“Okay, listen up,” I said. “Here’s the thing about Americans. Having sailed across the Atlantic to save your weak chins and skinny butts from the Germans, not once but twice, not to mention the Cold War, not to mention the Marshall Plan, we start to get a little salty when Limey Neanderthal idiots like you talk about us like we’re not sitting right there.”
Davey turned to John and gestured with the bar towel in his hand. “Oi. Is she for real, mate?”
I rose from my chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m heading back to the house to fix myself a plate of scrambled salmonella.”
“Davey,” John said, in a low, slow voice. “Miss Blake is a writer and a friend of mine, and I believe you owe her an apology.”
“An apology, is it?”
“An apology. Pronto.”
“I have a Twitter account,” I said, “and I’m not afraid to use it. Hashtag asshole. Hashtag Ship Inn.”
Davey heaved a sigh. “Johnnie-boy, I hate to have to tell you this, mate, but you’ve let yourself in for it. Out of the fry pan—”
“Amusing,” John said. “Now the apology.”
Davey turned reluctantly to face me. “I apologize, Miss Blake. Bit of banter, that’s all. Limey Neanderthal pig idiot that I am.”
I sat back down. “I didn’t say pig.”
“You should have,” said John.
“Just taking the mickey out,” said Davey. “You know how it is. Breakfast is on me, all right?”’
“For Christ’s sake, Davey, you weren’t going to charge me for breakfast, were you?”
“Just don’t ask for seconds, clear? The Ship ain’t no soup kitchen for sacked toffs.” Davey threw the kitchen towel over his shoulder and turned back in the direction of the long, oaken bar running the length of the opposite wall. “Oh, and Sarah? It’s arsehole. With an R. I may be a pig, right enough, but I ain’t no bloody donkey.”
* * *
“Don’t mind Davey,” John said, slicing up his eggs in ruthless strokes. “He’s just protective. They both are.”
“Protective? You’re six and a half feet of walking, talking white male privilege. You don’t exactly need protection.”
“Fair enough.”
“Fair enough? That’s it?”
“Fair enough, I don’t need protecting. I’m a big boy and all that.” He paused to shovel more food, swallow more tea. “Of course I’m damned lucky to have been born to all this. But privilege isn’t easy, either. There’s a massive responsibility to being a Langford.”
“You’re not actually bringing up the white man’s burden, are you?”
“Don’t twist words. I just mean that when you occupy a—whatever you call it, a privileged space, you have to find a way to deserve your good fortune. To make good. You’ve got a proper neck up on everybody else, true, but sometimes that only means you’ve got farther to fall. And in the end, you’re only human. You make mistakes, like everybody else. Except your mistakes . . .”
I wanted to ask him about his mistakes. I wanted to stick a crowbar into that small opening and pry it wide, but instead I allowed John’s voice to fade away into the dim, placid silence, the unmistakable pub atmosphere, stale beer and frying chips and something else. Centuries. Wooden beams cut from trees long dead. There were two other customers, both men, both forking breakfast with their right hands and swiping at their phones with the left. I felt my own phone vibrate in my coat pocket, slung behind me on the chair, and resisted the urge to check it.
I sopped up some egg yolk with the fried bread and said, “I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to tackle that mess in there. The folly, I mean.”
“Yes. That. I was snooping around a bit last night, before I turned in, and it seems it’s a bigger job than I imagined. Robert was not a man of tidy, organized habits.”
“Geniuses usually aren’t.”
“You think he’s a genius, do you?”
“Of course! Those novels! I think he was better than Fleming, I really do. I mean, they’ve got great, twisty plots and all, but the real magic is between the lines. What he implies but doesn’t say. His characters are so acute, you know? There’s always some telling detail that makes you catch your breath. You know what I think?”
“What do you think, Sarah?” He was smiling at me.
“I think that for all the cynicism in those stories—and my God, it just drips from the page sometimes, not that you can blame him after what he went through—for all that, I think he’s actually a romantic at heart. A romantic manqué. Lost in another age.”
“Of course he was a romantic. He married his true love, didn’t he?”
“Now you’re sounding cynical.”
“I’m not. I’m happy for him. He set his sights on the distant, beloved object and he won her. She loved him back. They had children and swans and no doubt bloody fantastic sex all their lives. Good on him.”
“Ouch.”
He swept up the last of his toast and finished his tea. “Are you done?”
“Almost.”
“Then let’s head off.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, and evidently he didn’t mean what he said to Davey earlier about the free breakfast, because he took out a twenty-pound note and laid it on the table, anchoring it with a bottle of HP sauce.
* * *
Instead of plowing ahead, John restrained himself to a disciplined walk beside me, keeping his hands shoved in his pockets and his head bent pensively downward. The lane was unpaved, the grass still damp with dew. A few clouds had begun to gather in the sky, and the sun disappeared behind them, leaving the air even chillier than before.
When we came to the Dower House, we skirted around the side and headed down the slope to the folly. I spoke up at last.
“So why are you still so loyal to them? Your Langford ancestors, I mean.”
“Because they’re family, I guess. You have to forgive their faults. They’re a part of you, aren’t they? Their sins are your sins. Their blood is yours. It’s the only inheritance that really matters.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s what I’m scared of.”
“Scared? Why?”
I fingered the edge of my phone in my pocket. There had been no messages from Riverside Haven this morning, no voice mails, and when I’d called to check on my mother last night, the nurse said she was taking a nap. Still, the edge of anxiety never really went away, like a small, dark bird living in my head. “My mom has Alzheimer’s, like I said. Early onset. And as hard as it is, watching her fade away—forgetting stuff, sometimes forgetting me—there’s this other shadow. I try not to think about it, but it’s there.”
“The same thing might happen to you, you mean.”
“Yes.” I squinted at the sky, trying to judge how much longer before the sun came out from behind the massive, rabbit-shaped cloud that obscured it. “I’m thirty years old. So if I’m like her, I have twenty, maybe thirty more years before it starts to hit. And it progresses faster in early onset. I mean, my mom was okay one year and almost helpless the next, and that’s with the best care I could buy her. Small Potatoes, that’s what bought her that private care and everything, a little more time, or at least I hope so, and now . . .”
“The sob story, eh?” He said it kindly.
“Yep. That’s about it.” I rubbed the corner of my eye with my thumb. “Anyway. I just feel like I need to know. I need to know what’s hidden back there in the family closet. I need to know the truth, I need to know everything, before it’s too late.”
“What if you can’t know everything? What if some secrets are hidden too deep? Or destroyed altogether?” He paused as we reached the bridge and laid his hand on the pillar, near the date carved into the stone. “What if you’re better off not knowing?”
“You’re always better off knowing. Anyway, I need to know. I just do. I need to know if my great-grandfather was a victim or a . . .”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s wh
at I’m here to find out.”
John’s hand dropped from the pillar and reached for mine. “Come along.”
I was too surprised by the touch of his hand to reply. His grip was secure as he led me over the bridge, as if I were an oar and he was pulling me through the water. And it was warm. My own hands were freezing, for some reason, but John’s fingers radiated heat. We came to a stop before the door and John fumbled for the key.
“Call me crazy, but I feel like you’ve got something to tell me,” I said. “Did you find something last night?”
“Maybe.”
The door opened. John stepped back to usher me through, and when I was safely inside he closed the door behind us and walked to Robert’s large, Edwardian desk, positioned to catch the glow from the easternmost window. The sunrise, the morning light. He lifted an object from the corner and held it out to me.
“What’s this? That’s not Patrick’s pouch, is it?”
“No. It’s much like his, however. An oilskin pouch, the waterproof kind they kept at sea for important papers. But this one belonged to Robert Langford.”
I took the pouch from him and opened the fastening. The sun came out suddenly, flooding the window and the room, illuminating the pattern of stains on the slippery brown leather.
John put his hands on his hips and watched me as I stuck my hand inside and drew out a small leather book. “I can’t tell you whether your great-grandfather was an agent of some kind,” he said quietly, “but it’s entirely possible mine was.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look inside. I may not be a spy novelist, but I’m pretty sure that little volume in your hands is a codebook.”
Chapter 14
Caroline
At Sea
Tuesday, May 4, 1915
Caroline felt like a traitor. She could barely look at the bed where just the day before she and Gilbert had made love. She convinced herself that it had been only her husband she’d thought of while he’d been touching her, only his skin she had felt beneath her fingers, only his voice she had heard whispering in her ear. Almost. Because as wonderful as it had been, she couldn’t completely deny that there had been a third person in bed with them.
“Mrs. Hochstetter?”
Startled, she looked up at her maid, Caroline’s dinner gown carefully folded over her arm. “Yes, Jones?”
“It’s time to dress for dinner. I took the liberty of steaming your gown. I do believe that steward, Patrick, must have deliberately crushed all of your gowns while bringing the luggage to your stateroom. I suppose he’s only used to handling potato sacks and can’t tell the difference between straw and silk.”
Caroline wanted to scold her, but found it difficult to look in Jones’s eyes. When her maid had come to help her dress for dinner the previous evening, she’d found the bedroom in disarray, the bedsheets spilling onto the floor, Caroline’s hastily discarded shoes and bits of clothing she’d removed before falling into bed with Gilbert splashed against the carpet like debris from a storm.
Jones, like any good lady’s maid, hadn’t said a word about it or even acknowledged the mess while she’d helped Caroline dress. The room had been set to rights by the time she’d returned from dinner, as if the romantic interlude had never happened. And it might as well not have, as Caroline hadn’t seen her husband since, Gilbert having excused himself from dinner the previous evening and making himself absent for the entire day. Patrick had informed her that Gilbert sent his regrets, that pressing business matters required him to closet himself for most of the day with one of the stenographers on board. He would join her tonight for dinner.
Even the note Gilbert had written was conspicuously absent—most likely accidentally gathered and sent to the laundry with the sheets. Caroline was too embarrassed to ask Jones about it. And too humiliated to look for it and have to read the words again.
“Yes, of course. Six o’clock sharp for dinner—mustn’t forget.”
Jones frowned slightly at Caroline’s tart tone. It couldn’t be helped. Gilbert was so excruciatingly punctual, something she’d had to learn during their marriage. It simply hadn’t been a priority in Savannah, as the pervasive heat and humidity were more a deterrent to rushing about than being a recipient of a disapproving frown from a hostess. Tardiness was accepted, and most likely encouraged, as nobody wanted to appear in a dining room or ballroom glowing with perspiration or—heaven forbid—smelling like a wet dog.
She stood from the dressing room table where she’d been rearranging her toiletries into straight lines as if she could force her thoughts to be as obedient. With a more neutral tone, she said, “What have you chosen for me this evening?”
Jones held up a cream silk-satin crepe evening dress. Caroline remembered trying the gown on the first time, and thinking of how Gilbert would love to see her in it. Elegant and demure, yet with more than a hint of skin from the low V in the back and the front, and sensuous from the feel of the fabric. It had a high-waisted bodice that emphasized her generous bust and tiny waist—small enough for Gilbert to encircle with his large hands, as he’d commented on their wedding day when he’d allowed himself to touch her for the first time. Gold and green beaded and sequined flower motifs matched the looped-up train, the draped ankle-length skirt wrapped over at the back allowing a generous view of her silk stockings and trim ankles.
“It’s perfect,” she said with a small smile that showed nothing of her immense satisfaction. Gilbert would not be able to ignore her in this dress. “And just earrings—this gown needs nothing more. I’m thinking the pearl and diamond drops that I wore last evening,” she said, indicating the small velvet box on the dressing table.
“That’s exactly what I thought, ma’am, which is why I didn’t request Mr. Hochstetter retrieve anything else from the safe. I believe a simple long, flat bun at the back of your head would also showcase the earrings and the lovely neckline.”
Caroline allowed herself to smile brightly. “You and I make a wonderful team, Jones. I must ask my husband about increasing your wages.”
The maid bowed her head briefly, then placed the dress carefully on the bed before laying out two long cream kid gloves and a folding fan next to them. She excused herself for a moment then returned with a pair of gold brocade shoes, the pair adorned with two-buttoned instep straps, pointed toes, and Louis heels.
Yes, Caroline thought, imagining herself later, after dinner, wearing just her underpinnings, earrings, and those shoes. I will be irresistible. She smiled again, feeling empowered enough to believe that, of the three more nights aboard Lusitania she had with Gilbert, she would make each one count.
* * *
Gilbert stood as Caroline entered the parlor in their suite, placing a half-empty glass of spirits on a side table. “Good evening, Caroline,” he said, clasping his hands behind him. He looked so regal and handsome in his white tie and tails, his shoulders so broad and robust that she felt the strong sense of security that she always associated with him. Her sister-in-law, Claire, had chided Caroline when she’d confessed these feelings, saying that was what a girl should say only about her father.
“Good evening, Gilbert,” she said, giving a small twirl so he could admire her dress. “Do you like it?” she asked, trying not to be hurt that she had to prompt him. “I was hoping that tonight instead of leaving immediately after dinner perhaps we could stay for the dancing. They unbolt the tables beneath the dome to make room for a dance—isn’t that splendid?”
His eyes held an odd glint as he regarded her steadily. “Your arms are bare. Won’t you be cold?”
She kept the smile on her lips. “I’m fine—I have my gloves, after all. I was afraid a wrap would fall from my chair or get lost during the dancing, so I thought I’d leave it behind. It gets so warm in the dining room with all those people.” Which wasn’t exactly true. She remained cold from the moment she awoke until the moment she went to sleep, thankful for the hot water bottle Jones thought to put at the foot of h
er bed. But she’d wanted Gilbert to see her in the dress before anyone else, perhaps even be convinced to have a private dinner for two in their suite before retiring to her bedroom.
She was about to suggest it when they heard a soft rap. Gilbert opened the door to Patrick, who smiled warmly at her and tipped his cap before turning his attention to Gilbert and handing him a small envelope. “Telegram for you, sir. They are requesting a reply straightaway.”
He opened it roughly and read the contents, a scowl on his face, before glancing back at Caroline. “I’m afraid this can’t wait. It will only take a moment, so you may go ahead to the dining room and I’ll meet you there. Perhaps find a larger group to sit with so you won’t be alone until I’m able to join you.”
Disappointment curdled in her stomach like sour milk. “What’s this about?” she asked, unwilling to be kept in the dark yet again. Especially because she’d been kept awake the previous night with a niggling thought that wouldn’t go away. “There are rumors that Lusitania is carrying munitions. Are they from Hochstetter Iron & Steel?”
His face darkened. “Don’t bother yourself with these thoughts, Caroline. It is much more complicated than I have time to explain to you right now. And I really must go.”
She swallowed her disappointment. “Of course. Don’t be long.”
He barely spared her another glance before quitting the room. Caroline followed him through the twisting corridor of their suite, sure he’d turn around and kiss her goodbye, or at least tell her he thought she was beautiful. Instead he walked out into the corridor without looking back. She recognized sympathy in Patrick’s eyes, but glanced away because she was afraid she might actually cry.
“I’d be happy to escort you to the dining room, ma’am,” he said, his soft voice and Irish accent soothing to her raw nerves.
“Thank you, Patrick, but I think I’ll dine in tonight.”
The sudden sound of whistling directed their attention to the corridor just as Robert Langford walked by, perfectly outfitted for dinner with his own white tie and tails. She recognized the song one moment before he spotted her beyond the doorway. It was a new song, she knew, something catchy and sweet. Something fun to dance to at parties.
The Glass Ocean Page 17
