Page 121 of A Convenient Fiction

Alex pressed his cheek to her hair. His voice, when it came, was a husky promise. “Then you shall have it, my love.”

North Devon, England

December, 1860

The train platform at Abbot’s Holcombe was bustling with activity. Gentlemen in heavy greatcoats and ladies in cloaks and bonnets rushed up and down, calling for porters and for hansom cabs. It was raining out and everyone seemed in a terrible hurry, shoving past each other to climb into their carriages or to take shelter in the refreshment room.

Alex didn’t blame them. The wind was whistling through the station, cold as ice. His own woolen topcoat and leather gloves provided precious little protection against the chill.

He handed Laura out of their first-class compartment. She was bundled up in a dark blue coat that nipped in at her waist before flaring down over her wide skirts. Her raven hair was bound in a corded net with a velvet ribbon run through it. Alex had watched her style it earlier that morning at their hotel. Had pressed a lingering kiss to the nape of her neck as he’d helped her tie the ribbon.

She took his arm. “How are you?”

“Very well.” He covered her gloved hand with his. It was the truth. On disembarking from the train, he’d had no visceral reaction. No disturbing flood of memory. “It’s nothing like I remember.”

“It’s been two decades. I daresay it’s changed a little.”

“More than a little. None of this was here when I was a boy. No railway station. Not even a platform halt. Abbot’s Holcombe was much humbler, then.”

“Tom said that it’s become a fashionable resort town. But one wouldn’t think it would be so busy at this time of year.” She looked about them as they made their way through the crowd. “Not in this weather.”

“It always rains in Devon,” he said. That was something that hadn’t changed at all. The dampness. The cold. The sound of raindrops drumming on the roof. He scanned the platform. “Tom should be here. He’s not the sort to be late.”

The Finchleys had left Grasse at the end of September. Before they’d gone, Tom had extracted a promise from Alex. A commitment to come to Devon for Christmas. To reunite with Justin and Neville.

It was an invitation extended not only to Alex and Laura, but to Mrs. Bainbridge and Teddy, as well. The two of them would be traveling down by rail from Surrey later in the week. Teddy had a proper manservant to assist him now. A young fellow, much stronger than Yardley. Mrs. Bainbridge would be getting someone to look after her, too. Laura had placed an advertisement for a lady’s companion. Someone to sit with her aunt, and to administer her tonic when needed.

As for the perfumery, until their return it would remain in the capable hands of Monsieur Marchand. When last Alex had seen the man, he’d been helping the workers to set up the new equipment. There were copper stills, vats, and mechanized devices for expression and maceration. Everything that was necessary to produce lavender, rose, and orange water in bulk.

“There,” Laura said. “Isn’t that Tom? Over by the ticket office?”

Alex followed her gaze. His breath stopped in his chest. It was Tom. But not only Tom.

A tall gentleman stood next to him, his top hat in his hand, and his frame shrouded in a dark wool greatcoat. His hair was black, and the bottom right portion of his face marked with burn scars.

Alex swallowed hard. Tom had warned him about Justin’s disfigurement. Had told him how Justin had been imprisoned and tortured while serving in India during the uprising. Alex had imagined the burns would make his childhood friend unrecognizable.

They didn’t.

Indeed, Justin looked much as Alex remembered. Noble. Formidable. The unofficial leader of their little band of orphans.

His eyes met Alex’s across the distance. As gray as Alex’s own. A spasm of emotion seemed to pass over his face. Of recognition. He moved toward them, Tom at his side.

“Is that Mr. Thornhill?” Laura asked.

“It is,” Alex said, his voice gone hoarse.

Laura squeezed his arm, giving him her undivided support, just as she always did. “He looks happy to see you.”

And he did look happy.

It was a miracle of sorts. Almost as much as it had been to see Tom, and to realize that he hadn’t spent the last decades hating Alex for what he’d done. That all he’d wanted was to find his long-lost friend. To bring him home.

The crowd gave way as Justin strode through it. He came to a stop in front of them. There was a peculiar sheen in his gaze. Alex suspected it was the same moisture he felt in his own. Only the constraint of good manners—of being in public with his wife on his arm—kept him from losing his composure.

“Alex,” Justin said. “Welcome back to Devon.” He paused, his stern face spreading into a sudden smile. “I never imagined I’d say those words to you.”

Alex’s mouth hitched at the corner. “I never imagined I’d hear them.”