On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  “I was very much in love with Mr. Evers, despite the fact that he was a swindler and a thief,” Charlotte said. If she was going to be honest, she might as well be thorough. “Or perhaps because he was a swindler and a thief. But he had no interest in marriage. He asked me to pose as his wife so he’d appear more respectable during the voyage. After we were rescued, and the officers were taking down names, I gave mine as Mrs. Reginald Evers because I knew that’s how it appeared on the passenger lists. And then, in New York, I found there were advantages to being a widow. A measure of independence I rather enjoyed. So I remained Mrs. Evers from then on.”

  Mr. Healy was silent for a moment, and Charlotte was sure she’d shocked him. Then his lips twitched into the beginning of a smile.

  “If you’re not Mrs. Evers, then what shall I call you?”

  Charlotte Digby, she thought, but it sounded like a stranger’s name, nothing to do with her. “My friends call me Charlotte.”

  She realized instantly that the offer, the sort of flirtatious suggestion she’d have made at a smart London party, was all wrong for this prim working-class home. Mr. Healy dropped his eyes and fiddled with his teacup. Charlotte was aware of having crossed a line—dashed over it, really—and wondered how she’d find her way back.

  “Then you must call me Edmund,” he said quietly. “If we are to be friends.”

  “Splendid.” Even if Charlotte never saw him again, she liked knowing he thought of her that way. “I promise, I shall be very careful to address you in public as Captain Healy.”

  Edmund shook his head, looking perilously close to blushing. The social banter that was Charlotte’s second tongue was, for him, a foreign language. Best to be direct.

  “I don’t need the money,” she said. “It feels tainted by Reg’s death. I’d much rather it do some good in the world. I was thinking perhaps a charity, something to do with sailors, and I was hoping you could help me. There must have been a relief fund for the families of Titanic crewmen who died?”

  “There were funds, at the time,” Edmund said. “But it’s been twenty years—I doubt any of them are still active.”

  Of course, Charlotte thought. Many of the children who had lost their fathers on the Titanic would have become parents themselves by now.

  “There is one charity you might consider,” Edmund said. “The Tipton Aid Society. It was started by the widow of a sea captain. A few of my mates were lost in the war, and Mrs. Tipton saw their families were taken care of. Paid the school fees for one promising lad, and now he’s at university.”

  “Yes, that sounds perfect,” said Charlotte. Reg had always fancied himself a bit of a Robin Hood; he’d have enjoyed knowing that the money he’d stolen from rich fools would go to deserving children. “I’ll write to her, shall I?”

  “I could introduce you, if you like.”

  “Well, I can’t stay long today . . .”

  “Another time?”

  It was an invitation, offered with a tentative hand.

  “Very well,” Charlotte said. Then, because she hadn’t gotten where she was by avoiding difficult questions, “Perhaps I could also meet Mrs. Healy?”

  Edmund raised his shoulders in a faint attempt at a shrug. “She’s at her mother’s in Liverpool.”

  Charlotte granted him the silence to explain, if he chose to.

  “Sailors don’t make good husbands, as a rule,” Edmund said. His voice was quiet and tinged with disappointment. “My wife wasn’t born into that life as my mother and grandmother were. It was hard on her, with me gone a month at a time. And even when I was home, I wasn’t much for talking. I’d grown accustomed to being on my own.

  “We didn’t have children, which might have helped. I don’t feel the lack of them, myself, but it would have made her less lonely. In any case—she has sisters and nieces and nephews in Liverpool. She’s happy there. So that’s the arrangement we’ve come to.”

  Should Charlotte feel sorry for him? She couldn’t tell if he was upset by the state of his marriage or relieved to have his wife out of the way. Perhaps it was a bit of both. If Edmund and his wife had been actors or singers, they’d have been divorced long ago and well into their second or third marriages. But Charlotte knew divorce was still unthinkable for people like the Healys. Though they led separate lives, their marriage—on paper—would endure.

  “When do you sail next?” Charlotte asked, a social kindness to shift the conversation back to safer ground.

  “A week tomorrow. It’s usually three weeks on, one week off. I’ll be back at the end of May.”

  “So we might schedule a visit with Mrs. Tipton then?”

  “I’ll call her later today. She’ll be very grateful for your kindness.”

  Charlotte could feel the momentum gathering toward an ending. Very good, thank you. It’s been a pleasure. She should be standing up and gathering her things. But she didn’t want to leave. And from the way Edmund was sitting—relaxed against the back of his chair, the teacup perched on one knee—she sensed his grateful ease. He didn’t want her to go, either. Thoughts welled up into words, unleashed by his tolerant understanding.

  “What I said before, about putting the Titanic behind me. I had—or rather, I thought I had. I never spoke of it, tried never to think of it. But it turns out the memories were still there. Preserved.”

  Had Lady Upton’s letter set all this in motion? Charlie Van Hausen’s death? Perhaps it was simply the march of time. The older Charlotte got, the more she longed for her past self. The woman she’d been with Reg, who’d never shied away from adventure. A woman with endless possibilities ahead of her.

  “Does it ever seem as if time bends around, as you grow older?” Charlotte asked. “I can barely remember who I lunched with last week, yet scenes from that night are so clear in my memory, I practically shiver. I can see all their faces—Anna and Esme and that dreadful Mr. Wells . . .”

  Edmund managed a chuckle. “Blowing his smoke in Mrs. McBride’s face!”

  Charlotte imitated the woman’s strident bark. “I will not be treated in this manner!”

  “Yes, it’s as you said. All perfectly clear.”

  “I never thanked you properly, for saving our lives.”

  Edmund looked uncomfortable, as she’d expected he would. “I hardly deserve that.”

  “You were following orders. We might well have been swamped if we’d rowed back, and I’m very sorry for the way I spoke to you. I’ve been meaning to apologize for a very long time.”

  “No need,” Edmund said stiffly.

  “All those inquiries and awful stories in the papers . . . they could never explain what it was really like, could they? Having to make a decision of life and death when you’re freezing and knackered and afraid you’re about to die. Things happen so quickly, and you haven’t time to think. And later, when you’re called to account for what you’ve done, how can you possibly make anyone else understand?”

  “We should have saved him.”

  How calmly he said it! Yet Charlotte could hear the chill of self-accusation. “The man in the water?” she asked.

  “I still think of him. Do you?”

  “I try not to.” The heartless truth.

  “What makes it worse was that I knew him.”

  “You did?” Charlotte remembered how sure she’d been that it was Reg. How she’d talked herself out of believing it.

  “He turned his face, when I held up the lantern. I didn’t know his name, but I’d seen him in the canteen. He was a steward. He had a mother and a sweetheart, and he’d say, ‘When I get back to my ladies . . . ,’ and the others would say, ‘Oh, go on, then,’ and he’d keep smiling and boast that they were the finest examples of womanhood ever seen. Always cheerful, always smiling.

  “He’d have lived if I had had control of the boat. I went over those minutes again and again, all those nights at my parents’ house, when I couldn’t sleep. What I’d done wrong. How I might have spared those women their grief.”
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  “You can’t take all that upon yourself.” Charlotte felt a ridiculous urge to press her hands against Edmund’s cheeks. To pull him close and whisper her forgiveness. “You did your best. We both did.”

  Edmund took a deep breath. “No point going on about it. What’s done is done.”

  “Do you know, I’d never done anything selfless before that night,” Charlotte said. She couldn’t allow this conversation to sink into despair. “I was a liar and a thief, pining after a man who’d never have married me. I hate to think where I’d have ended up if the Titanic hadn’t sunk. Prison, most likely. It’s terrible to say, given the loss of life, but it was the making of me. I’d never have known what I was capable of, otherwise.”

  “I changed as well,” Edmund said. “Though I can’t say if it was for the better. I wasn’t the boldest lad, growing up, and I was used to following orders, not giving them. I wasn’t as strong as I should have been.” He brushed away Charlotte’s attempt to protest. “I wasn’t, and I learned from it. By the time I went back to sea, I was a better sailor. More disciplined.”

  And something precious was lost: the impulsive decency that made Edmund throw a line to a dying man. The self-possessed man sitting opposite Charlotte would carefully weigh the costs and benefits of such a rescue; he valued caution over action. But wasn’t that true of everyone, as they aged?

  “There’s something freeing about surviving the worst,” Edmund said. “There were chaps who worried about German submarines, during the war, and I’d find myself thinking, what if we are hit? If I live, I live; if I die, I die. It’s out of my hands.”

  “That sounds like a rather useful approach to life.”

  “It can be.”

  Charlotte wondered whether Edmund had applied that same mind-set to his marriage. If we’re happy, then we’re happy; if we’re not, so be it. His imperturbability must be a great asset when commanding a ship, but how did it affect his private life? Her most recent lover, a theater director, had been a tempest of moods, ranging from buoyant elation to self-pitying misery. It had been rather thrilling, at first, but exhausting by the end. How much easier to come home to a man who was always quintessentially himself.

  “I have my regrets, as anyone would,” said Charlotte. “But I’ve made my peace with it all. We survived. That’s enough.”

  Edmund looked at her tentatively, seeming to gather up his nerve. “May I speak honestly?” he asked.

  Haven’t you already? Charlotte wondered, but she simply nodded.

  “I was curious when I received your letter, but I expected this meeting to be rather uncomfortable. I didn’t think there was anything to be gained by discussing the past. But I’ve enjoyed talking to you very much.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have a way of inspiring confidences. I suppose that’s why you’re so good at your job.”

  Edmund gave Charlotte a pointed look. An attempt to tease her, she hoped, but she didn’t want him to question her motives.

  “I told you before, I don’t intend to write anything about the Titanic,” she said. “I’m not here as a reporter. I’m here as a friend.”

  It felt strange, saying it out loud, but right.

  Charlotte glanced at her watch, shocked by how much time had passed. She usually kept to a strict schedule, her mind always calculating where she needed to be next. Edmund’s parlor had shielded her from the chaos of her everyday life.

  “I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, rising from the sofa. “I’ve got to catch the three o’clock train back to town. There’s a dinner tonight . . .”

  A dinner she’d been looking forward to. Noel Coward was going to be there, and that gorgeous Laurence Olivier. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks, savoring the anticipation each time she glanced through her diary. Now, to her surprise, it felt like a burden. The rush back to her flat, choosing the right dress, preening in front of the mirror, all so she could sit through the same gossipy conversations, the same judgmental pronouncements. It all seemed so pointless.

  “Please, don’t let me keep you.”

  Edmund was standing, too, flustered. He hurriedly placed his teacup on the tray and went into the hall to fetch Charlotte’s hat. She wished her departure weren’t so rushed. It felt wrong to follow a heartfelt conversation with such a superficial parting.

  “I’ll arrange a visit with Mrs. Tipton,” Edmund said, and Charlotte replied, “Yes, please do,” and then the door was open, and Charlotte was standing with one foot inside the house and one foot out, and it felt, for one swooning second, that they were together again in the lifeboat, the Carpathia looming above them. Now, as then, they reached for one another, and Edmund clasped Charlotte’s hands, just as he had when she was about to climb up the ladder. It wasn’t goodbye. It was a promise.

  Edmund’s house wasn’t far from the station, but Charlotte hailed a taxi, just to be safe. She found herself already anticipating her next visit. Tea and biscuits in the parlor. Speaking freely about her worries. Edmund’s understanding nods. The relief of his undemanding company.

  Charlotte pictured herself leaning in toward Edmund and kissing him. Not the next time, but perhaps the time after that. He’d be gentleman enough to hesitate, at first, but that might give way to longing, a willingness to follow where she led. She liked the idea of showing him a few bedroom tricks his wife was unlikely to know. They could have a lovely, life-brightening affair, and when the spark died out, as it inevitably would, there’d be no blame or regret. She’d look back on their time together with wistful fondness, grateful for whatever hours of happiness they’d shared.

  But what if her attraction went deeper and turned into something more? Charlotte had never wanted to be married, because no matter what a potential husband might say, he’d always expect his wife’s needs to be subservient to his own. But Edmund, like Charlotte, was content with solitude. They could come to their own unconventional arrangement, living largely separate lives and coming together at month’s end, their affection renewed by distance. It would be a partnership built on companionship and understanding, where their pasts wouldn’t need to be hidden or explained. Lazy mornings with coffee and the papers, walks in the country on Sunday afternoons. Simple routines Charlotte had never admitted she longed for.

  It was ridiculous, of course. Edmund was already married, and she had a life of her own, one that would hardly tempt a reserved sea captain. Imagine, Edmund at tonight’s dinner party! Yet Charlotte found she could imagine it: there’d be a few eye-rolls, at first, and a fuss over Edmund’s novelty. He’d be shocked by Isobel Galloway’s latest hijinks—which would please Isobel to no end—and he’d listen respectfully to the old theater bores telling the same stories they’d told at the previous dinner. And in the end, his politeness and self-possession would win them all over. Isobel would tell Charlotte he was lovely and absolutely perfect for her, and Charlotte would know it was true.

  Or there could be another path entirely. Charlotte could reach for Edmund, only to have him turn away. He might still be in love with his wife, or have a stronger moral compass than she did. If he showed no interest in her advances, Charlotte would laugh them off in a way that preserved their tentative friendship. She would still make occasional visits to Southampton, and she would encourage him to come to London and meet her for tea at Brown’s or the Ritz. He’d marvel at the prices while she teased him for being provincial. He might even resolve the problems in his marriage and introduce Charlotte to his wife, and she would be genuinely happy for them both. Without a new romance to distract her, Charlotte might finally write the novel she’d always intended to, skewering country society and its pretensions, and Edmund would read it and send her a letter telling her he’d enjoyed it. And when she saw his name on the envelope, she’d feel the heartening warmth that comes from knowing a person you care for has been thinking of you.

  Charlotte had always been a storyteller, but only in fiction do events sort themselves into a tidy conclusion. All of t
hese futures with Edmund were possible; all of them could be equally true. She would make her offer, like tossing a stone in the sea, and the repercussions would ripple outward, beyond her control. No matter what happened, Charlotte and Edmund would always be bound together. He was a part of her past, a part of her future, the man who would always make her feel safe.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Years before the blockbuster movie came out, I read Walter Lord’s classic account of the Titanic sinking, A Night to Remember. Like so many others, I was immediately transfixed by the ship’s combination of glamour and tragedy. But it was another book, The Titanic: End of a Dream, by Wyn Craig Wade, that helped me understand why the ship still fascinates us today. Relying heavily on the US Congressional hearings that were held soon after the tragedy, Wade’s book puts the sinking in a larger cultural context, revealing how much social class, ethnocentric snobbery, and technological change influenced the course of events. While Lifeboat 21 and its passengers are fictional, I stuck close to the historical record when describing the events before and after the launching of the lifeboats.

  The Titanic sailed with enough lifeboat space for only half the people on board, the result of an antiquated safety code that hadn’t kept pace with the growing size of ocean liners. Yet some of those lifeboats were lowered half full. Not everyone realized the seriousness of the situation, especially early on, and some survivors later testified that there were hardly any people on deck when their lifeboats were loaded. On one side of the ship, male passengers were allowed to board if there was space; on the other side, they were kept out, even if there were open seats.

  When newspapers began reporting that first-class men had been rescued while third-class women and children had drowned, it sparked universal outrage. Had third-class passengers been barred from reaching the lifeboats? Officially, no. Once the captain gave the order to launch the lifeboats, third-class women and children were supposed to be given access to the upper decks; a few stewards even led passengers directly to the boats. However, some women refused to leave their husbands—which, tragically, resulted in a number of entire families being lost. Others were simply too hesitant or frightened to venture beyond their assigned quarters; eyewitnesses described huddles of immigrants praying in the third-class common rooms, seemingly resigned to their fate. Others, like Anna, climbed cranes to reach the upper decks when they found their way blocked or were unable to navigate the confusing route to the boat deck. It’s important to remember that evacuating a ship as huge as the Titanic wasn’t an orderly process. The crewmen were new to the ship, and many had little or no training in emergency procedures. A lifeboat drill scheduled for the morning of the sinking was cancelled (for unknown reasons). About 80 percent of the Titanic crew died that night—nearly seven hundred men and three women. Some performed heroically in their last hours, others didn’t, but the odds of survival were clearly stacked against them.