Ravenwood(3)

After two hours, she sorely regretted the decision not to pick up a book. Despite the dining light, she was close to finishing one sock, her hands proficient at the task after so many years. A chill had settled into her bones from her lack of movement and she found her legs and back stiff from her sitting. The train station was no longer the bustle of activity it had been earlier in the evening and was now nearly devoid of people. All but one of the ticket booths had closed up and the last one, while open, was occupied by a tired older gentleman who nodded off now and then. Elinore’s eyes were repeatedly drawn to him and she wondered how long he would wage the war on his imminent slumber before succumbing. She tried not to worry about still being at the station - surely someone was coming for her. Perhaps she should have inquired about hiring for a messenger to send to the manor. She supposed she could always inquire with the gentleman at the ticket booth to see if there was any chance of being able to hire a driver. Elinore did not have much by way of currency upon her, but she was certain she could wire her parents’ solicitor back in town and he would provide funds. At the very least, she knew that if she were in a terrible state, she could wire Charlotte’s father and request a small loan.

The most galling part of it all was that Elinore, as a single, unmarried lady of a young age, could not manage her own funds. They were in a trust managed by the solicitors until she was married or until she reached her twenty-fifth birthday, at which point she would be declared a spinster and well past marriageable age.

Elinore considered herself quite lucky it was only four years away. Naturally, she would entertain the thought of marriage if she found the right gentleman. But if not, she did not fear being a spinster and relished the idea of finally being able to make her own decisions. She and Charlotte had made grand plans of all sorts regarding what they could do if they did not marry. They could open a dress shop, or perhaps a yarn shop, or a combination of both. They imagined they could continue writing their stories while working behind the counter, spending all day wrapped up in fanciful silks and even more fanciful ideas.

Elinore shivered a bit, the late evening air cutting through her cloak. She eyed her luggage, still affixed to the carriage, and wondered how difficult it would be to find another shawl to ward against the chill.

“Miss Elinore Reed, I presume.”

Elinore jumped slightly at the voice, coming from her left and turned sharply. A tall, thin, older man stood before her, solemn and grave. He wore a manservant suit of dark charcoal with a black cap upon his head. His features were slightly sunken in, although the general nature of the remainder of his body indicated he was the sort that had been thin and spindly his entire life.

“I am Elinore Reed,” she asserted, clutching her knitting a bit closer to her and setting her spine steel straight and strong.

He tipped his head in acknowledgement - a stiff and formal motion. “I am Edgar Thistlewaite, from Ravenwood. Most folks just call me Thistle. I am to take you directly to the manor.”

His voice was low and deep - like a large, sonorous bell. She nodded once. “That is the carriage there. The other driver left it as is.” She indicated to where the carriage was parked, at the side of the train station.

“If you please, miss.” He gestured that she should proceed to the vehicle. She gathered her small bag, tossing her knitting back inside quickly and pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. As she moved away from the train station, she noticed a light fog was settling over the countryside. The lights from the station made it glow slightly, pale ghosts against the landscape, and she shivered again.

“Are you chilled?”

She granted Thistle a small smile. “No worse for the wear. Only slightly tired from my journey.” She was dismayed to see the interior of the carriage dark as she approached, the candle the other driver had lit having long since burned out.

“Shall I fetch you a blanket?”

“No, thank you.” Elinore was grateful for his kindness. The night was dark and she’d been feeling very solemn and lonely as she waited. Though Thistle had an odd look about him, he seemed quite capable and genteel. She felt immeasurably better about her journey.

“I had perhaps thought to read a bit, but it appears the candle has burned out. Is there another?”

Thistle nodded slightly, pulling a small box from under the driver’s seat of the carriage. “Most drivers keep a small stockpile at the ready. I’ll light it for you. Bit of a reader, are you miss?”

Elinore smiled, waiting patiently as Thistle lit the candle in the carriage. “Yes. I don’t sleep well on carriages. I’ll likely either knit or read.”

“Good habits to have. My daughter is the same. Always with her nose in a book.”

Elinore smiled at his fond tone. “May I inquire, how old is your daughter?”

Thistle smiled, his long face lighting up. “Thirteen, miss. Loves the mysteries and the mythology books. My misses says she should probably try her hand at more manor work and less minotaurs, but my Alice is not easily persuaded.”

“Perhaps she will loan me some of her books and be interested in sharing some of mine. I do love mythology as well.”

Thistle nodded at her, seemingly bashful. “She’d love to talk about books. Neither her mother nor I have a care in the world for half-man creatures and fables. It would be right kind of you if you could trouble yourself.”