When she finished, she looked over to see William staring at the paper like it had had sprouted tentacles. “I did that?” he finally asked.
“Of course you did. William, let me ask you. Right now, if you were on that ship right now, and had the choice to help someone else or yourself, what would you do?”
His eyes came to hers. She wanted to see more of his sharp intellect and keen wit in those hazel orbs. “You know what you’d do. You’d help. That’s who you are.”
“Be with you.” He grabbed her hand. “I wanted to be with you.”
“And here you are. With me.” They were making progress. If he wasn’t remembering the event, he was at least beginning to understand it. To the extent it could ever be understood, by anyone. “Shall I read some more?”
As Nora read story after story and William voraciously absorbed every word, something fascinating happened. Fascinating—and painful and wonderful as well. She could see that all this reporting, even when it conflicted or was full of gaps and inaccuracies, connected in his mind with the fragments of remembered images that built his nightmares. She could see the pain as his sense grew, but the wonderful something was in that. He needed the pain. She knew that well. Running from painful thoughts could fracture one’s mind. You had to feel pain before you could overcome it.
This was what she’d hoped—that she could read to him, as Dr. Gunther had suggested, and bring to him the truth of this reality. This had happened. It had happened to them. Though they sat snuggled together in a soft bed in an elegant suite of a grand new hotel, they had gone through a wrenching horror. They had survived.
Still feverish and hesitant, but well rested and fed, and more grounded, William felt well enough the next afternoon to sit with her while the best shops in New York presented their offerings. They each chose enough clothes to get them through a month or so of quiet living, and were measured for their new wardrobes. They ordered luggage and the personal items they’d need. William was quiet, still speaking as little as he could, but he spoke competently, and he took over the transactions and negotiated their terms.
Engaged in that transaction, arranging what and when and how much, listing the other items they’d need, entrusting the shop agents to fill in any important items they’d forgotten, he was nearly himself. Nora was practically giddy to see it, and she understood the next important step in his recovery—he had to get back to his life.
This hotel was merely the next waypoint on their detour. They were still in the middle of the ocean, still traveling in limbo, not yet truly back in their reality. When they were in California, starting the life they’d planned, William would find his way through his churning waves.
After their private shopping excursion, he was exhausted and shaky, and she put him back to bed. She called and arranged for tea—no, it was dinner here; Americans didn’t have tea time—and Miss Calloway brought up the evening papers, as well as the stack of messages that had amassed.
“I’ve arranged them in order of importance, I think. This big batch here is all the press. I think we can ignore most of these, if you’d like, since we’ve sent the statement to the Times—I’ve got something to show you about that—but we’ll not be able to hold off the White Star Line or the government much longer. They need to interview you. How would you like to arrange for that?”
“Can they come here, to us?”
“I’m sure they will. No one wishes to make this difficult for the survivors.”
“Then let’s do that. Can we sort it for tomorrow afternoon?” When that was finished, Nora could put all of her attention to bringing William back to himself, and getting them westward.
“There are these as well, my lady.” The secretary handed her two sealed envelopes. “Wires from home, for you and Mr. Frazier both. Replies to our messages. I’ll leave you to read them in private. And then there’s this.” She handed over the papers and tapped the Times on top, folded to a story with William’s name in the headline. “The statement we sent them is here. The reporter would like an interview as well.”
“I have to talk to William about that.”
“Of course. Let me know. Do you need anything else?”
“No, thank you. You’re a tremendous help, Miss Calloway. I wouldn’t have known how to accomplish most of this on my own.”
“There’s no reason you should have had to do it alone, Lady Nora. I’m here to assist you however you need.”
Nora knew Miss Calloway was simply an employee of the kind of hotel that endeavored to meet its guests’ every need and desire. She acted out of duty, was only doing her job. She wasn’t even a secretary Nora had retained personally. And yet, right here and now, she felt almost like a friend. Nora had had precious few of those in her life.
“You’re busy today.”
Sitting in bed beside William as he’d been asleep, Nora now smiled down at his open eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Clearer.”
She smoothed her palm over his forehead, brushing his hair back. More grey had sprung up at his temples, as if he still carried with him some ice from the ocean. “You’re cool. I think your fever broke. I should call Dr. Gunther.”
“Later.” He tapped the papers in her hand. “What’s this?”
“Telegrams from home. From Christopher and your mother. And your aunt.”
“You wrote your brother?”
Without her prodding, he was speaking in sentences. Not complex, but complete.
“No, I wrote Aunt Martha, but she must have gone to him at once, and he wrote back.” She handed him the telegram, which read simply THANK GOD – STOP – ALL SICK WITH WORRY – STOP – LOVE YOU SO – STOP – LOVE TO WILL – STOP – CHRISTOPHER.
“That makes you feel?” William asked as he handed it back.
Nora shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m glad I wrote and eased their minds. I forgive Christopher now, I do. And I love him. But not like I did. I don’t know how to get that back.”
William picked up her hand and kissed her palm. “Time. It takes time.”
“You do feel better, don’t you?”
“Still gauzy, but yes. You … anchor me.”
“And you me. I love you.”
For the first time since the sinking, since she’d brought him back to her with a kiss, like a fairy tale, William moved to kiss her. He hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close, and he kissed her fully, his mouth open, his tongue searching. She gave him what he sought.
“Love you,” he said when the kiss was done. They rested together, forehead to forehead and basked until Nora remembered the telegrams still in her hand.
“Your mother wants us home as soon as we can be, and your aunt has a lot of instructions.”
William sat back. “You said I was sick?”
“Well, yes. You are, and they needed to know why we weren’t coming straight west.”
“You’ve let them loose. I’m surprised my mother isn’t on her way.”
“Well,” Nora giggled, and that felt good. “I think she almost was. There were two wires from her. One that she was coming and another later, that she wasn’t.”
William chuckled, and that felt even better. “Between those stands my father.”
There was humor in his tone. He was joking. Nora could have clapped. All would be well. Their future was coming.
She used the chance to bring up an idea she’d had that afternoon, as she’d read the news to him. “Do you feel up to discussing something?”
“I’ll try.”
“I’ve been thinking since we’ve been here how strange it is that our lives are almost as they were before we left England. It’s hard to believe what happened. My head wants to tell me it’s just a nightmare.”
He frowned and looked away. “Yes. It’s … it slips.”
“I know. I understand. Reading the papers helps a bit.”
“Yes.”
“But other people on the ship, they weren’t as lucky. There
were people in third class who had everything they owned on the ship with them. They have nothing now. Many of the survivors lost all their family and have absolutely nothing left, not even love. The nightmare won’t ever end for them.”
He turned to his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Yes. We’re lucky.”
“We are. So lucky. We’re blessed, William. I was thinking … I know it’s presumptuous, because I have nothing of my own, but … might it be possible to help them? To set up a fund for them?”
He turned his head on the pillow and studied her. “Fund? To pay for …”
“I don’t know. To help them find a place to live, some clothes, things they need. Food and shelter until they can get on their feet. They can’t stay at the Ritz and call the shops up for a private showing like we can. They need help. I know it’s your money, but—“
“Ours. Our money.”
She smiled. “Our money. Is there something we can do to help?”
How many times had Aunt Martha argued that money was important, that money did work human bodies could not, and made the work of human bodies possible? Nora had never fully understood, even as William had agreed with her aunt. Giving money was safe. Real work was risk.
The kind of risk William had undertaken on the Titanic. She herself had done little to help—he’d forced her onto the first lifeboat, and she’d sat stunned and watched the disaster happen. On the Carpathia, she’d been too distraught at first, and then too focused on William, to even think that she might help the survivors. All she’d thought of was him. William had taken on all the action for both of them.
Now, it was money that survivors who’d lost everything most needed. It was money that had made their own return to the world so gentle, and it was the lack of it that would make others’ suffering continue.
“Yes,” William said. “Good idea. We’ll make a fund. An—“ He stopped, and Nora watched him search for the word he wanted. “Anonymous.”
She thought of his alarm when the woman had clasped his hand, and his utter dismay when the next woman had knelt before him and kissed his shoe. “Anonymous. That’s exactly as it should be. To help, not for acclaim.”
He smiled. “You are a wonder.”
“No. I’m just someone you’ve saved.”
She put her papers aside and snuggled down into bed, setting her head on his beautiful, strong—and not too warm—chest.
He folded her into his arms and combed his fingers through her hair. Nora smoothed her hand over his bare chest, delighting in the soft tickle of his hair brushing her palm as she swirled circles on his beautiful body.
Speaking softly into the companionable quiet, William said, “I wanted to show you New York. Boston. Chicago. The whole country.”
“I’ll see the whole country from the train. And we’ll come back to New York someday. When we can enjoy it properly. Right now, all I want is to be home with you.”
“Home. Yes,” he murmured and held her tight.
THIRTY
They stayed in New York for almost three weeks and hardly left the suite. Everything they needed, or wanted, and everyone they wanted, or needed, to see, came to them. In that time, they were interviewed by the representatives of the White Star Line, by officers of the New York Port Authority, by lawyers working for the Senate, and by the reporter for the New York Times with whom Nora had negotiated for an exclusive, to limit William’s exposure to the press. And the Bank of New York sent a representative over to help them set up an anonymous fund for needy Titanic survivors and work out a calculus by which funds would be allotted and distributed.
They also acquired small but respectable wardrobes and collections of personal items, to replace some of the material possessions they’d lost to the sea.
And William recovered, more or less. His fever went away and his physical strength returned. His hands and feet had a constant, humming ache, and Dr. Gunther expected that might never go entirely away, but they worked well enough. Otherwise, by the time they were ready to pack up their new belongings and bid farewell to the Ritz-Carlton, he’d regained his body.
It was his mind that still held itself aloof.
Not entirely; he did feel stronger in mind as well. The gauze had peeled back, more or less. He was able to focus well enough, and engage sufficiently enough to comport himself with their visitors. He could hold a conversation. He remembered some things about the wreck of the Titanic—only bits and pieces, but enough to hold him to this reality. It all made him tired, but he could manage well enough that no one noticed that anything was amiss.
No one but Nora, of course. She watched him with an eagle’s eye and knew at once when he’d hit his limit. And she was a militant nursemaid, bossy and resolute. He found it charming. She took good care of him, much better care than he’d have taken of himself.
What worried him—and her, because he’d talked with her about it—was his distance from himself. The gauze had pulled back from the daily world, but who he was, and why he mattered, why anything mattered—he couldn’t keep hold of that. He couldn’t seem to feel. Like the cold Atlantic had numbed his heart the way it had numbed his hands and feet.
Unless he was dreaming, when he felt fear and loss and a hopeless, relentless certainty that he’d failed.
Or if he was with Nora, or even thought of her. She was the vessel of every good thing he had, everything he loved. She was everything, and when she was away, even for a short while, the blackness crept in from the distant shadows of his mind and threatened to take him over.
He’d told her, and she endeavored not to be away from him longer than necessary, but they couldn’t live forever with him pining after her, staring like a lonely puppy at any door she’d gone through. He couldn’t live with himself for much longer feeling this way.
Why did he feel like this? He was alive. He’d beaten tremendous odds and had survived. More than that, he’d recovered. And most of all, he’d kept Nora safe. He hadn’t failed. They were together; he hadn’t betrayed her trust. They were about to begin the life they wanted.
But nothing in that life seemed worthwhile. Only Nora.
Small hands came around his waist and clasped on his belly. William folded his own hands over hers. He looked away from the view of a Central Park morning and smiled over his shoulder. “All packed?”
“I am. You know, I feel the strangest touch of melancholy. All this time, I’ve been counting the minutes until we could leave this place, and now that we’re ready to go, I’m a little sad about it. I’ll miss the people here.”
He turned and pulled Nora into his arms. “We’ll stay here when we come for a real visit.”
“I’d like that. I hope everyone will still be here.”
“This is the top of the ladder. They won’t want to leave.”
“Good. I want them all to stay put.”
A knock on their door and a call from the other side: “Bellman!”
William took his wife’s hand. He could still feel her warm softness, but as if a layer of gauze were between them. “It’s time to go.”
Of course, William always traveled across the country on a Scot-Western train, and he usually traveled on the Cruise Line. Not always; neither his father nor he displaced a paying fare, and they both liked to travel on other lines and in less luxurious cars so they understood every traveler’s experience.
But on this particular occasion, his only son returning home with his new bride after an icy brush with death, Henry Frazier had, as the saying went, pulled out all the stops. The Destiny Car of the Cruise Line, their most elegant accommodation, awaited William and Nora at Grand Central Station, and tall, solid barriers had been erected on the platform to shield them from the view of the teeming hive of reporters and spectators who wanted a glimpse of one of the heroes of the Titanic and his beautiful English lady.
The buzz of Grand Central and the clamor of the greedy crowd echoed around them in the cavernous space, but between the temporary walls, William and Nora were
alone, except for the porter, who bowed as if he were greeting royalty.
“Good morning, Mr. Frazier, Lady Frazier.”
It wasn’t precisely right to call Nora ‘Lady Frazier,’ because the title wasn’t his. According to English custom, a lady who married a commoner was known by her title and first name. She was ‘Lady Nora Frazier,’ or ‘Lady Nora.’ But that had befuddled nearly every American they’d encountered, who either called her ‘Lady Frazier’ or ‘Mrs. Frazier.’ Only the Ritz-Carlton staff had gotten it right; they dealt with titled Britons regularly and knew the protocols.
Nora didn’t mind what she was called, as long as it wasn’t ‘Tate.’ In fact, she seemed to prefer ‘Mrs. Frazier.’ William wouldn’t be surprised at all if her title didn’t eventually drop away entirely.
“Allen. Good morning.”
Allen began to help Nora into the car but stepped back when William moved to do it himself. He stepped in behind her.
“Oh! It’s lovely!” Nora exclaimed, as she took in the car before her.
Like most luxury cars, the Destiny was laid out as a long, narrow hotel suite, with sitting room, bedroom, an office, and a washroom. The difference was in the quality of the appointments, which made the Central Park Suite they’d just checked out of look like a five-cent-a-night room in a Hell’s Kitchen flophouse. Real gold gilt adorned the wood-paneled walls, imported silk covered the soft furnishings, the wood furniture was made of ebony, the carpet was hand-woven and imported from Persia. The windows were leaded in a Tudor pattern. Every single appointment was of the highest possible quality. The ornate décor wasn’t William’s taste at all, but there was no denying its comfort or beauty.
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