by Tricia Goyer
Amelia paused. “I’m so sorry to bother you.”
Eyes from the other first-class passengers turned toward her, brows peaked in interest and curiosity. Who does this woman think she is? their gazes seemed to say.
She looked to the floor, silently begging it to open and swallow her up, take her back to the second-class berth where she belonged. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
Amelia turned to move toward Ethel, but the man’s hand caught her arm. Amelia waved her friend away, lest she get in trouble, too.
“Wait,” he said. “I wish to speak to you. I—“
“I know we’re not supposed to be in first class,” she interrupted, “but we were simply trying to find my friend’s book.” Her words rumbled on. “She left it here on the tour … before the launch. Second class, you see, was allowed to look around and—“
The man raised a gloved finger to Amelia’s mouth, halting her words. So bold was his touch, Amelia didn’t know what to do. How to respond. She looked at him closer. His resemblance to Quentin was startling.
“Miss, please … you don’t have to explain.”
The scraping of the feet of a chair on the shined wooden floor caught her attention. Not three yards away an elderly man rose from a high-backed leather chair and neared. His shoulders slumped as he walked, as if he’d been carrying around a heavy burden for many years. He clenched his fists to his chest. “Do you know him? Do you know my son?”
She looked from the younger man back to the older man. The younger man held out the crook of his elbow for support.
“I’m sorry, sir. I must have been mistaken. I—“
Tears filled the old man’s eyes. “You said Quentin,” he interrupted. “You called his name. Do you know him?”
She quickly looked away, remembering the promise she’d made not a few hours prior. The promise not to tell another soul that Quentin was on board, or even to mention his name.
What is Quentin hiding from?
She looked back to the two men, now understanding the resemblance. This younger man was his brother, and this older man…
A hundred questions fought for priority in her mind, but two rose to the top. Why would the son of a wealthy man be living in such rags? Why hadn’t he gone to his father for help?
Both men … and it seemed everyone else in the room … waited for her answer.
Heat crept up her cheeks. “Yes, I have met him.”
“Can you tell me when? How is he doing? Did he look well to you?” The older man leaned heavy on his son’s arm.
“It was recently, and he did look well. He’s been through some hard times, but things are looking up.”
“Were you in a relationship?” the young man dared to ask.
“No, not at all.” Her words escaped as a gasp. She studied the man who looked so much like Quentin. Yet there was no joy in this man’s eyes at knowing his brother’s fate—knowing he was doing well.
“He is well.” The older man offered a relieved smile. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes, exciting, Father.” Deep color rose from the younger man’s open, white collar. She stared at the hollow of his throat as his Adam’s apple bounced. He had a small book of poetry in his hands, and he opened and closed the cover with quick, nervous movements. Though the old man hung on her every word, the young one looked as if he wished she’d vanish into the waves rippling out from the side of the ship. Was he the reason Quentin requested his presence to remain unknown?
She turned her attention back to the older man. “If I may be so bold … I assume you both are related to Quentin?”
“I’m sorry, dear, I did not introduce myself. I’m certain my manners are still in our stateroom waiting to be unpacked. My name is Clarence Walpole. I ask my closest friends to call me C.J. That—my dear—would be you, too.” He took her hand and softly lifted it to his lips, kissing it. His fingers trembled. Instead of releasing her hand, he clung to it, as if her grasp was the one lifeline to his son.
“I am Amelia, Amelia Gladstone,” she said simply. Then she turned to the younger man beside him, waiting for an introduction.
“This is my son Damien,” Clarence continued. “Quentin—whom you have met—is Damien’s younger brother. We haven’t seen Quentin for five years. During our trip to London, I’d hoped to find him. I wish nothing more than for us to be reunited. Your news is a gift, my dear. Knowing he’s doing well does this old heart good.”
They fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Amelia glanced around. The women—noses upturned—eyed her simple dress and shawl. The men leaned in, as if waiting for her words. They were curious, and she guessed they most likely knew why Quentin was estranged from his family. Perhaps there was some type of falling out?
Her stomach rumbled and lurched as if everything she’d eaten tonight wished to come up. She placed a soft hand on it, willing it to calm. Why did she have to open her mouth like that? What a fool. She should have walked in, helped Ethel find the book, and walked out.
Even though Clarence’s nervous eyes told her he still carried a great burden for his son, his smile was gentle and his manner kind.
Clarence finally released her hand, and she reached out her palm to Damien for a handshake. He twitched as if he’d just been woken up from a dream. He took her hand. It was warm and soft. His fingernails were perfectly manicured. He was just as handsome as Quentin, but his face wasn’t touched by the hardship the younger brother had faced.
Her eyes lingered on his, trying to see the emotions that flashed there—anger, frustration, fear? Yes, a hint of fear remained there. He was afraid of knowing more about his brother. Afraid for his father to know.
She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder as if looking for someone. “I’m so sorry, but I should go find my friend … She, uh, might need me. It was so nice to meet you.” Amelia pulled her hand out of Damien’s grasp.
The old man’s eyes widened as if not wanting her to leave. She felt bad for not telling him more. Felt she owed him some explanation. Yet Quentin had asked her to keep his presence a secret for a reason. And his brother, Damien, obviously didn’t want Quentin’s whereabouts revealed either.
“Nice to meet you, too, dear. I’m so sorry we do not have more time to talk now. Maybe one of these evenings at supper. We’d love to have you at our table.”
“Of course,” she answered before she remembered she was still in the first-class section. She didn’t belong here. She wouldn’t be eating with them, not tomorrow. Not ever.
“I suppose I’ll see you again.” She turned and hurried off, heat creeping up her neck. She walked in the direction of the grand staircase, a sigh of relief escaping with heavy breaths. She would not be seeing them again. She would not be dining at their tables. She didn’t belong in first class. She was blessed to have a passage in second. For all she knew, that brief meeting was a gift to Clarence Walpole—a hopeful word of his son that would carry him for years to come. Unless …
She considered discussing the situation with Quentin. Surely if he knew his father and brother were passengers on this very ship—first-class passengers—he’d come out of his hiding and reveal his true self to them. Maybe her random act of kindness wasn’t so random at all. A shiver ran down her arms, and suddenly she felt as if destiny brushed up against the ship, like the waves lapping against the hull. How did a simple girl from Southampton stumble into this?
The third-class decks were crowded with hundreds of English, Dutch, Italian, and French passengers—from even more countries, too, he’d guess. Everyone seemed to be talking at once in their own languages. He felt more at home here than on the upper decks.
None of the other passengers questioned Quentin when he sat down for supper among the third-class passengers. And when he was asked for his supper ticket, he’d fibbed and said he’d forgotten it in his room. With a few empty chairs around him, no one bothered to tell him to go find it. There was extra room during this supper shift and plenty of food. He closed his ey
es and took in a deep breath. Even with the scents of boiled potatoes and beef, the room still smelled of fresh-sawn wood and paint.
When his supper arrived, Quentin stared at the food before him as if he was trying to decide if it was a dream or real. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and he noticed the gaze of a woman sitting next to him fixed on his.
“Shall we pray?” The woman offered one hand to Quentin and another to the man on the other side of her whom he assumed was her husband. Quentin wrapped his hand around hers. He’d forgotten what it was to feel a woman’s innocent touch. As soon as the prayer was offered, he dug into his food. He didn’t know the last time he’d eaten a meal like this.
Along with the beef and boiled potatoes, there was fresh bread, sweet corn, fruit, and plum pudding. The meat and potatoes were good, but he closed his eyes as he took a bite of the plum pudding and swallowed down emotion with the food. It tasted so much like the pudding Mother used to make.
His body couldn’t seem to get enough of the meal, and he ate it faster than he should.
From the corner of his eyes, he saw that the woman watched him eat.
“So, Mr….”
“Qu—uh, Henry, ma’am. You can just call me Henry.”
“Yes Henry. Well, you have long fingers that move with grace. If I’m not mistaken, I’d guess you play the piano.”
He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
“If I get to call you Henry, then you have to call me Grace, and this is my husband, Sven.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said between swallows, but even as they tried to make small talk, Quentin cared more for the food, and he was pleasantly surprised when the steward brought him a second plate.
He ate until he felt as if he’d swallowed a piano, and when he set down his fork, he realized nearly the whole table had been watching him. Heat rose up his neck as he saw the pity in their gazes. Understanding, too. If they hadn’t been where he now was, they’d seen it just over the horizon.
After a simple meal, he followed the others to the common room. His eyes immediately moved to the piano. Approaching it, he sat down and started to play “Bon, Bon Buddy.” Those in the room cheered and swayed to his tune, and when he finished and rose, another passenger stood with his bagpipes and began to play. The music really picked up, and then the dancing started. The music was punctuated by the clinking of glasses.
He moved among the small group of people laughing and talking. In the designated smoking room, the air was thick with what looked like a low gray fog. He thought about walking to the poop deck, but as he headed out the door, he felt eyes upon him. A tall woman with reddish hair stood just outside the door with a cigarette in hand. She took a long draw and flicked ashes onto the polished wood boards. Her dark eyes pierced his, and a slight smile lifted the corners of her lips. So intense was her stare that Quentin paused.
The woman tucked her curls behind her ear. “You do not remember, do you?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
A harsh chuckle split her lips, and as she brushed her hair back from her neck, her dress slipped down, revealing a creamy white shoulder.
She lifted her chin and smiled. “I lived in your house in London. In Westminster.”
Quentin cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” Then he chuckled. “Many people did. I remember now.” He smiled an acknowledgment, but still the woman wasn’t familiar. That time had been a blur. He’d had a drink in his hand more often than not. His pockets were full of his father’s riches, and the business he’d begun was going well. Many people had filled his home. Many women had filled his bed, and from the sly smile and sultry gaze she offered, this woman had no doubt been one of them.
“It’s a beautiful evening on a beautiful ship. It’s the type of night one shouldn’t have to spend alone,” she purred, taking a step closer.
Quentin smelled alcohol on her breath and imagined the taste of her lips. He instinctively stretched out his hand and brushed her hair back from her other shoulder. With his touch, she closed her eyes, and her mouth parted slightly.
It would be easy. He had an empty room. He didn’t think this woman—whatever her name was—would resist him sneaking her up to second class. Yet when Quentin imagined meeting Amelia in the hall with this woman’s hand in his, his heart sank. He pictured hurt in Amelia’s eyes, and for some reason that pained him.
Quentin pulled his hand back and then dropped his head. With a sigh, he turned his back to her.
“We can walk the deck if you would like.” Her voice sounded desperate, as if she were afraid he was going to walk away.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have nothing to offer you. I lost my house in Westminster years ago.”
The woman approached from behind him, gripping his arms with her hands and laying a cheek against his back.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” she chuckled. “You’re riding in third class. More than that, people talk. I’ve heard the stories. I assumed you’d be dead by now. I was surprised to see you here.”
“Me, too. Yesterday I would have never thought …” He stopped there. He couldn’t mention Amelia or the gift, even though her presence felt close. Closer than this woman behind him.
How could that have happened? He’d known Amelia for less than a day, yet just the thought of her caused him to question all he’d known. How he’d lived.
Quentin stepped away. “It was nice to see you again. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Wait!”
He turned back.
The woman awkwardly crossed her arms over her chest. “It was nice to see you, too. I hope America treats you well.” Disappointment colored her words.
Quentin walked away, only stopping when he was beyond her view. He sat down on a long bench and lowered his forehead into his hands. The air around him was icy cold, but he hardly noticed. Amelia, only Amelia, filled his thoughts. If he could run from her he would. If she had already pervaded his life this much, what would getting to know her do? Where would spending more time together lead them?
Suddenly he didn’t care. At this moment, Quentin could think of nothing more than doing just that. Of returning to second class and finding Amelia. Of risking everything—his heart, hers.
CHAPTER 7
From the glass windows of the promenade deck, Amelia looked down at the couple below. She’d been hurrying to her room when she saw them, and the way the woman curled up against the man’s back—as if they were the only two people on the ship—caused her to pause.
It was only as the man turned that a gasp escaped her lips. She’d been mistaken before, but not this time. It was Quentin who stood there with the woman.
No wonder he’d wanted on the ship. It wasn’t just the passage he’d wanted. It was her!
A hot smack of anger came out of nowhere and sent Amelia whirling in a half circle. An older couple strode by, bundled up in warm coats, and offered her a smile. Amelia attempted to smile back, but as soon as they passed, she covered her mouth with her hand.
She felt like such a fool. No wonder Quentin had been so awkward in her presence. Maybe that had been his plan all along—to prey on some merciful person on the docks. Maybe that was why he’d been so fidgety today as they sat on the deck chairs. He was just talking with her out of duty. He didn’t want to be with her—but rather another. He only spent time with her out of obligation.
“How foolish I’ve been,” she mumbled to herself. Aunt Neda was right. Just because she’d helped the man didn’t mean she needed to get involved in his matters. He most likely knew his father and brother were on board. How could he not? Maybe he had a plan to swindle them again, too. No wonder he warned her not to say anything.
Refusing to watch Quentin with the woman, she turned her head sharply aside and stared out the window at the expanse of ocean beyond. This was the very reason she wanted to start a relationship with someone like Mr. Chapman. He might be simple—boring even—but at least he would b
e dependable. He’d always been frank with her in his letters. He’d be a steady rock for her to lean on. Committing to someone like that would save her from a thousand tears and much heartbreak.
She made her way to her stateroom. Swinging the door open, she saw it was empty. Aunt Neda most likely still listened to the orchestra with her new friends. Amelia softly shut the door and eased herself onto the sitting bench, leaning her head back against the cushions and closing her eyes. She needed this time alone to think. Needed to remember her purpose for the voyage. How foolish she’d been for trying to forget what she was leaving behind. She’d do wise to learn from her mother’s mistakes, lest she repeat them. How equally foolish not to consider what lay ahead. That was the whole reason she was here. Mr. Chapman was the whole reason.
Amelia picked up the stack of letters she had brought with her. They were addressed to her in perfect penmanship. Mr. Chapman’s penmanship. She’d read them ten, maybe twenty times, over the previous months. Mr. Chapman had seemed so kindhearted. He appeared to be someone worth getting to know. Yet as she held the envelopes in her hands—letters that had crossed the ocean in the opposite direction—she suddenly couldn’t remember what they said. She also only remembered some of the words of Elizabeth’s letter. Her cousin had told her that Mr. Chapman had fair features, and that he was a highly respected man in the community and in their church. He was her neighbor, and he was a wonderful conversationalist. Upon first boarding this fine ship, Amelia had wondered if all those things were enough. Now she knew. Of course they could be enough. Relationships that succeeded were ones based on commitment. On stability.
She sat down on the cushioned sitting bench and picked up the letters, deciding to read a few again to remind herself why she’d set out on this journey.
Dear Miss Gladstone,
You asked about some of my favorite things in New Haven. By far I would have to say a fine spot I enjoy visiting is the New Haven Green. It comprises the central square of the nine-square settlement plan made by the original Puritan colonists in New Haven. It is a lovely park where many go to recreate. I often visit to feed the pigeons and sit down with a good book. Remind me when we visit sometime to tell you about when the greens were used as a burial ground for the citizens of New Haven. The headstones were moved to the Grove Street Cemetery, however, the remains of the dead were not moved. My father has a few stories about this, and I’m sure you would be interested in hearing his tales, which brings me to the main point of my letter, dear Miss Gladstone.
