“I told you we should have put her in the second-class carriage with Sutton,” he said to Kathleen.
In the week since the episode in the morning room, they had both taken care to avoid each other as much as possible. When they were together, as now, they retreated into mutual and scrupulous politeness.
“I thought she would feel safer with us,” Kathleen replied. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Clara was sleeping with her head tilted back and her mouth half open. “She seems to be faring better after a nip of brandy.”
“Nip?” He gave her a dark glance. “She’s had at least a half pint by now. Pandora’s been dosing her with it for the past half hour.”
“What? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it kept her quiet.”
Kathleen jumped up and hurried to retrieve the decanter from Pandora. “Darling, what are you doing with this?”
The girl stared at her owlishly. “I’ve been helping Clara.”
“That was very kind, but she’s had enough. Don’t give her any more.”
“I don’t know why it’s made her so sleepy. I’ve had almost as much medicine as she’s had, and I’m not a bit tired.”
“You drank some of the brandy?” West had asked from the other side of the railway carriage, his brows lifting.
Pandora stood and made her way to the opposite window to view a Celtic hill fort and a meadow with grazing cattle. “Yes, when we were crossing the bridge over the water, I felt a bit nervous. But then I dosed myself, and it was quite relaxing.”
“Indeed,” West said, glancing at the half-empty bottle in Kathleen’s hand before returning his gaze to Pandora. “Come sit with me, darling. You’ll be as stewed as Clara by the time we reach London.”
“Don’t be silly.” Dropping into the empty seat next to him, Pandora argued and giggled profusely, until she dropped her head to his shoulder and began to snore.
Finally they arrived at one of the two train sheds at Waterloo Station, crowded with thousands of passengers searching for their correct departure platforms. Standing, Devon stretched his shoulders and said, “The driver and carriage are waiting outside the train shed. I’ll have a porter assist Clara. Everyone else, stay together. Cassandra, don’t even think about dashing off to look at trinkets or books. Helen, hold fast to your orchid in case you’re jostled while we move through the crowd. As for Pandora…”
“I have her,” West assured him, pulling the wilting girl to her feet. “Wake up, child. It’s time to leave.”
“My legs are on the wrong feet,” Pandora mumbled, her face buried against his chest.
“Reach around my neck.”
She squinted up at him. “Why?”
West regarded her with amused exasperation. “So I can carry you off the train.”
“I like trains.” Pandora hiccupped as he lifted her against his chest. “Oh, being carried is ever so much nicer than walking. I feel so flopsawopsy-doodly…”
Somehow the group made it through the train shed without mishap. Devon directed the porters and footmen to load their luggage onto a road wagon that would follow the carriage. Sutton reluctantly took charge of Clara, who was inclined to collapse and slump like a sack of beans as she sat next to him on a wagon bench.
The family settled into the carriage, while West elected to sit up top with the driver. As the vehicle left the station and proceeded toward Waterloo Bridge, a mist of rain accompanied the slow descent of pumice-colored fog.
“Will Cousin West be uncomfortable, riding out in the weather?” Cassandra asked in concern.
Devon shook his head. “West is invigorated by the city. He’ll want to have a good look at everything.”
Pandora stirred and sat up to take in the scenery. “I thought all the streets would be paved with stone.”
“Only a few,” Devon said. “Most have been paved with wood block, which provides a better foothold for horses.”
“How tall the buildings are,” Helen remarked, curving her arm protectively around the orchid pot. “Some of them must be seven stories, at least.”
The twins pressed their noses to the windows, their eager faces on open display.
“Girls, your veils —” Kathleen began.
“Let them look,” Devon interrupted quietly. “It’s their first glimpse of the city.”
She relented, settling back in her seat.
London was a city of wonders, alive with thousands of odors and sights. The air was thick with the barking of dogs, the clip-clopping of iron-shod horses and the bleating of sheep, the grinding of carriage wheels, the worrying of fiddles and the whines of street organs, fragments of song from street sellers and balladeers, and thousands of voices that argued, bargained, laughed, and called out to each other.
Vehicles and horses moved through the streets in a vigorous flow. Walkways swarmed with pedestrians who trod across the pale straw that had been scattered along paths and storefronts to absorb the damp. There were vendors, men of business, vagabonds, aristocrats, women in all manner of dress, chimney sweeps with their tattered brooms, shoe blacks carrying folding benches, and match girls balancing bundles of boxes on their heads.
“I can’t decide how the air smells,” Cassandra remarked, as a bewilderment of scents slipped through a gap in the slide window beneath the driver’s box. There was smoke, soot, horses, manure, wet brick, salted brown fish, red butcher-shop meat, bakery bread, hot sausage pasties, oily plugs of tobacco, human sweat, the sweetness of wax and tallow and flowers, and the metallic tang of steam machinery. “What would you call it, Pandora?”