Free The Enchantment by Kristin Hannah Page A

Crystal Maine iron-bottomed trunk. The leather trunk tag with her name and address swung forlornly against the wooden-slatted side.
    Her hands flew to her mouth. For a heartbeat she was speechless. The she shouted at the top of her lungs: "Porter!"
    The train pitched forward. She heard the long, drawn-

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    out squeal of reluctant wheels, and then the slowly building chug-a-chug-a-chug of the mighty engine as the train started rolling forward.
    She pressed her hands to the cold glass and peered out. Her breath clouded the pane until she couldn't see anything except the hazy outline of her bags on the bench, and then nothing at all.
    The train wheezed out of the station. The inky black fist of night pressed itself against the window.
    Emma stood frozen in shock. A desperate sob caught in her throat. Everything was in that trunk.
    Everything. Her toilet case, manicure set, hand mirror, Chlorate Dentrifice tooth powder, her favorite Hoyt's German perfume . . .
    Clothes. The word crashed through her brain, bringing with it a tide of queasiness. Forget the tooth powder—she could purchase that in Albuquerque. What in God's name was she going to wear?
    She spun away from the window and glared at Digby. What had he done? Just had his own trunks loaded and to hell with hers? "Who in the world would walk away from trunks without paying a porter to load them?"
    11 You did."
    Emma's flimsy hold on her temper snapped. "I handed you my bags."
    "And I piled them on the bench. I thought—"
    "Ha!" Emma knew there was a hysterical edge to her voice, but she couldn't help herself. All she could think about were the gowns and garments and toiletries she'd packed so carefully. They represented everything she had left in the world. Now she had nothing. Nothing ...
    "You didn't ask me to carry them onto the train for
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    you," he said in a reasonable voice that made Emma want to smack his face.
    "A lady doesn't have to ask a gentleman to carry her things. He just does it."
    "He does?"
    She lowered herself slowly onto the seat, feeling suddenly old and alone. "Of course he does. Where have you lived all your life—under a rock?"
    Something—maybe pain, maybe embarrassment— flashed in his eyes and was gone. "Do gentlemen really do that?" he said earnestly. "Always? Without being asked?"
    She thought about saying nothing to him at all, or about yelling at the top of her lungs, or marching away.
    But what was the point? Nothing she did would get her trunk back.
    Besides, it was her own fault. She was the one who'd walked off without her bags. She'd spent so much time with men like Michael Jameson and Eugene Cummin that she'd forgotten that gallantry wasn't universal.
    And even worse, she'd relied on Digby. What kind of a fool would do that? By God, she deserved what she got.
    "Who says?" he asked unexpectedly.
    She frowned, trying to remember what they'd been talking about. "Who says what?"
    ' 'Who says men have to run along behind women and make sure their trunks get loaded on trains?"
    "I don't know. Women, I suppose."
    "Oh." He paused. Then, "I don't know many women."
    "No surprise there."
    Larence leaned forward, and for one horrifying mo-

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    ment she thought he was going to touch her again. "You had your name and address on everything, didn't you?"
    "Yes."
    "Then what's the problem?"
    "You wouldn't understand."
    "Try me."
    She sighed heavily. What was the point? Only someone who'd lived in poverty could really understand the value of possessions. "Forget it, Digby. All I want right now is to go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up, I'll find that this was all a horrible nightmare."
    "Yes, I'm sure it will all look better tomorrow."
    "Oh, yes, I'm sure it will."
    Her sarcasm bypassed him completely. "That's the spirit, Miss—"
    "Call me Emmaline."
    His eyes rounded. "Really?"
    Hers rolled. "Really. What do I call you—Larry?"
    "No," he said sharply. "Larence is good."
    "Fine. Whatever. Call