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“What happened then?” Julia asked.
“We took dinner together, the four of us. Then Claire and I corresponded by mail for a few months, and then...”
“Then you married.”
“And a year later, she gave me the most wonderful gift.” Her father put his hand over hers. His eyes were wet. “I’d never have endured her loss if I didn’t have you, my dear.”
Julia squeezed his hand. Her father, a military man, rarely showed any kind of emotion. She held on to the moment, treasuring it.
The train whistled, then slowed, and the conductor announced the Igney-Avricourt station.
Her father cleared his throat and stood, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his nose. “Yes, well. I believe I’ll go for some cake.”
“Do you want company?” Julia asked.
He cleared his throat again. “Not necessary, my dear. I’ll return promptly.”
Julia let him go, thinking he perhaps wanted to be alone with his memories. And wishing she wasn’t alone with hers.
She thought of his story and the softness in his eyes. She’d never considered her parents’ relationship to have been romantic. Never thought of them as young people laughing and falling in love. Hearing it brought a bittersweet sorrow that blended right in to her melancholy. She stared through the window, seeing steam and gas lamps and nameless people moving through the gloom.
Colonel Weston returned just as the train left the station. His cheeks were flushed, and his hands were surprisingly empty.
“Where is the cake?” she asked.
“Oh.” He glanced toward the door and scratched his cheek. “I—there was no cake today.”
“Frau Spreitzer had no cake?”
He shrugged, glancing at the door again and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Can you believe it?”
“Father, are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and sat, drumming his fingers on the table. “Time to turn in for the night, don’t you think? Goodness, I certainly am tired.” He yawned dramatically.
Julia stared, not knowing what had come over her father. Perhaps his strange behavior was an aftereffect of his earlier emotion. Or maybe, having found no cake, he’d sought out a liquor vendor instead. Either way, he was right. They could both use a good night’s sleep.
Julia rose and stood beside the table, waiting for him to accompany her to their compartments in the next car.
But he didn’t stand, just fidgeted with his fingers.
“Are you coming, Father?”
“What? Oh yes. You go ahead, dear. I’ll be along presently.”
“But you said—”
“Think I’ll have one more cup of tea. But you mustn’t wait on my account. Run along; that’s a good girl.”
Julia studied his face for a moment, but her father wouldn’t meet her eye. He caught the attention of an attendant, motioning the man toward him.
Apparently, he wished to be alone. “Good night, Father.”
“Good night, my dear.” His eyes darted to the door.
Still wondering what could have possibly come over her father, Julia left the dining car and stepped into the first-class carriage.
The conductor greeted her with a tip of his hat. “Your compartment is ready, Mademoiselle Weston.” He watched her closely, with a strange expression.
