Helena gazed into the eyes of her captor, but she was given no time to submit to bewilderment. Captain Joseph Brigand bowed low as he departed the carriage. The gentlefolk aboard the train were herded into the last car and kept under the guard of a lowly villain named Whiphand Pete.
Huddled in a corner were two young children, cared for by an elderly woman. The boy and his sister cried pitifully, while the old woman, with bonnet askew, held them close and sang quietly.
“Shut yer mewling,” growled Whiphand Pete, “or I'll plug yer throats with me boot!” He waved his firearm in the air.
James twitched at Helena's side, and she feared he would take matters into his own feeble hands. Her heart fluttered like a sparrow frightened by a barn cat, but she found courage in the need to protect the children.
“Hear me, sir! I will speak with your captain,” she demanded.
“Heh, heh, heh,” chortled Whiphand Pete. “A feisty one, eh?”
“There is no call to be rude, sir, nor will I permit you to terrify the children needlessly. I must have words with your leader.” And with that, our brave Helena gathered her skirts and swept past Whiphand Pete toward the door.
“Wait a minute there, little hussy!” the bandit cried. He threatened her with his pistol but could not pursue her for he risked being overcome by the other prisoners. Helena's sweet red lips strove to hide her smile of triumph.
The door was heavy for Helena's womanly strength, but fueled with determination, she flung it open. The wind of a wintry dawn slapped her face like an angry governess, and she caught her breath in surprise. Her attention went to the two men in black coats speaking confidentially together with their backs to her.
Helena stepped from the train ladder and made her way toward them. She recognized the leather hat of Captain Brigand, and she addressed herself to his broad shoulders.
“Captain?” Her voice, which she had intended to be resolute, rang forth like the tone of a cracked bell.
When he turned, Helena was astonished once again by the comeliness of the man before her. His eyes were such a deep, magnetic brown that she felt her body sway toward him.
“Are you ill, madam?” His voice held the concern wished for by every young bride.
“No, no!” Helena lifted her chin to enforce some self-command. “I am here to complain about the actions of your compatriot. He treats us in a most repugnant manner, threatening old ladies and scaring the children.”
“He is a train bandit, my dear,” said Captain Brigand with a teasing smile. “However, he seems to have permitted your escape. Should you not be trembling?”
“It is enough that you have robbed me, sir. I will not be insulted as well.” With every beat of her heart, she fought the desire to throw herself into the man's arms.
So spellbound was Helena that she had disregarded the captain's companion, until he spoke.
“Joseph?”
Helenas head spun as she looked at the speaker. Except for a needle-sharp line scarring his cheek, this man was an exact twin of Captain Brigand. The same flashing walnut-brown eyes, the same full lips, the same fine face.
“Meet my brother,” said the captain with a warm laugh. “We call him Pretty Harry.”
To be continued …
The evening meal was once more a success. We used the remains of yesterday's chicken to make a splendid pie. Alfred's friend Roy helped out with hauling to-day, so we had an extra for supper. And then Mrs. Campbell arrived with Elizabeth as we finished the rice pudding.
“You've not had a note to-day, I suppose?” she asked. “My sister should know we're waiting for word.”
“She'll be busy at the sickbed,” said Mr. Goodhand, though he'd been complaining of the same thing himself during the meal. “We'll hear tomorrow.”
“If you were the butcher, Aunt Hazel could call you on the telephone,” said Elizabeth. “He advertises in the newspaper that he has a telephone, have you noticed? ‘For Good Meat, phone 91.’ She could call us to say if Grandfather is any better.”
“Well, I'm not the butcher, am I?” gruffed Mr. Goodhand. “No point in foolish fancy.”
“The telephone is getting popular for a reason, Dad,” said Alfred.
“I've seen them work,” said Roy. “My uncle has one.”
“It would make things simpler now,” sighed Mrs. Campbell. “But what will the world have come to when a farm cottage in Perth County has a telephone cable poking out of it!”
“Would it not be a lark, though?” I said. “We could telephone to our mother to say hello whenever we think of her! Or, instead of traipsing across the field tonight, Elizabeth could just have telephoned to ask for news!”
“That's all we need!” groused Mr. Goodhand. “For every woman in Canada to be armed with a telephone! There'd be no work done and no dinners cooked. The hours of wasted chatter would bring about the downfall of the country! Not to mention if giggling girls were to get their hands on such an instrument. Lord be!” And with that, he pushed his chair away from the table and supper was ended.
We heard yesterday from Mrs. Goodhand that her father is very weak. He has such trouble breathing that she and the doctor have constructed a tent to fill with steam to ease the congestion in the patient's chest. Elizabeth says her mother is distraught at being left home, so far away from her ailing father.
I received a letter of my own to-day!
Silver Lining
Dear Miss Mable Riley
I am hosting this Sunday's meeting of the Ladies Reading Circle and would be most appreciative of your assistance in serving the tea.
Please inform if this should cause inconvenience for you or your guardians. The meeting begins at three o'clock, but I hope to see you as soon after lunch as you are able to come.
Affectionately,
Cora Rattle
My first typewritten letter! And see what a flourish she has made of her signature! Using violet ink! I was trembling as I folded the letter and tucked it into this journal. Already the questions raced into my head, fighting for attention: Will Viola let me go? How to convince her? Happily Mrs. Goodhand is away, else she might deal the deciding blow.
This keen battle with Viola has taught me what our statesmen must apply to any disagreement. I went to her and showed the invitation, without a prologue. She merely shook her head and reminded me of her decision to stop my liaison with Mrs. Rattle.
Here is where I shone. I did not lose my temper or speak in haste, but cajoled instead. Was this not an opportunity for me to witness ladies in society? Could I not benefit from their manners in designing my own? Would it not be elevating to hear a discussion of literature? If I were to prove my maturity, by assisting my sister with good humour from this moment on, oh, please, Viola! Pretty, pretty please?
And I won! She consented! I am to go!
Oh, what shall I wear? If only I had a new shirtwaist! What if I drop a teacup or tip the cakes into someone's lap? Should I try to join the conversation or remain silent, like a servant? How will I make certain to be asked there again? How to put forth the best Mable Riley?
Alfred took a note for me to Mrs. Rattle to-day, accepting her invitation. It did not say what I feel, which is this:
HOW WILL I EVER WAIT
UNTIL SUNDAY???
(Hesitating Hyphens total to date: 79
Creeping Closer Commas: 76)