down the platform, wondering if she’d see any friends. She recognized no one. A blessing, really, she told herself, all the while fighting disappointment. Mother had asked that this dreadful affair be completed as quickly and quietly as possible and such meant no one must know they were slipping out of town in disgrace.
Once she was settled in Colorado, she would write to the few women she called friends and explain everything. Perhaps by then, time might have softened the emotions roiling through her.
And Francis? Would he call before the harvest soiree that his mother was to host? Shouldn’t she write to him, too? Abigail had not invited his family to Charles’s funeral. Victoria clenched her jaw. Honestly, a funeral shouldn’t require invitations as though it were some exclusive fete. All she could do now was hope that Francis would not call to an empty house.
Oh, who was she trying to convince? She and Francis had shared only a trio of engagements. Not one word in their conversations had ever suggested that he’d been interested enough to come calling. They owed each other nothing.
Which was what Victoria had right now, apart from a few small coins in her purse. Once the young porter had finished stowing all her bags save the one she’d asked to be made readily available, she dropped one coin into his palm as she thanked him. He nodded.
With an edgy exhalation, Victoria watched the porter disappear. What was she going to do when her money was gone? She had good secretarial skills, because of her education, but Walter was expecting her to trade his charity for a marriage to his partner. Mother had married Charles out of convenience. What had that done for her? It had turned her into a poor relation. Victoria firmed her shoulders. Marriage to a stranger? No. As soon as she arrived in Proud Bend, she’d start looking for clerical work.
Her heart lurched at the bitter humiliation.
A sturdy breeze rolled down the platform, bringing with it the foul, oily smoke from the locomotive and forcing Victoria closer to the children to prevent her lovely traveling outfit from catching the soot.
It was a dark green skirt suit in a quiet style suitable for the day. The bustle was small and the tailored waistcoat with its unobtrusive buttons could fit both mourning and traveling. She battled the filthy breeze that seemed determined to lift her skirt.
Victoria searched the platform again. It would soon be time to board. Mr. MacLeod had asked her to be here at 7:45 a.m. sharp, a good half hour before the train was to leave this Sunday morning. Indeed, his children were here, standing dutifully against the wall, staring at her as if expecting her to vanish in a puff of smoke.
“Miss Templeton?”
She turned and found Matthew holding out her small change purse. He was nearly as tall as she was. “You dropped this.”
She patted down the small hidden pocket in her skirt and found it empty. Then, accepting the coin purse, she smiled. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want to lose this. It’s all I have.”
The young boy’s bland expression didn’t change.
Poor mites. Their mother had entered a hospital and had not returned. Victoria couldn’t blame them for expecting her to disappear, as well. She peered once more up and down the platform. Had their father decided that he couldn’t handle the stress of caring for all these children? He hadn’t struck her as that type when they’d met at the brownstone, but what did she know about men? They could all have a bit of that slick behavior her stepfather had shown.
“Where is your father?” she asked Matthew.
“He’s gone to get the baby.”
“Oh.” She consulted the large clock that hung from the rafters. “The train leaves in fifteen minutes. Do you have the tickets?”
Matthew shook his head. Gripping her purse tighter, Victoria bit back uncertainty, torn between pulling those frightened little children into her arms and marching into the depot’s office to ask for copies of the purchased tickets. Finally she said, “We may as well board and get you all settled in. Do you have any more bags?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why do you have so many?” Mary piped up.
Feeling her cheeks color slightly, Victoria peered down at the little girl. How old was she? About seven? “A lady needs a lot of things.”
“Papa says I’m a lady, and all I have is this.” She hoisted a small drawstring bag. “One nightgown, a fresh pinafore and stockings. Why do you need more?”
Glancing around, Victoria drew the children toward the train. “The things a lady wears underneath are bigger, that’s all. And some of them can’t be crushed. Besides, I’m bringing soap, and all of you will need a good scrubbing. Now let’s hurry. I don’t want your father to have to deal with us should he be late himself.”
As they climbed aboard, the conductor asked for their tickets. Victoria felt the heat rise once more into her cheeks. She had no idea the conductor would demand the tickets so early. She’d taken the train when they’d traveled up to Portland last summer, but Charles had seen to those details. “I’m sorry. They haven’t arrived yet. Are we assigned seats?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I have a list of the passengers. What is the name?”
“MacLeod. Mitchell MacLeod,” a deep voice behind her answered.
Victoria turned to find Mitchell climbing up with great ease despite the baby he held. Swathed in a simple white layette and a brown blanket, she nuzzled her cap, which had managed to cover half of her face. Her attitude was clearly deteriorating.
“She’s hungry,” he said bluntly.
Victoria swallowed. “Do you have any milk for her?”
“Yes, but let’s get settled first. Here, take her.” Supporting the baby’s head, he shoved her into Victoria’s arms. In that brief moment, panic swept through her. Until now, Victoria had yet to hold a baby. Ever.
Oh, dear, what was the child’s name? Mitchell had told her, but she’d forgotten it in her haste to accept his offer. Oh, yes, Emily.
For fear she might drop Emily, Victoria drew her close as Mitchell surrendered the tickets. Glass clinked in the cotton drawstring bag he held. She half expected the bottom of the bag to start leaking milk, but it didn’t.
Hoping that Mitchell knew how to bottle feed the infant, Victoria smiled bravely at the rest of his children. They did not return it.
Goodness, she thought. This was going to be a long trip out West.
A porter led them to their seats, speaking as he walked. “I can show you where you can warm the milk, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Did he think that she was married? Regardless, Victoria thanked him before turning to Mitchell. “Am I expected to feed Emily? We didn’t discuss the finer details of my employment.”
Mitchell removed his tall, wide-brimmed hat and slipped it into the compartment above them. Was it one of those Stetsons she’d read about in stories of the Wild West? He chose then to peer down at her, his thick, chestnut hair springing free into enviable curls. Her dark blond hair had only a light wave to it. Although slimly built, Mitchell had broad shoulders and arms that strained his jacket’s sleeves. He was obviously
