By the Light of the Silvery Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  “I’ll just be a moment.”

  “But the ship. We’re set to board.”

  Amelia took another step. “We have hours before it leaves the dock. I won’t miss it. I promise.”

  Aunt Neda sighed then pulled a few small coins from her pocket. Coins they’d scrimped and saved for the trip. Coins to finance their new life.

  “Thank you, Aunt. I’ll be right back.” Amelia grasped them in her hand and hurried off. A smile filled her face as she scanned the crowd for the stewards.

  There. Over by the train station. The stewards threw the man to the ground and kicked his side for good measure. She raced their direction, lifting the hem of her traveling gown as she jogged toward the man. Ignoring how quickly she became winded. Ignoring the stares of the people watching.

  “I don’t blame ye, miss,” one viewer called as she passed. “I’d run away, too, if I were you. I have a bad feeling about this ship.”

  Amelia wasn’t about to pause to set the record straight. Only as she neared the man, crumpled into a heap on the damp dock, did she slow. Then, just as she was about to speak to him, he rose—his back to her. He was taller than she thought. And as he strode away, confusion filled her. He walked not with the slumped stagger of a beggar but the straight, confident gait of a king.

  She rubbed her eyes, unsure of what she was seeing. She almost second-guessed her plan, but something inside told her to be brave. To balm the man’s wounds with her smile—and her gift. She slid the coins into her pocket and instead pulled out the ticket. “Sir?”

  The man continued on, as if not hearing her.

  She hurried after him, placing a hand on his arm. He paused and turned, eyes widening.

  “You talking to me?” he mumbled. Dark brown eyes met hers and a light of interest filled them. They were beautiful eyes that reminded her of lamplight glowing on cobblestone streets after the rain. His gaze remained steady on Amelia, and her throat muscles rose and fell as she swallowed. There was something familiar about this man.

  Do I know him? No, that was impossible. Her lips fell open as she tried to remember what she was going to say.

  She looked to his cheek and pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, reaching up and dabbing it. At the feel of her touch, he jerked his head back. She held out the handkerchief, stained with blood. “You’re bleeding.”

  He took the cloth, pressing it to the wound. He lowered his head, looking to the ticket in her opposite hand.

  “Sir, I have this ticket we are not using and—“

  “I’m sorry. I have no money,” he interrupted, speaking so softly it was a murmur. “If I had, I would have bought—”

  “No, sir. No purchase. A gift.”

  He ran a dirty hand through his hair. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “A second chance.” The words escaped with a breath, and she willed her heart to slow its wild beating. “All of us need a second chance.”

  “All of us need a second chance.”

  Her words replayed in Quentin’s mind as she walked away. Her smile—well, it warmed him even more than the sun overhead.

  Only when she disappeared among the crowd did he again look at the ticket in his hand. A gift? Who was he to her? What had he done to deserve such an offering?

  He struggled for a breath and moved to the brick wall of a nearby building. Stepping into the shadows, he fingered the small piece of paper. Such a simple thing that offered so much.

  Quentin rubbed the spot on his ribs where the steward had offered a firm kick. He deserved it—littering the ship with his filth. Everyone saw him as he was: a beggar, a vagabond. But her—he felt valued when he looked into her gaze. It was a feeling he’d long forgotten.

  Who was that woman? She no doubt had seen the stewards dragging him off. Quentin lowered his head. His stomach ached as he thought about her seeing that. Or maybe the ache was because he hadn’t eaten for a while. How many days had passed? One? Two? He wasn’t sure.

  He fingered the inspection card—which also served as a ticket—wondering if he could pull it off. Would the stewards really let him on?

  Something inside told him to forget the idea. It’s no use to try.

  Then again, the woman had approached him. He had a passage in his hand. If he walked away now, he’d always wonder.

  He rose and looked at his dirty slacks and coat. No, they’d never let him on looking like this.

  Quentin scanned the docks filled with people, and then his eyes moved to crates and trunks being boarded. A large stack was piled high, with stewards hauling them one by one up to the hold. Each piece of luggage was marked to be stored or taken to the passenger’s room.

  He checked his pants pocket, making sure he still had his most valuable possession, and then he slid off his dirty jacket, tossing it into the crook of his arm. Noting a barrel of rainwater next to the wall, he quickly washed his face and hair, using the woman’s handkerchief to dab the gash on his cheek once more. Then he moved to the suitcases and eyed the stack. He had one shot to pick the right one.

  A black scuffed trunk sat on the far edge. It wasn’t the trunk of a wealthy man, and that was what he was looking for. On top of the trunk was a bag containing a sweater with a wooden hanger sticking out the top. The tag on it read MCHENRY RM. B124. It looked as if Mr. McHenry would have his sweater hand delivered to his room this morning.

  Quentin hurried over and grabbed the sweater from the hanger. Before the steward noticed his presence, he had the garment in his hand and had hurried around the side of the building. He glanced down at the simple white sweater. It wasn’t his style, but he slipped it on. The sleeves were a bit short, so he pushed them up, nearly to his elbows. Then seeing a muddy area at the building’s corner, Quentin sank to his knees in the mud.

  Satisfied, he rose, lifted his chin, and approached the line waiting to board. His eyes scanned the gangplank, but the woman wasn’t there. Good thing. One slip of her lips—one wrong look—and she could give him away.

  Finally, his turn. He approached the steward and handed him the ticket with a heavy sigh.

  “Sir?” the steward asked, eyeing him.

  “Dratted motorcars.” Quentin spoke with a lilt. “My friend offered a ride and the beast broke down.” He shook his head, looking at his pants. “And guess who was the one on the ground, checking the motor? Yessir, you guessed it.” Quentin smiled. “At least I can be guaranteed this ride. No break downs, right, lad?”

  “Uh, no sir.” A smile lifted the steward’s rosy cheeks. “I do say you’re in for a fine ride from here on out.” The steward studied the ticket and then handed it back. “Glad to have you, Mr. Gladstone. Your room is on B deck. At the top of the gangplank, continue down the hall, and then take the grand staircase up one level. Enjoy the voyage. I can’t imagine anything but smooth sailing today.”

  Amelia stepped into the second-class room. Two mahogany beds were bunked, one on top of the other. A sitting bench and cupboard filled the opposite wall. In the center, built against the wall between the two, was a wash basin with running water, drawers, a mirror, and a lamp.

  Imagine that, running water!

  It was far nicer than she’d imagined. For so long she’d never thought she’d board any ship, and now she was a passenger on the finest ever built. What would her mother think of this?

  Her hands quivered as she set down her aunt’s small suitcase on the floor. Most of their things—all they owned—had been crated up and stored below, deep in the ship’s belly. A few more of their suitcases would soon be delivered to their room.

  Amelia bit her lip. She told herself again that she was making the right choice by leaving what she knew to venture into a future in America, and possibly a future with Mr. Chapman. It wasn’t as if her mother had ever come looking for her in Southampton. Twelve years she had stayed with her aunt—her mother’s sister-in-law. Aunt Neda had married her mother’s brother, but they’d only been married ten years when sickness took Uncle Rupert.

&
nbsp; While Uncle Rupert had stayed on land and had married Neda and had two children, Amelia’s mother had taken to the sea. She’d worked as a stewardess from the time she was sixteen, until Amelia was born when she was twenty-two. She knew that good mothers settled down, and she’d tried that for a time. They moved near Aunt Neda and had provided comforting arms during Uncle Rupert’s passing. But as Amelia grew, her mother often took her down to the docks to watch the ships departing.

  Then one day, with little more than a brief explanation that “the sea is calling,” Mother’s things were packed up and Amelia—only six years old—was taken to live with Aunt Neda. As Amelia grew, she wondered if it was more than the sea that called. She never knew her father, but her mother had told her once she met him on a ship. Was it love—his love—that had drawn her mother away? A love even deeper than that for her own daughter?

  In the last twelve years, not a day passed when Amelia didn’t wonder if it would be the day she’d hear a soft knock on the door and she’d open it to see her mother’s smile.

  But that had not been the case, and all Amelia had left from her mother were memories of her first six years and stories of her mother’s many trips across the sea as a stewardess.

  Mother had told Amelia about sleeping on a thin bunk with rats as her bed mates, and Amelia thought that on a ship like this, even the rats would be forced into coats and hats.

  “This is a fine room.” Aunt Neda settled onto the sitting bench and removed her hat pin, placing her simple bonnet on the bed. “There is even a small desk where you could write letters to your Mr. Chapman.”

  “Yes, Mr. Chapman.” Even as she said that name, Amelia couldn’t help but think of the man she’d given the ticket to on the dock. Had he boarded? Was he situating himself in the room next door even now?

  Amelia lowered herself onto the sitting bench. “I do suppose I could take time to write a letter, although since Mr. Chapman is the one meeting us in New York, a letter couldn’t possibly beat us to him.”

  Her aunt’s eyes locked with hers, and Amelia could see questions there. Questions whether they’d made the right choice leaving everything. Questions if he was the right man for Amelia. They were the same questions that stirred in Amelia’s heart.

  “Yes, that is true. I just supposed that if you had any romantic notions, quickened by the ocean breeze, you very well could write them down.”

  “Of course, Aunt, if I have any romantic notions.” Amelia breathed out a soft sigh, wishing it could be so.

  The problem was she didn’t know the man’s first name. She had yet to see a photograph. She’d been so sure of her decision to leave Southampton, but her and her aunt’s future now depended on the man who’d sent their passage. Surely her cousin Elizabeth had decent taste and a sharp eye. Amelia’s whole future depended on that.

  Tears filled Quentin’s eyes as he sank into the bathtub in the common bathroom. His first real bath in weeks. Or was it months? He didn’t know. And that bath had only been in a public fountain.

  Time had become a flowing river. He slept under whatever bridge wasn’t already occupied. Worked menial jobs with hopes of a decent meal for supper. And along the dark, raging river of time, he left behind so-called friends, vengeful enemies, regrets, curses, tears.

  He lifted his hand from the warm water and looked at it. His knuckles were cracked and bloody from more than one bar fight. He lifted his arm farther. Thin, covered with sores. His fingers probed his chest. Only a layer of skin, not an ounce of fat, covered his ribs. Amazement filled him that one could fall so low and still live. Still hope.

  The ship. The Titanic. News of its arrival had spread through London. Many had traveled to Southampton to view the sight. From the first moment Quentin saw it, he desired to be aboard its maiden voyage. London had robbed everything from him. Maybe returning to America would reverse his fate.

  A memory of other voyages he’d taken filled his mind. He cupped his hands and filled them with the warm, fragrant water, pouring it over his head as if the water could wash away the past. Wash away recollections of how things used to be—before.

  A knock sounded at the door and Quentin tensed. Had he been discovered? As soon as he boarded he hadn’t taken one moment to explore the ship like everyone else. Instead he dropped off the borrowed sweater in front of Mr. McHenry’s door, found his room, dropped his coat on the bed, and then hurried to the modest second-class bathroom and locked himself in, lest anyone question what such riffraff was doing aboard. Only when he and his clothes were cleaned up would he dare show his face.

  Would anyone bother him if he stayed in his room? He’d hole up there if he had to, leaving only in the darkest part of the night to steal food. If he’d excelled at anything over the past two years on the streets, that was it.

  Another knock sounded. “Sir, a delivery,” a man’s voice called.

  A desire to protect himself battled with curiosity. He rose from the bath and slid on the white cotton robe he’d snagged from an opened, unoccupied room on his way to the bath—telling himself he’d return that later, too. He hurried to the door, his wet feet sliding on the white tiled floor. He opened the door a crack.

  A steward stood there. One of the two who’d carried him off. But instead of anger flashing in the man’s eyes, the steward’s lips lifted in a slight smile.

  He doesn’t recognize me.

  The steward held up a small, cardboard suitcase. “So sorry to interrupt, sir, but there is a delivery from a lady. She asked that this be brought to you right away. When I told her you weren’t in your room, another steward mentioned he saw you enter here. Your friend was certain you’d want your things.”

  Quentin reached for the handle of the suitcase. “Yes, of course. Thank you. I was—uh—in need of this.” He rubbed his forehead. “And I forgot where my—uh—friend told me she was staying. The excitement of the journey has emptied my mind of every other detail, I’m afraid.” He took the suitcase from the man’s hand.

  The steward cocked his eyebrow. “In the room right next to yours, sir—toward the stern. Although the young lady is not present in the room at this moment. She’s stepped to the upper deck for the cast off.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you again.”

  The man didn’t leave. The steward perhaps expected a coin, and he had none.

  Quentin took the suitcase and put it inside the door, noticing the steward eyeing his cut cheek. Then his hair. The steward looked closer and his brow furrowed.

  Without another word, Quentin shut the bathroom door. He touched his hand to his face then looked at his fingers. Blood. He hoped the gash hadn’t stirred the man’s memory. To have his identity questioned. Then again, why should he worry? He had a ticket. He had the woman to back up his story that he was indeed Henry Gladstone.

  Not that the steward could do anything about it even if the truth was discovered. They’d be out at sea soon. The worst that could happen was he’d be locked up or watched over. Either way, he’d make it to America. He considered opening the suitcase and going through its contents, but his instinct kicked in, telling him to leave, to run back to the safety of his room, to hide.

  Quentin finished bathing, dressed in his dirty pants and shirt, and then hurried back to his room that had two beds and a mahogany bureau. His heartbeat quickened at the thought of sleeping in a bed again. Of sleeping with a pillow, between fresh, clean sheets that had never been slept in.

  He placed the suitcase on the white bed covering. With a slight quiver of his hand, he opened the latches. Clothes. He pulled out a pair of new pants, a white shirt, and a jacket. A modest pair of shoes were tucked beside them, and under those yet another outfit.

  He lifted the jacket. A note fluttered to the ground. He picked it up. It smelled like the woman—soft and sweet like her perfume. Then he read:

  Dear Sir,

  My cousin has no need for his boat passage, nor for these garments my aunt sewed for him for the trip. Please accept these as our welcome
aboard this beautiful vessel–have you ever seen such opulence in your life?

  The pants might be a bit short in length, the jacket a smidgen large. But I do hope you make use of them. Who knows, maybe we’ll see you at the dining hall later tonight. I’ll save a chair next to us just in case.

  With hopes of friendship,

  Amelia Gladstone

  “Amelia,” he whispered, refolding the note and placing it on the bed. So that was the name of his angel of mercy.

  He looked at the jacket, and eagerness filled him. He would dress in these clothes and perhaps meet her and her aunt for supper. His only worry, though, was that his lack of excitement over this fine vessel would give him away. Amelia was wrong—he had seen such finery. Lived in places grander than this. But for a ship, he guessed, it was the nicest he’d seen.

  With a damp hand, he fingered the white cuff of the shirt.

  I’ll pretend to be awed by it all. For her.

  CHAPTER 2

  Freshly bathed and in his new clothes, Quentin made his way to the second-class deck, amazed at the number of visitors and reporters who still strolled the decks so close to casting off. An older gentleman strode by in a white pinstriped suit. Even if the man was in second class, he dressed the part of someone from first class. Quentin was no stranger to playing the part of someone he wasn’t. He’d done it for years, living on the streets of London. He did it now. The ticket in his pocket read HENRY GLADSTONE. He wondered what had caused Henry to skip the ship. Poor Henry, missing out.

  Many people browsed the library, which still smelled of fresh paint. Quentin glanced into the room filled with books and polished wood, looking for the woman who’d given him the ticket. In addition to those who strode around the library, two men sat at a small table, relaxed and talking as if they spent every afternoon in such a manner.

  Quentin stepped back out onto the deck. A woman nearly walked into him. Her face was white, and she gripped a blue shawl around her shoulders. She had dark hair and a touch of gray at her temples. She longingly looked at the gangplank that would take her safely back to land.