Soon after the clock struck 5:00 PM, Ms. Rigby heard the train’s whistle echoing in the mist. Her heart fluttered with elation. So much so that she couldn’t help but steal a glance down the platform to see the others who waited there.
Too late, she noticed that Marigold Lynn was looking in her direction. The two ladies locked eyes, briefly nodded, then stared straight ahead.
Ms. Rigby cursed herself for letting her guard down. A lady of her standing should comport herself with more decorum, especially among the workers. But I mustn't think about that now, she told herself. Instead, her sole attention should be on getting her package safely. As a result of a mechanical malfunction at the station, the train was not going to stop in this junction, only slow down long enough to deliver the mail. One had to be ready or wait until next week for the delivery. That wouldn’t do. She needed her package.
The tracks creaked as if they were writhing and coming alive. The ground rumbled beneath her feet and sent delightful vibrations up her body.
The train loomed out of the mist, hissing, its copper chimney bellowing great clouds of pure white steam.
Ms. Rigby saw a flash of red from car number 8, the number printed on her delivery notice. Oh dear, she thought recognizing the red cap belonging to one of the new delivery fellows- a foreign boy with coarse manners. Rather a scoundrel. He was not aware of or did not seem to care for the proper way of addressing a highland lady.
The whistle blew and more people gathered on the platform to receive their packages.
The delivery boy grabbed the handle bar on the train and leaning forward, he extended his hand out with her package.
“This one is for you, Mrs. Bee!” he shouted with a grin.
In all the commotion, Ms. Rigby stumbled and missed grabbing the package.
“Oh no!” shouted the boy. “Run, Mrs. Bee! Run!”
Run? Goodness gracious! He could’ve well handed it to her with a quick hop. Seeing no alternative, she hoisted up her dress, took a series of quick steps, then reached out with one hand and barely managed to snatch the package from the foolish boy.
“Yay, Mrs. Bee! Whoo!”
With package in hand, her momentum carried her forward, and she collided with another woman.
Marigold Lynn.
The surprised Marigold yelped.
In a tangle of arms the two ladies stumbled but somehow managed to keep themselves (and their packages) from falling to the platform.
“Pardon me!” said the flustered Marigold.
Ms. Rigby thought of saying something but remained silent. She simply nodded, and hugging her package tight to her bosom, she headed towards the exit.
Happy to be back home, Ms. Rigby lit the fireplace and poured herself a nice glass of sherry.
Trying to forget all about the dreadful incident at the station, she sat by the fire with the package on her lap and her favourite pair of swan scissors in her hand.
She bit her lower lip as she spread the blades and put the ribbon between them. She was about to cut it when she noticed the name, and the address on the package belonged to someone else: Marigold Lynn.
Oh goodness!
She began to withdraw the scissors, but as if on their own, the blades came together and sliced the ribbon.
She looked at the package, which was wrapped in fine silken cloth. Absent-mindedly, she played with the cut end of the ribbon, and then she shook her head. No, she couldn’t. This wasn’t her package. It was not hers to open. On the other hand, it wasn’t her fault she ended up with the wrong package. It was the fault of that dratted delivery scallywag.
She took three sips from her glass then downed the rest in a single gulp. Her fingers slid over the silk and swiftly unwrapped Marigold’s package.
When Ms. Rigby saw the contents, she took a sharp breath and brought her hand to her lips.
It was a book.
On the Art and Science of Ancient Pleasure: An Illustrated Ladies Manual.
She became very aware of the weight of the book pressing on her lap. Of its flesh-like leathery texture. Of the curlicues and sinews of gold that braided its outer edges.
Tentatively, she reached between the pages, and splitting them open, she peeked into the contents of the book.
She closed it shut immediately and took a deep breath.
Laying it aside on her mantlepiece, she resolved to take the package back to its rightful owner the following day.
She made herself supper, taking furtive glances towards the fireplace, where the book rested on her mantlepiece.
After dinner, she took a long warm bath and slept very soundly that night indeed.
Ms. Rigby rang the doorbell of the modest-looking house.
Promptly, Marigold Lynn appeared wearing an apron, and a look of recognition came over her face.
“I’m afraid our packages got mixed up,” Ms. Rigby said to Marigold, who nodded and disappeared back inside the house.
She returned with an opened package in her hand.
“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Rigby” Marigold said. “I didn’t realize it was yours until I opened it.”
“Same with me,” said Ms. Rigby, her cheeks also flushed.
They exchanged packages.
There was an uncomfortable and somewhat conspiratorial silence.
“I must be going,” said Ms. Rigby finally. “Enjoy your book.”
“Enjoy your new… gadget,” said Marigold.
Ms. Rigby turned to go then she stopped and said, “you may call me Eleanor. We should get together for tea sometime.”
“That would be very lovely,” said Marigold.
The street was beautiful in that autumn sort of way. The trees burst in extravagant hues and some of the large orange leaves covered the cobblestone street. It was a cozy neighbourhood with quaint adobe houses, and in the crisp autumn air, she found it truly marvelous.
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