Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(71)

“Where the devil are you taking us, Mr. Ravenel?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, his brows raised. “I told you before—a private railway station.”

“It looks like a cemetery.”

“It’s a cemetery station,” he admitted. “With a dedicated line that runs funeral trains out to the burial grounds. It also happens to connect to the main lines and branches of the London Ironstone Railroad, owned by our mutual friend Tom Severin.”

“You told Mr. Severin about all this? Dear God. Can we trust him?”

West grimaced slightly. “One never wants to be in the position of having to trust Severin,” he admitted. “But he’s the only one who could obtain clearances for a special train so quickly.”

They approached a massive brick and stone building housing a railway platform. A ponderous stone sign adorned the top of the carriage entrance: Silent Gardens. Just below it, the shape of an open book emblazoned with words had been carved in the stone. Ad Meliora. “Toward better things,” Garrett translated beneath her breath.

West looked back at her in surprise. “You’ve studied Latin?”

She sent him a sardonic glance. “I’m a doctor.”

A quick, apologetic grin crossed his face. “Of course.”

The ambulance cart came to a halt at the platform, where the Ravenel carriage and two other vehicles were already parked. The instant the brake was applied, footmen and a pair of porters rushed forward to begin the process of removing the stretcher from the vehicle.

“Be careful,” Garrett said sharply.

“I’ll manage them,” West told her, “while you board the train carriage.”

“If they bump or jar him—”

“Yes, I understand. Let me handle it.”

Frowning, Garrett descended from the cart and took in her surroundings. A reverse-painted glass sign beside the door listed the contents of each floor: mortuary rooms, crypts, storerooms, and third-class waiting rooms on the basement level; chapel, robing rooms, and second-class waiting rooms on the main level; and offices and first-class waiting rooms on the upper levels.

A second sign instructed mourners as to which funeral carriages on the train were designated for first-class coffins, and which ones were for second and third class.

Staring more closely at the sign, Garrett gave a bemused shake of her head at the discovery that corpses on the train were divided into social classes just as living passengers were. To a doctor, however, there were no class divisions between one unclothed body and another, whether living or dead. Every man, rich or poor, was alike in his natural state.

An amused male voice with a Welsh accent broke into her thoughts. “Aye, even a corpse must know its place.”

Garrett turned quickly. “Mr. Winterborne!” she exclaimed. “No one told me to expect you. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

Her employer smiled down at her. Little reflected lights from nearby gas lamps gleamed in his dark eyes. “No trouble, Doctor. This is close to the time I rise every morning. I wanted to make sure the train carriage was stocked and ready for you.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s your train carriage?”

“The passenger carriage is mine, but the locomotive and extra rolling stock belong to Tom Severin.”

“Sir, I’m indebted to you more than I can say—”

“Not at all. Lady Helen and I consider you one of the family. Helen sends her love, by the way.” Winterborne hesitated, his gaze chasing restlessly around the platform before returning to hers. “I was told about Havelock’s refusal to assist in the surgery. For what it’s worth, his decision doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Please don’t blame him.”

“You don’t?”

Garrett shook her head. “‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend,’” she quoted with a grim smile. “A true friend will tell you when he thinks you’re making a mistake.”

“A true friend will be making the mistake with you,” Winterborne said dryly. “As it happens, I don’t agree that you did anything wrong. Had I been in your place, I would have made the same choice.”

“You would?”

“If there were any chance of saving someone I loved, I’d take it and be damned to anyone who stood in my way.” Looking her over, Winterborne said frankly, “You’re at the length of your tether. There are two staterooms in the train carriage—try to steal a few minutes of rest before you reach Hampshire.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a weighty leather envelope. “Take this.”

Cautiously Garrett peeked inside the pouch, which was stuffed with hundred-pound notes. It was more cash money than she’d ever held in her life. “Mr. Winterborne, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Money doesn’t solve every problem,” he said, “but it never hurts. Send for me if there’s anything you need. When Ransom’s condition improves, let me know.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

As Winterborne escorted her onto the train, they passed a crew of shopmen busily removing the wheels of the ambulance cart to make its transport easier. The stretcher had already been conveyed onto the railway carriage, which was a virtual palace on wheels. It had two staterooms, each with its own connected toilet room equipped with hot and cold running water, an observation room, and a parlor with movable velvet-covered chairs and reading lamps.