by PK Hrezo
“I don’t think we should stay here,” Tristan says, obviously feeling the same discomfort I just did.
The woman and her companion continue on. I let my gaze follow them, wishing I could be a fly on the guy’s lapel for the next hour. “Just hang on a minute. Most of these passengers will retire to the smoking room or grand ballroom after dinner. Except for the really old farts who’ll go back to their staterooms, or the ones late for dinner like those two.” I gesture toward the other end of the foyer. “The grand staircase should be right over there in the reception room. Most will use it or the elevator. It was a fluke that couple even noticed us.”
The couple stops at the coat check room to the right of the dining room doors and the woman removes her fur shawl. Stepping out from behind the counter, the uniformed attendant takes the shawl and says a few words that I can’t make out, to which the woman seems to make no acknowledgment. She saunters slowly to the dining room doors in her black taffeta evening gown that does nothing to conceal her scrawny frame, her male companion just behind her, straightening his cuff link.
The stewards swing the doors open wide, which allows another wave of merriment to roll into the foyer—a sound that’s almost intoxicating. The steward on the right flashes the coat check attendant a flirty smile as he closes his door again. She smiles back, and instead of taking the shawl to the room, she lingers, petting the fur at her fingertips and beaming at the steward.
The coat check room is wide open.
“Stay right here,” I tell Tristan. “I have an idea.”
I stroll unnoticed across the far end of the foyer and duck beside the large potted palm at the right of the coat counter, my gaze fixed on the attendant all the while. She seems oblivious, but when a couple of men exit the dining room, she backs up against the counter so I have to stoop down. I can tell when the dining room doors are closed because the sound dies down again, and the attendant moves back in toward the steward.
Perfect.
I snatch the first fur wrap I see, drape it over my shoulders and flip the collar up. The tawny brown softness is luxurious against my skin. Quickly, I smooth back my hair and refasten my pearl clip at the side of my temple. I slip out behind the potted palm, giving a wave to Tristan to let him know everything’s cool.
“Stay where you are.” I mouth the words to him. “I’m going in.”
He leans back in to the nook so his body is obscured by the palm.
If I don’t go now, I’ll lose my nerve, and I have to know if the captain is still inside. My final mission depends on it. Fixing an overconfident smile on my face, I saunter toward the dining room, my right hand resting atop the fur wrap at my chest.
“Take your coat, miss?” the steward on the left asks when I reach the doors.
“Not with this chill in the air, thank you.” I turn up my nose, avoiding the kind of eye contact that suggests the hired help are actually human beings.
I don’t wait for further chit chat. Once the doors are fully open, I sail through the entry as gracefully as I can muster, all the while my cheeks burning. Nervousness, intimidation, awe. All of it wrapped up into one emotional burrito inside my belly. You can imagine something so much that you convince yourself you’ve almost been there, but never does it prepare you for the sheer amazement of the real thing.
Pure decadence, in a room hung heavy with scrumptious aromas. Servers hurry about with black suits on and white linens folded over their arms. Silver plated pitchers are carried in hands, crystal stemware on serving trays, tables surrounded by patrons so poised and high-class, I’d be afraid to practice my table manners without a practice run.
A different kind of piano music delights the room now with a swift, easy tempo, accompanied by violins from the far section of the room. And the chandeliers. Holy hell. I’d only caught a brief glimpse of the first one outside the doors. Standing beneath them they feel so enormous, so exaggeratedly grand, I swear their dangling crystals will come crashing onto the polished floor at any second like hailstones.
There are more black tuxes than I’ve ever seen in one place—pressed to precision—jackets embellished with notable badges; vests with shiny gold chains. Ladies in lush taffeta, silks, and lace in dark, classical colors of purples, reds, and blacks. The conversation is bubbling over, yet maintained in the kind of first class etiquette that doesn’t exist in my day and age.
I’m dizzy—faint with wonder from the energy and fashion and décor. I must be dreaming. So much so, that the image of Captain Edward John Smith appears before me.
I blink, then again. I must keep moving about the room.
It’s really him, seated at a dinner table, and he’s more debonair than I ever expected. I know so much about this man. My scalp is tingling.
As if caught in a tractor beam, I drift his way, slowly at first, then faster, with purpose. Captain Smith is so close, I can make out the shiny brass buttons of his navy blue suit. His hat is off and his snowy white hair and beard are trimmed to perfection. For a split second, his blue eyes meet mine and adrenaline pumps through me. I could almost swear there’s recognition there. But I know it’s only on my part, from knowing so much about him. Still, he studies me with confusion for a few seconds, long enough to fill my chest with hope that next time he will listen to me.
Rounding his table now, I offer the friendliest smile I know how, just as the clunky heel of my shoe catches the hem of my long skirt, and down … I… go.
Chapter Fourteen
Hands all around me, in my face, on my arms, lifting me to my feet. I steady myself, searching for something, someone to ground me. But there are only unfamiliar faces. Uniformed servers crowd me. My throat is dry and scratchy and I feel like I can’t swallow. Everyone and everything here is foreign to me. Even though I’ve read about all of it and studied it for years—they’re so different from me, from my world.
“Are you all right?” a waiter with thinning dark hair asks me.
Another hands me my fur shawl and I take it from him. It must’ve fallen off during my tumble. I’m about to put it on again, when I realize how obviously underdressed I am, and how everyone is staring from their dinner tables.
“All right, what’s the meaning of this?” A waiter from behind appears, his brows furrowed. By the looks of his uniform, he’s more than just a waiter. “Ye don’t belong here do ye? Trying to steal a meal with first class? We’ll see about that.”
He grabs my arm, breaking me free from the other servers.
I stand my ground. “Wait—”
“Wait nothing. Come with me.” He doesn’t look me in the face, but proceeds toward the doors with my elbow clutched in his grip.
I turn back, my gaze finding Captain Smith’s, but his eyes leave mine just as they arrive. He stands, shakes his head and lingers at the table for a few more words with the man seated beside him.
My chest is heavy inside, caving inward. What have I done? What if that was my only chance? It’s not supposed to be like this. Hushed voices and glaring eyes are everywhere I look.
“Please,” I say to the man, maintaining an even tone. “I only need a word with the captain. That’s all.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” The waiter escorts me out of the dining room, the doors opening at our arrival, and we emerge into the foyer.
I’m beginning to understand this guy isn’t a waiter at all, but some kind of steward. The placard at his chest reads N. Goddard.
He brings me over to an old fashioned phone box at the wall near the coat check room. “What’s your name and cabin number?”
Oh crap. Okay, I planned for this. I know what to say. “Julia Cummings, second class. I wasn’t trying to steal food, really. I just wanted to speak to the captain.”
I keep my voice calm, as if I’m more surprised than worried, in hopes he’ll realize I’ve done no wrong and there’s no need to contact anyone else.
Goddard stops, one hand on the receiver, and studies me a moment too long for me to ever bel
ieve he’ll let me off with a warning. “Cummings, eh? You have your boarding papers with you?”
“No, I don’t carry them.” I stare at him like he’s crazy, concentrating on the thick red mustache under his nose.
He brings the cone shaped telephone receiver to his ear and dials into the box on the wall. “Very well.”
Where’s Tristan? I scan the area, but he’s nowhere. Maybe he had sense enough to hide when we came out of the doors, but how will he know where I am? This could get ugly. Separating on a time trip is always a bad idea—he should know that by now. I place my hand at the small of my back, pressing in. It hurts from my fall. I just now noticed it. What else could go wrong in this moment?
Okay, you can handle this, Bianca.
One of the stewards from the doorway appears at my side, looming over me. “You don’t think this one’s a stowaway, do you?”
Goddard is speaking into the phone about a manifest verification, then nods at the steward beside me. “Never can be too sure.” He arches his brows at me now. “Not to worry, Miss Cummings. The Master at Arms is a reasonable man.”
Either he’s mistaken my natural paleness for fright, or I really am a walking ghost.
I clear my throat. “Julia Cummings is my name. I told you that.”
“And that there’s your fur?” He motions toward the shawl still in my hands.
My heart drops. “No … I …”
“That’s what I thought.” He takes the fur from my hands. “A petty thief.”
I shake my head. “I’m not, I swear it.”
A voice comes over the phone and Goddard answers, angling his body toward the wall to hear better, while the other steward resumes his post at the door.
It’s now or not at all. In a calculated pivot, I bolt to the other side of the foyer, to the elevator at the edge of the reception room. As soon as I press the button, its black iron door slides open and I dart in, catching a glimpse of the grand staircase that’s dazzled me in books, films, and websites since I was ten. Forcing my eyes away, I quickly scan the panel inside and select the staterooms two levels up. Both stewards are bumbling toward me now, reaching out, just as the elevator door shuts, and my heart slams the surface of my chest.
Within a few seconds, the elevator stops and it sends a small jolt through the shaft. The door slides open with a clank of metal on metal. Before stepping out I press the buttons to the promenade deck two levels up and slip into the same corridor Tristan and I were in earlier.
I don’t know which way to go. I contemplate entering a stateroom, but what if someone is in there? A maid appears from around the next corner, rolling toward me with a laundry trolley. I freeze. She’s unaware of my presence til stopping right in front of me at a cabin door, where she flashes me the friendliest smile I’ve seen since I arrived onboard. The white lace beanie on her head looks like an upside down cupcake smashed over her auburn curls.
Clatter from behind draws my attention down the corridor behind me. Metal on metal. Someone’s getting off the elevator. Holy hell. No way they’ll let me off the hook now. I glance down the hall, then back at the maid, who regards me with a flicker of suspicion in her vivid hazel eyes.
I give her a pleading little smile. “Cover for me?”
Then, on impulse, I dive into her trolley, bury myself in the bed linens, and remain motionless.
Bodies bustle toward us, then voices.
“You there, anyone come past just now? A black haired lass?”
I recognize Goddard’s voice. My breathing is ragged, and I struggle to contain it, my chest heaving so rapidly it might explode.
“Can’t say’s I ‘ave,” the maid says through a thick Irish accent. “Lookin’ for a date, are ye?”
“No one? Ya saw no one come past?” Goddard asks again.
“Did I stutter now?” she says. “I said I saw no one and that’s what I mean. Now, if ye don’t mind, I’ll be getting back to me duties.”
I feel the trolley roll backward, then forward, and then there’s the sound of a door opening. A huge sigh of relief leaves my body, and with it, an ounce of anxiety. Enough to now notice the smell of body odor and sweat from the dirty linens. That was so effin’ close.
The door shuts and I stay frozen in place a moment.
“Ye can come out now,” the maid says. “Coast is clear.”
I hesitate. How do I want to handle this?
Sheets rustle and move over my head til an opening appears and I’m staring at the most elaborate ceiling I’ve ever seen—deep cherry wood trim woven into the creamy white stucco like a tapestry.
“Well, ye can’t stay in there all night.” Her face emerges. “And besides, who knows what’s been happening on these sheets. Rich folk like it kinky, if ye be getting my meaning. Especially the men.” She giggles, her hazel eyes beaming.
Ugh, the most revolting image pops in my head of the older couple from earlier getting it on. Gross. I stand, pushing the sheets away and climb out. The stateroom is more than first class accommodations—it’s fit for royalty. Velvety red divans and mahogany dressing tables, gold trim and crown molding. And I know from research, that this is probably just the sitting room.
I remember the maid and turn my gaze on her. “Thank you for that.”
She winks and shrugs, pulling out a set of fresh linens from a small shelf on the end of the trolley. There’s something strangely familiar about her, and I try to place her from the ship’s crew list.
“Think nothin’ of it,” she says. “I know a stowaway when I see one. Took one for a lover once, on the last ship I worked. Ah, there’s somethin’ about them poor boys.” She gets a dreamy look in her eyes and giggles. “What they lack in their pockets, they make up for between the sheets.”
I force a giggle like I know just what she’s talking about, but secretly I’m marveling. She can’t be much older than I am, and she talks about guys and sex as if it’s no more than the weather.
She motions for me to follow her, her arms filled with fresh sheets. “Come on then, may as well give me a hand while yer here, no?”
I do a quick check of the door, my heart still thumping.
She notices my hesitation. “Don’t worry, yer safe in here. Nobody’d disturb Mr. Guggenheim.”
I watch her bounce into the next room, her black maid’s uniform unable to hide the curviness of her shape.
“This is Benjamin Guggenheim’s cabin?” I follow her into the grand bedroom, my gaze wandering the four poster bed and canopy.
“Aye. Impressive, isn’t it? Man like that could give ye anything ye wanted for as long as ye wanted, long as ye knew how to please him.”
This is beyond anything I ever dreamt of—being in Guggenheim’s stateroom? My head buzzes with energy.
“Where ye headed anyhow?” she asks, removing the sheets from the mattress. “Yer American, I know that.”
“Returning to New York.” I squint my eyes, studying her round, wholesome face with no recollection. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, pardon me manners. Adelaide Henley. Pleasure to meet you—”
“Bianca Butterman.”
Bing. There it is. Her face, her name, her job. All of it recognizable. Her smile on the crew list pictures was hard to miss—so much light to it. She’s much prettier in person.
“Well then, Bianca Butterman, is New York yer home? And how did ye manage to get onboard without a ticket?”
I hesitate. No point in denying I’m a stowaway when it obviously works for her, so I have to make something up. “California is my home. We’d been traveling, my boyfriend and me, and we lost all our money. We snuck onboard with a group.”
She piles the dirty sheets in the trolley, glancing once at me like she isn’t fully sold. “Boyfriend, eh? Running away? Pregnant are ye?”
“No!” My voice is harsher than I intended. “We haven’t even … I mean, that’s not even possible.”
Her vivacious eyes widen and she moves in closer. “Ye mean ye haven’t
done the deed yet? How long ‘ave ye been with this man?”
Oh geez, here we go. “Not that long. Barely two months.”
“Has he told you he loves you yet?”
What is with all the personal questions?
“We haven’t known each other long enough,” I answer, feeling a tad defensive. “But we’ve come pretty close to … you know.”
“Bloody hell, and I thought I had it bad in me bunk full of women.” Adelaide begins dressing the bed, shaking her head to herself with a faint snicker. “Two months and your knickers haven’t even come off. Tsk, tsk.”
Okay, this is weird. Why do I feel like a total prude around this chick who’s old enough to be my great, great, great grandma? And who’s got her collar buttoned up to her neck and the hem of her dress grazing her ankles in crew-enforced modesty.
But that thought is interrupted with something far less trivial—a fact that’s so morbid my mouth goes dry. I remember Adelaide’s fate aboard Titanic. She doesn’t survive.
Dread wells up inside me now, and even though this person has been long dead in my timeline, she’s alive and energetic in hers. And perfectly clueless of what’s about to happen.
I check my watch: 2136hours. I need to find Tristan.
“Know how I knew you were a stowaway?” Adelaide asks, straightening the sheet. “Twas written all over yer face, it was. More nervous than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. My old lover had the same look about him, on our last voyage. Danny was his name. He was jumpy all the time. But all that added stress gave me excuse to ease his nerves, which I did every chance I got, if ye get my meaning.” She sighs, clutching the corner of the sheet to her chest. “Ever made love on the deck of a ship before? Beneath the moon and stars?”
