Damn, it was hot. I thought I was going to roast to death in the passenger car of that train; traveling to Missouri in the summer seemed like a good idea when I was desperate for any work, but now I was reconsidering my journey from eastern Pennsylvania. The open windows brought a blistering hot breeze along with enough cinders to choke me. Getting off at the longer stops of the journey to find refreshment brought momentary respite, but soon it was back into the oven. After an eternity in that purgatory riding across country, drowsing in the Chicago Central Station overnight, and riding down to St. Louis, the platform at the local station in the western suburbs was a relief in spite of temperatures over 80 just before a Saturday noonday.
There was a calendar hanging on the front wall of the car: June 1894. "I can't believe it's this hot on June second," came a woman's voice from the back of car. A glance around showed how my fellow passengers were suffering: the women were frequently mopping their brows with delicate handkerchiefs that seemed inadequate to the task, the men sat stoically as rivers of sweat streamed down their faces, children sat in amazement devoid of their normal energy. I recalled an article from a magazine I found discarded in Chicago telling about the natives of Africa that went almost completely nude in their sweltering climate, and envied them not having to wear a suit, vest, and tie. Were we really the civilized ones?
There a few other disembarking passengers when we arrived at my stop, and one of them was kind enough to help with my bags. Four cases were the minimum I required for my clothes, personal effects and musical supplies, and although I am relatively fit and able male of 25 years, their bulk made hauling them awkward. Sir Charles had promised one of his servants would be at the station to meet me, but first glance showed no one looking for a stranger. After a few moments, the train pulled away and people cleared the platform, leaving me with a tall, lanky, blond lad of about 12 who wore a dark suit with a collarless white shirt and leather shoes. He took off his leather cap, and approached me sheepishly: "Pardon me, sir, but are you Mr. MacLeod?" he said with a strong English accent.
I mopped my brow with my handkerchief. "Yes, I am Frank MacLeod of Reading, Pennsylvania, meeting Sir Charles Montgomery Brougham later this day."
"Yes, sir, I doubt it, sir. My Master, Sir Charles sends his regards and regrets he is not able to meet you at this time, however I am come to conduct you to Olympia where you may settle yourself this evening and begin your task Monday."
Something was strange about all this, but there was no one else left on the platform. I knew from personal experience that the English upper class could have some strange ways of operating, especially when abroad. The lad seemed strong enough to handle a horse drawn carriage, and his accent was definitely not one of a Missourian. "This is slightly irregular. . ." I began.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but things are bit different at our house on Saturdays. The Broughams are in St. Louis to do some shopping and attend the Opera this afternoon, as is their regular routine, and they shan't return 'til around sunset. Gus drove them into the city, and Max has to care for the farm, so I was the only one left to fetch you this morning. If I may take your bags, I'll show you to the buggy."
"By all means. What is your name?"
"Edwards, Connie Edwards, sir."
"Connie?"
"Short for Constantine. My father has an interest in ancient history."
"I see." It was a short walk to our conveyance: a buggy with one broad seat with a plank across the back and a place for my bags. A young blonde girl in a long sleeved brown dress and leather shoes was already seated there, tapping her foot in the air and pouting. "Good morning," I began, "it is a pleasure to meet you."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. MacLeod, but it's just gone noon by the station clock. So it's 'Good Afternoon', an' it please you, SIR." Her English accent was as strong as well.
I put the bags I carried in the back. "Of course, my lady. Good afternoon. And whom may have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Miss Ruby Edwards, Mr. MacLeod. And pray do not treat me as a child: I am fourteen years old and will be fifteen in two months."
"You hafta get on the back now, Ruby," Connie broke in. "That's how it goes when the gentry get into the carriage, the servant has to ride in back."
"That's where you have to ride, Connie, it's only stable boys like you that have to do that. Maid servants ride up front, like the ladies do. Although I could drive the buggy and YOU could ride back there like you should."
"I think there's room for all three of us here," I replied, climbing in. A quick inspection of their features affirmed these two were brother and sister, as if their banter had not. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun, and her brown eyes carried an authority beyond her years. Her brother's eyes were mirror images of hers, and as full of barely contained mischief.
"It's about five miles to Olympia," Connie said, after flicking the whip and clicking his tongue to get our horse moving. "We should be there in a half hour or so."
"Long as you don't try to race the poor animal, like you did this morning," his sister chimed in. "Said we were late and wouldn't meet the train on time. Then we had to sit for two hours."
"You liked the candy shop at the platform," he snarled.
"Shut up, you did, too."
"Tell me," I cut in, "what school you go to and how you like America?"
