On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  During her brothers’ term holiday, Charlotte sent them to stay with her mother’s sister in Devon, and when Mother died a few months later—a blessedly quiet passing after so much suffering—Charlotte’s Aunt Lucy came to the funeral. It was a somber affair with less than a dozen mourners, but Charlotte was able to pay for a decent gravestone with the money she’d saved from her exploits with Reg. She’d been planning to use it for new lodgings, but Mother’s death had quashed Charlotte’s already limited ambitions. Seeing Mother laid to rest in a churchyard, with a proper marker, assuaged a small part of her guilt over the many lies she’d told.

  Charlotte watched the way her brothers looked at Aunt Lucy as they took their tea afterward, so she wasn’t surprised when her aunt offered to take over as their guardian. A farmer’s wife who hadn’t approved of her sister’s unconventional family, she exuded a comforting maternal warmth now that Mother was no longer around to scold.

  “The country air will do the boys good,” Aunt Lucy said. “You’ll be glad to be spared the bother, surely? Won’t be long before you’re married with little ones of your own.”

  Charlotte loved her brothers, in the detached way you love a childhood toy; though she didn’t much miss them when they were away, she liked to think of them well cared for. She knew they’d be happier chasing after chickens at a farmhouse than with her in London. But Charlotte cried harder when her brothers left than she had when Mother died. With the last remnants of her family gone, she was truly alone.

  Grief moved through Charlotte like mud after a hard rain, slowing her down, making every step forward a struggle. She expected the sadness to lessen with time, but it endured and deepened, a force lashing her to the past. Occasionally, startled, she’d acknowledge the passing of time—six months since Mother died; a year—only to wonder how so many days could go by with nothing to show for them. Even stealing had lost its appeal. She wasn’t as quick or determined as she’d once been, and one afternoon she came dangerously close to being caught. Only a swift kick to the knees had gotten her out of a policeman’s grasp, and after that, she never tried again.

  What had felt like a dreamlike world of interchangeable days and nights began to take shape toward a possible future when Mr. Thornton’s wife took sick. The illness, unlike Mother’s, was swift, and Mr. Thornton dropped hints that his mourning would be similarly curtailed. Not long after Mrs. Thornton’s passing in February, he told Charlotte how unsuited he was to bachelor life and how it brightened his days to see her kind face. Once, the idea of marrying Mr. Thornton would have made Charlotte laugh; now, it felt inevitable. The benefits were so obvious that she took to reciting them mentally: he owned his own business and home; he wasn’t bad-looking for a man in his forties; she already knew all his quirks and faults. Charlotte was nearly twenty-one and didn’t have any better prospects. Mrs. Thornton hadn’t been able to carry a successful pregnancy, but if Charlotte had a few children straight off, Mr. Thornton would allow her to run the household as she pleased. Perhaps that would be enough.

  Though Charlotte was still able to muster a forced friendliness with customers, she no longer paid particular attention to new arrivals. So she didn’t realize Reg had entered the shop until he was standing directly in front of her, resplendent in a burgundy-checked suit, smiling like a child who’d found his lost kitten.

  “Lottie.”

  Charlotte felt the anger rise up, fueled by remembered shame, but the swell was short-lived, the crackling embers of a fire that had long since burned out. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Let’s have a chat, shall we?” Reg asked.

  Charlotte followed Reg outside, carried along in his wake. Reg looked the same as ever: immaculately if ostentatiously dressed, moving with jaunty confidence. When he looked at Charlotte with bemused curiosity, it felt like a bracing ray of May sunlight after a harsh, dark winter.

  “I expected to search half London for you,” he said. “Must say I’m rather shocked to find you still here—I thought you’d have had a dozen marriage offers by now.”

  Charlotte told him about her mother’s death and her all-but-official engagement to Mr. Thornton. In their glory days, she would have made the story amusing, for the pleasure of hearing Reg laugh. But that kind of vivaciousness was beyond her now. She could only recount the facts, none of them worth smiling about.

  “I would congratulate you on the happy news, but it sounds as if I should offer condolences instead,” Reg said. “You’re not really going to marry that fool, are you?”

  He looked up, over her shoulder, and tipped his hat. Charlotte turned to see Mr. Thornton tapping on the front window of the shop. With his pinched lips and raised fist, he looked like a cranky old Scrooge berating children who’d woken him from a nap. She saw him through Reg’s eyes and felt a curl of disgust.

  “No,” she said, surprised by her own vehemence. “I don’t think I will.”

  “Splendid. I’m delighted to have rescued you from a dreary fate.” Reg flashed Mr. Thornton a wide, cheeky grin, then turned back to Charlotte. His face had an expression she recognized from days past, when he’d dreamed up a new scheme. “Run away with me.”

  He was teasing. He had to be. Reg was no gallant prince, and he’d made it clear long ago that he wasn’t in love with Charlotte.

  “Where?” she asked suspiciously.

  “New York.”

  It was all a game, the kind of story they used to invent for fun. Except Reg sounded deadly serious.

  “The thing is,” Reg said, with exaggerated remorse, “I’ve found myself in a bit of a scrape.”

  “Who do you owe money to this time?” It was comforting, in a way, to find Reg hadn’t changed, given the upheavals in Charlotte’s own life.

  “I’ll not sully your ears with the sordid details,” he said. “Suffice to say, I have made myself an enemy of a family that one should not run afoul of. Best I leave England for a time, until the commotion blows over. I hear America has much to offer a man of my talents. If you put on a posh act and call yourself the Earl of Nonsense and Nonesuch, everyone thinks you’re rich, and you can rob them blind.”

  “The Earl of Nonesuch,” Charlotte said. “You’ll be a smashing success.”

  Reg grabbed Charlotte’s hands, and she was surprised by the force with which he squeezed them.

  “Come with me.”

  Charlotte heard another tap-tap from Mr. Thornton. She had thought her impulsive kiss had forever shattered the bond between her and Reg, that the trust they’d gifted each other could never be recaptured. Now his longing flooded through Charlotte like a fever. Saying yes would be reckless and possibly dangerous; she had no idea what Reg had done and who might be after him. But this, Charlotte knew with bleak certainty, would be her last chance for escape.

  “What’s the story?” Charlotte asked, putting on a show of doubtfulness. She didn’t want Reg thinking she’d fall in line right away. “The missionary and his sister?”

  “You will travel as Mrs. Reginald Evers. My devoted wife.”

  Wife? What exactly was he proposing?

  “In name only,” he said smoothly. “You know I’m not the marrying sort.” Then, more quietly, “To my great regret.”

  Reg looked down with a flicker of genuine sadness, a gesture that silently asked forgiveness. When Charlotte nodded briskly, asking no questions and demanding no explanations, his face shifted back into its usual cheery expression.

  “A ship’s saloon is ripe pickings if you know what you’re about at cards,” he said. “As a respectable married fellow, pleasant enough but none too sharp, I’d be welcome at every table. I wager I’ll earn back our passage before we make landfall. Once we’re in New York, we can work out a scheme as the count and countess, or whatever you please. Just like old times.”

  Just like old times. Charlotte felt the pull of it, strong as the hunger that had pushed her to steal that first apple.

  “We’d be expected to share a cabin,” she said,
looking at Reg straight on.

  “Are you afraid for your virtue?”

  “Should I be?”

  Reg laughed, but she saw the tempted twist of his lips. He’d take whatever she was willing to give, as long as she expected no promises in return.

  “I’ll book us adjoining rooms,” Reg said. “You can put it about that I’ve got a terrible snore—which, I’ve been told, I do. Mrs. Evers deserves every comfort.”

  Mrs. Evers. Charlotte had hoped to have that name, once. This might be the next best thing. She’d have a place at Reg’s side, a role in the theatrical masterpiece that was his life.

  “Mrs. Evers would need a suitable wardrobe,” Charlotte said slyly.

  Reg pulled a handful of banknotes from his waistcoat. Whatever trouble he’d gotten into, it hadn’t left him penniless.

  “Buy whatever you need. I’ll book us tickets on the Titanic, leaving next week. We’ll go second class, but I hear the appointments are better than first class on any other ship. As I said”—he tipped his hat—“only the best for Mrs. Evers.”

  And that was that. Charlotte said her goodbyes to the few people who cared enough to notice she’d be gone, and the nastiness of Mr. Thornton’s spitting rebukes made it all the easier to leave without regrets. Reg had supplied her with the perfect excuse for her sudden departure: a whirlwind romance, a surprise engagement, the chance to accompany her new husband on a business trip to America. Reg’s money paid for new dresses, hats, and shoes, the bags to pack them in, and a ticket for the boat train to Southampton. Reg had some mysterious matters to attend to the day before and would meet her at the pier.

  On that Wednesday morning, as the train chugged through country vistas Charlotte had never seen and didn’t know when she’d see again, her heart raced in the same way it had before every outing with Reg. It could all go brilliantly or terribly wrong, and she hadn’t realized until then how she thrived in that uncertainty. By the time Mrs. Reginald Evers arrived at the White Star Line berth, she had perfected her part: a modest, self-possessed young wife in a simple wool jacket and skirt, her hair arranged in sedate waves under her moss-green hat. She surveyed the travelers milling around the second-class gangway, assessing her future companions the same way a gambler eyes the ponies at a trackside stable. They were a variety of ages and shapes, many of them in family groups, but they shared a common purposefulness. Their eyes were on what came next, not what they were leaving behind.

  An officer began steering the passengers on board, and Charlotte looked around for Reg. He might pride himself on living moment-to-moment, but he’d never been late for a job; she could always count on him to be where he was supposed to be. Right as she was wondering what she’d do if he didn’t come—he had her ticket, after all—he rushed over with a wave and dramatic exhale of breath, overpowering her with apologies before she could come out with a question or reproach.

  “Ah well, Lottie, no harm done. Got your luggage all sorted?”

  Charlotte nodded, and Reg took her by the elbow and hurried her toward the ship. As they joined the queue along the gangway, Charlotte was struck by the sheer size of the vessel she was about to board. She hadn’t had any fear of sailing before that moment, but her chest felt tight, as if her body were forcing her to slow down and reconsider. She thought of the father she’d never known, a sailor who’d climbed on a ship and hadn’t come back. A man whose only legacy was the daughter he’d never met.

  The passengers surrounding Charlotte shuffled forward with polite, mostly silent restraint, though she heard occasional “oohs” and mothers commanding their children to stay close. The young man directly behind Reg seemed particularly anxious to get aboard; he kept stepping forward when there was barely space to move and bumping against Reg’s back. His hands and face twitched with excitement, and his eager eyes kept shifting from the ship to Charlotte and back again. If Charlotte hadn’t been so put off by his pushiness, she might have been flattered. He was quite good-looking, in a youthful, sunny way, and the cut of his clothes suggested he was well off.

  An officer welcomed them aboard, then directed them to the steward who would lead them downstairs to their staterooms. Charlotte tried to keep track of where they were going so she could find her way around later, but it was all a bit of a blur. They passed a smoking room, a library, and a wood-paneled dining room with corridors leading off in every direction. Charlotte noticed the young man from the gangway trailing after them. She kept expecting him to stop at one of the cabins they passed, but he never did. Finally, the steward unlocked a door with a flourish, then handed two keys to Reg.

  “The other room’s right next door, to the left. The porter’s already brought in your luggage. Is there anything else you need, sir?”

  To Charlotte’s annoyance, the pushy stranger was still hovering. He had the decency, at least, to gaze elsewhere as Reg talked to the steward. Perhaps he was lost and waiting to ask directions.

  “Nothing at the moment,” Reg said.

  “Twenty minutes until we sail, noon sharp. If you’d like to watch from the deck, it’s two flights up.”

  Reg nodded his thanks, and Charlotte waited for the man who’d been following them to finally leave. Instead, he stood there, staring at Reg.

  “Ah.”

  Charlotte knew that sound. It was Reg’s way of buying time in an awkward situation—the moment someone accused him of cheating at cards, or a policeman shot him a suspicious glare.

  “I had hoped to do this under different circumstances,” Reg said, his eyes not quite meeting Charlotte’s, “but our train was delayed and there simply wasn’t time.”

  The word “our” was the one that caught her attention. Charlotte looked at the young man, who was looking at Reg, who was looking back at him. Her confusion began to clear.

  “You know each other?” she asked, right as the man demanded, “You haven’t told her?”

  Reg looked uncharacteristically flustered. “Georgie, give us a moment, will you? Get yourself a drink in the saloon.”

  Bewildered, Charlotte allowed Reg to escort her into the stateroom. A settee was set against one wall; two berths were flush against the other. Her bags had been stacked in front of a small bureau. It was nicer than any room she’d ever slept in, yet at the moment it felt as close and stifling as a prison.

  Reg leaned against the doorjamb, one foot crossed against the other, a posture intended to show her he was perfectly at ease. But Charlotte knew him well enough to spot the tense set of his jaw.

  “Who is he, then?” she demanded.

  “Georgie’s a friend.”

  That could mean anything. Reg had dozens of so-called friends.

  “Does he have something to do with that spot of trouble you’re in?” Charlotte asked.

  Reg exhaled sharply, a sound that could have been a laugh if he’d made the effort. “Yes.”

  Charlotte felt the disappointment first, a heavy, dull pain pulling her down. It was supposed to be just the two of them. With a flush of shame, she remembered the fantasies she’d entertained over the past few days: Reg half-drunk, reaching for her; her own mock-reluctant surrender to his seduction. What a fool she’d been, to think she could ever trust him! Reg had lured Charlotte onto this journey with half truths, like one of his marks, and she had fallen for it. Her embarrassment hardened into anger.

  “I know Georgie wasn’t part of the plan,” Reg explained, with exaggerated remorse, “only it turned out he needed rescuing at rather the last minute, and there wasn’t time to check with you, and I couldn’t turn my back on him. Loyalty is one of my few admirable qualities, wouldn’t you say?”

  It was the same way he chattered at cards, a melodious flow of words distracting attention away from what his hands were doing with the deck. It only infuriated Charlotte more.

  “Why is he here?” she demanded. “For once in your blasted life, tell me the truth!”

  She’d shocked him: good. Reg’s smile wilted, and he looked down. It took him a
very long time to decide what to say.

  “Georgie is George St. Vaughn, late of Cambridge University. He is also the son of Lord Upton, second cousin to the queen, and an all-round blighter. Georgie and I were discovered in what I believe is best described as a . . . compromising position, in his rooms at college. Cue scandal, uproar, and calls for my immediate beheading.”

  The words tumbled and spun around Charlotte as she struggled to understand.

  “I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you before,” he said. “I am very sorry.”

  Charlotte realized that the simplicity of his apology meant it was sincere. But that moment of compassion was quickly overpowered by dizzy uncertainty. What was he saying? What did it mean?

  “Georgie’d be recognized in first class, so he’s traveling as my brother.”

  “Your brother.” Charlotte nearly spit out the word. “So, we’re to be a happy family?”

  “We could be.”

  Charlotte stared at the face she knew so well, the face of a man she didn’t know at all. A compromising position. She didn’t know how it was possible for two men to do such things, only that it went against nature to do it. Her first impulse was to leave. There was still time; she could pick up her bags and stalk off the ship. Back on the train, back to London, back to Mr. Thornton.

  “Please, Lottie.”

  Reg’s plea cut through the haze of wounded pride. If she stayed, she’d be condoning behavior she could think of only as sinful. She’d have to pretend she didn’t care. Yet even that humiliation, she realized, was preferable to returning to her old life.

  Charlotte nodded, briefly and painfully. “I’ll do my bit.”

  Reg reached out to her—for a pat on the shoulder, a squeeze of the arm—and she twisted away.

  “Go find your brother,” she snapped. “We’ll be off any minute.”

  Charlotte missed the celebratory departure from Southampton, the waves and shouts between deck and shore. She sat alone in her cabin, palms clenched around her knees, as the coals were shoveled and the engines sprang to life. She spent hours in that cabin during the days that followed, fuming and squeezing back tears. For the steward’s benefit, she had to rumple the sheets on the upper berth each morning and wet her husband’s towel so it looked used. But of course Reg never slept in her room; he spent every night with Georgie, and she tortured herself with thoughts of what they might be doing.