Chapter 3
At some point in her younger years, Janice Meredith Quincy had developed an abhorrence for eating alone and, now, as she sat in the dining car gazing absentmindedly out of the blackened window onto the flattening green lands smoothing towards Amsterdam, she felt particularly alone . . . rather like a chastised maid in a darkened kitchen eating her soup in silence.
Except for the table across from her where sat a family of four, only three other tables were occupied-one by a burly bunch of travelers whose appearance and manners seemed far too crude for first class accommodations. They must have traveled for weeks, assumed Janice, desperately trying not to stare at the men's dirty trousers and beards that seemed to have grown unintentionally without the grace of grooming.
And the woman.. . my Lord, she was just as bad with her stockingless legs and stringy black hair. Charles would have them removed from the car, mused Janice, sitting up a little straighter. They spoke English, though whether or not they were from the States, Janice couldn't tell.
She let her wine glass linger at her lips while her shell-like ears strained for any hint as to who these disgracefully crass people might be, but they were talking too low in hushed, almost secretive voice for her to hear. Something in her New England aristocratic upbringing made her lose her appetite in the company of such tawdry folk, and she concentrated on her wine, leaving her lamb in curry sauce nearly untouched.
The Beaujolais slid down her throat with a pleasant tingle, and she poured herself another glass from the half-bottle, forcing herself to remain oblivious to the uncomely group of people blemishing the spotless dining car.
Suddenly their voices hushed to an inaudible whisper and Janice felt their eyes searching her out, cold unfriendly eyes that rose goose bumps up and down the delicate length of her spine. Was it her imagination or were they deliberately spying her out? she wondered, suspecting that her own chilly stares of disapproval had cornered their attention and now looks of disgust was her due reward for such blatant snobbery.
Mother would never allow such a thing to happen, clucked Janice, finishing her wine, then motioning to the waiter to settle her bill. By luck, he accepted French francs, not just Belgium ones, and she left a handful of coins on the tip tray, perhaps out of habit, unconcerned whether the bill included the tip or not. With her alligator bag securely slung over her shoulder, she hastened off towards the last sleeping car on the train where her reserved private compartment lay waiting, bed turned down for a night of solid rest before her eyes opened tomorrow morning upon buzzing Amsterdam.
The incessant clang of the train rumbling on the tracks was terribly loud and rattling in her delicate ears as she opened the doors to the exit of each wagon, feeling the chilling vibrations of the train's powerful speed under her size five feet, while the connecting mechanism on the wagon forced the car to weave back and forth like a sideways see-saw. Somewhere near the third car from the end she was about to pull open the heavy metal door when it opened for her.
"Oh, thank you," she smiled into the handsome face of a border policeman who tipped his medallioned hat, then held the door for her to pass by. She was to meet six of those similarly dressed policemen on her short journey to the last sleeping car.
That caused a small flicker of concern to ignite in her delicate body. What was going on here, she wondered, thankful to step into her private compartment and slipped her bag off her shoulder to set it on the bed. On several trains she and Charles had traveled on, she recalled seeing two or three conductors, and occasionally more than one border police at the border. She shrugged off her fears with the help of the wine and rationalized that perhaps it was traveling alone, a new experience for Janice Meredith Quincy, that made her more cognizant of possible dangers.
Wistfully discarding her thoughts, Janice unzipped her navy blue linen dress that cost a small fortune and slipped out of it. The fabric rustled over her body, sliding over her smooth, creamy shoulders, onto her full, round breasts, then down to her smooth, sveltely curving buttocks, her voluptuous thighs, and her slim legs. It settled on the bare floor of her tiny cabin.
She stepped out of the crumpled pile of fabric and pulled the sheerness of her slip over her head, and dropped it, too, on the floor of her sleeping room.
Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bit of black lace which was her brassiere, then slipped the straps off her shoulders and let it fall to join her dress on the floor.
Standing there in the confining room with barely enough space to turn around, Janice began to feel terribly homesick for the expensive comfort of her bedroom in Boston, with its authentic pink satin Victorian furniture and soft carpets, lush and thick as a plantation lawn.
Her flimsy nylon panties came off next, followed by her panty hose and a pair of black leather pumps. Her silken body shivered with a chill as she hastily bent down to her suitcase on the bed and opened it, drew out a yellow satin robe and wrapped the lace-trimmed slinkiness around her naked body. Her pretty mouth ovaled into a yawn as she stepped to the sink in the far corner of her humble accommodations and stared into the small mirror above the porcelain basin.
The day's travel had left her feeling soiled, a feeling she loathed; and staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror, she splashed water on her face in preparation for night cream on skin that was so clear it was almost translucent, glowing with subdued color. Her cheek bones were perhaps her finest feature, yet her small, pouty mouth was good, too, and her teeth perfect.
Her eyes, she had always thought a bit too wide set, but the limpid blue of them made up for any imperfection, as did the black lashes that shaded her eyes. Toweling her face dry, she swathed a fine layer of expensive night cream under her eyes-needless, really-then flipped off the light and slid between the cool sheets.
She lay awake thinking for some time, listening to the mesmerizing rumbling vibration of the train charging toward Amsterdam, its entrancing sound creating a contrapuntal rhythm in her head like that of a drum beat.
The stained glass windows of Notre Dame, the spaghetti she'd been craving all day, Charles' Aunt Sybil (she was as stuffy as Mrs. Tarrington?). . . the sleepy young woman thought about all those things, and she thought, too, about the six border patrols who'd come aboard the train in Antwerp. Why? Suspicion stirred a thread of tension in her lithe body, but she shook it off and turned on her side to slip one fragile arm under the flat foam rubber pillow. Eyelids grew heavy and thoughts more wistful and scattered as she fell into a deep slumber.