Flora's Secret

by Anita Davison

‘Not a lot,’ Ozzy answered for them both. ‘The deck games have been cancelled because of the high winds.’ He hunched his shoulders in dejection and scuffed the sole of one shoe against the deck. ‘We don’t know what to do now.’

  ‘Have some hot bouillon,’ Monica suggested, nodding to the steward who had halted a few feet away to serve a group of hardy passengers.

  ‘Not hungry,’ Eddy said, caught Flora’s hard look and added, ‘thank you, Mrs Gilmore.’

  The boys ran to the rail, where Eloise welcomed them with a smile, a hand on Eddy’s shoulder as she pointed out something on the horizon. Another ship perhaps? Eddy had both feet on the bottom metal support, while Ozzy propped his chin on the polished wood as the ship dipped and rolled on the choppy grey sea.

  ‘Do be careful, Ozzy.’ Monica’s voice was edged with panic, just as a particularly large wave broached the rail further along the deck. ‘He never gets seasick, you know. Such an excellent constitution.’

  ‘Stop fussing, Monica,’ her husband growled.

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Gilmore is right, Eddy,’ Flora couldn’t help agreeing with her. ‘You’re too close and it’s getting quite rough out there.’

  As the words left her, a plume of spray leapt the rail, sending all three of them backwards with a combined shriek. Their mouths opened in shock, their hair plastered to their heads as they held their hands held out to their sides. Eloise joined in the excited, half-fearful screams of laughter, each of them indicating each other’s soaked clothes and dripping chins.

  Bunny left his chair and grabbed some blankets from a box beside the steamer chairs. He advanced on the boys and wrapped one round each of them, including Eloise. ‘How about we order some hot chocolate to help you dry off?’ he suggested, nodding to a second steward who was working his way along the line. ‘Don’t need to be hungry for that, do we, boys?’

  Monica bustled between them with towels, which she used to dry the boy’s hair.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ Mr Hersch offered. He dropped a pile of coins into the steward’s hand, then enlisted the boy’s help in the positioning of two steamer chairs before handing them large mugs of the steaming hot chocolate.

  Eloise flopped into an empty steamer chair without bothering to check the label, dabbing her face delicately with a towel. ‘Is there any hot chocolate for me? Not that I should, but this sea air makes banting incredibly difficult.’ She lifted her feet onto the footrest, grinning like a schoolgirl.

  Gus Crowe huddled miserably in his chair and ignored her.

  Bunny gave a small sigh, pushed his glasses up his nose and waved for the steward to bring another mug.

  ‘What’s “banting”?’ Flora asked no one in particular.

  ‘No idea.’ Gerald blew into his cupped hands.

  ‘It’s the limitation of refined carbohydrates to promote weight loss devised by a William Banting in the 1860s,’ Bunny said, passing Eloise her hot chocolate.

  ‘How knowledgeable you are, Mr Harrington.’ Eloise giggled. ‘I don’t know what a carbo-whatever is, but if I follow the plan, I’ll become more slender.’

  ‘My mother uses it sometimes,’ Bunny said in answer to Flora’s unasked question. ‘Besides, Miss Lane,’ he inclined his head in Eloise’s direction, ‘I think you are quite slender enough.’

  Eloise saluted him with her cup of chocolate, which Flora imagined must contain enough starch and sugar for the entire day.

  ‘When my clothes begin to pinch I take herbal tea to suppress my appetite,’ Cynthia said. ‘I swear by it. If you wish, Eloise, I could bring some to your stateroom later?’ Cynthia stumbled slightly on the name, as if she had to think about it.

  Eloise stammered her thanks, echoing Flora’s surprise at Cynthia’s new-found generosity.

  ‘Perhaps Cynthia’s had an epiphany as to the equality of all God’s creatures,’ Bunny whispered, his breath warm on Flora’s cheek. ‘She normally ignores Eloise, or shoots daggers at her with those beautiful eyes of hers.’

  ‘She’s not exactly been my best friend, either,’ Flora murmured, just as a woman huddled into a voluminous coat with her head down rushed past them without an acknowledgement.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Monica waggled her head at the woman’s retreating back. ‘She completely ignored us! That’s happened several times recently. Anyone would think one of us killed Mr Parnell.’

  ‘Who says he was killed?’ Gus Crowe looked up sharply from his bouillon, but relaxed back again when no one responded.

  ‘Most likely that lady didn’t know what to say,’ Monica ventured. ‘It’s human nature to avoid what we regard as a threat.’

  ‘What’s that sailor doing up there?’ Max pointed to the open bridge, where a young sailor was wrapped in a sou’wester and stared through a telescope.

  ‘Trying to keep warm, I imagine,’ Crowe mumbled.

  ‘I don’t envy any of the crew up there on a bridge open to this weather,’ Max turned his head, indicating the capped heads of the crew above the canvas sheets that surrounded the bridge, the men’s collars pulled up to their ears and hats jammed down.

  ‘Keeping a watch for icebergs,’ Gerald said, ruffling Ozzy’s hair. ‘We’re on the southerly course, so I doubt we’ll see any bergy bits in these waters.’

  ‘Papa!’ Ozzy ducked away in mock annoyance and patted his hair down again. Watching them, Flora’s heart twisted at the man’s easy affection for his son; one which Eddy would benefit from with his own father but which happened rarely.

  A wave jumped the rail, covering the deck with icy saltwater that swirled and sucked through the gap below the bottom rail. The deck tilted, sending the tray of empty bouillon cups into a sideways slide, which were caught by a sprightly steward.

  ‘The weather is deteriorating, I’m afraid.’ Officer Martin halted beside them, a hand clamped on his cap that glistened with spray. ‘We’re heading into a nor’easter, so I advise everyone go back inside.’ As he spoke, the wind sent a burst of rain against the weather cloths around the open bridge with a loud hiss.

  ‘Is it a real storm?’ Eddy’s face lit with childish glee.

  ‘Is it dangerous?’ Eloise asked, gazing up at the sailor from beneath her lashes.

  ‘It is, Miss.’ He offered her his arm. ‘As I said, it’s best I get you inside.’

  ‘Well, help me up, Gerald,’ Monica snapped, looking askance at Eloise’s flirtatious acceptance of help, possibly because it was not directed at herself.

  She made two attempts to rise from the steamer chair, falling back again both times as the deck pitched.

  Sighing, Gerald hauled her to her feet, handing her to Officer Martin who had returned to help.

  ‘It’s a while until luncheon,’ he shouted over the wind. ‘How about Eddy comes back to our suite?’

  ‘If you’re sure that wouldn’t be an inconvenience?’ Flora narrowed her eyes as fine spray stung her face. An empty steamer chair crashed into the one Monica had just left, sending Flora’s chair several feet closer to the rail.

  ‘I’ll get them to the dining room in time for luncheon.’ Gerald threw an arm around each of the boys and the three hobbled across the deck like competitors in a three-legged race.

  Cynthia struggled to stay upright, encumbered by her heavy coat and several blankets. Max wrapped an arm around her, the pair locked together as they staggered toward the safety of the interior.

  Bunny paused at the open door to the lobby, his gaze strained in the direction of the aft deck.

  ‘Aren’t you coming inside?’ Flora stepped backwards as a sheet of salt spray landed two feet away.

  ‘I’m going to check on Matilda first,’ he shouted, his hair blown vertical by the wind. ‘Make sure she’s tied down.’

  ‘Couldn’t you ask a crew member to do that?’ Flora shouted back, fighting to stay upright on a deck that tipped sharply to one side. Other passengers streamed past and she found herself forced by the rush into the staircase lobby where she stopped to brush water from her coat. Wh
en she looked through the window again, Bunny had gone.

  Crowe stooped to retrieve a book left on a chair by a gentleman in a caped overcoat. The man’s retreating back was still visible on the stairs above, but Crowe made no effort to call out to him, and instead, slid the book into his pocket.

  Flora sighed, asking herself again why Eloise spared the odious man any of her time.

  *

  Flora’s finger had barely grazed the doorbell of the Cavendish suite before it was flung open by a bright-eyed Cynthia who had changed into a fine wool suit in a rich emerald green to suit the colder weather. ‘There you are!’ she cried, as if she had been lurking in wait. ‘Max has gone out for a bit to do whatever it is men do, so we have the place to ourselves. I was about to order coffee.’ She fluttered to the fireplace where she gave the bell an enthusiastic push.

  ‘That would be very welcome.’ Flora dithered on the threshold before entering, feeling a little like Gretel about to enter the witch’s house. The suite was a mirror image of Flora’s own, but immaculately tidy, with not one personal item in evidence. Had she stumbled in there by herself, she would be hard-pressed to place anyone in the rooms.

  ‘We keep our things in here.’ Cynthia led her into the unoccupied second bedroom, where the bed had been removed, the space taken up with four steamer trunks stacked on their sides. Their front sections stood open to reveal a bank of drawers on one side and rows of gowns, skirts, blouses, undergarments, shawls, scarves and petticoats on the other.

  ‘See if there’s anything here which catches your eye.’ Cynthia waved her arm in a wide arc. ‘This is such fun, just like school.’

  Flora almost told her she didn’t know what that was like, having never attended one, but refrained for fear of sounding self-pitying.

  ‘You have some beautiful things here, Cynthia.’ Her fingers caressed silk, merino wool, muslin and chiffon in pastel shades of primrose, lilac, cornflower blue and ecru, with equal awe. Even the Vaughn girls didn’t own so many things, the younger ones not above wearing their sisters’ hand-me-downs.

  ‘My trousseau,’ Cynthia said airily. ‘I left most of it behind, though I had to buy a heavier coat than I imagined I would need.’

  ‘Was this your first visit to New York?’ Flora asked, pulling out a blue dress she decided was too dark and replacing it.

  ‘I was born there, actually.’ Cynthia leaned against the door frame and examined the fingernails of one hand. ‘Mama divorced my father when I was ten. Or he divorced her, I never did find out the reasons behind it. Not something one talks about with one’s parent. Mummy married an Englishman not long after, so I was brought up in London.’

  ‘Is that why you decided on New York for your honeymoon?’ Flora kept talking, self-conscious that she trawled through another woman’s clothes while the owner watched.

  ‘Something like that. Though I wish Max had not announced the fact we are newlyweds to the shipping line. Since the moment we stepped onto the SS Marquette, for the outbound journey we’ve been gawped at like specimens under glass.’

  ‘Don’t you like being the centre of attention?’ Flora discarded an eau-de-Nil muslin gown as being pretty but too insipid for her skin tone.

  ‘It isn’t that. New York was spoiled for me by—’ she broke off at the rattle of crockery. ‘Ah, here are our refreshments.’ She poked her head round the door frame and called to the unseen steward. ‘Just leave it on the table, would you?’

  An evocative aroma of fresh, brewed coffee and the chink of cups floated out of the sitting room, followed by the suite door closing again.

  ‘What about this one?’ Cynthia unhooked a silk gown the colour of poinsettias from the nearest trunk. She frowned, her lips puckered. ‘No, it’s not your colour.’ She returned it to the rail and leaned her hip against the door, her arms folded. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard any more about that man who died? What was his name? Parnell?’ She hesitated on the last word too long for it to be a convincing memory lapse.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Flora pretended to examine a cream silk gown with coral trim, suspecting Cynthia had been working up to this question since she had arrived. The thought struck her then that it might also have been the sole reason for inviting her.

  ‘Merely idle curiosity.’ Cynthia picked at a cuticle. ‘Some of the passengers have been talking, and well, it seems there may have been something odd about it after all.’

  ‘Really?’ Flora asked, feeling Bunny would have been proud of her acting ability. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘That Mr Parnell may not have fallen.’ The hunted look in Cynthia’s eyes intensified. ‘Max thinks someone will have informed the newspapers.’ Her hand on the door frame tightened until her knuckles showed white.

  ‘A death on board is bound to be newsworthy,’ Flora said. ‘Especially if the killer is caught. In which case the police will have to be involved.’ Her use of the words ‘killer’ and ‘police’ had the desired effect. Cynthia’s pigeon wing eyes darkened to slate, taking an effort to compose herself. ‘Do you like that one?’ She indicated the peacock blue gown in Flora’s hands. ‘That colour makes me look pasty, but flatters your complexion beautifully. Do try it on, though I’m sure it will fit.’

  Flora obeyed, luxuriating in the feel of the silk as it slipped over her slight curves down to the floor. The fitted bodice was covered with gauzy lace where the silk showed through, and the skirt billowed out a little at mid-calf level.

  ‘It’s lovely, Cynthia, thank you.’ Flora twisted and turned before a cheval mirror, admiring the way the silk, shot through with silver, caught the light.

  ‘My pleasure.’ Cynthia preened. ‘I’ll have it pressed and sent to your suite in time for tomorrow. Get changed now and we’ll have that coffee.’ She patted Flora’s arm, before disappearing into the sitting room.

  Returning the gown to its hanger, Flora retrieved her skirt from where it was draped across one of the trunks. She fastened the row of side buttons and smoothed down the folds, halted by a crackling noise from the pocket. Frowning, she withdrew a crumpled piece of paper with the New York Times’ banner printed across the top. Its presence confused her at first, until she realized it was the one that had fallen from Parnell’s drawer when she and Eloise searched his stateroom. She had shoved it into her pocket when the doorknob rattled and forgotten about it. The headline ‘Bridegroom Van Elder Is Dead’ snagged her attention, and intrigued, her gaze scanned the print quickly.

  New York Mar. 7 1900

  The marriage last Saturday evening of Theodore van Elder of this city and Miss Estelle Montgomery, of New York, which was a great surprise to their friends, was followed this evening by the sudden death of Mr Theodore van Elder from acute gastritis. The fact that he had not been in good health for some time, and that the friends of the couple knew nothing of their engagement, made their marriage all the more surprising.

  Mr van Elder was a well-known man about town. Miss Montgomery was his second wife. A child by his first wife is heir to a fortune. Mr van Elder’s mother is wealthy. Miss Montgomery was to have been the guest of honour at the theatre party last Saturday evening, but she surprised her friends by dropping in upon them just as they were about to start for the theatre and informing them that she had wed Mr van Elder.

  Since the evening of the marriage, Mr van Elder, on account of sickness, has scarcely been able to leave his apartment. Mr van Elder was over forty years of age and originally from Baltimore, but recently engaged in business in New York. His widow is but twenty-three and a beautiful woman.

  Reaching the end, she looked up from the page, her thoughts whirling as she put possible faces to names in her head.

  ‘Flora?’ Cynthia called from the sitting room. ‘Your coffee will get cold.’

  ‘Er— coming.’ Flora thrust the paper back into her pocket and went to join Cynthia.

  Chapter 14

  Flora read the newspaper clipping again back in her own sitting room, staring at the stark print l
ong after she reached the end. Her thoughts whirling, she was vaguely aware of the slap of horizontal rain that lashed the deck outside, accompanied by the scream of the wind. Convinced the obituary referred to Eloise and her late husband, she tried to put the pieces together in her head. That Eloise had changed her name came as no surprise, though the fact her husband had died less than a week after their secret wedding sent chills through her. No wonder his family were suspicious – anyone would be – and had engaged lawyers.

  Did a question remain as to how ‘Theo’ had died? Because if it was gastritis, then why was Eloise convinced she was about to be accused of murder? So certain in fact, she left the country with only the things she could carry to avoid it. And if her late husband’s lawyers had employed Mr Hersch, what did he know which could be used against her?

  That Parnell kept the clipping gave credence to Eloise’s claim he had tried to blackmail her, but which also begged the question that the evidence he spoke of could exist as well.

  She recalled the raised voices on her first night on board and tried to picture Eloise battering Parnell with an ashtray, but somehow the image felt wrong. Parnell had been taller than Eloise and far stronger. Unless she had taken him by surprise. In which case, how did she get his body out of the stateroom and down to the deck below?

  With these questions and others circling her head, it took a moment or two for her to notice a repeated knocking at her door. The sound persisted as her progress across the room was hampered by the fierce bucking of the ship. Finally, she flung the door open to reveal Bunny.

  ‘I thought you were never going to let me in.’ He shouldered sideways through the narrow gap, smoothing his wet hair back with cupped hands. He removed his steamed-up glasses and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief produced from a pocket.

  Flora fetched a towel from the bathroom, their hands connecting as he took it from her. She drew hers back sharply, hoping he did not notice the impeding blush that prickled her skin. ‘Is the storm getting worse?’ Flora asked, self-conscious he might think her gauche if she coloured at every innocent contact, though at times she caught the sparkle in his eyes that implied he felt it too.