On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  He walked over, his mouth twisted in a rigid smile. “I think this calls for a drink.”

  Georgie ushered Charlotte toward a cart crammed with cut-glass decanters. So much for Prohibition. Georgie poured them both a scotch and soda, then held up his glass. Charlotte raised hers in response.

  “To old friends,” Georgie said.

  We were never friends, Charlotte thought. “Not too old, I hope,” she said instead.

  It was enough to break the tension, and Georgie laughed. Charlotte took a sip of her drink; he’d mixed it strong. The two men in tennis whites came jogging over with their rackets, and one called out, “Reggie! You’re taking me on next!”

  Georgie waved him away. “I am otherwise occupied.” Very upper-crust posh, as if he’d just come from the House of Lords. “Try Dunkie instead. Five dollars he beats you in straight sets.”

  There was a round of laughter, a sense of Georgie as the indulgent father amused by the youngsters’ antics.

  “Let’s go inside,” Georgie suggested, and Charlotte followed him back to the house.

  He led her down a hallway to his office, where the first thing she noticed was a massive wood desk and the second thing she noticed was the photograph on top, of Georgie with Mary Pickford. If the goal was to impress visitors, it worked.

  “Where do we start?” Georgie asked, his bemusement barely masking his nervousness. “How long has it been?”

  “Twenty years,” said Charlotte. And then, because she already felt bad for catching him off guard, “Georgie, I’m sorry . . .”

  “Georgie. I can’t remember the last time someone called me that. Well—I suppose I can. It must have been you.”

  Those terrible, bewildering days aboard the Carpathia. Charlotte remembered, viscerally, the first hours after the lifeboat, as she had wandered the decks, searching each knot of survivors for Reg’s face. The smell of the blanket flung over her shoulders, wooly and damp. Some men had made it into the final lifeboats; others had been pulled from the water. If there was anyone who knew how to wriggle out of a seemingly doomed situation, it was Reg.

  Instead, she found Georgie, huddled in a deck chair, his face drawn and pale. Georgie, whose suffering only enhanced his good looks, like a boyish saint in a Renaissance painting. Charlotte’s heart lurched, and she ran to the chair, her face etched with a silent question.

  Georgie shook his head. “Reg didn’t make it.”

  “How do you know?” she demanded.

  “I saw him die.”

  In a dull monotone, Georgie told Charlotte what had happened. They’d been near the stern, unsure what to do as the deck continued to tilt, and then there’d been an enormous roar. Some sort of explosion that toppled one of the smokestacks. A twisted piece of metal crashed into Reg’s face—it must have killed him instantly—and Georgie had barely enough time to register the horror of it before a force pushed him backward, over the rails. Disoriented and desperate, he’d splashed and shouted until he reached an overturned lifeboat that had been swept off the ship. For hours, he and twenty others had stood on its sloped keel, clinging to each other to keep upright, leaning to keep their balance with each swell of the sea.

  Georgie told the story in a flat, detached voice, as if none of it mattered, and Charlotte churned with rage. How could a useless idiot like Georgie be alive when Reg was dead?

  Two officers were working their way along the deck, writing down messages from the Titanic survivors to be wired to their relatives. The men spoke in hushed voices, deferential in the face of suffering.

  “What am I to do?” Georgie mumbled, eyes cast downward, fingers picking at the edge of his coat.

  I couldn’t care less what you do, Charlotte thought. I never want to see you again.

  “Tell your parents you’re all right,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. Georgie looked ready to cry, and she hadn’t the patience for a scene. “They’ll wire money to you in New York, won’t they? Then you can go home.”

  “I can’t go back!” Georgie’s eyes pleaded with hers, frantic. “My father disowned me. He said he’d rather I was dead than disgrace the family.” To Charlotte’s disgust, tears began trickling down his cheeks. “Now he’s got his wish. There’s nothing left for me, with Reg gone. I should have died, too.”

  Charlotte almost said it: I wish you had. Georgie’s whiny self-pity was more than she could take.

  “What shall we do?” he asked.

  We? Charlotte hadn’t any intention of linking her future with Georgie’s. But the very last remnants of her loyalty to Reg stopped her from walking away. A wisp of an idea took hold, solidifying as she examined it from all angles. It could work.

  “What if you were dead?” she asked.

  Georgie stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “We could tell the officer making up the passenger list that you’re Reginald Evers. And you saw George St. Vaughn die.”

  His head tilted to the side, and his lower lip drooped, like a half-wit child’s.

  “You’d have a fresh start. I’ll vouch for you as my husband until we reach New York. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Georgie was slow to understand—no surprise—so Charlotte sat beside him and explained how it would work. And it was their closeness and complicity that made an approaching steward assume they were husband and wife before they said a word. The steward asked if they would like one of the staterooms set aside for married couples. Georgie glanced at Charlotte, and she glared back: Be a man for once. Make up your mind.

  “Yes,” Georgie said, with a quick nod. “Very well.”

  Charlotte never would have suggested the name switch if she’d thought through its implications: the days she was forced to hover beside Georgie, the nights they shared a cramped second-class cabin. Luckily, the subdued mood of their fellow passengers made the deception easier. They didn’t have to fake cheerfulness when they sat side by side on deck chairs or summon conversation over dinner. The weight of shared grief hung over them like a fog, and they climbed into their berths each night fully dressed, exhausted yet sleepless. The first evening, Charlotte heard Georgie crying, though he tried to muffle the sound with his pillow. She pretended she was asleep. If he cried the following nights, she didn’t hear it. Perhaps, like Charlotte, he’d learned to do so silently.

  They never talked about Reg.

  The last time they’d seen each other was in New York Harbor, as black rain lashed down like a curse from God, and they’d gone their separate ways at the Cunard pier. Georgie put on a brave face, but Charlotte was convinced he wouldn’t last a week. He’d get by all right for a time—she’d seen the money in the inner pocket of his coat, her pickpocket’s eye still sharp. He could afford a week or two in a nice hotel; he could buy a new wardrobe. But he was young and sheltered and out of his depth. Sooner or later, he’d get frightened; then he’d wire his mother and beg forgiveness. Before long, he’d be back on his posh estate in England, doing his duty. For months after the sinking, Charlotte expected to see the story splashed across the papers: “A Miraculous Return” or “Lord Upton’s Son Survives!”

  But George St. Vaughn never came home. And eventually he’d disappeared from Charlotte’s consciousness, too.

  Those first weeks had been difficult, Georgie now admitted. “I felt quite abandoned,” he told Charlotte, and she could hear reproof in the slight pause that followed. Faint, but still there. “Then I met a chap at a . . . a sort of drinking establishment, who fancied himself an impresario and asked if I’d ever considered the stage.”

  Charlotte could imagine the sort of seedy “establishment” where the conversation had taken place. A young man like Georgie—gorgeous, innocent, British—must have been a veritable beacon for lechers. But Georgie, improbably, had used his looks to his advantage. He’d begun with bit parts in dance-hall and variety shows and moved up to leading roles, though he was refreshingly candid about his lack of talent.

  “If you’re the least bit good-looking and sp
eak as if you’re just down from Oxford, it’s not hard to get cast,” he told Charlotte. “I always knew my main job was to stand in front of the lights and smolder. Acting didn’t really come into it.”

  Theater reviewers seemed to agree, from what Charlotte had read in the Express. Perhaps that was what pushed Georgie to move behind the scenes, though he told Charlotte he’d simply gotten bored reciting lines and wanted to do something more challenging. He’d started as a set decorator, then moved to California in 1923, just in time to take advantage of the moving-picture boom. They were so desperate for directors back then, he said, that they’d give a one-reeler to anyone who knew how to operate a camera.

  Charlotte asked if she might have seen any of his films.

  “Not unless you’re a glutton for punishment!” Georgie laughed. He waved a hand at the wall behind her. It was covered with garish posters of pouting women and scowling men, the titles in great white swaths along the top: She Done Him Wrong. The Devil Is a Dame.

  “My speciality is ‘good girls gone bad,’” he said. “A sweet young thing is seduced and led into a life of crime. Sometimes she’s saved by the love of a good man; otherwise she goes down in a hail of gunfire. Very tawdry, and usually third-billed. It’s good fun, though. And as you can see, it pays well.”

  He seemed eager to impress her, though Charlotte couldn’t think why. Everything about Georgie’s new life was a reproof to hers: the magnificent house, the crowd of friends gathered around the swimming pool, the pile of money that made it all possible. When Georgie asked what she’d been up to, Charlotte felt the luster leak out of her life. The flat she was so proud of now struck her as cramped and gloomy, her glamorous job a rote exercise in forced jollity. She had friends, yes, but dinner-party friends, and going-to-the-theater friends. Hardly anyone she’d invite over on a Sunday afternoon, and almost no one she trusted enough to confide in. She’d left Georgie to fend for himself, and he’d done it. He’d proved her wrong.

  When Georgie offered a tour of the house, Charlotte didn’t have to fake her awe. His bedroom was massive but tranquil, with all-white linens and windows overlooking the mountains. Waking up there, she thought, must feel like you’d made it halfway to heaven. Charlotte followed Georgie out onto the balcony, where she could see the full sweep of the property. More people had gathered by the pool, and the sounds of clinking glasses and determinedly jolly laughter drifted upward. Again, Charlotte felt as if she were watching a film. The guests were all so lovely, walking with the easy grace of dancers. Their animated faces made every conversation look fascinating, tempting Charlotte to eavesdrop.

  But there was something odd about the scene, too, something Charlotte couldn’t put her finger on until she’d watched for a few minutes, half listening to Georgie drone on about landscaping. Slowly, eyes darting back and forth, she realized that it was mostly men at the party, and that one was grabbing another possessively by the arm, and others were whispering close up against necks and ears, exchanging complicit smiles. Charlotte was more worldly than she’d been aboard the Titanic; she’d been to theater gatherings where costume designers and male dancers linked hands in back corners. She knew such things went on, but they occurred in a shadowy, alternate world. She’d never seen such behavior indulged in so openly.

  If Georgie’s open house was turning into that sort of party, it would be best if Charlotte made her excuses and left. And yet she couldn’t quite pull away. She looked at all those lovely young actors and singers, so alive they were practically shining, and she felt an unbearable sadness that the person who most deserved to be here wasn’t standing next to her.

  “How Reg would have loved this,” Charlotte murmured.

  She could picture him so clearly: giving her a devilish smirk, pulling her by the hand. Come on, Lottie, time to join in the fun, he’d say, and she’d go, because following Reg was like leaping onto a carousel. She’d never met anyone who inspired her to be so freely herself.

  “Do you think of him much?” Georgie asked quietly.

  “No, not really,” Charlotte said, ashamed of her disloyalty. “You?”

  Georgie only mumbled, a sound that could have meant “All the time” or “Now and then.” Charlotte kept looking at the party, unsure how far this conversation should go.

  “It was easier not to look back,” she said, explaining to herself as much as Georgie. “I was so angry at him, those days before . . . before he died. It made the grief that much worse, knowing we’d parted on bad terms.”

  Georgie had to know what she meant, though she couldn’t bear to face him and see it confirmed. He’d been there, after all. He’d heard Charlotte sputter out her refusal when Reg begged her to help disguise Georgie in her clothes. He’d seen Charlotte turn away, bristling with rage; he’d watched her ignore Reg even as he pounded on the window and stopped the lifeboat that saved her life. If Charlotte had known those would be her last moments with Reg, would she have behaved differently? Would she have thanked him as she stepped through the opening in the shattered glass? Charlotte hadn’t said a word; she hadn’t even looked back. Her pride had meant more than the kindness of a final goodbye.

  “You needn’t feel bad,” Georgie said, and at first Charlotte didn’t understand what he meant, because she’d always feel bad, for the rest of her life, for how she’d treated Reg. “Reg’s ludicrous plan to dress me up as your sister,” he explained. “I’d never have done it, even if you agreed. I wouldn’t have left him.”

  But I did, Charlotte thought, and she stared very fixedly at the dip of the land in the distance and the shadows of the trees stretching across the grass. She mustn’t start blubbering in front of Georgie.

  “I saw your mother,” Charlotte blurted out. “Two weeks ago.”

  Georgie looked perplexed, as if Charlotte had spoken in a foreign language.

  “It’s the reason I came to see you—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right from the start. She thinks you’re dead, of course, and all this time, she’s wondered what happened. Whether you suffered at the end. She knew about you and Reg, and she’d seen his name on the survivor lists afterward, and she’d always wanted to find him and ask him, but she didn’t dare do it while your father was alive.”

  Charlotte knew she was speaking too quickly, like a child defending herself against a punishment, but she wanted to be finished and on her way.

  “My father’s dead?” It was impossible to tell what Georgie was thinking. His face was utterly still.

  “Oh dear, I wasn’t thinking . . . yes, last year, I believe. Your brother as well. In the war.”

  It felt wrong to be telling him these cold truths in this setting, with their faces lit by the amber glow of the late-afternoon sun. A house like Georgie’s was meant for dancing and champagne toasts at dawn.

  “I heard about Tom,” Georgie said. “I’ve made discreet inquiries about my family from time to time. Anonymously, of course.” He sighed, gathering his thoughts. “Tom bullied me horribly when we were children, but other than that, he wasn’t a bad chap. Just the sort to throw himself against the German front line for the sake of his country. It must have torn Father up, though. Tom was always the favorite, for obvious reasons.”

  “It tore up your mother as well. But she told me it was much harder on her when you died.”

  “Did she?” Georgie seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Her solicitor wrote to me, at the paper. There are still some places—legal forms, that sort of thing—where I’m listed as Mrs. Reginald Evers, and I suppose that’s how he found me. Your mother asked me to visit, and I put her off forever, but eventually I felt guilty about ignoring her and arranged a visit to The Oaks. She’s practically a recluse—never goes out, hardly sees anyone. She’s got photos of you and Tom all over the sitting room, and she kept wanting to tell me about her ‘darling boys.’ I felt quite sorry for her.”

  Georgie abruptly turned and walked back into the bedroom. Charlotte hovered in the doorway, worried she’d offended hi
m. Georgie opened a drawer in a bedside table and pulled out a metallic strand with a circular gold object swinging from it like a pendulum. A pocket watch. Georgie handed it to Charlotte.

  “A present from dear Pater on my eighteenth birthday.”

  Charlotte looked at the cover, which was etched with a family crest. She popped it open and saw the initials “GSV” in elaborate Gothic script.

  “I nearly sold it,” Georgie said. “During those first years, in New York. God knows I needed the money. Yet I kept it, like a sentimental fool. I kept it because it was all I had left of my parents, even though every time I looked at it, I remembered how much they hated me.

  “When the porter at college found me and Reg . . .” Georgie paused and looked at Charlotte, as if deciding how much to tell.

  There were two tufted chairs in front of a large picture window, and Charlotte sat in one, telling him with her eyes that she would listen. Georgie took the watch back and sat opposite her, sliding his fingertips along and around the chain. He smiled gently, a gentleman’s assurance that he was perfectly all right and wouldn’t make a fuss.

  “Well, there was no mistaking what we were up to,” Georgie said. “You can imagine the uproar. I was sent home in disgrace, with the understanding that I could plead youth and ignorance and pin the blame on Reg. If I was suitably repentant, I’d be allowed back next term. But Father wouldn’t play along. He was livid, as angry as I’d ever seen him. Howling that no son of his would perform such deviant acts. He put on quite a show.”

  Georgie was making light of it, pretending time had drained the story of its sting. But Charlotte saw the wounds that had never healed. The pain that made Georgie hate himself, even now.

  “I thought Mother would take my side,” Georgie continued. “She’d always spoiled me. Called me her baby long after I was out of the nursery, I’m ashamed to say. The whole time my father was berating me, my mother didn’t say a word. Finally, to my utter shock, Father banished me from the house. Quite medieval, don’t you think? I was sent away with only the clothes I was wearing—luckily I’d a few pounds in my pocket and a line of credit at the bank in Oxford, or who knows what I’d have done. As Father was ordering me out, I kept waiting for Mother to rein him in. To say he’d done enough, or we’d talk it over in the morning. She never did. She stood there, watching, as I walked away crying like a schoolboy. It was like she’d turned to ice.