Agatha gathered Helen’s loose locks, twisted them with a few violent jerks, pulled a few pins from her own hair, and anchored a simple knot high on Helen’s head. Pandora snatched a hat from the wardrobe and tossed it to the maid, who caught it with one hand and fastened it just above the knot of hair.
“Do you have money?” Cassandra asked.
“Yes.” Helen strode to the tapestry bag, took out some gloves, and closed the top. “Charity,” she asked, shaping her mouth into a smile, “are you ready to go on an outing?”
The child nodded. With the hat covering the ragged mop of her hair, and the shawl concealing most of the orphanage uniform, she looked tidy and presentable.
Cassandra glanced over Helen. “You seem so calm.”
“My heart’s about to burst,” Helen said. “Quickly, let’s say good-bye.”
Cassandra kissed her cheek. “I love you,” she whispered, and crouched down to hug Charity.
Pandora followed suit, kissing Helen and bending to take Charity’s face in her hands. Apparently assuming that Pandora wanted to inspect her teeth, as she had the previous night, Charity opened her mouth to display her lower incisors.
Pandora grinned. Nudging the small mouth closed with a gentle finger, she kissed the child’s nose. Standing, she gave Helen a businesslike nod. “We’ll buy you as much time as we can.”
Picking up the tapestry bag, and taking Charity’s hand, Helen followed Agatha from the room. Immediately after she crossed the threshold, the door closed, and the key turned decisively in the lock.
Chapter 31
ALONG THE WAY TO Waterloo Station, in a hansom cab that jounced, tilted, and swayed with suicidal fervor, Helen discovered that it was easier to be brave in the presence of a child than when she was alone. She was so determined to keep Charity from worrying that she found herself making ridiculous comments, such as “Isn’t this exciting?” when they nearly crashed into an omnibus, or “How exhilarating!” when the wheels hit a hole in the road and the vehicle was briefly airborne. Charity remained silent, staring at the chaotic world rushing past them. She had a remarkable willingness to endure discomfort or uncertainty without complaining. Whenever Helen had been praised during her childhood, it had usually been for the same quality. She wasn’t certain that had been a good thing.
The hansom stopped on Waterloo Road beside one of the massive train sheds. Helen handed up the payment to the driver and grappled with her tapestry bag as she descended from the vehicle. She reached for Charity, who half-jumped, half-fell into her arms. Catching her neatly, Helen lowered her feet to the pavement. She felt a flicker of triumph. I couldn’t have done that with a bustle. Gripping the tapestry bag on one side and holding Charity’s hand on the other, Helen followed the flow of the crowd as it poured into the station.
The approach to the booking office was a narrow, convoluted path, leading through a collection of temporary structures. The station was in the process of yet another expansion, with the result that the waiting rooms and service areas were crudely constructed and unpainted. Keeping a firm grasp on Charity, Helen waited her turn in line, watching as parcel clerks, booking clerks, and porters rushed back and forth from the row of ticket counters. She reached the front of the line, where a clerk informed her that the train to Alton Station would depart in an hour and a half.
Helen bought two first-class tickets. She was relieved that they hadn’t missed the train, but she wished they didn’t have to wait for so long. Hopefully the twins and the servants could manage to detain Vance long enough to keep him from reaching the station before her train departed. She took Charity to a cluster of stalls that sold newspapers, books, penny journals and periodicals, boxed sandwiches, snacks, and tea. After buying a cup of milk and a bun for Charity, Helen browsed over the bookstalls and purchased a compendium of illustrated children’s stories.
They went to the first-class waiting area, furnished only with backless wooden benches. Some travelers complained about the lack of upholstered seating and the rough, unpainted walls, while others sat stoically. Helen found an empty bench in the corner, and settled there with Charity, keeping her tapestry bag at their feet. While the little girl ate the bun and drank her milk, Helen opened the book and paged through it.
Charity poked excitedly at an illustration of the three bears. “Do that one, Helen. That one.”
Helen smiled. “You’re not tired of it yet?”
Charity shook her head.
As Helen searched for the beginning of the story, she caught sight of another title: “The Red Shoes.” She paused and frowned. “Wait a moment, I have to fix something.” With a few deft tugs, she tore the hated story out of the book. Regretfully, a page of “Jack and the Beanstalk” had to be removed with it, but Helen considered it a worthwhile sacrifice.
Hearing the sound of ripping paper, a woman seated nearby glanced in their direction. She frowned in open disapproval at the sight of a book being mutilated in such a fashion. Feeling rebellious, Helen met the woman’s disdainful gaze as she crumpled the pages in her gloved hand. After dropping the wads of paper into her tapestry bag, Helen said in satisfaction, “There, that’s better.” She found “The Three Bears” and read it to Charity in a whisper.
As the minutes wore on, Helen glanced up frequently, fearing she would see Albion Vance walking toward her. What would she do if he found them? Would he try to take Charity by force? In a public conflict between a woman and a well-dressed, respectable-looking man, the man would almost certainly win. No one would lift a finger to help her.
The room was unheated, and icy draughts of air numbed Helen’s feet. She wiggled her toes until they prickled uncomfortably. The bench became progressively hard, and Charity lost interest in the book. She leaned against Helen, shivering. Wrapping the shawl more snugly around the child’s tiny frame, Helen wished she had brought a lap blanket. People left the waiting area, and others came, and the incessant shouts and train whistles and clamor began to fray Helen’s nerves.
Someone approached her directly, and her head jerked up in alarm, her heart hammering. To her relief, it was not Albion Vance but the small, elderly booking clerk who had sold her the ticket. He had a kind face, and a gray mustache with curled waxed tips that gave the impression of a perpetual smile.
“Pardon, ma’am,” he said quietly. “You’re on the next departure for Alton Station?”
Helen gave him a slight nod, briefly surprised at being called “ma’am” instead of “miss,” until she recalled that she had given her name as Mrs. Smith.
“There’s been a delay for at least an hour.”
Helen regarded him with dismay. “May I ask why?”
“It’s being kept waiting outside the station, as we have an insufficient number of platforms. A special train has caused delays for our scheduled departures.”
Another hour of waiting. Another hour for Albion Vance to find her. “Thank you for informing me.”
He spoke even more softly. “Ma’am, in light of circumstances, seeing as you’re the only one in here with a child . . . would you like to go to a more comfortable waiting area? We don’t always offer it, of course, but the little one seems cold . . .”