Evan Hunter: Lizzie

“This is so very kind of you,” the woman said.

Her voice was pitched rather low, sounding more like an adolescent boy’s than a woman’s, somewhat breathless now after her supposed dash for the train and the struggle to find a seat. The man, Lizzie noticed, though he was in the company of ladies, had not yet removed his absurd checked bowler. She immediately assumed he was ill-mannered. And yet, the woman seemed so fashionably dressed. And, certainly, their speech hadn’t sounded at all like what Lizzie had expected of lower-class Englishmen. Both of them were silent now. The man shifted his weight and stretched his long legs. The woman stared directly ahead of her, her slender, gloved hands folded in her lap.

“Allow me to introduce ourselves,” Lizzie said, turning to the woman and seeming to take her quite by surprise. “I’m Lizzie Borden, and these are my friends. Felicity Chambers...”

“Charmed,” Felicity said.

“Rebecca Welles...”

“How do you do?”

“And Anna Borden... there by the window.”

Anna nodded behind her veil.

“Americans, of course,” the man said, and smiled.

“Yes,” Lizzie said, and returned the smile.

“How often would you say I’ve taken this train in the past five years, Allie?” he asked the woman.

“Countless times,” she said.

“Countless times,” he agreed, nodding. “And never has anyone but an American spoken to me.”

“Nôtre sang-froid habituel,” the woman said, and added in explanation, “We English, you know,” and smiled.

“Even if you hadn’t been so kind as to speak first,” the man said, “I’d have known you were American.”

“Oh?” Lizzie said. “How?”

“Only lords, fools and Americans ride first-class,” the man said, and laughed.

“Since you, my dear Albert, are neither an American nor a lord...” the woman said, and airily waved aside the rest of the sentence.

“A fool for certain,” the man said, shaking his head. “The smoking compartment’s packed full, you know. Book a first-class ticket and ride all the way to London without a cigar.”

“Please don’t ask the ladies if they’d mind,” the woman said.

“Would you mind?” the man asked, looking across at Lizzie.

“Anna isn’t feeling well,” Lizzie said apologetically.

“Oh, what a pity,” the woman said, and glanced about at the other women, as though trying to recall which of them was Anna. Her glance settled unerringly on the veiled figure huddled beside Felicity in the window seat on the other side of the compartment. “Forgive me,” she said, “I’m Alison Newbury. This is my husband, Albert.”

“Allie and Albie,” the man said.

“The ‘Albie’, of course, is to distinguish him from our late and eternally lamented prince consort,” Alison said drily.

“Who but a prince would book first-class?” Albert said. “Is the ‘Lizzie’ short for Elizabeth?”

“No, that’s my full name,” Lizzie said. “Or rather, part of it. It’s Lizzie Andrew, the whole of it.”

“Are you and the other lady related?” Alison asked.

“No, we’re not.”

“Small world then, isn’t it?” Albert said. “ Andrew , did you say?”

“I think my father was hoping for a boy.”

“Oh, dear,” Alison said, “how dreadful for you,” and patted Lizzie’s hand.

“I rather like that, actually,” Albert said. “The Andrew part. If ever we were to have any children...”

“Bite your tongue,” Alison said.

“I’d choose to name him Andrew,” Albert said, and shrugged.

“Please note the male posture,” Alison said.

“Posture?” Albert said.

“The certainty that if and when we ever had a child, God forbid, it would be a boy.” She smiled at Lizzie. “Is your father’s name Andrew?”

“Yes. Andrew Jackson Borden.”

“After one of your presidents?” Albert asked.

“I would imagine. He’s never said.”

“Have you been traveling long in England?” Alison asked.

“We just arrived this morning,” Felicity said brightly. “From New York.”

“Oh, you poor dears,” Alison said. “You must be utterly exhausted!”

“Not really,” Rebecca said. “It was a very comfortable crossing.”

“I was seasick most of the time,” Anna said from behind her veil.

“You poor dear,” Alison said.

“Do you make your home in New York?” Albert asked.

“No, we’re from Massachusetts,” Rebecca said.

“Ah, yes,” Albert said.

“Fall River,” Felicity said.

“Afraid I don’t know it,” Albert said. “Where will you be staying in London?”

“Don’t be cheeky, darling,” Alison said.

“A perfectly proper question,” Albert said, and stroked his mustache. “Surely the ladies are staying somewhere.”

“The Albemarle Hotel,” Lizzie said.

“The Hotel Albemarle,” he corrected. “One must be exceedingly careful in London. I once asked a cabbie to take me to the Victoria Hotel, which any fool knows is on Northumberland Avenue. He pulled up in front of what seemed a gin palace, bearing the sign plain enough — Victoria Hotel. I told him I wanted the one on Northumberland, and he promptly said, ‘Then why didn’t you say Hotel Victoria?’ I might add that he charged me a fare and a half to emphasize the distinction.”

“You mustn’t frighten the ladies,” Alison said. “That’s just reopened, hasn’t it? The Albemarle?”

“Rebuilt it from top to bottom,” Albert said, nodding. “Did a handsome job of it, too.”

“Near St. James’s Street, isn’t it?”

“Corner of Piccadilly and Albemarle Street,” Albert said. “Choice location, very fine indeed. Made it over in the French style. I fancy you’ll like it. But why on earth have you taken this train?”

“Isn’t this the train to London?” Anna said, alarmed.

“Indeed it is,” Albert said, “but one of the others might have been more convenient for you.”

He went on to explain that four different railway companies ran trains from Liverpool to London. The train they were on, operated by the Great Western Railway, had taken them through Chester, Birmingham, Warwick and Oxford and was now on its way to Paddington Station, which was rather more distant from their hotel than some of the London stations the other lines went into. Moreover, because of the many stops along the way, the rail journey was lengthier than it might have been; two of the other lines offered shorter, swifter routes.

“But this route is scenic,” Alison said.

“If you enjoy looking at the rooftops of middle-class English homes,” Albert said.

“Besides, we never would have met otherwise, would we?” Alison said, and again patted Lizzie’s hand.

It was Albert who also informed them that they could have had their luggage shipped directly to the hotel rather than having it knocked about from pillar to post all the w ay to London and then from Paddington Station where they might, on a Sunday, have difficulty getting transportation on to the hotel. Lizzie was grateful when the conversation shifted to less dismaying ground. The Newburys, she learned, made their home in London, to which they were returning after a weekend visit to Alison’s cousin in Oxford, a trip necessitated by the fact that they were leaving for a holiday on the Continent next Wednesday. This led to a discussion of the itinerary the women had planned for their own holiday (Lizzie repeated the British word with great pleasure, and hoped she didn’t sound affected) and the Newburys, who turned out to be widely traveled, helpfully pointed out the tourist attractions and restaurants that shouldn’t be missed.