her farm back home that Cora sometimes felt she lived in a dream world. The plants out here lived much like the people did, somehow pulling life and water out of the red clay that covered the ground. She remembered the rich, dark soil of the Shenandoah Valley, how it felt almost like cotton in her fingers. Her hands had been smaller then, the hands of a young girl. Mother would scold her for dirtying her stockings and her dresses, but Cora had loved being close to the earth. She knew her father worked with his own hands in the soil, growing food for the three of them and their small lot of animals, and she wanted to be a part of it. Her mother told her not to bother with such things, that she would grow up and find herself a proper husband to work the earth for her. Cora would always reply that she wanted to help her man when the time came, and her mother would shake her head and sigh.
She turned her eyes from the window to consider the sleeping form of her husband. Ben was the son of a printer, not a farmer, and it was from his trade that he learned his love of books. She'd met him in the town nearest her farm while she was running errands for her mother. Rounding a corner, she had collided with him as he had been walking the other way, his nose buried in a book. The impact knocked her down and sent the book flying. Ben had stooped to recover his lost treasure before offering his ink-stained fingers to her. She had taken his hand with a coy smile, enjoying the feeling in her stomach as he pulled her to her feet. The feeling didn't go away once she was standing, so she kept her eyes on the cobbles beneath her shoes as he apologized.
The train rounded a sharp corner in the tracks. A muffled thump echoed in the near-empty passenger car, and Cora turned her head around to search for the source. A small, round man in a bowler hat and suit sat across the aisle from her, fumbling with a small suitcase next to him. The trunk must have fallen over during the turn, causing the thump. Red-faced, the man grunted with the effort of pulling it upright again. Cora watched in amusement as he strained. When he finally succeeded, he smacked it with a pudgy fist, put a hand to his forehead, and took a deep breath.
"That's a mighty fine trunk you got there, sir," Cora said.
"Isn't it, though?" the stranger replied, turning to her and smiling. "I purchased it from a quaint little shop in Sussex. Burgess Hill, if I remember correctly. Though I must admit I rather neglected to consider its size when picking it out. It holds a fine number of texts, but I'm afraid it gets rather cumbersome as a result."
"Is that right?" Cora said, unable to contain a smirk. "Maybe you could find yourself a servant to haul it around for you and save yourself the work."
"Oh, I'm afraid I'm not quite that high in station. Yet, anyway. I hope one day to afford a nice staff of my own, perhaps even a valet, though of course one must own a buggy for that." He laughed, a rich sound that made his round belly jiggle. "Until such time, however, I must resign myself to my burden." He thumped on the trunk and laughed again.
"Well, at least you're cheerful about it," Cora said.
"The fine cider back in the city may have something to do with that, I think."
Cora's eyebrow arched. "Cider's your drink, is it?" When the man nodded, she shook her head. "Can't say I care for it much myself. Not when there's whiskey handy."
The man's round face twisted into a grimace. "Awful stuff, if you ask me. I honestly can't fathom who first took a sip and decided it was fit for human consumption. Most likely an Irishman."
Cora couldn't believe what she was hearing. "A man who don't drink whiskey? How can you even call yourself a man?"
"Quite easily, actually. Of course, I could call myself a roasted ham for all the good it would do. The names a man gives to himself aren't worth tuppence if he can't stand behind them, I say."
"And what's the name you call yourself?"
"James Townsend, if you please." He tipped his hat to her, and Cora nodded in reply. "To