The morning sun cast long shadows across the railway platform as Valerie adjusted her new travelling gloves. Bennett stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back while the porter loaded their trunks onto the train bound for Montreal, and from there to Southampton. Six weeks had passed since that scene in her mother's parlour.
Dr. Trent had arrived at the Whitfield house three days after Bennett's revelation. The confusion, he explained in mortified tones, had arisen from mixed files. Mrs. Patterson, the baker's wife, had indeed been diagnosed with advanced heart disease. Valerie's examination notes had somehow become entangled with another patient's.
"Most regrettable," he had muttered. "Most unfortunate mistake. Your heart is perfectly sound, my dear."
Florence had said nothing during this explanation. Relief, certainly, that her daughter would not die young. But also something that might have been disappointment, as if Valerie's recovered health diminished the drama of her rebellion.
"The Edinburgh express," called the conductor. "All aboard for Edinburgh and points north."
Valerie felt her stomach flutter. The past weeks had been a whirlwind of lawyers and bankers, of revelations about Bennett's fortune. The pharmaceutical patents alone generated more income in a month than her family had seen in years. But it was the writing that amazed her most. The careful revelation that the man she had married was the same Bernard Redfield whose books she had loved.
"Nervous?" Bennett asked, his breath warm against her ear.
"Should I be?"
He laughed. "We're about to spend three months travelling through Europe with nothing but each other for company. I should think a little nervousness is appropriate."
The train whistle shrieked. Around them, mothers embraced sons, businessmen checked pocket watches.
"Mrs. Shaw?" The conductor appeared at Bennett's elbow. "Your compartment is ready."
Mrs. Shaw. The name still felt foreign. In the village, the gossips had whispered about the hasty ceremony on a remote island. But their whispers had changed when news of Bennett's identity became known.
Their compartment was appointed with the luxury befitting Bennett's station. Valerie settled herself beside the window while Bennett arranged their bags.
Through the glass, she caught sight of her mother on the platform. Florence stood near the station house, her black travelling dress making her look like a crow among the brighter colours. Their farewell that morning had been stiff, laden with things neither could say.
"She looks lonely," Valerie murmured.
Bennett followed her gaze. "Do you regret leaving her?"
She considered the question. For twenty nine years, Florence had been the governing force in Valerie's life. To leave her felt almost like severing a limb.
"No," she said finally. "But I pity her. She spent so many years trying to keep me safe that she forgot to let me live."
The train lurched into motion. Through the window, the platform began to slide past, carrying Florence away with it. Valerie pressed her palm against the glass.
"She tried to stop me once more," she said. "Yesterday evening. She came to my room with some story about a letter from Cousin Thornbury in Toronto, about how there might be a position for me as a companion."
"And what did you tell her?"
"That I already have a position. As your wife."
The train gathered speed, and they settled into their seats facing each other.
"There are still mysteries," she said after a time.
"Such as?"
"Why did you really come to Mistawis Island? What drove you to such isolation?"
Bennett was quiet for so long she wondered if he meant to answer at all. A muscle worked in his jaw.
"I was engaged once. To a woman my parents approved of, from an appropriate family. Margaret Fairmont." He paused. "She was beautiful, accomplished, everything a man of my position should want."
Valerie felt something twist in her chest.
"What happened?"
"I discovered that she was more interested in the Redfield fortune than in Bennett Shaw. When I suggested we might live simply, perhaps somewhere outside the city where I could write without social obligations, she laughed. Actually laughed."
The bitter edge in his voice made her want to reach for him.
"The final blow came when I overheard her talking to her mother about the wedding plans. She said..." He stopped, shaking his head. "She said it would be a relief to be married, because then she wouldn't have to pretend to find my company interesting anymore."
"Oh, Bennett."
"So I left. Called off the engagement, horrified both our families, and disappeared to Mistawis Island." He looked at her then, and there was something vulnerable in his grey eyes. "Until a dying woman appeared on my dock and reminded me what it felt like to be seen rather than assessed."
The confession hung between them.
"I'm not dying anymore," she said quietly.
"No. You're not."
"Does that change things?"
Bennett leaned forward. "Valerie, when I thought you had months to live, every moment felt borrowed. Now we have years stretching ahead of us, and that terrifies me more than your supposed illness ever did."
"Why?"
"Because now there's time for you to discover that I'm not the man you think I am. Time for you to grow tired of someone who prefers solitude to society."
She stared at him, noting the way his hands twisted together.
"Bennett Shaw," she said. "You magnificent fool."
His head snapped up.
"Do you think I fell in love with you because I thought I was dying? Do you think terminal illness made me less particular?"
A smile began at the corner of his mouth.
"I chose you when I believed I had nothing to lose. I'm choosing you again now that I have everything to gain." She reached across the space between them and took his hands in hers. "If you can forgive me for running away, perhaps you can trust me to stay."
The kiss that followed was gentle. This was a beginning.
When they broke apart, the train was rounding a curve that brought Lake Simcoe into view, its waters sparkling in the morning sun.
"We should go back," Valerie said suddenly. "After Europe. We should go back to the island."
"To stay?"
"For part of each year, at least. You did your best writing there, and I..." She paused. "I became myself there."
Bennett's smile was answer enough.
She squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze back. The train carried them steadily northward, and somewhere behind them, a conductor dropped his newspaper, the pages scattering across the floor with a soft rustling sound.
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