The Glass Ocean

by Beatriz Williams

  Tess shook her head mutely, not so much because she agreed, but because she hoped that he was right, that it wasn’t that simple. Because if it was, then she definitely wasn’t on the side of the angels.

  Robert stared out over her shoulders at the whitecaps forming in their wake, lost in his own thoughts. “I used to believe in those sorts of stories, the sort where evil wore a curled moustache and a cloak and good carried a shining sword. I grew up on them.” He looked down at Tess. “There’s a gallery at Langford Hall with portraits of my ancestors. Most painted centuries after, out of pure imagination, but what’s a bit of creative license in a good cause? Armor and ruffs and knee breeches. As a boy, all I wanted was to live up to them, heroes every one.”

  He didn’t sound as though he found them so heroic now. “Were they?” demanded Tess.

  “Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? If there was a battle, we were in the thick of it—or so my father claimed. There was a Langford at Hastings, a Langford at Agincourt, a Langford at Bosworth—just don’t ask which side. A Langford was hovering by the bedside, dutifully transcribing the words as John of Gaunt went on about this sceptered isle. A Langford stood beside Elizabeth I as she wittered on about her heart and stomach, and a Langford helped Charles I hoist his standard at Nottingham. We sailed from Holland with Charles II at the Restoration and whispered words of encouragement in William of Orange’s ear. Am I boring you?”

  Perhaps her eyes had glazed over, just a bit. “So what you’re saying,” translated Tess, “is that your family has been toadying to people wearing crowns since there were crowns to be worn.”

  Robert gave a brief bark of laughter. “That’s one way of putting it. My father would prefer to say that we have an exemplary record of service. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “Et in Arcadia ego.”

  Tess cocked her head. “Let’s have that again, shall we? In English this time. American English, if you please.”

  “There’s a serpent in every garden. Is that plain enough?”

  “Biblical, even.” Tess lounged back in the chair, doing her best Eve imitation. “What’s your fatal apple, then?”

  “It’s all lies.” The word hung stark in the air between them. “It was only after Jamie died that I began to dig into the family archives. The Langfords were no one until my great-great-grandfather had the good fortune to sink a French ship. The portraits in the gallery are all wishful thinking, the product of an artist’s dream. Our grand history is a fraud. It’s all a fraud. I’m a fraud.”

  There was something about the way he said it that made the hairs on the back of Tess’s neck rise. Maybe because she knew more than a bit about being a fraud herself. “Surely you’re not responsible for what your family did?”

  “The sins of the fathers?” There was a grim set to Robert’s mouth. “And why not? If we’re willing to claim their credit, why not their blame?”

  Her father, selling snake oil, skipping town. Ginny, embroiled in goodness knew what. The name on her passport, a lie. “But what if you use those lies to make something true? What if the myth turns into something real? Like—like your father and all those make-believe ancestors. They made you want to make something of yourself, didn’t they?”

  “And look how that turned out.” His hand moved reflexively to his breast pocket. “Christ. What a farce.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” Jamming his hands into his pockets, he said rapidly, “My father is a big mucky-muck in government. ‘Rule Britannia and pass the port.’ He can’t bear the thought that his one and only surviving son is doing nothing for the war effort. The last of the Langfords, nothing but a wastrel.”

  “Well, you’re going back now, aren’t you?” Tess pointed out. “I assume it’s not just to follow Caroline Hochstetter.”

  “Yes. I’m going back . . . for my sins.”

  Tess looked up at him, cursing the sunshine that played havoc with her vision, wreathing Robert in rainbows. “And what might those sins be?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Ah, Patrick! You’ve done me proud, I see.” Turning back to Tess, he said, in the old, bantering tone, “If you want a sin, here’s one for you: gluttony. If one must fall, at least one can do so for more than a bite of apple.”

  More than a bite of apple, indeed. The tray the steward carried was weighted down with heavy dishes with silver domes. It was too much, in more ways than one. Her sister was right. Kindness only went so far.

  “I see the partridge,” said Tess dryly. “But where’s the pear tree?”

  Robert laughed, and she could hear the relief behind it, relief that she wasn’t going to pursue . . . what? His sins? The sins of his fathers? “Eat up, Miss Fairweather. I won’t be satisfied until the roses are back in your cheeks and the insults on your lips.”

  “If I eat all this,” said Tess, trying to keep her tone light, “they’re like to put an apple in my mouth and roast me for supper. You don’t intend me to eat all this alone, do you?”

  “If you insist, I might be prevailed upon to suffer one of those delightful cakes with maple syrup,” said Robert. “And possibly a poached egg or two. Purely for chivalric purposes, of course. Yes, Patrick?”

  The steward had paused, murmuring something in Robert’s ear, pressing a piece of folded paper into his hand. Robert opened it, and the lines cleared from around his eyes. He looked like a greyhound waiting for the opening call to race—or like Tess’s father with a new town in view. Focused. Intent.

  “Thank you, Patrick.” Casually, he tore the note in half, and in half again, letting the pieces flutter away into the sea. To Tess, he said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to suffer those cakes alone.”

  Tess looked down at the array of elaborate dishes Patrick had laid out. The minced veal and stewed fruits had suddenly lost their savor.

  “Let me guess,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. “You’re going to sup on the nectar of the gods.”

  “Or at least the crumbs from their table,” said Robert, but she could tell that his mind was elsewhere, on the note Patrick had passed him. Absently, he said, “Do justice to Patrick’s work for me.”

  Tess hoisted the syrup jug in salute. “How could I not?” she said lightly.

  But she found, as Robert walked away, that her appetite had gone. She tried to return to her sketching, but her fingers felt clumsy. Stupid to care, she told herself. Stupid to care that he’d probably gone to his Caroline. A happy Robert was a useful Robert; if he’d remember to send her sketches along, that would be enough. Men might fail you, but a job, a proper job, that was something she could hold on to. She didn’t need Robert Langford conjuring banquets; she just needed enough to feed herself and Ginny.

  And if she kept telling herself that, she might even believe it.

  A shadow fell across her page. “That,” said a flat voice, “is my mistress’s chair.”

  A woman in a black dress stood with arms folded, glaring down at her.

  Ginny.

  Tess stepped automatically into her role. “Is it? I didn’t know. I’ll go away now.”

  “You’ll come with me,” said the woman loudly, taking Tess roughly by the elbow and hauling her up. “Riffraff.”

  “Aww,” Tess whined. “It was just a chair. No one was using it.”

  “We’ll see what the stewards have to say about that.”

  Around them, there were a few raised eyebrows. A portly woman nodded in a satisfied way, pleased the proper order was being upheld. Ginny marched her sister into the stairwell, down a flight, around a corner, into a dark alcove. Tess wasn’t quite sure where they were, but she could hear the sound of typing nearby. The ship’s secretarial pool? The clacking made a good cover for their voices.

  “Ginny,” Tess said with relief. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “It’s not talk we need.” Her sister snatched the sketchbook and shook it, then leafed rapidly through. Tess winc
ed as a page tore. Ginny thrust the book back at her. “It’s not here.”

  “This is my sketchbook,” said Tess apologetically. “I was just sketching.”

  Ginny made an impatient gesture. “Well? Do you have it?”

  Impulsively, Tess put a hand on her sister’s arm. “What’s going on, Ginny? We’ve never worked like this before. Not being able to find you—not knowing when I’ll find you—not knowing who we’re working for—this isn’t us, Ginny. This isn’t what we do.”

  “Isn’t it?” Tess couldn’t quite get used to her sister’s new appearance, the strange and the familiar all mixed together. But this was more than hair dye. There was someone Tess didn’t know looking out at her from behind Ginny’s eyes and it chilled her to the core. “What do you know about it? You just do the drawings. And you can’t even be trusted to do that properly anymore.”

  Tess could feel her cheeks coloring. That Holbein miniature. “One mistake . . .”

  “One mistake that nearly landed us both in jail,” said Ginny sharply. “Do you know what I had to do to buy off that detective? Do you know what your freedom cost me?”

  “Not just my freedom,” said Tess softly, but her sister didn’t seem to hear her.

  “They’re still looking for you, you know. Any word about where you are and you’ll find yourself cooling your heels in the Tombs. If those fancy new papers of yours were to be proved false . . .”

  “Are you saying you’d turn me in?” It was impossible even to think it. This was her sister, the sister who had stolen milk for Tess’s supper and combed her tangled hair and made sure she had more than her share of the blanket in winter.

  “I’m saying,” said Ginny, “that you’re treading a fine line. Darn it, Tennie. Did you do it or not?”

  Tess stepped back, away from the dangerous look in her sister’s eyes. “The buyers, Ginny . . . Who are they?”

  Ginny stiffened, her eyes darting to one side, then the other. “They’ll pay well. That’s all you need to know. Where is it?”

  Tess looked both ways before lifting her skirt and drawing a tight roll of papers out of the secret pocket. “Here.”

  Without a word, Ginny untied the string and flipped through. She went through once, then again, before looking up, her eyes wild. “There are only nine pages here. There were supposed to be ten. This is worthless, Tennie! Worthless!”

  “It’s a Strauss waltz,” said Tess, in a small voice. “Surely that’s worth what your client will pay.”

  Ginny brandished the papers, shaking them in Tess’s face. “Where is the goddamn tenth page?”

  Tess took a deep breath. “In Mr. Hochstetter’s safe.” The chagrin and anger on her sister’s face confirmed all her worst fears. Softly, she asked, “What’s on that last page, Ginny?”

  Her sister turned her face away from her. “Why ask me? You’ve seen it yourself.”

  Numbers and symbols. Tess’s chest felt tight, fighting for air, like the time she’d fallen in the mill pond fully clothed, her dress and petticoats dragging her down, water scraping the back of her throat. “Why does that last page matter so much, Ginny?”

  “The music won’t be complete without it, will it?” said Ginny belligerently. “You can’t expect the client to pay for only part of a waltz.”

  “That didn’t look like music.”

  “The composer’s notes, then. What do you care? Paper is paper and ink is ink. Just do the job.”

  Tess fought the urge to step back from her sister’s anger, to apologize, to scurry and do her bidding. Instead, she lifted her head. “Not unless you tell me what this is about.”

  “It’s about getting paid,” said Ginny brusquely. “You like to eat, don’t you?”

  The wrongness of it hit Tess like a hammer. It wasn’t that Ginny had ever been particularly forthcoming. She’d never been one to share more than she had to. But she’d never been like this, angry and threatening. Afraid. “This isn’t about the music, is it? I saw the writing on that page. I saw the diagrams. This is about the war. Those Germans in the brig—are they part of this?”

  Tess knew she was right as she saw Ginny’s lips settle into a hard line.

  “Do you even know what those papers are about?”

  “I know they’re something important. I know they’re something the German navy will pay well for. Is paying well for,” Ginny corrected herself. Her voice dropped as she took a step toward Tess. “Which is why you had better swallow those scruples of yours and get on with the job.”

  “No,” said Tess.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “I can’t do it, Ginny. It’s one thing to—to switch a painting.” Tess found she had trouble putting the words together. What had once seemed easy to justify was harder and harder. “But this? The German navy? I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not,” said Ginny sharply. “We’ve promised it to them.”

  “You’ve promised it to them.” At the look on her sister’s face, Tess bit down hard on her lip. “I didn’t mean it that way. Come with me to England, Ginny. Forget all this. We’ll start over together. We’ll come up with new names, new identities. We’ve done it before. We can make a new future for ourselves.”

  “Nursing at the front? Serving rationed food in some miserable tea shop in a London slum? And that’s if we’re lucky.”

  “Mr. Langford thinks he can find me a job,” Tess said eagerly. “He’s a journalist. He knows people. He has a friend at Punch—”

  “Langford.” Ginny’s voice dripped with scorn. “I should have known. That’s what this is, isn’t it, Tennie? That’s why you’ve suddenly discovered a conscience. Is that what it is, Tennie? You planning to marry Mr. Langford and have loyal British babies?”

  Tess winced. Her sister always had been able to read her like a book. Far better than she’d ever been able to read Ginny. “Mr. Langford is a friend. That’s all.” Except for the memory of the other night’s kiss burning on her lips. Primly, Tess said, “He has nothing to do with this.”

  Ginny gave a harsh laugh. “Hasn’t he? Gosh darn it, Tess! Forget about whatever he promised you. There are only three days left. Do what you have to do, but get me those papers. Or I can’t answer for the consequences—Tennessee Schaff.”

  Something about the way her sister said her name made Tess’s insides curl like a shriveled leaf. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m warning you.” Her sister made an abortive move toward her. “Listen to me, Tennie—you don’t want to cross these people. Those Germans in the brig, they’re not the only agents on board, not by a long shot. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  Wasn’t that all the more reason to steer clear of them? Tess reached for her sister. “Ginny . . .”

  But Ginny dodged away from her, slapping aside her hand. “Just do it. And one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “That Langford. You think he follows you around for your witty repartee?” Tess felt her cheeks flushing at the sandpaper roughness of Ginny’s words. “You think he’s really nothing to do with this? I thought I’d raised you to have more sense than that.”

  Around them, the clatter of the typewriting machines went on, but Tess felt as though she were encased in ice, the whole world frozen. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m telling you. There’s no such thing as a free meal,” said Ginny. “Stay away from Robert Langford. Or he might just have you for breakfast.”

  Chapter 16

  Sarah

  Devon, England

  May 2013, one week later

  Among the aspects of John Langford that bemused me: nothing ever affected his appetite.

  I scowled at the Meissen dessert plate perched on the corner of Robert’s desk, which had, until recently, contained four slices of Mrs. Finch’s iced lemon cake. A few crumbs remained. “Are you going to finish that?” I asked.

  “No. No, go right
ahead.”

  “I was being sarcastic. And you were going to finish it, weren’t you?”

  “I—of course not.”

  “You do realize I haven’t scored a single bite?”

  John looked up at last from the folder of papers before him. “Didn’t you bring your own?”

  “I thought you had me covered with your four thick slices.”

  “I am so sorry. I genuinely thought—”

  “Never mind. You have a lot of engine to fuel.”

  He started to rise from his chair. “No, really. I’ll go fetch more.”

  “Sit down. Please. It’s almost dinnertime, anyway.” I stretched and set aside the book in my own lap. “You’d have fit right in on that ship. The length of these menus. I mean, what even is salamoas a la crème?”

  “Salamanders in cream sauce, perhaps?”

  “It’s listed among the desserts, along with pouding Talma.”

  “Oh, that one’s easy. Sort of a spotted dick, except molded into the shape of Talma.”

  “Spotted dick?”

  “Calm yourself. It’s a pudding. Although not intended for dessert.”

  “Then who’s Talma?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  I leaned back on my elbow and considered his benign face. “Have you ever considered work as a historian’s research assistant, Langford? Because you’re amazing at this.”

  “I do what I can, thanks.”

  “Well, like I said, you’d love shipboard life. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. It’s like all they ever did was eat.”

  “And other things, according to the evidence.” He winked at me and returned to the papers before him. He sat at Robert’s desk, sifting through yet another of Robert’s bulging brown folders, which might contain anything from correspondence with his publisher to receipts for his shirts to incomprehensible sketches on cocktail napkins, in no particular chronological order. We’d been sorting them out for a week now, and the rug was covered by stacks of Langford detritus, laid out in rows, organized first by subject matter and then by date. The largest pile was dryly labeled Miscellaneous, into which I had just chucked a Lord’s cricket scorecard from 1932.