Free The Last to Know by Posie Graeme-evans Page B

inconvenient, at the time; a stranger spoke to me on the train as I traveled north to my intended destination.
    He said, “I have always obtained singular pleasure from such a conveyance as this is.” Reluctantly, I surveyed the gentleman on the seat opposite mine. I had not observed him closely before that moment as I was too surprised by his being there at all; however, it was impossible that I should entirely ignore him in such a confined space.
    His was a most striking demeanor. He had a high, vivid color and rather brown skin—from the sun of faraway places perhaps; his glossy black hair was certainly pomaded. So brilliant was its shine that it put me in mind of a well-groomed horse (absurd, but the image stays with me still). And yet his glance was restless, and he, himself, seemed restive also. However, it was with a certain flourish that he disposed himself against the squabs—one elegant knee slung across the other, one glove on, the other off, the silver-topped cane in his hand used for punctuation as he spoke.
    Do you know, I recall my unspoken indignation still? It seemed to me that he felt the most perfect right to be in that carriage compartment: the compartment which had been reserved for me and me alone (if one were not to count Jane, my maid).
    It was at Furneau Minor, a village amongst the high sheepfolds of the Yorkshire Moors, that this unexpected gentleman had flung an expensive if shabby leather valise into the luggage rack above my head as the train lurched away from the platform. He sat before I could protest at the intrusion, confidently leaning across the little space between his knees and my own. Raising his hat, he smiled most directly into my eyes. I was confused by his arrival and insulted by such easy familiarity.
    I pressed the bell to summon the conductor, but, once that flustered man arrived, he insisted, though apologetically, that the stranger had a valid ticket and must be permitted to retain his seat.
    My unsought companion proffered a small printed card for inspection. The seat number was clearly marked upon it, as was the compartment and the carriage. The booking office at Waterloo had, it seemed, made a mistake, and though the conductor was embarrassed by such an occurrence, he respectfully pressed the point. A valid ticket and a full train settled the matter in his eyes: the stranger had a right his place.
    You will recall, Cousin, that I was never described as shy in my youth, and thus, in consequence, I questioned the hapless railway official with some asperity, but at last, the conductor shrugged. Though he was embarrassed, that shrug said he was a man much put upon by the authorities and there was nothing to be done. I regret, still, that my response to this spinelessness was overwarm.
    The stranger broke in to this exchange. Perhaps he meant to be amusing. “You see? There is no help for it. We must become traveling companions, dear lady.” Dear lady? I was not my mother, I was a girl of less than twenty. I found his tone insufferable, his roaming eye impertinent. Taking advantage of the gentleman’s remarks to me, the conductor retreated with dispatch, bowing. And I? Since there was no help for my situation, I, too, retreated from the fray; dignified silence became my traveling cloak. It was then that the stranger ventured his remark about train travel. He was determined to persist.
    I limited my acknowledgment to the smallest, the most rigid, of nods and fastened my eyes to the pages of my book. We had not been introduced. How could we be? There was no one suitable to advance the acquaintance.
    The gentleman appeared to accept this most plain of hints, and the fingers of one hand danced on the windowsill, beating out the rhythm of the iron wheels beneath us. Frowning, he gazed out upon the passing moors in silence until, after some moments, he stripped off his other glove with an impatient sigh. Light caught at the ring on the smallest finger of his left hand: a bright