morning. No doubt because the task kept Clara tethered on a leash of sorts, which prevented her from escaping Mum’s questions.
“I said nothing of consequence.”
“Deception does not become you, ducky. You must have said something severe while I dozed on the train. From Amsterdam to Prague, the lad was a confirmed mute. He didn’t utter a word for days. Just nodded and smiled, smiled andnodded. I don’t like it when you meet that genuine smile of his with acrimony. You’ve no reason to treat the boy as you do. I raised you better than that, ducky. Your Granny raised us both better.”
After the corset was properly fitted and laced over her chemise to provide comfortable support, Mum wrapped her arms about Clara in an embrace warmed by affection and the powdery scent of violet perfume. “Can you not try to be kind to the boy? For me.”
