By the Light of the Silvery Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  The man next to her pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Precisely noon.” He nodded. “Time for the RMS Titanic to launch.” A smile filled his face, and he walked among the other passengers as their cheers grew.

  “RMS Titanic,” she whispered. How many times had she heard that name? Tens, hundreds of times.

  A locomotive could pass through each funnel that jutted into the sky, she’d read. A double-deck tramcar could pass through each of its twenty-nine boilers that were tucked away far under her feet.

  Those who had been visiting the ship hurried back to the docks with waves and final good wishes to travelers. The gangplanks were drawn, and Amelia looked around for the first time, noticing how little room the Titanic had to maneuver out of the bay.

  “Why are there so many ships at the dock?” she asked Ethel.

  “A coal strike. I heard many passengers who were supposed to be on other ships are now on the Titanic. I feel bad for those other ships, but I’m sure those who were transferred here don’t mind one bit.”

  Amelia waved to those on the quay.

  “Do you have any friends or family wishing you off?” Ethel asked.

  “No, I said all my good-byes over the last few weeks.”

  She didn’t tell Ethel that most of her friends were children or those who cared for children. Either that or hardworking widowed mothers who did all they could to put food on the table. She’d gained their friendship as she’d ventured into the slums to offer a helping hand. To spend half the day at the docks, wishing her farewell, would be time those poor mothers could not afford to be away.

  Over the last few weeks, she’d spent extra time with the children at the orphanage and other friends around town. She promised them all that she’d write letters about the voyage. Many of her friends were more interested in hearing about Mr. Chapman who waited on the opposite shore than they were excited about the Titanic. She’d read them his letters, and most had approved. All except one, her dear Marguerite.

  “He seems kindly enough,” Marguerite had said with a wrinkle of her nose, “but the man works in a bank. He has his supper precisely at six o’clock and attends the orchestra each Saturday. You are a woman who knows not what her day holds until she wakes and scours the city for the most pressing needs. I’m afraid you’ll find him a bore.”

  “A bore? How could you say that? He’s the type of person I’ve been looking for,” Amelia had declared. Marguerite, more than anyone, should appreciate not having to worry for one’s next meal or being an old maid without the hope of a family or children of her own.

  “Jealous, that’s what she is,” Amelia muttered.

  “Excuse me?” Ethel said over the noise of the crowd.

  Amelia turned her attention back to the matter at hand, reminding herself that thoughts of whether Mr. Chapman was suitable could wait until she reached the distant shore. “Uh, I was simply commenting that I feel bad for all those on the docks. I am sure they are jealous they aren’t on the ship.”

  “Next voyage.” Ethel pushed back the strands of dark hair that had slipped out of her pinned-up bun. “They can book a ticket on Titanic‘s next voyage.”

  There were no flags flying or bands playing, but the excitement was contagious. Laughter and talking filled the air, and a sharp whistle caused the volume to grow. Within moments a rumble below deck told her the enormous luxury ship would be venturing out into the channel of the River Test. Six tugboats escorted the ship, blasting their horns. Then, as if in slow motion, Titanic floated away from the quay slowly, gently.

  Amelia and Ethel leaned against the railing. Stretching out from either side of them, straw hats and handkerchiefs waved in the air. Children stood up on the rails, waving at the crowds on the dock.

  Shouts rose from those who waved them off. “Godspeed! Godspeed!”

  “I can’t believe I am so lucky. To be one of the first.” Ethel sighed.

  The Titanic moved majestically down the dock, and the crowd followed it. On its way out, it passed beside the steamer New York, moored to the dock.

  As Amelia watched, the displaced water pushed nearer the New York and lifted it upward. The ship passed, and within seconds three sharp sounds filled the air.

  Amelia jumped. “Sounds like gunshots!”

  “Look!” Ethel pointed.

  Like whips splitting the air, the New York’s mooring ropes flung themselves into the waiting crowd on the dock. Screams erupted, and Amelia saw sailors running to the aid of some of the bystanders who must have been struck by the recoiling ropes. Exclamations of worry rumbled through those on Titanic’s deck, and they watched with worry as the New York’s gangway crashed into the water. Then, as if being pulled by an invisible force, New York‘s stern swung out toward the Titanic.

  “What’s happening?” Amelia asked no one in particular.

  She didn’t need an answer. It was clear the suction and waves caused by the Titanic‘s huge propellers had caused the other ship’s thick ropes to strain and break. And now there was nothing keeping that same suction from pulling the New York into Titanic’s hull. The New York grew closer, closer.

  Amelia pressed a hand to her chest. “We’re going to be hit!”

  A small tug boat got a line onto the New York. It strained with all its might, attempting to hold the ship. The tug rocked side to side as it pulled, and Amelia held her breath, wondering if the tug’s efforts would do any good.

  At the stern, officers with sharp black suits with gold buttons and sailors in white uniforms shouted out commands. The men rushed past to various stations, ringing bells and telephoning the bridge. White and red flags were hauled up and down a line, and within a minute the Titanic came to a stop. Now that the large ship had stilled, the suction ceased and the tug was able to pull the vessel farther down the quay. Then, as if tugged by a magnet, the New York slipped back into its place at the docks.

  Amelia released the breath she’d been holding. That had been a close one. Only a few yards had separated the hulls of the New York and the Titanic. She hated to think of what damage the Titanic would have done to the smaller ship.

  The tug continued on, carrying them toward the open waters. Only when they were clear of danger did the Titanic‘s engines once again come to life. She and Ethel watched as they slowly passed a second ship, the Teutonic. That ship also strained at its ropes so much that it heeled over several degrees, attempting to follow the Titanic. Amelia placed a hand over her mouth, expecting its mooring lines to break also. Just then she felt the slightest touch on her wrist. She glanced over to notice a handsome man standing next to her with concern in his gaze.

  “Don’t worry,” he commented. “The lines will hold, and all our troubles will soon be behind us.”

  There was something familiar about the man’s handsome face—his eyes. She peered into their dark depths and then sucked in a breath. It was the man from the dock.

  “You’ve shaved.” She stammered. His eyes remained steady on Amelia as she swallowed. It was clear he’d done more than shave. His hair was shorter. He wore Henry’s clothes, but if it weren’t for his beautiful dark eyes, she never would have believed it was the same man.

  Her heart beat faster. Her hand self-consciously patted her hair, making sure her hair pins were still in place. She forgot about the ships they passed. And it wasn’t until she heard the sound of a clearing throat that Amelia remembered Ethel standing by her side.

  “Ethel,” she piped up, remembering her manners. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend …” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, sir, but I believe I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Henry Gladstone.” The man winked at Amelia and then extended his hand to Ethel. “Nice to meet you, Ethel. I have to say I do love your brooch.”

  Ethel placed a hand to her neck and fingered the small cameo brooch. “Thank you. It was a wedding gift from—oh, Edward.” She placed a hand on her cheek. “I’ve been so caught up in the launch. I must go. I must check on my husband.
I’d love to meet up again soon, Amelia … with both of you. Maybe in the dining room? Sometime for supper?” She offered Amelia a quick hug and then waved back toward the man—whatever his real name was—as she hurried off.

  Amelia turned back to him, gazing up into his face, wondering why being in his presence unnerved her so. As strange as it was, she’d felt far more comfortable near him when he’d been in rags than when he was dressed neatly in Henry’s clothes.

  “I’m glad to see you found the items in Henry’s suitcase useful,” she said. “No one would doubt you really were Henry Gladstone now.”

  “Are you saying I’m not?” He gasped, and his brown-eyed gaze held a startled expression.

  As she wondered how to respond, a smile spread over his face, and she released the breath she’d been holding.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to appear ungrateful,” he said. “The items in the suitcase were very handy indeed.” He glanced out at the water, and his hair ruffled against his forehead from the noonday breeze. “I wouldn’t be here without you, Amelia.”

  Her lips fell open when he said her name. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and she pretended it was from the cool breeze that picked up as the ship’s speed increased.

  “Thank you for everything,” he whispered softly.

  She tilted her head, attempting to keep her heart from leaping from her chest at his nearness. She tried to remind herself who this man was. Tried to picture him as he was on the dock—in rags and slumped between the stewards—but that image faded with his smile. It was only the gash in his cheek that confirmed his true identity, evidence to her that he would have been sleeping under one of Southampton’s bridges tonight had she not approached and offered the ticket.

  “You are welcome, of course, and I will say we’re even if you give me a gift in return.”

  His eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes cast downward. From his worried expression, she knew he hadn’t a coin to give, but a coin—or what it could buy—wasn’t what she wanted.

  “And what would this gift be?” he asked.

  Somewhere down the deck, a child’s laughter filled the air, and Amelia smiled—partly from the laughter and partly because this man’s complete attention was fixed on her.

  “Tell me your real name,” she finally said.

  He released the breath he’d been holding and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Quentin.”

  “Is that all of your name or only part?” she asked, waiting for him to offer his last name, too.

  He didn’t answer right away. Looking up at him again, she pouted. It was the playful kind of pout she’d seen young women offer their beaus. Of course he wasn’t her beau. Still, she couldn’t help but notice that her playfulness added color to his cheeks.

  She absently played with the ruffle of her dress collar and wondered why she was acting in such a way. Why did her mind scurry to find something else to ask him? Something to keep him from turning and walking away along the deck that was filled with lingering passengers.

  “It is only part of my name.” He tugged at the too-short sleeves of his jacket. “It is enough.” He leaned closer, his mouth next to her ear. “And whatever you do, you cannot mention my name to anyone on this ship. You cannot reveal my presence.”

  She nodded, accepting that, yet what was he hiding? What secret could his name reveal? Unless he was worried about getting in trouble for taking the identity of another. Maybe she could, too, for offering the ticket. Perhaps his resolve was a means of protecting her.

  They stood facing each other, and he leaned by degrees until his hip connected with the deck’s rail. She could see that he was relaxing in her presence, but she felt anything but relaxed. She’d worked with many homeless people before, but this man no longer appeared homeless. She wanted to ask him his story. She wanted to know why he’d been down on his luck, what had brought him so low, who he’d been before. It was clear there was more to him than she’d first imagined. If she were to guess, he was educated, cultured. But how could that be? More questions than answers filled her mind. She opened her mouth to ask but then closed it again.

  “I received your note, but I don’t think I should join you for supper,” he said matter-of-factly. “I do appreciate your kindness, though, with the offer.”

  She squared her shoulders as she looked at him. “Don’t you think people will question if one of our party is missing from supper? I’m sure the dining staff will be expecting Henry Gladstone to join us. If you’re going to play the part, you should play it well,” she teased.

  He eyed her. His jaw tensed. It was not his choice to play a part, and she could tell that if she pushed him on any matter he’d shrink off for certain.

  “But more than that,” she hurriedly continued, “I’d like to get to know a little more about you, Quentin.”

  His head jerked back as she said his name, as if he hadn’t heard it spoken in a while.

  Beneath his direct gaze, she felt her face flame. He was so utterly handsome. A brief smile filled her face as she quickly turned her attention to where the stewards set out deck chairs. Not willing to part just yet, she placed a soft hand on his arm. Was her eagerness to spend time with him evident in her gaze?

  “Would you like to take in some sun?” she asked. “It looks like a lovely afternoon to get to know each other.”

  That afternoon Quentin felt as if he were part of a dream. Yesterday he’d first seen the Titanic‘s tall funnels from the train station in Southampton, and today he sat on its deck, enjoying a time of leisure with a beautiful woman.

  Children’s laughter filled the air. Two small boys chased each other while their father looked on amused. Wholesome families enjoyed time together. A mother carried a baby on her hip and pointed to the lifeboats on the deck. “Boat, boat,” she said, attempting to teach him a new word. Even on the second-class deck where they sat, there was plenty of space for passengers to take a stroll or relax.

  People laughed and chatted as they enjoyed the sun. A man in a wrinkled suit walked alone, appearing out of place but also excited. Quentin understood. Just being on the ship made one feel important, part of a new community. From this day forward, the story of the Titanic‘s first day at sea would always be one to tell.

  The Titanic moved its course down the English Channel, and Quentin guessed they’d be docked in Cherbourg by night.

  “Look how that ship is rolling! I never thought the sea was so rough.” The comment came from a lady at the rail. Quentin sat up straighter, and from his view between the lifeboats, he noticed a large three-masted sailing vessel. It rolled and pitched in the waves as if a string were attached to its bottom and a great force from underneath attempted to pull it under.

  Yet far above the waterline, those on the deck of the Titanic felt no movement. The ship was like a steady rock in the tempestuous sea. It was only the brisk breeze that brushed Quentin’s cheeks and pulled Amelia’s hair from its pins, blowing it now and again across her face, that hinted of their movement at all.

  As if feeling his gaze upon her, Amelia turned from watching the crowd and studied him. Her gaze lifted and lingered on his face.

  Come on, Quentin, think of something witty … something wise. Nothing came.

  “So Amelia, is this your first time across the ocean?” It was all he could come up with.

  “Yes, I’ve watched the ships come and go many times, more than I could count. It’s great to be on one.”

  “Have you lived in Southampton all your life?”

  “All of it. I’ve only been out of the city a few times, too. It’s all I’ve known … so this is quite the experience.” She eyed him. “How about you?”

  “I’ve been on a few ships. Traveled all over. Like to Italy.”

  She nodded and waited for him to continue.

  “And to Germany, but of course I didn’t get there by ship.” He forced a chuckle and wondered why he struggled with his words.

  Why does she unnerve me so? The weight of her gaze
penetrated into deep, hidden places. He looked away and stared up at the expansive blue sky dotted with clouds. His stomach ached with the old familiar tension of uncertainty. His desire to get to know her wrapped around his heart like sailing ropes and cinched down.

  “Did you live … well, did you live on the streets then, too?”

  “No. That was before.”

  She waited for him to continue, but what type of excuse could he give?

  “You’re probably wondering how I ended up as I did. You have a right to know,” Quentin said. “After all, you are the reason I’m here.”

  “I’m just curious. Don’t feel as if you owe me an explanation. You just don’t seem like a street person, that’s all.”

  “I’m not—” The words blurted out. “Well, I was, but I shouldn’t have been. I made some poor choices. Stupid mistakes.”

  Part of him wanted to share his heart with her. Another part wanted to run. He’d lived too long in the shadows, and the truth was Quentin didn’t like being watched, questioned.

  Being on the streets it was better not to be seen. He shifted in his chair and refused to look her direction to see if her gaze was still on him. He didn’t understand why she was being so kind. She knew the type of man he was.

  Ever since he was a child, he’d had eyes on him, especially after his father became wealthy. His mother made sure he dressed properly from head to toe. His brother had always been an entertainer, and each time after Damien’s song and dance, all eyes had turned to Quentin. What could the younger brother do? How could he entertain?

  For a time—when he was on his own—he didn’t have to worry about living in his brother’s shadow. He had his own money. His own friends. Yet when his money disappeared, his friends did, too.

  If he enjoyed anything about being on the streets, it was that no one paid him any mind. People didn’t look long on someone so unlovely. It had been easy to find a dark corner under a bridge or in a wooded park.

  But now—he couldn’t explain why he appreciated Amelia’s presence. He hated that she’d seen him at his worst, but deep down he was thankful. He didn’t have to put on airs and try to be something he wasn’t.