The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

at South Sutton Station she felt hotter than ever but, as she looked round her, she was reassured. Here, at last, there was an air of midsummer peace that soothed her tired spirit. Fields dotted with bright black-eyed Susans and white clover rolled up to the track and even struggled through the floor boards of the platform. Beyond the fields there was a line of dark firs and a few low rooftops.
    If only Cy would stop the snorting of his dragon, I could probably hear crickets, Fredericka thought. Now I wonder what I do next and where—
    “Are you Miss Wing?” a pleasant voice asked. Fredericka turned, startled, to find a woman standing directly behind her.
    “Yes, I’m Fredericka Wing. But wherever did you come from? There wasn’t anyone else on the train.”
    The woman laughed and Fredericka observed that the face which had at first glance seemed plain now became attractive. She was shorter than Fredericka and less angular. She was wearing a sleeveless linen dress which looked clean and cool and her short dark hair had just been combed. She made Fredericka feel travel-worn and dusty.
    “I came across the fields, from the other side of the train. But I must introduce myself. I am Philippine Sutton and I have come to meet you because Miss Hartwell, she is so very busy.” She spoke slowly with a hint of a foreign accent. Her th ’s became z ’s and her r ’s were rich and throaty.
    Fredericka put down her case and shook the proffered hand which felt small and soft in hers. French, Fredericka decided. “You seem to have the right name for anyone living in this town,” she remarked, and then: “It was good of you to bother to meet me.”
    “I wanted to come to the station anyway. I had a shipment coming in—things for my laboratory which I have at the farm. But I forgot—of course you don’t know anything about us yet. And I, I don’t know anything about you either.”
    “No. We’ll have to explain ourselves, but first I want to see about my baggage.” As always Fredericka now became fussed by the tiresome details of life from which she never seemed able to escape. New England her friends at college had called it. “I sent my trunk on in advance. Oh, good, I think that’s it on the platform.”
    “I’ll wait here,” Philippine said. “Then we can walk—my jeep’s laid up at the garage for the moment, but it isn’t far and I can show you the sights—or some of them. Miss Hartwell’s man, Chris, will collect your trunk and that bag too, if it’s heavy. There’s not much fuss about life in South Sutton,” she added, seeing Fredericka’s obvious concern.
    “No, thanks, I’ll manage this case. It’s got a change of clothes and all the necessary articles for a badly needed bath.”
    In a few moments the two women were walking along a wide country road edged with elderly spruce trees. Their feet scuffed up a fine cloud of dust that settled on the grass and clover struggling to grow along the roadside.
    “This,” announced Philippine, “is rightly named ‘Spruce Street’. If we had turned left it would take us out to the farm belonging to my aunt, Mrs. Sutton. Yes—a direct descendant of the Lucius Edward Sutton who founded the town in 1814 and the college six years later. The family place, we call it ‘the Farm,’ is where Mrs. Sutton and I do a business in herbs, and I have my lab. It’s about a mile out of town. It won’t take you long to learn the lie of the land since the whole of South Sutton is nothing but a crossroads. Those gates on the left and those impressive buildings you can just see through the trees are Sutton College.”
    Fredericka looked around her. The air was heavy with the warm scent of hay and the more subtle perfume of the spruce trees.
    “I love New England,” she said simply, “and this seems exactly as it should be.”
    “Yes. I love it, too,” Philippine said. “I can work here in peace—and forget the other life.” She hesitated. “I mean France, in the war,” she added.
    As she said this her voice became hard and her accent more pronounced. Fredericka looked up quickly. The woman’s face was a mask—of hatred, sorrow, fear—Fredericka could not be certain. But in a moment Philippine collected herself and the smile returned to her face.
    “I’m sorry. Here all is well and yet—sometimes the other life comes back. I was put in a concentration camp by the Germans when they invaded France. But we will not talk about it.” A look of strain