The stationmaster’s office was a middle-sized room with a broad desk and a wide window facing the platform. There were charts and timetables on the walls and a shelf full of ledgers took up one side. The kettle was steaming on the small stove and a blue teapot stood next to an empty cup with a spoon in it, a light spray of sugar scattered about a milk jug. The huge bulk of the desk was littered with papers, letters and more ledgers, half hiding a few pens, an inkwell, and bright brass lamp.
Mr. Andrews, as the stationmaster introduced himself, pulled up a chair for Iris and asked her to please sit down. He took out a cup with a saucer from an open shelf and handed it to her with a small bow after wiping it briskly, looking oddly like a bedraggled butler. He poured out the tea and offered milk and sugar, asking Iris how her train ride was and if she liked the country so far. Iris answered accordingly, smiling politely when Mr. Andrews exclaimed, ‘Seven days! My, you must be glad to have arrived. Too bad you’re husband’s delayed.’ Yes, too bad indeed. Again the panicked thought that Christian O’Brian might have actually forgotten her tried to steal itself into Iris’ mind but she shut it out quickly. Once she let it in, all others would follow. It would not do to lose her head. It would be much better to drink tea instead. Iris took a sip and realized that the tea was actually fine.
‘I hope it’s not too strong, I’m still practicing making it,’ the stationmaster said a little anxiously, looking small behind his massive desk. Iris said it was perfect. Mr. Andrews smiled proudly and took a healthy gulp from his cup. He was about to ask another question when he suddenly turned to the window. Something must have caught his eye. He put down his cup and got up hastily, excusing himself before stepping out to the platform. Given dusk had fallen rather quickly and the stationmaster’s office was brightly lit, Iris could not see who Mr. Andrews was talking to, but she heard a male voice, younger and deeper than Mr. Andrew’s by the sound of it – her heart lept in her chest when Mr. Andrews said, ‘Of course, Mr. O’Brian. ’
Sitting as she was, holding her saucer in one hand and her cup in the other, Iris did not know what to do. Real nervousness was starting to spread. Iris carefully set down the cup and saucer and sat as straight and dignified as she could. She would simply wait until he entered. It was, after all, inevitable.
‘I just made some tea,’ she heard Mr. Andrews say, approaching. ‘I thought your wife wouldn’t mind a cup while she waited. Sad about the gates, though,’ Mr Andrews continued, ‘Callaghan should finally do something about them.’
Mr. Andrew’s was almost at the door by then, the sound of heavy boots following the stationmaster’s quick tread. Iris sat as still as she could, her heart racing.
‘Mrs. O’Brian?’ Mr. Andrews called. ‘I think your husband’s here.’
Seeing that she could not risk to look hesitant, let alone reluctant with the stationmaster watching, Iris rose calmly from her seat and turned to the door, just as Christian O’Brian stepped into the light.
He was taller than she expected. Iris registered a simple jacket, dark and clean, a white shirt without a tie, a buckled belt and denim. She finally looked at his face. He did not look half as severe as his photographic twin. He was not unsightly, which was a genuine relief. She had not known his hair color for the black and white of the photograph, but now she saw that it indeed was black after he removed his hat before stepping in. His eyes were hazel under two even eyebrows, eyes that looked back at her directly, as if he had always expected to see her in the stationmaster’s office.
‘Iris,’ he nodded and Iris remembered where she was and who was watching them. ‘Hello, Christian,’ she answered and, after a heartbeat of awkwardness, she stepped forward, offering her hand. He took it without hesitation and kissed its back as if he had always done this and this was not the very first time. He held her hand just long enough for it to look like a familiar greeting and then let go, stepping aside to let her pass through the door.
‘I’ll tell Jeremy to get your trunk then, Ma’am,’ Mr. Andrews said and hurried on past Iris into the dark, calling out for said Jeremy to hurry up and bring Mrs. O’Brian’s trunk up front, ‘get to it, lad!’ Iris stood between the light of Mr. Andrew’s office and the growing dark of dusk, fully aware of Christian O’Brian standing only a step away – he turned to her right then as he put on his hat again.
‘My apologies for being late,’ he said politely. ‘There was some trouble with the river again.’
‘Another flood?’ Iris asked. He nodded,
‘I had to wait till they could close the gates. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.’
He looked at her then, as directly as before. Iris shook her head, looking away, acutely aware of the simple ring on her finger. She was here now, married to this man, and the extent of what this meant was just beginning to dawn on her. It had all seemed far away as long as it was just letters and signatures and a long ride on the train. Now, however, what started with a bright morning reading Mr. Godfrey’s paper ended with her standing on Riverton Station’s platform next to an absolute stranger by the name of Christian O’Brian. She should probably start referring to him as Christian now, though it felt so strange to be so informal to someone she hardly knew.
Iris held her purse tightly and did her best not to look how she felt, which was a wild urge to run and hide. She could not say why, Christian O’Brian did not look menacing, but the urge was there to simply find a place where she could hide herself until she understood what was happening. Not that she didn’t know, and yet the shock was real: she was here. She was really, truly here. It was what made her jump when Christian O’Brian motioned for her to proceed towards the exit of the station once Jeremy appeared, carrying her trunk with Mr. Andrews’ help. She walked around the building to a lamp-lit street where an empty buggy was waiting, the dappled grey pawing the sand. Mr. Andrews and Jeremy made short thrift with her trunk, tying it to the back of the vehicle, Christian O’Brian – she would have to stop with the O’Brian – tipping Jeremy and shaking hands with Mr. Andrews, who asked if the gates were filling quickly again.
‘Fast enough, but not like last year,’ Christian O’Brian answered.
‘Well, that’s something then,’ Mr. Andrews nodded.
He tapped his cap to Iris with a ‘Ma’am’ and waited until Christian O’Brian was seated before he nodded to him as well. Iris, sitting in the far corner of the buggy, saw how Christian O’ – Christian flicked the reins and suddenly they were driving down into Riverton, the grey trotting easily on the sanded road, the turn of the wheels and the horse’s tread the only sounds in the silence.
*
Iris sat as still as possible, her hands folded over her purse in her lap, searching for something to break the silence, but all she could think of was that Christian O’ – no, he had kissed her hand as if it was the most natural thing, and now they sat in this buggy as if they were really a married couple, which they were, and that he was probably bringing her to his house (which she had seen with her inner eye for so many days, she wondered if the truth would shatter her dream), not to mention whether what she had done was sensible or if it was what she felt right then: complete and utter madness.
She did not know this man and yet she was bound to him by all legal actions and even before God, if the blessing of the curate counted as well. Iris watched the quiet, dark landscape pass by, disturbed every now and then by homesteads with brightly lit windows. She watched in silence, trying to tamp down a rising sensation of panic. No, it would not do to fret, let alone lose her head, she was here now and so far Christian O’Brian, no, Christian had been courteous if not a little reserved, but considering his letters that should not be a surprise. 
It was still difficult for Iris to equal the C. O’Brian she knew from the letters with the man sitting next to her who was guiding the grey down the road, past houses and gardens and other buggies and carriages, whose passengers, thank God, were obscured by darkness. Iris kept to the shadows as best as she could, not wanting to be seen, or worse, having someone stop and ask questions. She sat as still as possible, waiting for her heartbeat to settle, though she doubted it ever would again.
© 2016 threegoodwords
three good words 