by Nancy Moser
“Good evening, ladies,” said the man.
“Good evening,” Lottie said. She dipped her head slightly, and Dora followed suit.
“Let me introduce myself. I am Lord Thorwald, and this is my wife.”
Dora had heard of him. He was a baron. Would he recognize Lottie’s family name? She hoped not. She didn’t want Lottie to have to defend a scandal at sea.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord, my lady. I am Miss Gleason and this is my friend, Miss Connors.”
“Evening, sir,” Dora said. “Ma’am.”
Lottie flashed her the quickest of looks, and Dora realized she hadn’t addressed the couple in the same manner Lottie had. She felt her face grow hot.
“Miss Connors, Miss Gleason …” The baroness looked to her husband. Dora feared the woman’s next comment would be in regard to Sir Gleason’s indiscretions. But the baroness had something else on her mind. “Didn’t the captain mention these young ladies, telling us if we met them to take special care?”
Lord Thorwald eyed them with new interest. “I believe they are the ones. You are traveling alone, yes?”
“Yes,” Lottie said. “My mother isn’t well enough to accompany me.”
“Are you traveling to America on holiday?” the baroness asked Dora.
Dora had no idea how to respond. They hadn’t rehearsed such an answer.
Lottie stepped in. “We are, your ladyship. We’ve always wanted to see New York City, and since we were invited by friends …”
“Who are your friends? Perhaps we know them,” the baron said.
Dora hoped not. She longed for anonymity.
“The Tremaines,” Lottie said.
“Martin Tremaine? Of the Tremaine’s Dry Goods Tremaines?”
“You know them?”
“Not at all. But we have heard of them. Who hasn’t?”
It gave Dora pause to realize Lottie was set to marry into such a family. She hoped Lottie’s opinion of Conrad would rise a bit at the complimentary mention.
Waiters began to make their way through the crowd, carrying glasses on large trays. A man in a fancy uniform stood on a dais and clinked a spoon against a glass. “Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I am Captain McShane. Please gather a glass for a toast.”
Lottie took two glasses and handed one to Dora. Dora was grateful for the liquid and started to take a sip, then noticed everyone else was waiting.
As soon as all had been served, the Captain raised his glass. “To a fine voyage, to health, and to prosperity.”
Everyone clinked their glasses, and Dora forgot her nerves long enough to enjoy the sound of it, like a hundred prisms tinkling together. Encouraged, she turned to tap her glass against one held by a woman to her left and—
And missed.
And dropped her own glass to the floor.
Where it broke.
A thousand pieces scattered.
Liquid splattered on the floor.
And on the shoes of a gentleman.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! So sorry!” Dora knelt to the floor and began picking up the pieces, depositing them into her gloved palm. A waiter came to her side with a towel, and she took it from him and began mopping up the mess.
“Dora! Dora!” Lottie whispered. She pulled at her arm.
It was then Dora looked up and saw the spectacle she’d created.
People were looking on, aghast.
Fine ladies didn’t mop up messes or pick up shards of glass, even if the breakage was their fault.
Dora tried to get to her feet, but with one hand full of broken glass, she got entangled in her dress and toppled into the gentleman whose shoes she had wetted. He righted her, and she saw the surprise upon his face.
I have to leave! Now!
She rushed toward the entrance of the dining room, brushing into the rich and famous as she made her retreat.
Lottie called her name, but Dora didn’t stop until she’d reached the safety of their stateroom. She tried to retrieve the key from her reticule, but only then realized she still held pieces of glass in her hand.
A steward approached. “May I help you, miss?”
She held out her open palm. “Please take these.”
He hesitated, then held out his hand.
Just then Lottie strode down the corridor. “There you are.” She removed her key and nodded to the steward. “Thank you.”
“Can I offer more assis—?”
She opened the door. “No thank you. We’re fine.”
They entered the room and Lottie closed the door behind them. Then she pounced. “Whatever were you thinking?”
Dora sank to the bed. “I didn’t mean to break it; it just slipped out—”
“I’m not talking about dropping the glass. Accidents happen. If you had simply laughed at yourself and taken another one, all would have been fine. But getting down on the floor and picking up the pieces, then mopping the spill with a towel …”
Humiliation washed over her. “It’s habit. I felt so bad, and it had splashed upon a gentleman’s shoe.”
“At least you didn’t start wiping that off.”
At least.
“And then you called the baron and his wife sir and ma’am.” Lottie paced the room, expertly flipping her train at every turn. “I used the correct terms of address. All you had to do was repeat them. You need to listen and observe or you’re never going to fool anyone into thinking you’re a lady.”
Dora swiped away tears. “But I’m not a lady. I never have been and never will—”
Lottie stopped pacing and took a breath. “I don’t mean to be harsh. I know this was your first outing. And take heart, after this voyage we’ll never see these people again.”
She could only hope.
“Perhaps your largest sin was not in trying to help clean the mess but in running away.”
“I couldn’t just stay there and—”
“Luckily, I know how to fix it.” Lottie removed a handkerchief from the dressing table and dabbed at Dora’s face. “Just a small refurbishment and we can go back—”
Dora pushed her hand away. “I can’t go back to the dining room.”
“You must.”
“They’ll stare at me. They’ll talk about me.”
“They have already done both. But if you return with your head held high and a hint of Ç’est la vie, they’ll—”
“Sayla-what?”
“Such is life. Things happen but life goes on, Dora.” She took her arm. “And so do we. Besides, I’m famished.”
At least Dora would go down with a full stomach.
Dinner was under way. Lottie had secretly wished it were not so, for now they had to enter the room as the only ones standing. They would be noticed.
She paused at the door and said to a footman, “Table seven, please.”
They snaked their way through the tables to the far side of the room. Lottie smiled and nodded. Her arm ached from the clench of Dora’s grip.
To their credit, some diners barely gave them notice, but others leaned head to head and whispered.
Just a little farther …
With only a few steps to go, Lottie felt Dora let go of her arm and, to her horror, saw her detour to the left. Lottie nearly called after her, but simply stopped instead.
And waited.
And watched.
Dora approached a table of eight, and those present halted their eating and conversation.
Where is she going?
Dora moved halfway around the table and stopped beside a gentleman with long sideburns. He looked up at her expectantly—but also with a bit of trepidation. “Yes, Miss … ?”
“Connors.” She handed him her lace-edged handkerchief. “For your shoes.”
He took the handkerchief and studied it a moment. He ran a finger along the monogram: DC. Then he let out a laugh. “Good show. Yes, yes, good show.”
Dora offered a small bow, then returned to Lottie. Her smile was perfect—self-composed, amu
sed, and above all, in control.
She took Lottie’s arm and said, “Shall we dine, Miss Gleason?”
“Absolutely.”
Bravo, Dora.
“Are you asleep?”
“No,” Lottie answered.
“I can do this, you know. Be a lady.”
“I know.”
Dora turned on her side and adjusted the pillow against her cheek. The rest of the dinner had gone well. She’d followed Lottie’s advice about listening and observing, and had even joined the conversation on more than one occasion.
Yet the highlight of her evening, her biggest triumph, had been when she’d made the gentleman laugh.
During that one moment she knew she’d found the key to getting by in society.
Chapter Six
Dora moved her parasol aside to let the sunlight bathe her face. “ ’ Tis a grand day.”
Lottie fiddled with the buttons on her gloves as they strolled around the first-class deck. “I’m glad you’re not content to sit under the awnings. Those ladies there, afraid of a little sun. I know it can wreak havoc on the complexion and Mother always warned me it would make me look common, but to sit in the shade all one’s life … what a waste.”
Dora loved the sun. The awnings set up for shade made her feel as if she were sitting in a tent, far removed from the world.
Which is exactly what they were. Under way for the second day, beyond sight of land, the sea and the sky stretched endlessly. It was invigorating, yet also a bit frightening.
“I do think we should keep track of the number of times we make a go round this deck,” Lottie said. “I believe this is number four?”
Dora wouldn’t have objected to it being number forty-four. This was the first time she had experienced the sky from horizon to horizon, to horizon, to horizon. It was as if God had inverted a lovely blue bowl over the ocean, which, in turn, gratefully reflected its blueness. And the air … although she was used to the clear country air of Wiltshire, this air seemed bitingly fresh.
She gazed over the white-capped sea looking for the sea gulls that had seen them on their way, dipping low on the water before rising into the sky. Their freedom to soar had made her feel as if the world were hers.
But the birds were gone. Was the ship too far out to sea for their comfort? Had they instinctively returned to the safety of land rather than taking a chance on this contraption moving through the water? The ship was so large. How did it ever float at all? And if everyone suddenly moved to one side of the ship, would it capsize? The depth of the water was beyond Dora’s comprehension, other than to know there would be no way to survive in it.
She studied the people around her. No one else looked worried. She was being silly and had tainted her delight of the lovely day.
She heard children’s laughter and was drawn to a railing that overlooked a lower deck. Boys were throwing someone’s shoe into the air, teasing the younger one by keeping it just out of reach.
“Come away,” Lottie said, pulling on her arm. “We shouldn’t watch—”
Dora knew the emigrants made Lottie uneasy, but she was fascinated with them. The first-class deck was spotted with proper ladies and gentlemen taking a stroll or sitting upon deck chairs, reading a book or sharing refined conversation. But the lower decks—she’d heard their accommodations called steerage—teemed with families dressed in dark colors and drab, functional clothes. Mothers rocked babies, and men gathered in groups, nursing their pipes amid animated conversation. And children ran and played, finding joy within their constrained space.
A woman looked up at her. Dora began to wave, then thought better of it. The emigrants wouldn’t look upon her kindly. She was a have and they were definitely have-nots. Yet the knowledge that they were traveling to America to find a new beginning did cause her to admire them.
“Dora, away.” Lottie’s voice was softly urgent.
When Dora turned back to the first-class deck, she found more than Lottie’s eyes upon her. Apparently looking down upon the lower classes was only acceptable in less literal ways.
She took Lottie’s arm and returned to their circuit.
The children’s laughter faded.
“This isn’t fair,” Lottie said. “You look as if that dress were meant for you—as if all my dresses were made for you.”
Dora stopped adjusting the floral trim that diagonally bisected the lace bodice and culminated beneath two silken bows upon her shoulders. “You’re very kind, Lottie. But I will never forget these are your dresses. And this one would look lovely on anyone.”
Lottie appreciated her effort to appease but knew Dora’s statement was not true. The peach-colored gown of silk with layers of ivory lace looked far different on the present Dora than it had on the maid Dora, who’d first tried it on in Lottie’s bedroom. At first, trying on the possible gowns for the trip had overwhelmed the maid, but now she wore the dresses; they did not wear her. Dora was truly taking on the persona of a lady.
She put on earrings—also borrowed from Lottie. “I certainly hope I don’t tread upon anyone’s toes at the ball tonight. You’ve been a patient teacher, but I fear I will forget every lesson once the music begins.”
Lottie was more concerned that no one would invite Dora to dance. Her first-night faux pas still rumbled through the occasional overheard conversation. There was not an official shunning afoot, but neither was there acceptance. Tonight would be a true test as to how the rest of the sailing would go.
“This train …” Dora said, taking a few steps. “Its weight, coupled with the fact that it will be in the way …”
“Use its weight,” Lottie advised. “There is nothing like the swing of a train as you sail across the floor.”
“What if I trip?”
Lottie didn’t want either of them to think of that.
They left their cabin and headed to dinner—and the ball.
The ballroom was more intimate than Dora expected, but considering it was aboard a ship … it still glittered with light, jewels, and beaded gowns.
She fanned herself in order to have something to do and noticed a few sideways glances from other attendees, a few whispers behind ornamental fans. Were they still holding last night’s gaffe against her? Her confidence waned. Maybe she should return to the cabin and let Lottie attend alone.
Just then a man with long sideburns approached—her man with the wetted shoes. Had his laughter last night been reconsidered?
But when he smiled, relief washed over her.
“Good evening,” he said with a bow.
“Good evening.”
“Forgive me for not introducing myself last evening. The name is Edmund Greenfield.” He clicked his heels together and nodded.
She offered a small curtsy. “Dora Connors.” She now had reason to use the fan. He was a handsome man, a bit swarthy, and definitely intriguing.
He removed something from his pocket and unfurled it into the air between them. “I believe this is yours?”
It was her handkerchief. “Yes, thank you,” she said. But on a whim she returned it to him. “The night is young, Mr. Greenfield. Perhaps you should keep it. Who knows what I might spill.”
He laughed and the handkerchief returned to his pocket. He pointed to his shoes. “They are good as new.”
“Glad I could be of service.”
“As am I, Miss … it is Miss Connors, is it not?”
She blushed. “For now.”
“Excellent,” he said, offering her his hand. “So, Miss Connors, may I have the pleasure of this dance?”
Dora glanced toward Lottie for her approval, but her attention had been diverted by two older ladies. Surely it was appropriate to accept Mr. Greenfield’s invitation.
“Come now,” he said. “It may be a bit of a challenge with the movement of the ship, but—”
“We’ll counter it by making our own waves?”
“Haven’t you done enough of that, Miss Connors?”
“Not at all.
That, Mr. Greenfield, was only one attempt toward making a splash.”
Where was this wit coming from? It was as though she’d been flirting her entire life. And Mr. Greenfield seemed delighted by her words.
The orchestra began a waltz, and Dora felt an inner swaying to the lovely music. She put her hand upon his and was led onto the dance floor. It didn’t seem real. The glittering chandeliers, the scent of perfume and flowers, the sound of violins, and the touch of a gentleman’s gloved hand upon her own.
And then upon her waist.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I should ask you that,” she said.
He laughed and swept her into the swirling mass of silk and diamonds and tailcoats.
Dora stumbled the littlest bit, but within seconds found the rhythm of it. Mr. Greenfield was an excellent dancer, and with an exhilarating strength he took charge and led her round and round.
“You are radiant,” he said, looking down at her.
“That’s because I’m flying!” She tilted her head back to take it all in, fully confident in his leadership.
“Fly on, little bird,” he said. “Spread your wings.”
Dora remembered envying the soaring sea gulls. They had nothing on her now.
She let herself take flight.
Lottie crossed the dance floor in the arms of an ancient man twice the age of her father.
“You dance well, my dear.”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were glued on Dora and her dance partner—her fifth of the evening.
Lottie eyed the cluster of men waiting on the edge of the dance floor. Waiting for Dora.
Lottie’s partner—she’d forgotten his name—must have noticed the direction of her gaze, because he said, “The belle of the ball, that one is. Do you know her name?”
She’s my maid. “She’s my best friend. Miss Connors.”
“I heard she has quite the wit. Spilling on Dr. Greenfield’s shoes, bumping into him, then bringing him a handkerchief. A well-orchestrated bit of flirtation that was.”
Lottie’s thoughts divided. Firstly, Dora didn’t know flirting from flying, and secondly, the name the man mentioned registered: Dr. Edmund Greenfield was the physician who treated the queen herself. No wonder Dora had dance partners. Once Dr. Greenfield gave Dora his approval, the other gentlemen would be quick to follow suit.
