42

First day of summer break! Noble thought, setting out on foot early Monday, the twenty-eighth of June. He minded not one whit, having his father wake him before sunrise. Better than having to help at the mercantile!

Thankfully, Father had jumped at his suggestion of a music box for Mother’s almost-forgotten birthday. Where else but in Exeter? Why, he might just take his time. A good steward compared prices and quality, after all.

He was delighted to find only two other passengers at the railway station. Mr. and Mrs. George, farmers with some grown children in Ottery St. Mary. Perhaps he would have a carriage to himself.

They seemed equally delighted to see him, for Mrs. George waved him over to say, “Another grandson, Mr. Clark!”

“Outstanding! May he bring you much joy.” Noble was happy to brighten their morning, for Mr. George was thoughtful enough to compliment his singing every time they crossed paths.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Clark,” Mrs. George said, and to her husband, “Did you hear that, Alpheus?”

“DID WE BRING A TOY?” Mr. George shouted.

Mrs. George leaned closer to him. “HE HOPES HE BRINGS US MUCH JOY!”

“AH!” The man beamed, nodded. “THANK YOU, MR. CLARK. FINE SINGING, SUNDAY PAST!”

Noble thanked him, and when the locomotive steamed to a stop, escorted them to a carriage.

“Will you join us, Mr. Clark?” asked Mrs. George.

“I’m afraid I would be bad company.” He touched his forehead. “Headache.”

She clucked sympathy. Her husband gave him a blank smile. Noble bade them farewell, then passed three carriages before netting an unoccupied one.

As the final boarding whistle shrilled, he spotted a tall man dashing across the platform with a satchel and stack of small boxes tied together with ribbon. The fellow who had been escorting Coral to church, Noble realized. Mrs. Hooper’s new lodger, Mr. Smith!

Coral . . .

Her sweet face came to his mind often of late. What a fool he was, courting Amy and attempting to court Miss Kent, when all along Coral was meant to be his true love!

He sighed, folded his arms, and propped his feet upon the facing seat. Would she forgive him? She had so many times, but that was before this giant lumbered into the picture. Noble burned with dislike. What was his business in Exeter? To buy a gift for Coral? Why had he himself never thought of doing so?

He spent the rest of the journey in a dark cloud. Insult to injury was when a man entered his carriage at Feniton and attempted to chat him up about the inquiry into the Tay Bridge tragedy of December past. What did Noble know of collapsed bridges? Pity that people lost their lives, but he could do nothing for them, and he was dying inside!

When they pulled into St. David’s Station, he watched Mr. Smith cross the platform. Only then did Noble exit his carriage. He threaded his way around departing and waiting passengers before drawing to a halt.

Some eight feet away, Mr. Smith stood with a lone box in his hands, his satchel resting beside a wastebin.

Noble sidestepped to behind a wide post and angled his head to watch.

Mr. Smith sent a glance to the right and left, then dropped the lid of the box into the bin. He scooped something bread-like with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing, he tossed the box, wiped his hands with a handkerchief, and took up his satchel.

Noble watched him enter the station house before moving to the wastebin. The boxes were easy to spot on top of the other contents. Most of the lids were dislodged, revealing crumbs and bits of custard in some, full pastries in others.

He’s insane! What other reason was there for such bizarre behavior? He would have to warn Coral. He imagined her smiling, beaming with gratitude while wiping a tear.

“You’ve saved me from a horrible mistake!”

As he entered the station house, Noble made a plan. He would begin his foray at Brown’s Haberdashery. They did not carry music boxes, but he needed a new silk cravat for when he spoke to Coral.

Fleur-de-lis, he thought. Claret red and gray, perhaps?

The combination of her gratitude and his being dressed to the nines, and she would be his again! Amy would be heartbroken, of course, but such was life. He was beginning to tire of Amy, as it were, with her hints about marriage.

The boarding whistle shrieked behind him. Just before the arched doors leading to the city, a laughing small girl was lifted into the air by a pair of hands. A smartly dressed woman beamed at the scene and held a familiar-looking satchel. A porter pushed past with a trunk, and Noble could see the back of the man.

Mr. Smith.

He set down the girl and gave the woman a quick embrace. She stepped back with eyes shining while he took the little girl’s hand.

Married!

The woman met Noble’s eyes, gave him an odd look. Spinning around, Noble hurried to another exit, then out onto Station Road. A hand upon his shoulder jerked him backward. He found himself staring up at Mr. Smith.

“Why, hallo! You’re the singer, aren’t you? Why are you here?”

The giant hand still clamped his shoulder. Noble swallowed. “To purchase a music box for my mother.”

Mr. Smith smiled. “Small world, isn’t it? I’m here to meet with my editor for lunch, and my sister and niece insisted upon meeting my train.”

“Lovely.” Noble stretched his lips to show his sincerity.

He gasped as fingers dug into his shoulder bone.

“But I don’t wish to have my personal business bandied about Port Stilwell. I shall have to insist that you forget that you saw me.”

“Y-yes.”

Mr. Smith studied him for a moment and moved his hand to clap his back. The motion propelled Noble a step forward.

“Good man! I look forward to hearing you sing on Sunday. A gift from God, your voice. Now, go and buy your music box. If I hear gossip, I will know its source.”

Noble watched him walk back toward the woman and child just outside the station house. He realized that his hands were shaking.

Any joy from the prospect of browsing shops was gone. Noble entered a clock shop on Howell Road and purchased the first music box the assistant showed to him, a handsome wooden case with eight bells which played six tunes. Carrying the parcel to the station, he found an empty bench. Never had he felt so alone.

When the ten o’clock train pulled in, he did not look for an empty carriage but took one occupied by a pair of older women in animated conversation. They gave him terse nods and lowered their voices.

“I said to her that Milton is a hardworking man and deserving of shirts that are ironed.”

“You did? And what did she say?”

“She said, ‘What does it matter, when it’s only the fish that sees him?’”

“Oh my!”

“Who sees our sheets? We iron them, don’t we?”

The train started moving. Noble sighed, set his hat beside him, and rested the back of his head against his seat. If only Mr. Smith had not seen him. If only he had gone about his business instead of standing there and staring!

He sighed again. The women silenced and turned faces toward him. He did not recognize them from Port Stilwell.

“Forgive me,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve witnessed a tragedy.”

Both sat straighter. One, with silk flowers upon her hat, said, “What happened?”

“Um . . . from where do you hail?”

“Feniton,” both replied.

“Ah.”

They were waiting, but Noble’s hands began trembling again.

“Did someone die?” said the second woman. No hat covered her gray topknot.

He glanced at the windows and lowered his voice, as if Mr. Smith were sprinting alongside. “It concerns a young woman’s beau.”

“He’s unfaithful!” the hatless woman hissed.

“I saw the evidence.”

“Just like my sister’s husband!” the hatted one said.

“But my life is in peril if I warn the young woman.”

“Your life? He threatened you?”

A chill ran through him. He rubbed his shoulder. “Most emphatically.”

They exchanged looks and stared. The sympathy upon their lined faces made him feel a bit better, not so alone in the world.

“Do you love her?” asked the hatless woman.

“But of course he does!” her companion said.

To Noble, she said, “What will you do?”

“Nothing,” Noble said with a shudder. “I dare not.”

The hatted woman stretched forward to pat his hand. “We can’t fault you for being afraid. But how many chances does a young man have to be a hero?”

Noble’s eyes watered. “None.”