by Kim Izzo
Edward continued to kneel beside Sydney as if he was going to propose.
“The captain knows what he’s doing,” he said reassuringly.
She thought he looked ridiculous on his knees. “It’s not great weather for your wedding day,” Sydney said.
Edward sat beside her on an empty deck chair. “I wasn’t able to speak to her last night,” he explained dourly. “The party lasted until after two. Then she insisted I go to my cabin and let her sleep. Sarah wouldn’t leave us alone. I had no choice.”
“Of course,” she said. In truth she wasn’t sure what to believe. He needed money and now that he thought she couldn’t help him . . . There was only one way to find out. “Why the urgent need to talk to her? Isn’t everything settled?”
“To call off the wedding, of course,” he said. “Brooke had her moment last night. I shouldn’t have indulged her but I didn’t know what to say with everyone there discussing the wedding on board the ship.”
“Let’s hope the fog clears then,” she said blandly.
Edward leaned toward her. “Nothing has changed. I’m in love with you and want you to be my wife when we reach England,” he said to reassure her. “I’ve been up all night looking for you to tell you it doesn’t matter. I will end things with her this morning and a simple note to the captain will make it right.”
One part of her wanted to throw her arms around him and shout that she loved him too but the other part, the practical-Sinclair-business-tycoon part, won out. “What else did she tell you last night?”
Edward recoiled. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
This was too much. Tired of feeling trapped in layers of clothing, she began to unwrap the scarf from her head and neck. She did this slowly, like someone who enjoys preserving the giftwrap on Christmas morning. Free of the scarf she removed the heavy wrap that was over her shoulders. It was only her topcoat left. Finally able to move she tilted her head side to side and stretched her arms up to the sky with the casual grace of someone waking from a summer-afternoon nap. When she had finished stretching she swung her legs over the side of the deck chair to face him. Her bravado faded at the look of hurt on his face. There was only one way forward as far as she was concerned. “I know my sister told you that I don’t have access to my inheritance until I turn twenty-five,” she said bluntly.
Edward grunted softly. “Alfred?” She nodded. “I should have guessed he would have sought you out. I’m sure he disapproves of me.”
She laughed. “He doesn’t really,” she said. “He just cares what happens to me.”
“He doesn’t matter. None of it matters,” he said, and placed his hand on her knee. She stared down at it. It was large as a bear’s yet so gentle. Their secret afternoon seemed like a dream. “I want you. Not your money.”
She fought back the tears. Brooke had referred to her engagement and impending marriage as a business arrangement. Maybe she had a point, in which case now was not the time for emotion. She had to understand Edward’s mindset, just as her father had taught her to learn how your competitors think. To that end she needed the full measure of Edward. “You would give up Rathfon Hall for me?” she asked unconvincingly. “It’s your home. What will your family do?”
“I’m sure we can sell off parcels of land to stave off debtors,” he said solemnly. “The estate has been in our family for generations. We won’t lose it without a fight. But if we do, then we will deal with it then. And with you as my wife we shall survive no matter what.”
He means it. I can tell he means it. Sydney thought she might burst from happiness. He wasn’t going to throw her over for money. Brooke’s ploy had failed. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips onto her hand and kissed it softly. Sydney wanted to be happy but it wasn’t so easy. I must tell him the truth about the money. “I can’t believe you’d risk everything for me.”
“For us,” he said, stroking her hand. “I know you don’t want me to say it but I must. I’m going to fight in this war and I may die. And even if I do survive the world will never be the same again. Not for English landowners like me,” he said, and forced a smile. “Not even for American heiresses like you.”
“We’re not even in the war,” she said, his words shaking her to the marrow.
“Not yet, my dear,” he said. “But soon. The way things are going on the front we shall need our Allies to put boots on the ground, not just ammunition in our guns.”
“Edward, you’re frightening me,” she said.
“I don’t mean to,” he said soothingly. “I only want you to enter into our marriage with your eyes open. We may not be together very long, you need to think about that.”
It was all she could take and she flung her arms around his neck. He lifted her to her feet.
“I don’t need to think about it,” she gushed. “I want to marry you. Even if it’s for one day I want to be your wife.”
He kissed her. She melted into his arms at the feel of him against her. They could be together, they would be. Then like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on her head she remembered Brooke, no doubt awake and preparing for a wedding ceremony that would never take place. The thought tore her up. She hated to be the cause of her sister’s pain. But she doesn’t love him.
As though reading her mind Edward straightened himself and smiled. “As much as I want to spend all morning kissing you, I have to talk to Brooke.” His tone was firm, determined.
If Sydney was going to tell him the truth about her financial situation it had to be now. She hesitated. She would wait. I need to be sure it’s me he wants.
“I wish it didn’t have to be now,” she said. “It would have been easier on us all if we’d landed in Liverpool and were able to take separate cars and hotels. Why did she want to marry today? If she hadn’t announced it so publicly some of the humiliation would have been avoided.”
“You know why,” he said. “She knows I love you. It’s her last stand.” He kissed her hand. “I will speak to her as soon as I can and send a note to you when I’m finished.”
“I’ll be in my cabin.”
“Very well, then,” he said, and kissed her cheek once more.
She watched him walk away, he made a very solemn figure as he disappeared into the fog. She questioned her decision not to tell him the truth about her inheritance. I did the right thing. Let him see Brooke again and speak to her one more time. It will be his final chance to decide. Then I will know for sure that he loves me.
Isabel
It was nearly seven o’clock in the morning when Isabel stirred. She had put her head down on the desk for a moment and now the sun was crawling up the sky. Her mouth was parched. She blinked several times until the room came into focus. She lifted her head up, still blinking. A cup of coffee was placed in front of her.
“Morning sleepyhead,” Dorothy said with a smile.
“Am I the only one who fell asleep?” she muttered, and grabbed the cup. The steaming coffee was black, no sugar, and so strong it made her sit upright.
“Hardly,” Dorothy answered.
“Any news?” she asked, trying to sound alert. The last thing she remembered was a third message being sent to Queenstown as per the strict rules. Room 40 relayed the information on the submarine’s whereabouts to the Admiralty in Queenstown, who then relayed it on to the Lusitania. The ship couldn’t respond so there was no way to confirm she had received them.
“No news is good news,” Curtis answered as he passed by. His shirt was rumpled and the top two buttons were undone, revealing the top of his undershirt.
She walked over to where Denniston and several others were eating breakfast and reading over transcripts that had arrived during the night.
“I’m told we sent the Lusitania three messages,” she said.
“We sent six,” Denniston said coolly. In a room packed with tired and overworked men only he remained as he had been all day yesterday and every day before: crisp shirt, jacket done up, each hair on his head perfectl
y placed. “I’m sure Captain Turner has been notified by Queenstown and is taking evasive action.”
Edward
Brooke had pushed him off all morning, refusing to see him on the grounds that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride the day of the wedding. It was eleven o’clock before his persistence had won out. And now here they were face to face. But Brooke looked like a wounded animal. A gazelle perhaps, or something more feline, a lioness, yes, it was a lioness. The way she stood, backed into the corner, her fingers clawing at her throat, her chest rising and falling as she panted like a predator who had miscalculated its prey, expecting a weakened animal only to be met by a strength and valour that she couldn’t match. Yet despite all this her eyes remained large and cunning. Edward had never seen her like this before, vulnerable yet vicious.
“You won’t make a fool out of me,” she snapped. The force of her words made him take a step backward.
“I’ll tell everyone you ended it,” Edward said calmly, trying to keep emotion out of his voice. “You won’t be subject to public scorn this way. Your friends, my family, everyone will think you tired of me or decided you could never love me. Whatever story you wish to tell I will agree to wholeheartedly. No one need ever learn the truth.”
Brooke laughed at him. The sound was worse than her silence had been when he first arrived to tell her he was breaking off their engagement.
“Shall I assume your laughter to mean you aren’t taking me seriously?”
Her laughter ended. She padded across the room until she was inches from him. The blood had drained from her face.
“You’re the one who can’t be serious, darling.” She was purring now. “You heard me last night. But just in case, let me repeat it: Sydney won’t inherit for another four years. Where will you and your precious Rathfon Hall be then?”
She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek. He recoiled, which only made her smile and continue to caress him, like a cat playing with a mouse before breaking its neck. “There, there,” she murmured soothingly. “It’s all right, darling. Shipboard romances are all the rage and why not? You’re entitled to have a final fling before our wedding. But my sister? Tsk tsk.” Brooke stopped talking and, with her hand still touching his cheek, she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him.
Sydney
It was shortly after one o’clock, lunch was being served and the fog had lifted. The sun was shining brilliantly in a clear sky. The coast of Ireland was visible and it was reassuring to the passengers to see land again. Sydney had left her berth and returned to her favourite position on the bow. She had waited for hours without a word from Edward. Tired of waiting, tired and afraid of what might have happened, she needed fresh air. There was an obvious answer to why Edward was silent. An answer she couldn’t face—that he had chosen Brooke. Pragmatism and family loyalty had won out over love and he had chosen the money. Surely it was better that she knew his true colours now? She couldn’t help but imagine the shock on his face when he learned the truth about her own money after he’d said his vows and placed the band on Brooke’s finger.
“Ma’am?” Sydney turned to find a first class steward standing behind her, envelope in hand. “Are you Miss Sinclair?” She nodded and he handed her the envelope. “A note for you.”
The handwriting on the envelope belonged to Brooke. She opened it and unfolded the vanilla paper.
Sydney,
Come to the Regal Suite as soon as you get this.
B.
Short and simple were not words often associated with Brooke. If her sister was summoning her to gloat so be it. As Sydney walked along the deck toward the Regal Suite she devised a plan. When the ship docked in Liverpool she would congratulate the happy couple, then make her way to the train station and London. There would be no need for a tour of Rathfon Hall now. She couldn’t take it.
As she reached the door her hands started to tremble. Would they both be waiting for her? Her sister would insist that she keep up appearances and attend the wedding dressed in full maid-of-honour glory. She pictured Edward and Brooke in their finery, the aloof Captain Turner before them in his white uniform and peaked cap as his officers of varying ranks fanned out behind him in honour-guard fashion. Then the guests . . . Would Alfred be the best man? Perhaps Mr. Frohman would convince his players to perform. The sun would be low in the sky at that hour, casting a tangerine glow on their faces so that the couple would appear lit from within with happiness. Sydney wanted to jump overboard. Her only consolation was that she would return to live in New York and only rarely have to endure seeing Edward. Letters home from Brooke would be superficial, that she could count on, as would be her replies. She would learn to accept and even love the inevitable nieces and nephews.
She paused, her hand on the door knob. To hell with them. She opened the door and stepped inside. Her breath caught at the sight of her sister standing before the mirror in her wedding gown. The dress Brooke had chosen befitted a princess. Flounces and ruffles overflowed, cascading down her slim figure; handmade lace and carefully sewn pearls adorned the skirt and bodice. Sydney found Sarah on her knees fussing with the train.
“You like it?” Brooke asked, and dotted her cheek with a handkerchief, also made of lace and silk with a single pearl weighing it down in one corner.
Sydney nodded. “It’s beautiful. I was there when you chose it. Remember?”
“I remember,” Brooke answered. “I wonder though if the pixie corners on the waistline aren’t too much?”
Sydney stepped toward her sister and gently lifted one of the many layers of lace. The points faced the floor, which drew the eyes down and made the bride appear taller and slimmer. But on the wrong figure it could appear Harlequinesque and court jester was not a Sinclair role.
“I think they’re perfect,” Sydney said. So this was how she was to learn the answer. Edward was a coward and had made himself scarce rather than face her with the obvious fact that the wedding was going to happen. And here was her sister making her usual grand statement with pomp and circumstance. Brooke is getting even and I deserve it. So stand here and take it like a woman should.
“You know the kitchen staff on this ship are quite excellent,” Brooke said gamely. “You should see the elaborate feast they planned for the reception. I do hope the Americans like Cornish hens as much as the English.”
“I’m sure the hens will be delicious,” Sydney answered.
“There is loads of champagne left too! It’s as though Cunard knew this voyage would be special and stocked extra just for me.” Brooke stepped closer to the mirror and fixed her hair. “And don’t get me started on the weather. It’s perfect.”
Sydney wanted to scream. She looked at the clock on the wall—one thirty p.m. Sunset was hours away. I only need to get through today, and tomorrow we dock in England and I will go to London and forget I ever met Edward. “You’re dressed so early,” Sydney said. “What time do you want me here?”
Brooke turned to her; she had a queer look on her face. “Want you? Here?” Brooke laughed. “Why on earth would I want you?”
Sydney was taken aback. She knew Brooke would be angry but she’d gotten her way and that normally mollified her. “I take it you’ve changed your mind about me being your maid-of-honour?” It was a huge relief. She would remain down in the bowels of the ship, as far from the wedding on the bow as was physically possible.
Brooke took a couple of steps toward her until they were only a few inches apart. The queer look had returned but she said nothing, just continued to stare. Sydney stood tall, not wanting to cower from her sister’s angry countenance. She had spent her life not cowering from her, unlike every other person who knew her.
“He doesn’t want me,” Brooke snapped. “He is in love with you.”
“I don’t understand,” Sydney said, unable to comprehend the words. “That dress, I thought—”
Brooke picked up her skirt and returned to the mirror. “Sarah!” she commanded. The maid scurried over.
“Yes, Miss,” she said.
Brooke wouldn’t look at Sydney. “Help me take off this monstrosity.” Sarah began to carefully unfasten the dozens of silk-covered buttons that ran the length of the gown from nape to hem.
“I told him I wanted to speak to you first,” Brooke said, her tears held at bay by an unwavering pride. “He gave me that dignity at least. It appears he doesn’t mind a suffragette for a wife. Who would have guessed a stuffy Englishman could be so progressive.”
So Edward had broken it off. The news split Sydney in two—part of her wanted to cry with joy that the man she loved and had given herself to hadn’t let her down; the other part was overcome with guilt for destroying Brooke’s fantasy, knowing this would tear them apart. “I am sorry, Brooke,” she began gently. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Brooke began to unpin her hair; dark chocolate waves fell in tendrils about her shoulders as she stepped out of the dress wearing only her corset. “Sarah, go fetch me some tea.”
Sarah, arms full of silk and lace, hesitated as though not wanting to miss this final showdown. “Now!” Brooke shouted. Sarah jumped and dropped the gown onto the floor, hopping over it and out the door. When the door shut Brooke slipped a yellow satin robe on.
“Why should I forgive you?” she asked, and sat down on her bed. “You’ve ruined everything. And for what? A too-thin Englishman who will probably be killed in another month.”
Sydney recoiled. “I love him,” she said. It sounded feeble now.
Brooke rolled her eyes. “And here I thought all this time that you had more important things to do with your life than fall in love,” she said sarcastically. “What about all the women you are so desperate to help? Who will save them now?”
“Don’t, Brooke—” Sydney began but her sister cut her off.
“I have a right to say whatever I want,” Brooke interjected. “I never imagined that you of all people would be my undoing. My own sister!”
