by Tricia Goyer
She had a contagious inner joy, and when she rested her caring eyes on him, he forgot who he’d been just hours ago. He still felt uneasy, but as the minutes passed, Quentin welcomed the bright thoughts that filtered through the clouds of gray that often stormed through his mind. He allowed himself to consider what he could be. And perhaps what they could be together.
No, it’s too soon to think of that. He pushed that last hope from his mind.
It had been so long since a woman had taken interest in him, he had to remind himself that just because she offered her friendship didn’t mean she thought more of him than that. Why would she? Why would anyone?
Squinting into the lowering sun, they watched the children play. The rail cast shadows that lengthened, nearing the chairs where he and Amelia sat as the minutes ticked by. The long shadows of the boats, rigging, ropes, and rails became artistic creations splayed on the deck.
When was the last time he’d paused to look at such things? For too long he’d only been worried about his next meal or where to lay his head.
“So, I have to ask,” Amelia was saying. “I can tell by your accent you’re American. I won’t ask how you got to England.” Amelia looked over him and narrowed her gaze. “Not yet anyway.” She smiled. “Have you traveled around the States much? I have spoken to a few people who have visited, and it seems like a beautiful and expansive place.”
“Beautiful, yes, at least most places. I’ve been all over the States. My father’s … uh … work saw to that. I grew up in Maryland. I’ve been to Florida, California by train, and all the States the train took me through to get there.”
“Have you been to New York?” Amelia’s voice rose an octave.
“Yes.” He chuckled at the joy on her face. “Why?”
“Have you seen the Ziegfeld Follies?”
Quentin thought back. The last time he’d been in the city he’d only been a teen. He’d been more interested in the tall buildings and their construction than the musicals.
“No, why?”
“Oh, no reason really. Except that I love the music.” Enthusiasm bubbled out with her words. “Tin Pan Alley songs is what they call them.”
Quentin furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I haven’t really kept up with the latest music….”
“The name comes from music publishers set up in Manhattan. One of my aunt’s neighbors had a phonograph. He didn’t have money for meat from the butcher, but he always had the latest records. I would often go to sleep at night to the music drifting through the walls. He told me about the Ziegfeld Follies in New York, too. Famous stars sing there, and they have beautiful chorus girls called Ziegfeld girls. Once I fell asleep to the music and dreamt I was singing in the chorus.”
She smiled and hummed a tune. Her face lit up as she did, and he imagined taking her to a place like that. In his old life he could have seen to that. Now it was only an impossible dream.
As she continued humming—slightly out of key—Quentin vaguely recognized the tune. A few times over the last two years, he’d slipped into small pubs and had a chance to listen to a few songs before they’d kicked him out. The song she hummed must have been one of the popular ones. If he wasn’t mistaken, the lyrics said something about a moon.
“Manhattan. That’s pretty close to where the docks are in New York. Do you think you’ll get a chance to visit the follies while you’re there?”
“Oh no.” The words blurted from her lips. “I won’t stay in New York. I’m heading to New Haven, Connecticut. I have … uh … my cousin is there.”
“Your cousin. I see.” From the guilty look on her face, Quentin could tell there was more to her story, but he decided not to press.
“Besides,” she quickly added. “To go to such a show like that would cost a lot of money. Money that could be used to help people.”
Tingles ran up his neck, and memories of this morning crashed down upon him. For a little while he’d forgotten who he was and how he’d lived for the past two years. Her words reminded him again how she saw him, how she rescued him.
“I see.” He whistled under his breath. “So I’m not the only one who calls you my angel of mercy.”
Pink rose up her cheeks, and he could see that she liked his pet name.
“Well, I help where I can.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “It seems to me that it’s not necessary to always give and care. Everyone needs a chance to relax, to listen to music they like and enjoy a good conversation.”
Amelia nodded. “It makes sense, but I’m finding it hard even now to sit here.” She smiled. “Even though I enjoy it, I know there are beds that need to be made somewhere. Maybe there’s a tired mother who would appreciate an extra pair of arms to help her with her children….”
“I understand.” And deep down, he truly did. From the time he left his father’s home, he’d worked. When he wasn’t working, he spent time with friends, enjoying the good life. That had kept him busy in a different way.
Even after he lost it all, he didn’t sit. He ran. He lived on the streets and knew each passageway. He walked them. Heading where, he didn’t know. To sit meant he had time to remember, and remembering was the hardest of all.
Amelia nodded and settled back into the lounge chair, letting her eyes close briefly. Quentin felt himself settling in, too. Here, with her, he found a glimpse of peace he hadn’t known for as long as he could remember.
Then, just as Quentin felt himself relaxing into the lounge chair, he glanced up to notice an older woman approaching. The woman’s eyes studied Amelia, and then the woman looked to him. Her eyebrows furrowed as she glanced from his shirt and jacket to his pants and even his shoes. Thoroughly displeased, she turned her attention to his face, and Quentin knew that she saw right through him. To her he wasn’t simply another passenger on the ship. He was someone who wasn’t worthy to be here. She looked at him as a thousand Londoners had looked at him over the previous two years—with disapproval.
Amelia was saying something—asking a question about supper—but he didn’t make out all her words. He only saw the disgust in the older woman’s eyes—the silent accusations. More than anything, Quentin wanted to run again—to find a hidden corner in the bowels of the ship. For Amelia’s sake he remained, but it took everything within him to stay rooted in place.
“So, Quentin,” Amelia asked, “what do you suppose they’ll serve for supper? On a ship this nice, I’d guess it will be something delightful.”
The words were no more out of her mouth than her aunt approached. The thin, older woman leaned heavily on her cane as she walked down the deck. Amelia sucked in a breath and stood to hurry toward her. Guilt over not attending to her aunt weighed on her with every step. More than that, lounging with a handsome man was shameful. After all, what would Mr. Chapman say? Amelia didn’t want to think of that.
“Aunt Neda, please tell me you didn’t take the stairs alone. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you sooner. I suppose I got carried away with the launch.” She felt Quentin’s presence as he rose and stood behind her, but she didn’t know what to say. She felt like a child who’d just snuck a biscuit from her mother’s plate. Her aunt tilted up her head and eyed the tall man. Recognition filled her face, and something else—disbelief. Maybe she should have confessed to her aunt that she’d given the man the ticket and Henry’s clothes instead of letting her discover it for herself.
Instead of commenting to him, she turned to Amelia. “I see your cousin’s property has not gone to waste. I assume the room is also being put to good use.”
Quentin stepped forward. “If it is a problem—“
Her aunt’s lifted hand halted Quentin’s words. “It is not a problem. I know my niece, and I’m not surprised.”
He lowered his head like a child who’d just been scolded, even though Aunt Neda’s disapproval was directed to her niece and not him.
“I do appreciate it,” he said. Then he turned to Amelia. “I will leave you to enjoy the
day. Thank you again.” He hurried away before Amelia had a chance to respond.
Her lower lip puckered.
“Do you think I should go after him—to invite him to supper? I’d hate to have him feel as if he doesn’t have a friend on the ship.”
“Amelia. Just because you helped him once does not mean you need to have any further responsibilities. What do you know of the man? He could be a scoundrel or a crook. He was trying to sneak on this ship after all.”
“As any poor man would,” she said in his defense. “Just because one does not have sufficient means does not mean he has an evil heart. I have a good feeling about him, Aunt. I believe there is more to Quentin than what’s on the surface.”
Her aunt nodded but did not respond, and with careful steps Amelia led her to one of the lounge chairs and helped her to sit. Quentin reminded Amelia of the young children who’d come to the orphanage after living in poor conditions. He was wounded—that she knew—and he was scared. Mostly, he was looking for a friend, one person he could trust. She could see that deep in his gaze.
If only I could do more for him.
Amelia hoped to be that friend. Maybe in their weeklong journey she’d get the opportunity. It was a ship of dreams—of hope—after all.
CHAPTER 5
Clarence Walpole walked onto the first-class deck of the Titanic, gripping the handrail with each step as if he held on to his last ounce of faith. Leaving England’s shores meant he left his youngest son. Deep regrets churned in his heart, just as the large Titanic propellers churned up silt from the bay floor.
He stared into the water. His heart ached. His eyes blinked back tears. How could he still have tears? He’d cried enough to fill this channel—to fill the Atlantic.
His throat felt on fire as he attempted to hold in his own muted cries. It was as if stokers shoveled in smoldering coals and he was forced to keep them down with one swallow. But he did not cry. He had to be strong. He had to prove that God’s strength carried him; otherwise, what hope could he offer?
Clarence stared into the water. The light played on the ripple of waves flowing away from the ship, stirring a memory. He gripped the rail tighter as he was taken back to that place again—the place that never left his thoughts.
Jillian’s still form under the water. The shock of jumping in and pulling her body to the shore. Her blond hair splayed—tangled and limp on the grass. Her beautiful dress clinging to her frame, and her arms limp at her side.
Yet it was her face Clarence could not forget. Pale yet serene. Perfect, as if someone had cast a porcelain doll to model his wife. He’d never seen her so still. Even in her sleep, Jillian had been restless, as if sleep was an interruption to her full and fulfilled life. She’d always been excited for what the next day held, whether it was ordering uniforms for their sons’ new school or gathering flowers in the garden to fill the crystal vase on their dining room table. He’d never been one interested in attaining wealth for himself. Clarence had worked for all he had for her—for their sons. Yet what joy was work without Jillian to celebrate in the rewards?
Even after almost twenty years, he couldn’t help but think of how excited she would have been to be on such a fine ship as the Titanic. They’d traveled across the Atlantic Ocean a number of times in their twelve years of marriage, but those steamers could not hold a candle to the opulence he found here. It was like comparing a simple wedding band to queen Victoria’s jewels. And because of her—because of the memory he carried in his heart—he’d booked one of the finest rooms he could afford for the joy of imagining Jillian experiencing the richness and comfort with him.
Besides, Damien would enjoy it. His eldest son reminded Clarence of the boy’s mother. He appreciated fine things, and Clarence worked hard to see he enjoyed them often. Unlike most of the other wealthy passengers who prided themselves in stacking up their riches, filling the banks and growing their worth in figures, Clarence knew that money was fleeting. He’d seen much lost with little effort. Since then he’d decided to enjoy what he had while he could—and share each treasure-filled day with Damien while he had the chance.
Cold air nipped at his cheeks, and Clarence turned so his face met the breeze full force. It was no use looking back to England. The sight of the land slipping into the horizon would remind him he was returning yet again to America without Quentin. With each step through the London streets, Clarence felt his youngest son’s presence, yet just when he believed he was close to finding Quentin, his son again disappeared like a reflection of the moon on a still pond at daybreak.
“Clarence Walpole, is that you?”
Clarence turned to find Thomas Andrews, designer of the Titanic. A smile filled the man’s face, and Clarence wondered if Thomas’s buttons would burst from his chest puffed out with pride.
“Thomas, I expected to see you here. I have to say, son, you’ve built one amazing ship.”
Thomas lowered his head bashfully then lifted it, meeting Clarence’s gaze with a twinkle in his eyes. “I didn’t build the ship. That was a task for a large crew, but I do believe my design turned out well.”
“Well? I’d say that is an understatement. Is it true there are watertight steel compartments supposed to render her unsinkable?”
Thomas laughed. “Clarence, that is just the beginning. Have you ever heard of a ship with submarine signals with microphones? Their job is to tell the bridge by means of wires when another ship or any other object is at hand. Not to mention the collision bulkhead to safeguard the ship against an invasion of water should the bow be torn away. The Titanic has both!”
Clarence offered a low whistle. “Who would have ever thought it possible? I’m planning on doing more exploring—I’m eager to see the Turkish baths and photography darkroom—although I’d better wait for Damien to lead the way. You’ve heard rumors, no doubt, of how dreadful I am with directions.”
“Who needs to find his own way with a staff such as you have?” Thomas glanced at his watch. “Speaking of business, I told Mr. Ismay I’d give him a private tour, so I must be going. Please do tell your sons I hope they enjoy the trip.” And with a quick wave, Thomas Andrews hurried away.
Sons. Clarence guessed it was simply a slip of the man’s lips. Most people he knew didn’t mention sons. Most spoke as if Damien was his only child. The same thing had happened after Jillian’s death. No one—not even her closest friends—spoke her name. It was as if she’d never existed. That bothered Clarence, but it was understandable. To mention someone meant mourning their death in the same breath. The difference was he had not buried Quentin. Five years had passed since his son had walked out the door, his pockets full of his inheritance—five long years.
But his youngest son still lived—he was sure of it. Something deep in his heart told him to hope. He had faith in God that somehow, somewhere that fact would be confirmed.
Clarence dared to turn. He glanced back at the narrow strip of land. His last glimpse of England. Somewhere back in that all too familiar place his son walked the streets. If only he could know Quentin was well. That would have been enough. If only he could have seen a glimpse of him. It would have appeased his father-heart.
But until then he could only trust. God saw his son. God loved Quentin, and at this moment that had to be enough.
The sea air chilled to the bone, or at least that was what Aunt Neda said as they strode out of the breeze, heading inside to the glass-enclosed second-class promenade deck.
“Yes, this is much better.” Aunt Neda tucked stray strands of gray hair into her bonnet.
“It’s to keep you dry. You can take in the sea air without being splashed by the spray.” Amelia spoke to her aunt, but her eyes scanned the passengers, looking for Quentin. Men, women, families walked along the enclosed deck. An older boy ran by in suspenders and cap, but Quentin was nowhere to be seen.
“I feel as comfortable here as I would walking down Market Street.” Aunt Neda smiled. “I can barely feel the vibration from the engines
.”
Amelia nodded an acknowledgment, but her mind wasn’t on her aunt’s words. Aunt Neda had meant no harm, but Quentin hadn’t heard her aunt’s words that way. She saw the shame on his face as her aunt had pointed out his borrowed things—and that memory caused Amelia’s heart to ache. Amelia had seen the same look hundreds of times, if not more, on the faces of those she’d tried to help. Her greatest joy was to offer help to someone in need, yet many people accepted her gifts feeling worse about themselves. Charity was hard to accept sometimes, no matter if the hand that offered it did so with a noble heart.
Aunt Neda patted Amelia’s hand. “As delightful as this is, I’d like to return to our room to write a few letters to our friends back in Southampton before supper.”
“Yes, of course.” Amelia tried not to smile too broadly. With Aunt Neda writing letters, she’d be able to find Quentin and apologize. To clear the air and maybe get to know him better.
They used the lift to take them back to D deck. She marveled at the contraption and smiled at the kind young man who seemed as excited about operating the lift as they were about riding in it.
“It seems you enjoy your job,” she said, taking in his wide-eyed gaze.
“I enjoy meeting all our guests the most. And what is your name, ma’am?”
“Amelia Gladstone, and this is my aunt Neda.”
“Gladstone?” he chuckled. “Are you related to our former prime minister?”
Amelia laughed as if she hadn’t heard that question every day of her life. “If I were, I’d be riding in first class. I have no doubt about that.”
“What do you think of the magnificent Titanic, Miss Gladstone?”
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. If I weren’t looking out the windows, I’d never know it was moving, so smooth the ride.”
They chatted until they reached their deck. As soon as the lift doors opened, she stepped out and scanned the hallway. Her heart fell. There was no sign of Quentin. A steward in a sharp white suit was the only one who walked down the long passageway.
