by Tricia Goyer
Once her aunt was settled back in the room, Amelia shut the door of their stateroom behind her and moved to the next door. Amelia took a deep breath and knocked—quietly enough so her aunt wouldn’t realize what she was doing, but hopefully loud enough for Quentin to hear. She thought she heard rustling inside but wasn’t sure.
Was Quentin hiding from her? She wouldn’t blame him if he did.
Amelia turned as footsteps approached. An older stewardess neared with a pile of fresh linens in her arms.
The stewardess paused before Amelia, tilting her head to the side. “Emma?” She tossed her gray curls as soon as the words were out. “Nah, that’s not possible.”
“I’m not Emma, but surely you couldn’t mean … Did you believe I was Emma Gladstone?” Amelia took a tentative step forward. A thousand butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Her hand covered the spot where her racing heart was sure to jump from her chest. “That’s my mother’s name. She was a stewardess on many ships. Did you know her?”
The woman nodded, and the look in her eyes told Amelia she was thinking back to a distant past. “Oh, I did.” The stewardess was short but erect, with a pert nose and full cheeks. An Irish lilt softened her words.
“Have you seen her lately? By lately, I mean the last twelve years?” Amelia’s words were eager, intrigued and worried at the same time.
“Darlin’, it’s been eighteen years at least. Emma looked as young and beautiful as you the last time we worked side by side. Ye look exactly like her, you know. But when I remembered how many years had passed since I’d seen my friend, I knew you could not be. In fact, I remember when she was with child—she tried to hide her age to keep her job, but she could only do it for so long.” A memory sparked in the woman’s eyes.
Amelia touched a hand to her cheek. She had a hundred questions about her mother—what had she been like? Had she been happy on the ship? It would make Amelia feel better to know that if her mother chose her work over her daughter she would have been happy doing so, yet one question rose to the top.
“Since you knew my mother before she had me, do you know who my father is? Did she ever mention him?”
The older woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, child. If she told me, I do not know. It’s been many a year—too long. I’ve sailed many voyages. I’ve worked with so many friends. The stories run together, you see. And maybe …” She let her voice trail off. “Maybe it’s best to enjoy the present rather than worry about the past.”
There was something in the woman’s gaze that told Amelia she knew more than she offered up, yet Amelia didn’t press. She remembered the prayer she’d just prayed—to let go of the past and let it sink to the bottom of the sea. It was enough to have met this woman, wasn’t it? To know she looked like her mother. To experience a taste of what her mother had experienced as she sailed away from the quay at Southampton.
“This is a great privilege meeting you on this ship, of all the ones,” the stewardess continued. “Your ma would have thought something great of this. That’s why I remember her when so many other stewardesses are lost in my memory. Emma got excited over the smallest things. Old sugar lumps from the kitchen and tea in chipped china cups. She loved the sunsets over the ocean. She’d sit by me in the evenings as we put our tired feet up and say, ‘Geraldine, you’ll never imagine what I saw today.’ I feasted more on her stories than even the food put before me.”
“Yes, I remember that about her.” Amelia twirled a blond curl around her finger and slowly released it. “As a child I never knew how much I lacked, because dinner was always a party.” She chuckled softly. “Partly from the stories … and partly because my mother’s obtaining enough food for the day was something to appreciate.” Amelia’s voice caught in her throat. Her mother had worked so hard for the simplest of things.
Geraldine offered a sad smile and lowered her voice. “Since you’re asking, my child, I suspect you haven’t seen her recently?”
Amelia’s eyes grew moist. “No. She left for work … years ago … saying she’d only be gone for one month. I haven’t heard a word since. At least I am grateful that she stayed around, caring for me until I was six.”
Emma patted Amelia’s hand. “I am certain she’s out there somewhere, getting caught up in the thrill of the voyage. Never much of a land lover was she. I’m surprised she stuck around as long as she had—says something about her love for you, I suppose.”
Emotion tightened Amelia’s throat. If her mother had really cared she would have stuck around longer. She wouldn’t have left at all. “Well, thank you.” Amelia took a step back, and another smile filled Geraldine’s face.
“What is it?” Amelia asked. “Did you remember something more?”
“No.” The woman clucked her tongue. “I was just thinking Emma wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she saw the glory hole of this place.”
“Glory hole?”
“Oh, just the name of the stewards’ quarters—the name given because there’s nothing glorious about them. A foul place, most are, but not here.” She offered a low whistle. “The most comfortable room I’ve ever slept in on the seas … and speaking of sleeping, there are a few more beds I need to make up. Ones I didn’t get done before the launch. You should have seen us hustling to get everything ready for the guests. We’re still not done. In fact … be careful what walls you touch—some places still have wet paint!” The stewardess’s smile lifted her round cheeks. “I’ll be seeing you, dear. And if my old memory surprises me and offers up another occurrence, you’ll be the first to know!”
“Thank you,” Amelia said as the woman shuffled off. The words were insufficient for her depth of gratitude. To have met someone who’d known her mother…. Tears filled her eyes. Her lower lip trembled, and she wiped the tears away.
Amelia let out a soft sigh and leaned against the paneled wall next to Quentin’s door. Did he have people in his past whom he missed and wondered about? To know and be known. To love and be loved. Was there anything in life greater than that?
CHAPTER 6
Quentin sat with his back pressed against the door. Even though solid wood separated him from Amelia, he could hear every word as she talked to the stewardess. He listened as they talked about Amelia’s mother. He listened as she’d questioned about her father. That was what had really choked him up. Maybe because he knew who his father was, and he had failed him in every way. Quentin pressed his hands to his forehead as the pain of that ache stabbed him yet again, wishing that wasn’t the case.
When she’d first offered him the ticket, he assumed much about her that he now knew wasn’t true. She was so beautiful, so kind. He’d assumed that she had no problems. Even as he’d talked to her on the deck, he guessed this grand voyage to be a vacation for her. What he now understood was that being on this vessel caused Amelia to do some searching of her own. Much as he did.
He looked around. The room seemed to press in. He needed to get out of there, but where could he go? Not to the first-class decks. Those were off-limits to second-class passengers. Besides, there were too many of his father’s friends and acquaintances who’d recognize him there. It wouldn’t take long for them to get word back to his father in Maryland about spotting Quentin.
And he couldn’t stroll the second class. He wasn’t ready to face Amelia. As much as he knew she’d make a good friend, it would be better for her if he stayed away. First, because her aunt disapproved. Second, because his heart was softening to her. And third, because her aunt was right. He was trouble. He’d run from those who truly loved him, and when he did stay around, he always ended up breaking their hearts. While it was too early to consider if he and Amelia could ever be more than friends, he had noticed there was a sparkle in her eyes when she looked at him.
Whether simply as a friend—or by a slim chance something more developed—Quentin knew he wasn’t good for her. Somehow he’d hurt her, too, and that was the last thing he wanted. She’d already faced too much heartbreak.
/> Quentin rose, opened the door slightly, and then strode down the hall, determined to find a way to third class. He could make new friends there without having to worry about disappointing anyone. He fit better there. Among them, he didn’t have to worry about his status.
He could talk about the future without reliving the past.
Amelia’s mind was still on her mother as the Titanic finished the channel crossing and arrived at Cherbourg, France, at 6:30 p.m. Amelia found her way back to the second-class deck to get fresh air, and also to keep an eye out for Quentin.
She’d thrown a shawl over her shoulders to fend against the chilled air. She looked forward to having space to think. Her mind felt as full as the heavy trunks she’d packed. First there was Quentin who didn’t cease to surprise her, then meeting the stewardess Geraldine. As much as she appreciated the grand ship, its opulence didn’t touch her nearly as much as those two events.
The early evening sun filled the sky as the Titanic anchored in the breakwater. It was Amelia’s first time away from England, and just this crossing seemed like a big enough adventure. How many friends could say they’d been to France? None that she could think of, except Mrs. Merryweather, one of her neighbors, who’d traveled there on her honeymoon twenty-five years prior. Most of the people she knew hadn’t left Southampton. Their world consisted of a mile in each direction.
The sun was moving lower in the sky as she braved the cooling evening temperatures to watch as more passengers boarded the ship by way of water ferry. She’d heard France didn’t have a harbor large enough for the Titanic to dock; she supposed not many places would.
Most of those who boarded looked as if they were as wealthy as the queen herself. They walked the gangway in fine clothes, with maids and butlers carrying trunks piled high. One young fellow even had a dog. Amelia didn’t recognize any of their faces, except for one: John Jacob Astor. The man stood ramrod straight and tucked a hand behind his back as he walked the gangplank. She’d seen his image in the newspaper. One of the wealthiest men in the world, he’d divorced his wife and married an eighteen-year-old, the same age as Amelia. They’d left the States to vacation and leave the rumors and finger-pointing behind. Yet if she’d read about it in the paper, the scandal had already followed them across the Atlantic.
But it wasn’t Mr. Astor who was most prominent in her thoughts. It was Quentin.
Where was he? Yes, it was a large ship, but there were only so many places to hide.
When the bugle sounded announcing supper, Amelia found her aunt on the promenade deck, and they entered the second-class dining room on the D deck. The elegant room stretched before her. The mahogany chairs were cushioned in rich crimson cloth. As she approached, she noticed they were swivel chairs, bolted to the floor.
Aunt Neda stroked the fine varnished wood and sat regally, as if she’d just been offered a throne. “I suppose they bolted them down in case of bad weather at sea.”
“But do you really think anything could cause them to move an inch?” Amelia asked. “Outside the channel was horribly choppy today, and we … I … didn’t feel it in the slightest.” Her thoughts darkened some when she remembered the words her aunt spoke in Quentin’s presence, but she tried to push away ill feelings toward her aunt. Amelia knew deep down it was her fault. If she’d mentioned what she’d done—had confessed to offering Quentin the ticket—her aunt wouldn’t have been caught off guard, and Quentin’s feelings wouldn’t have been crushed.
She glanced at the paper menu, and though the items sounded delightful, she wasn’t very hungry. The chair beside her sat empty, and she worried about Quentin not eating. He looked painfully thin as it was.
The sounds of footsteps filled the room as others walked along the tiled floor to their seats. Hushed voices exclaimed over the chandeliers, white linens and china, and the handsome stewards there to attend them. As soon as Amelia and her aunt were settled, one of the stewards took their orders and cared for their every need. A hint of a smile touched her lips. She couldn’t imagine living in such a manner all the time. What would it be like to have someone to cook for you? Serve you on a daily basis?
Amelia enjoyed lamb’s head broth, roast pork, and apple sauce with a jam tart, while Aunt Neda had the Ragout of Veal.
Sitting near them, Amelia enjoyed conversation with Mrs. Alice Christy, a widow from London, and her daughter, Julie-Rachel. They were accompanied by Sidney and Amy Jacobsohn, and all were on their way to Canada. Their new friends spoke of London, and with each mention of their neighborhoods and friends, Amelia wished Quentin was here to join in the conversation. Then again, Quentin’s London had no doubt been very different from what these fine folks had experienced over the years.
Amelia was just about to excuse herself and her aunt—having only taken a few bites of her dessert tart—when Ethel Beane rushed to her side.
“Amelia, there you are. I need your help.” Ethel’s eyebrows formed a V, and worry filled her eyes. “I had Edward’s book this afternoon when we visited first class. I believe I mindlessly set it down in the library. Would you walk up there with me? Inside, Edward had tucked our receipt from the purser. We won’t be able to get the money we deposited in the purser’s safe without that receipt.”
Amelia bit her lip. Upon boarding the ship, everyone had been asked to deposit all their money with the purser. She and her aunt had done so, even though it hadn’t amounted to much. Amelia did remember seeing Ethel with a book, but only at their meeting in the passageway. It could be anywhere.
“But we’re not allowed in first class. There are signs posted telling us to keep out. There are stewards watching the passageways.”
“We can talk to them.” Ethel grasped Amelia’s hands. “You don’t understand … without that receipt we’ll lose all we have.” Tears rimmed Ethel’s eyes.
She squeezed Ethel’s hand. Even if they were reprimanded for going where they shouldn’t, she had to try.
“Yes, of course I’ll join you, but first I must see my aunt to her room.”
“Don’t worry about that, dear child,” Mr. Jacobsohn piped up. “Please be off and help your friend. We’ll see that your aunt is taken to her quarters … but of course we’ll insist she join us in listening to the orchestra in the lounge first.”
A smile filled Aunt Neda’s face at those words, and Amelia rose. “Thank you then. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She joined Ethel in walking toward the entrance nearest to the grand staircase. That would be the easiest path to again find their way to first class.
When they arrived at the staircase, a steward was guarding it.
“Lift your head and pretend you belong,” Amelia whispered to her friend. From the corner of her eye, Amelia noticed Ethel straightening her shoulders. Ethel’s lips lifted into a smile, and Amelia’s did the same.
The steward watched as they approached, and Amelia hurried to him. “Sir, could you please tell us the way to the first-class library? I’m afraid we got turned. This ship is so huge,” Amelia started in.
“No, ma’am, unless you are first class, and I don’t think—“
“Have you ever gotten lost on this ship?” Amelia interrupted. Then she placed a hand to her neck. “Of course not. I am sure you figured out all the passageways and decks—everything—within hours. But we’ll be in New York before I find my way to our room.” She laughed.
The steward lowered his hand and offered a sly smile. “Actually, I’ve gotten lost a few times myself.” He sighed. “To find your way to the first-class reading and writing room, follow the staircase up to promenade deck A.”
“Thank you.” Amelia took Ethel’s hand and led the way. “We appreciate your help!”
They hurried up the flight of stairs and made their way to the library. Amelia’s hands quivered as they strode into the room. Men and women were dressed in their finest. She felt like a peasant who’d snuck into a royal wedding. She gripped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and walked a
few steps behind her friend.
Ethel walked with purpose, scanning the shelves. From the corner of her eye, Amelia studied the women with their large hats. Their full, ruffled skirts and blouses with high collars were finer than any clothes she’d ever seen. The men, circled up in groups, were dressed in fine suits and top hats. Some of the men wore white gloves that flashed as they moved their hands. No one seemed to give Ethel or her any notice, so intent were they on mingling—walking around in small groups, like proud peacocks with splayed feathers. Amelia’s heart ached to realize a small portion of the fortune of the dozen people in this room would be enough to feed all the poor in Southampton—and maybe London, too.
“Here it is!” Ethel’s voice rose, and she pulled the book from the shelf. She opened it hastily and flipped through the pages, looking for the claim ticket. Ethel released a heavy breath when she came upon the ticket. A smile filled her face, and she pulled it out. “It’s here. Let’s hurry before the steward in charge of this room accuses me of attempting to steal one of his books.”
Ethel moved toward the door. Amelia turned to follow, but someone caught her eye. He stood aloof from the other passengers who stood sharing in some type of story. The man’s eyes were focused on hers, and a smile lifted his lips—as if he’d been hoping to see her. Amelia covered her mouth with her hand, and a gasp escaped her throat. She knew that face.
Forgetting where she was, she lifted her hand. “Quentin!”
The man’s eyes widened, not with excitement but with surprise. She crossed the room, but as she neared, her footsteps slowed.
The man looked like Quentin but not exactly. He looked older with a touch of gray on his temples. His chin had a dimple, too—something she didn’t remember Quentin having.
