Wrong Train to Paris Read online

  She needed to return to her compartment quickly to change her clothes, hopefully before Frau Maven realized her charge had slept in a different part of the train.

  A new thought brought an odd mixture of horror and relief. What if the compartment had been occupied when Julia had blindly stumbled inside?

  She hung her wrap over her arm with her handbag, picked up the cake, and left the compartment, chuckling to herself as she imagined the catastrophe she’d narrowly avoided.

  The laughter died on her lips, however, when she came to the door separating the train cars and a conductor stepped into the passageway, blocking her path. He looked down a long thin nose, beneath which a bushy straw-colored mustache twitched. “S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle. Passengers are not permitted in the baggage car.”

  The baggage car? But the first-class carriage was directly behind the baggage car. She blinked again, glancing out the window to determine the train’s direction and trying to comprehend how she’d become so disoriented. “I’m returning to my compartment, if you please,” she told the conductor, doing her best to stand tall, despite how silly she knew she must look. “In the first-class car.”

  The conductor glanced back at the compartment she’d come out of, raising his bushy brows. “The PLM Railway has no first-class car, mademoiselle. Perhaps you are confused. Too much to drink last evening, eh?” He looked pointedly at the smashed feathers and the cake.

  “No, I . . .” Julia’s words trailed off as cold filled her insides. “What did you say? The PLM Railway?” She looked back out the window. Instead of the green rolling hills and the blue Marne River overhung with lush willows, the view was of tall rocky mountains with scrubby-looking trees. On a distant hill, she could make out a stone city surrounded by a wall. Pulling her gaze back to the conductor, she realized he didn’t wear the brass-buttoned uniform of a Wagons Lit conductor but a gray coat and a hat with an unfamiliar symbol. The chill spread, tingeing her thoughts with panic.

  “Sir.” She grabbed on to his arm, choking on her words. “Where am I?”

  “We left Montélimar perhaps an hour and a half ago, mademoiselle.”

  “Provence?” Julia released the man’s arm, feeling lightheaded as the truth of the situation settled over her. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. She’d traveled hundreds of miles in the wrong direction. She looked at her watch, then the pocket watch that hung at her waist. Her father and grand-mère would have met the train—the right train—hours earlier. They must be frantic with worry. She leaned against the wall of the corridor, feeling faint, her thoughts rushing in every direction as she tried to make sense of the situation.

  “Mademoiselle, you are unwell?”

  “I must send a telegram to my father right away.” She moved closer to the window, looking down the tracks in hopes of seeing a city. “I was expected hours ago in Paris. He will be sick with worry.”

  “Paris?” The conductor shook his head and made a tutting noise. “Oh la la, you are very far from home.” He held out a hand, urging her to return back along the corridor. “Come along, mademoiselle. Return to your compartment and rest. I will bring something to calm you.”

  Julia didn’t move. An ache had started in her head, and she rubbed at it absently. “That is not my compartment.”

  He moved closer, as if to herd her in the direction he wanted her to go. “Mademoiselle, you are confused and—”

  The train’s whistle cut his words short.

  The sound firmed Julia’s resolve. She drew herself up, standing tall. This was not the time to fall apart. She was perfectly capable of managing a small miscalculation. The train slowed, nearing its next stop. She would simply disembark and, at the station, find a timetable, purchase a new ticket, and send a telegram to her father. Thank goodness for the cash in her handbag. Within a few hours, she would be on her way to Paris, and tonight, she and her family would laugh about the erreur over a slice of gugelhupf. “I am not confused, thank you,” she told the conductor in a much calmer voice.

  The twitch of his mustache indicated he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he moved away to his post by the door in preparation for the train’s arrival at the station.

  The train continued to slow, and Julia saw a sign. Rivulet. She’d never heard of it, but it was as good a place as any, she reasoned. Provence was out of her way, but the world would not end. Her only disappointment was to miss out on a day at the World’s Exhibition.

  Once the train stopped, Julia moved to the door.

  The bushy-mustached conductor climbed out and took her hand. “Your luggage, mademoiselle?”

  “I have none,” she said, stepping down and ignoring his brow lift.

  “Very well, mademoiselle.”

  The morning was misty, and dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, portending rain. Julia pulled her wrap tighter and shivered, wishing she had a coat. The wrap was elegant, well-suited to a dinner on a heated train, but it offered no protection from the chilly, cloudy morning. She started toward the small stone building that served as Rivulet’s train station, thinking she should get inside before the rain began.

  The station’s entrance was located on the far side of the building, opposite the train tracks but facing the road. She supposed the building predated the railway, and nobody had bothered to change it for convenience of the train travelers.

  The door was locked.

  Julia knocked and stepped to the side to look through a window. She cupped her hand against the glass and peered close but could see nobody within. A small plaque was on the desk, bearing the name, Mathieu Laurent. He must be the stationmaster.

  She looked up the road in both directions but saw no structures. Aside from a horse in a paddock beside the station, there was no sign of life. Where was the town? A shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly morning moved over her skin.

  The train whistled, and she could hear it start away.

  Well, perhaps the stationmaster was simply in a back room. She looked through other windows, moving around the side of the building. When she reached the back of the station again, she noticed two large crates beside the tracks—those had certainly not been there a moment earlier—and recognized Greek lettering painted on the sides, though she couldn’t read it.

  The smoke from the train’s coal and the caboose of the receding locomotive as it picked up speed gave her a moment of panic; she feared she’d been too hasty disembarking in an unknown place. But the stationmaster must return soon, she reasoned. Better to wait here than to continue on, getting farther away from her destination.

  Hearing a horse’s whinny, she turned and saw the man Nicholas had introduced her to at the Igney-Avricourt station. Luc Paquet, she remembered. It stood to reason that the countryman lived in this desolate location. She felt both relief at seeing a familiar face and frustration that the only other person in this place was the critical rustic. He was leading the horse from the paddock to a wagon beside the road.

  Julia blew out a breath and approached him. “Bonjour, Monsieur Paquet.”

  He glanced up and returned to attaching the horse’s harness. “Mademoiselle.”

  The horse bobbed its head, and Julia stepped back, wary. The animal was large and sturdy-looking, nothing like the sleek carriage horses she was used to. And what if it should want to eat her cake?

  “At what time does the station open?” She checked both of her watches, wanting to be certain they were in accord. She could not afford to miss the train to Paris.

  “Maybe after lunch. Maybe later.” Monsieur Paquet tugged a worn leather strap, feeding it through its buckle. He didn’t look at her as he pulled the strap tight and patted the horse’s neck. “Today is Monday. It might not open at all.”

  Julia had not previously heard the man speak more than a greeting, and for a moment his words were almost impossible to understand with the thick Provençal pronunciation. A
moment passed before she comprehended completely what he’d said.

  By the time she did, he was walking back around the station.

  Julia followed. She didn’t appreciate his teasing. A civil servant didn’t simply choose whether he was inclined to work or not. Trains ran on schedules and followed rules. “Excusez-moi. I must speak to the stationmaster. I need to purchase a ticket. And to send a telegram. You see, I’m supposed to be in Paris.”

  “You’re a long way from Paris.” He hefted one of the crates with a grunt.

  “Yes, I know.” She followed him back to the wagon, forcing her feet not to stomp in frustration and keeping her voice polite. “My father will be very worried. From whence might I send a telegram?”

  “Nowhere around here.” He lifted the crate into the wagon. “Nearest place is Beaucaire, about thirty miles that way.” He motioned up the road with his chin, then started back around the station.

  Thunder sounded overhead as Julia looked in the direction he’d indicated. Surely he wasn’t suggesting she walk thirty miles along a dirt road in her evening gown. Could she hire a carriage? But where? Raindrops started to fall.

  Monsieur Paquet pushed the second crate into the wagon and lifted up the back gate and secured it closed.

  Julia shifted the cake to her other arm and pulled her wrap tighter. “I am sure the stationmaster will return and open the door once he sees the rain. I shall wait perfectly comfortably inside.”

  “Wait for what?” He pulled a sheet of canvas over the crates and started to tie it down.

  “Why, the next train, of course. Surely it won’t be too long. Good day, monsieur.” Julia turned and started back to the station. A small bench sat next to the door beneath a section of overhanging roof, where she could at least be dry. She would wait there.

  “Next train comes through on Friday.” Monsieur Paquet spoke from behind her before she reached the bench.

  She whirled. “Friday? You can’t be serious.”

  He shrugged.

  A tightness constricted her throat. “But I can’t . . . What will I do?” Tears threatened, and she turned back toward the bench, not wanting him to see her distress. Rain now poured down, and she hurried to the station door, pounding on it again before her last shred of hope dissipated and she sat down on the bench.

  Could this man possibly be telling the truth? She couldn’t believe it. But what if he were? Despite her attempts to think through the situation rationally, despair crowded out every thought, and her tears started in earnest. What am I to do? She buried her face in her hands, feeling sick with discouragement. Father will be so worried, she thought. And disappointed. Now I shall never travel anywhere without a chaperone. And what if the stationmaster doesn't come?

  The toes of two scuffed boots moved into her line of vision.

  Julia jerked up her head, wiping away her tears and trying to hold her composure while Monsieur Paquet stood before her.

  He moved closer, ducking beneath the overhang, and held out his coat to her. “Come along, then.”

  His voice was not unkind, but of course she couldn’t trust a man she’d just met. “Where are we going?”

  “Do you intend to sit here in the rain for five days?”

  Julia took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped under her nose, trying to regain her composure. “I can’t go with you. You could be a . . . a man of poor character.” She lifted her chin, daring him to deny it.

  He gave a flat stare, though his lips twitched. “I am not a man of poor character.”

  “That is exactly what a man of poor character would say.” She returned the handkerchief and closed her handbag with a snap, having proved her point.

  “Mademoiselle, I will take you to my aunt’s house. Tante Gabrielle is always pleased to have company.” He glanced back at the wagon. “Unless you prefer to remain here until Friday.”

  The mocking in his tone spurred her anger. Julia opened her mouth to argue. How could she be certain he had an aunt? Wasn’t this precisely the sort of scenario that led to young women being kidnapped and kept as prisoners in an evil prince’s dungeon? And even more than her fear of capture was her frustration at having to be rescued from her own mistake.

  M. Paquet frowned, folding his arms around the coat. “Mademoiselle Weston, I have no wish to stand in the rain arguing. You and your cake can either get in the wagon or stay here until Friday. Je m’en fiche.”

  Julia hesitated. What choice did she have? The stationmaster may or may not return for days. And even if he did, she had no assurance that he would find her lodgings until the train came. If there were even lodgings to be had in this place. She studied Monsieur Paquet for a moment. This scruffy rustic scowling at her was the only person she knew for hundreds of miles and the only person who’d offered to assist her in her predicament. She had no alternative but to trust him.

  “Very well, monsieur. I shall accompany you.” Julia took the offered coat and slid her bare arms into the scratchy sleeves, immediately grateful for their warmth. “But I’ll reimburse your aunt, of course. I do not wish to impose on her hospitality.”

  His flat look held, and he looked as if he might scoff. He started off into the rain toward the wagon, pulling his hat low over his brow.

  His dismissiveness only served to irritate Julia further. She would be very pleased once she was safely installed at Tante Gabrielle’s house and rid of Luc Paquet.

  Chapter Four

  The wagon seat was hard, and the road was bumpy. Julia was, in a word, miserable. She held on to the bench with one hand and M. Paquet’s coat tightly at her neck with the other, glad M. Pacquet had placed the cake in the wagon so she could have her hands free to keep herself firmly in her seat. The rain continued to pour down steadily, and after a while, tired of drops running down her neck, she pulled the thick coat up over her head, deciding her feather arrangement was most likely ruined anyway. The coat did little to keep her dry, and she wondered if she would be warmer without it now that it was soaked through, but she thought M. Paquet’s gesture in offering it to her was nice. So she kept it. At least it kept the rain from dribbling over her bare shoulders and down her back.

  The pair continued along in silence, and as she watched the scenery go past, Julia became more certain with every moment that she’d made the right choice. The area was very remote. She looked at her watches. The wagon hadn’t passed a single house in nearly an hour since they’d left the station. If she’d remained and the stationmaster hadn’t come, she was certain she’d not have found a place to stay. What would she have done when night fell? Slept on the bench outside the train station? The idea was terrifying.

  She glanced at her companion. M. Paquet rode with shoulders hunched and his head low, occasionally tipping his head forward to let the water run off his hat brim and splash between his boots. He wore a brown vest buttoned up over his loose cotton shirt and no necktie. She wondered if the brim of his hat was sufficient to keep water from trickling down his collar. Probably not. The man didn’t seem particularly comfortable in the rain but rather resigned to it. Julia supposed when one worked out of doors, one became used to inclement weather.

  “How is it that you are here in Provence instead of Paris, mademoiselle?” The man’s voice came out as a grumble.

  She shifted around in the seat to face him. “I boarded the wrong train in Igney-Avricourt, if you must know. I was supposed to be on the Orient Express.”

  He turned to look at her, his brows raised until they disappeared beneath his hat brim. “You mistook a PLM Railway train for the Orient Express?”

  “It was your friend Nicholas,” Julia said, feeling extremely defensive. “He delivered me to the wrong train.”

  “He is not my friend.” M. Paquet turned back to watch the road ahead.

  “But he said you are his ‘bon ami,’” Julia reminded him.

  “I h
ad only met him a moment before you arrived,” he said, shrugging. “He did act as though he knew me. He did not put me onto the wrong train, however.”

  “I don’t understand,” Julia said. “What sort of man . . . ? Surely he made a mistake. Didn’t he? He is not the type to purposely deceive. Or, at least, he didn’t seem to be.”

  “Je ne sais pas.” M. Paquet shrugged again. “As I said, I spoke to him only for a short moment.”

  In all the confusion of the day, this was the first time Julia had truly considered how she’d come to be in this mess in the first place. Now that she had time to think, she didn’t know whether to be furious with Nicholas or feel sorry for him. He may have been confused and missed his train as well. But if he had intentionally led her to the wrong train, she couldn’t begin to comprehend why he would possibly do such a thing. “If he acted deliberately, what reason might he have for misdirecting me so?” she asked.

  “How is it that you didn’t notice the error immediately?” he asked in return.

  How hadn’t she? “Well, I was very tired, I suppose.” Julia thought back to the night before. “And a bit disoriented. Did you think Nicholas’s pipe smoke smelled like lavender?”

  He glanced at her. “Pipe smoke doesn’t smell like lavender.”

  She realized his answer wasn’t a denial, but he spoke before she could ask again.

  “What was a young lady such as yourself doing alone on a train anyway?”

  Julia bristled at the question. She sat up straight and let the coat fall from her head, and she wished she looked dignified instead of wet when it plopped onto her shoulders. “Monsieur, I am perfectly capable of traveling alone.”

  He cut a glance at her.

  Her stomach clenched at his unspoken observation. “Well, usually—when a person doesn’t give me false directions.” She huffed, pulling the soggy coat tight around her neck. “Besides, I wasn’t alone. I had a traveling companion, Frau Maven.”