Two maids were just exiting the servants’ mess. Their heads were bent toward each other and they were giggling. Ettie caught a few of their words.
“The painter is wooing her…. ’Course she is never one to discourage.” Ettie stopped, startled. Could they possibly be talking about Stannish? He was the only painter on board, but surely even he wouldn’t do anything so ridiculous.
“She’s got to be ten years older, Marcy!”
“That don’t stop Mrs. Dyer.”
Mrs. Dyer! The four syllables exploded in Ettie’s head. Mrs. Dyer was a scandalous New York lady, a divorcée who was extremely rich. Hannah had mentioned that Stannish had painted her portrait when he went to Newport the past summer. But how could he be wooing her? Was this why he hadn’t gone down to see Hannah? She would have to find out. She would say nothing to Hannah yet. She just wanted to check in on her. Three minutes later she rapped on the cabin door.
“Yes?”
“Hannah, it’s me.”
Hannah swung the door open. She was glowing. “Oh, Ettie, he came and visited last night and look what he gave me!”
She touched the drop pearl at her throat. “I know it’s not an engagement ring,” (Thank God, Ettie thought) “but when we get to Paris we are going to a jeweler that he knows and he says he’ll buy me an emerald to go with my eyes.”
Those very eyes were sparkling with happiness, but no matter how keen, they’d never allow Hannah to see Stannish for what he really was — a manipulative, social-climbing rat. Why? Ettie wondered. But she refrained from saying any of the thoughts that buzzed in her mind like offending insects. She was just happy that Hannah was happy — at least for now. But what kind of game was Stannish playing? It troubled her, but she would not betray her concerns no matter what. Not now, at least. She needed more confirmation than the gossip of two silly maids.
“That’s very pretty Hannah,” Ettie said, doing her best to feign interest in the necklace. “I’m glad he finally came down to see you.”
“He’s been very busy, you know, talking to people about work. He’s lined up two more portraits just in these first three days. If he can find a new client every day I think his money problems will be over. I told him he needed to insist on two-thirds of the payment in advance instead of just half, and the other third on completion. I think he really listened to me.”
Ettie dropped her voice. “Have you been …” She tipped her head toward the sound of the water against the hull.
“No … it’s too risky. There are always sailors on watch, on the bridge and walking the decks. But I can go for another four days. Stannish said we should be there by then, with these favorable winds. I have a lotion that seems to help.” But Ettie noticed a few crystal flakes on the bunk coverlet. There were three other bunks in the cabin, but she had only one roommate, a Dutch girl who didn’t speak much English.
“Well, you take care, Hannah,” Ettie said. But something in her voice must have betrayed her anxiety. Hannah grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Ettie. I really think things are going to turn out fine. Just fine. I can tell. He loves me more than ever. And he was even talking about us getting a little seaside cottage in Cornwall. I mean, there is a flat in London that one of his clients said he could have. Mrs. Dyer — she’s very wealthy. However, she has a grand house in the country and she never uses the flat, but he said that would be perfect for him when he had to do business in the city but he needed a place to relax with me.”
Why, Ettie wondered, does her face always have that enameled brightness when she talks this way? It’s almost as if her face might crack.
“You mean you think he would be all right if you wanted to swim? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Not exactly, but I think in time he might understand. He loves me!” There was such strain in her voice, and her eyes seemed to be searching the mid distance as if seeking some confirmation for this statement. But it was quite clear to Ettie that Hannah was deluding herself. Is this what love does to one? Ettie wondered. If so, she would steer clear of romance at all costs. Did one have to sacrifice her brains for love? Given the choice she would happily remain a spinster.
Ettie said nothing but why, she thought, would he tempt her with a seaside cottage if he insisted that she not swim? It seemed cruel. Then it dawned on her. Maybe he wanted two lives for himself — one with Mrs. Dyer, who was rich and could introduce him to clients, and the other with his true love, Hannah. He would separate them just as they were separated now on this ship and never meet. He would essentially be having two “wives.”
“Just be careful, Hannah. Be very careful.”
“Oh, Ettie, you make it all sound so dire,” Hannah teased.
“Look, I have to go now. I have things to do.”
Hannah smiled. “Now, what things do you have to do, Ettie? Play shuffleboard or quoits? I hear there are all sorts of activities in first class and of course dancing. The music sometimes drifts down from the ballroom. Tell me, do they have a harp?”
“Yes, but no harpist. The harpist became ill before the voyage and they were unable to replace her.” Ettie saw Hannah’s fingers stir in her lap as if plucking the strings. One of the deepest mysteries of all about Hannah was that she had an uncanny ability to play the harp. She had never even heard harp music until she had become a servant for the Hawleys, but once she heard it she simply was drawn to it. Finally one evening in Bar Harbor at Gladrock, when all the servants were out and the family was out as well, she had played for Ettie. Mr. Marston had actually been there and was very enchanted. Hannah claimed she had been taught at the orphanage where she had spent the first years of her life. Marston had tried to convince her to play for the Hawleys, who often hired musicians for their parties, but Hannah begged him not to.
“So no harpist. Too bad.” Hannah sighed.
Ten minutes later Ettie knocked on the door of the Marconi room. “Come in!” Mr. Mintz said.
“Ah! Our friend Henrietta!” Solomon Mintz said. Mr. McCurdy had not heard her as he was receiving a message from a passing westbound ship. “Want to listen in?” Mr. Mintz offered his headphones to Ettie. She put on the headphones and began noting the dots and dashes.
“So what have you got?” Mr. McCurdy asked after he had watched her listening intently and marking the dots and dashes on the card.
“Seas off the coast of Ireland three to four feet but warnings of gales in the Solent, Fastnet, Bay of Biscay.”
“My, my, you certainly have mastered the code.”
“I wish I could become an operator.” Ettie watched as Mr. McCurdy tapped the keys to signal that he had received the message. With each tap little sparks flew off the brass heads as the electrical contact was made.
“You know, back in the Crimean War —” Mr. McCurdy began.
“Oh, I know all about the Crimean War,” Ettie said eagerly, cutting him off. “Florence Nightingale, the Lady with the Lamp.”
“Yes, that’s quite right. But did you know that she was not just a nurse but a statistician?”
“A statistician?” Ettie repeated.
“Most certainly. She practically invented evidence-based medicine. She kept data and all sorts of information that helped in the treatment of disease.”
“That is absolutely amazing.” Ettie sighed with wonder. “Did you know that at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts, there is a Scottish woman astronomer?”
“You don’t say!”
“Yes, a friend of mine works at the Harvard Observatory and told me all about her. Her name is Williamina Fleming, and she invented the designation system for stars and discovered the Horsehead Nebula.”
“And what is that, Miss Henrietta?” Mr. McCurdy asked.
“You don’t know? Oh, it’s simply beautiful. It’s a little semicircular cloud of dust and gas within the Orion constellation. It sort of looks like a horse’s head if you crook your neck around a bit. I mean, it’s not really visible with the naked eye, but I
’ve seen photo plates of it, and my friend Hugh has promised to bring a very powerful telescope to our summer home in Maine next year and show it to me.”
“And you say this Scottish woman discovered it?”
“She did indeed!”
“Well, you see, Miss Henrietta, women can be a lot of things, and just you watch — we are now almost one year into the twentieth century. So I see no problem with you becoming a wireless operator. This is your century!”
MY CENTURY, Ettie thought miserably. She sat in a row of chairs that had been set up around the perimeter of the ballroom following dinner. Both of her sisters were dancing. Their hair was artfully arranged in upsweep hairstyles with a few discreet ringlets bouncing softly by their ears as they waltzed, led by their partners, about the room.
Edwina Hawley clutched her husband’s hand. “Look at Lila. Doesn’t she look lovely? I am so proud of her. She’s done well on this trip, hasn’t she, Horace?”
Edwina and Horace Hawley had been especially pleased with their eldest daughter’s behavior on the trip. She had not been simply docile but cordial. There had been a tea dance in the French café that afternoon, and she had been asked by several gentlemen to dance. She had made polite conversation and spoken almost animatedly about the performance she hoped to attend at the Paris Opera House. She had even spoken knowledgably about the theater’s architect, Garnier, and the magnificent ceiling paintings by Paul Baudry depicting the history of music.
Ettie yawned. Her mother turned to her. “Ettie, please. That is so coarse.”
She crossed her arms and slouched down in her chair. “I’m bored.”
“Why ever are you bored?”
“Well, for one thing, I am not dancing. My hair is not in an upsweep and I’m dressed like a five-year-old.”
“Ettie, you’re just twelve.”
“I’ll dance with you, darling.” her father said, leaning across.
“Daddy! That is so embarrassing.” She got up and wandered over to the punch table.
As Ettie approached the table she heard two women talking.
“Dora, have you seen Mrs. Dyer anywhere?”
“She’s certainly not here. Nor is the painter as far as I can tell,” the other woman replied with a knowing smile that made Ettie’s stomach churn.
Hmmm, Ettie thought. So it wasn’t just Mrs. Dyer’s maid who knew about this. She forgot about the punch and decided to wander about the room to see if anyone else was wondering about Mrs. Dyer and her painter. This is what a good Pinkerton detective agent would do, she thought. But after a ten-minute circumnavigation of the ballroom she had come up with nothing. She returned to her parents.
“Can I please go back to my room? I’m in the middle of a good novel.”
“Oh, Ettie, you read far too many novels. Don’t tell me you’re reading one of those depressing Dickens novels all about poverty.”
“No, Mother, Jane Austen. All about manners, you know. And most of the people are rich, and if they aren’t rich, they are never desperately poor or have diseases like in Dickens. The poorest people are usually vicars and have jobs like that. No street urchins.”
“Oh, well, I think that’s fine, dear.” Edwina fluttered her fingers as if to dispel the unpleasant images her daughter had just suggested.
Actually, Ettie had lied. If her mother knew what she was really reading, she would have a fit, or an outburst. She had read through her Austen book twice already on this voyage, and her uncles God and Bark had given her Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which she was loving. How she wished she were on a raft on the Mississippi and not on this stupid ship. She had just read another lovely passage about how wonderful life was on that raft. She reread it.
We said there warn’t no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.
Yes, that was exactly how she felt on board the Leonidas — cramped up and smothery. She wondered if she would ever really feel free and easy. She was still reading an hour later when there was a soft knock on her door.
“Come in.” It was Lila. A trembling smile played across her face. It made Ettie nervous when her sister smiled. She couldn’t be sure what it indicated. The frightening thing about Lila was that she had a deeply treacherous nature. Her smile was never truly a smile but rather a thin veneer for duplicity.
“What do you want?” Ettie said, immediately on guard.
“What are you reading?” Lila asked.
Ettie clutched the book tighter. “Nothing much.”
“Oh, really. The way you’re holding that book so close, I thought maybe you were looking at dirty French pictures — naked ladies.”
“What, are you crazy?”
“So they say.” She gave a high, electric giggle. Ettie expected sparks to fly off her lips the way they did in the Marconi room when the operators tapped out messages.
“If you must know, I’m reading Mark Twain.”
“Never heard of him.” She yawned elaborately. Ettie was frightened. Lila was capable of anything. And of course it was Ettie who had thrown the rock that killed Jade. But there had been no mention of the cat since Lila’s return. However, a wildness was now creeping into her eyes. Was she remembering it? They were alone. Clarice was still dancing. Her parents were as well, and where was Lila’s nurse — companion — Miss Doyle? Wasn’t she supposed to be tending to her?
Ettie got out of bed. “Where’s Miss Doyle?”
“I don’t need Miss Doyle for this.”
“For what?”
Lila was standing in front of the door. Her eyes filled up. A luminous kindling sparkled in the jade pools, and Ettie could swear that there was a vertical slash like the pupil of a cat. “I just want to ask you a tiny little question.” Lila’s voice oozed with a sickening sweetness. Marzipan. Ettie thought, and how she hated marzipan.
“Ask,” Ettie snapped.
“Is Mr. Wheeler, perchance, on this ship?”
Perchance? Ettie’s ears almost flinched. Where did her sister get all these curlicues when she spoke? Her language was as deceitful as her sick brain. “Yes. So?”
“How to put it delicately?” Lila slid her eyes toward the ceiling as if in thought about this monumental question.
“Just put it, Lila,” Ettie muttered indelicately.
“Well, is it true about him and Mrs. Dyer?”
“How should I know? Who’s Mrs. Dyer?”
“Ettie dear, you answered wrong if you expected me to believe you. When you lie you really must be more organized.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I think you do. But a quick lesson in lying. I, after all, am a consummate liar.”
“I want to go to sleep, Lila.”
“Not until I give you a lesson in lying. Now, do you want to know how you should have answered me?”
“All right. How should I have answered?”
“You should have said it in this order: ‘Who is Mrs. Dyer?’ and then ‘How should I know?’ You see, it’s more convincing that way. If you had first asked who Mrs. Dyer was, then it would have been more plausible if you would have followed with ‘How should I know?’ ”
“All right. Who is Mrs. Dyer, and how should I know?”
“There, you did it.”
“Good. Can I go to sleep now?”
“Noooo …” She shook her head as if admonishing a small child. “You see you still haven’t answered my question. Is Mr. Wheeler making love to Mrs. Dyer?”
“I don’t know!”
“I don’t know,” Lila repeated, mimicking Ettie. “Well, I think you do know. And if you do know, what do you think …?” She pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Her nose wrinkled up as if she were a naughty child breaking a rule. “What do you think Hannah will say?”
“Hannah? What does Hannah have to do with any of this?”
“Oh, I thought they’re sweethearts.
” Lila then paused. Her eyes turned cold. “I know they’re sweethearts.”
How has she found out all of this? Ettie wondered, and felt a flash of anger. Was her mad sister a better detective than she was? “But of course they are of such a different class — socially — and so is this Mrs. Dyer. A divorcée and a servant. You know he is wellborn.”
Careful … careful, Ettie, Ettie counseled herself. She does not know as much as she thinks, and most important, she does not know that Hannah is aboard this ship!
“But,” Lila continued, “Mrs. Dyer does have money and I think he needs money. I could have offered him that.”
Ettie nodded. There was another knock on the door.
“Come in!” She almost yelped in relief.
Mrs. Doyle stood there looking as Lila had said — “starched,” even in her dinner gown, which was a rose color and quite becoming.
“Lila dear. Your parents are worried. You disappeared and didn’t say anything to anybody.”
“No need to worry. Here I am, talking to my favorite sister.” She smiled sweetly at Ettie. “She’s been so helpful.” She came over to where Ettie stood. “Good night, sis,” she said, and bent to kiss her, then whispered in her ear, “By the way, dear sister, I know you murdered Jade. I never forget. Never!”
NATHANIEL LAWRENCE held Lucy’s wrist while he studied the second hand of his pocket watch. Her pulse was erratic. He tucked his watch away and put her hand on the blanket, giving it a little pat. Her skin was dry, and there were the telltale crystal flakes on the pillow. He then leaned over her and gently turned back Lucy’s eyelid to observe the dilation of the pupil. It was so odd to be seeing his niece for the first time, a niece he thought had most certainly died in the wreck of the Resolute. She was so desperately ill that she appeared like a dim reflection of her beautiful, vibrant mother, Laurentia.
The Crossing Page 12
