by Tricia Goyer
This may be much to ask, but it seems that we will never get a chance to truly know each other unless we meet face-to-face. I spoke to Len and Elizabeth about this. They mentioned that your aunt is getting on in years, and they would like to be able to provide for her—if only she were able to make it to America. I have proposed an idea to them, and I wanted to propose it to you as well. I am not an overly wealthy man, but I have saved most of what I’ve earned. If you and your aunt would consider coming to America for a visit, I would gladly pay your passage on a ship. Elizabeth suggested your aunt consider moving—and you, too, with her—but that will be your decision. Either for a short time or a longer stay, I’ll leave the decision to you, but I have faith that once we have the chance to meet in person, the small affections we have found in our letters will grow.
There could be a future for us, Miss Gladstone, a wonderful future.
With true sincerity,
Mr. Chapman
Amelia smiled as she read the man’s words. He did seem kind, and oh so thoughtful. She appreciated that he had a close relationship with his family, and it was sweet of him to think of Aunt Neda’s well-being. And surely Elizabeth and Len’s opinion greatly matters.
She set her chin and pulled out another letter. She needed this—needed the reminder of all the reasons she was willing to leave all she knew for this man.
Dear Miss Gladstone,
Before your letter came, there was a knock on the door from Elizabeth. She received your note saying that your aunt has agreed to come if passage for you and your cousin—Elizabeth’s brother, Henry—can come, too. Elizabeth and Len offered to pay your cousin’s passage, but I insisted I cover that expense. It is such a little thing when it means you’ll be coming here soon. A note has already been sent to my bank. The money will be sent soon. I will leave it to your discretion when you wish to come. I read in yesterday’s paper that the greatest ship ever built, the Titanic, is due to set sail in March or April. I will include enough funds for passage upon that grand ship if you so desire. It seems only fitting, such a great woman as yourself should ride upon the very best.
With care,
Mr. Chapman
Amelia bit her lip. What would Mr. Chapman think to know that Henry didn’t make it? That his own foolishness landed him in jail? She refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
From what she knew about Mr. Chapman, he’d be gracious—maybe a little put out, but gracious all the same. Len and Elizabeth wouldn’t be surprised. Losing his father when he was just a wee boy had hurt Henry the most, and from a young age he spent time with the wrong people at the docks. Still it was she whom Mr. Chapman wished to see disembarking from the ship. As long as she was there—and was eager to fulfill her promise for them to get to know each other in new and deeper ways—she figured Mr. Chapman would not feel so flustered about the rest.
Dear Amelia,
First, I will say with sincerity, thank you for insisting that I call you Amelia. It is a fine name, one you should be proud of.
Many thanks for your Christmas note also; it just arrived. When I told your cousin, Elizabeth, and her husband, Len, that I would be writing you a letter momentarily, they asked that I pass on their good wishes.
I found it of interest in your last note that you do not like to cook. When I discussed this matter with Elizabeth, she confirmed that was the case. She said if you do cook, it is simple meals that you share with neighbors and those in need. I, too, cook simply, but considering the upcoming arrival of you, your cousin, and your aunt, I realized that hiring a cook would be a wise procurement. I stopped by the newspaper during my lunchtime today and put in an advertisement. I will be interviewing cooks Monday next, although I wonder how best to do that. Should I ask each to bring a favorite dish? I believe my stomach likes the idea of such an interview.
In the last letter, you asked me to share a bit more of my life. I have shared about my education, my job, and my friends. I’ve described my house, and I’ve told you about my growing-up years, but I realize that maybe I need to go into more detail about our community.
I have lived in New Haven, Connecticut, all my life. If you are not aware, it is part of the Long Island Sound, and my home has a nice view of Long Island, New York, to the south. My father worked from the time he was a young boy at the Winchester Repeating Arms Company. He retired there two years prior and lives one street over from me. Most of my relatives, in fact, live within two miles of my home. They are all eager to meet you.
Also, Amelia, you wouldn’t be aware of it unless I confessed, but this letter has sat on my desk a day and a night as I tried to figure out how to write what I am thinking about most. I suppose the only way to say things is to state them clearly. Amelia, you are a beautiful woman, and I am worried you would be disinterested in such a simple man as myself who lives such a simple existence.
Yesterday, just as I had started writing my letter, Elizabeth stopped by with a photograph of you that she had found in her trunk. She described you very well, but your beauty came through in your photo. She said I can keep it, so I have placed it on my piano. As I look at your photograph, more worries now fill my mind. I knew from the beginning I would find you a woman of interest. I’ve known Elizabeth and Len for many years, and I trust them explicitly. I am more eager now than I have ever been to meet you face-to-face and to settle down on the front porch for long talks.
Were you able to procure a suitable ship passage for your aunt and your cousin? I do hope the money that I sent was enough. I wish to tell you again there is no need to thank me. If we are to get on as well as Elizabeth thinks we are, then your friendship is quite enough. After that … we will let matters settle once we are able to discuss things face-to-face.
I will post this letter now and eagerly await your response.
Sincerely,
Your Mr. Chapman
She picked up one more letter and had just pulled it from the envelope when a knock interrupted Amelia’s reading. She frowned at the door. Who could it be? She rose, thinking it might be Ethel. After all, her friend had scurried away, leaving Amelia to face those in first class alone.
The knock sounded again.
“Amelia? Are you in there?” Though muffled through the door, she could tell it was a male voice. “Amelia,” the voice said louder. “I know you’re in there,” she heard Quentin say. “I saw your aunt in the lounge. You weren’t with her. I talked to the steward, and he said you entered your stateroom not thirty minutes ago.”
She sat there quietly, her fingers playing with the letters on her lap. Amelia bit her lip. If she opened the door, she’d have something to say—too much to say. She’d question Quentin about his father and brother. She’d ask him about the woman in third class, even though it was none of her business. And because she didn’t want to get hurt any more than she’d already been, she sat.
She heard Quentin pacing outside the door. Under the lower edge of the door his shadow briefly blocked the light as he passed. The longer he paced, the more she wanted to open the door and talk to him, and that was exactly what he wanted her to do. She would not give in. Not this time.
Another thought stirred, causing her to sit up straighter. Maybe Aunt Neda was right. Maybe he was a con man and a crook.
“This is a game,” she whispered. “But what is he after?” She hardly had two coins.
Amelia considered what she did have. She did have compassion. She did have concern. And those were things men like him took advantage of most. She’d heard about things like that happening before—women trusting the wrong men, only to end up alone and forgotten.
She also had her heart … which Quentin could be intent on trying to steal. And where would that leave her if he succeeded? She had others to think of—Mr. Chapman, her aunt, even Elizabeth and Len.
Amelia swallowed hard and rubbed the goose bumps rising on her arms. Her mother had warned her of men like him. Even before she was able to understand, her mother had told her about
men who played with a woman’s affections in order to meet their desires for a time. Well, Amelia Gladstone wasn’t that type of woman.
Amelia sighed, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the back of the cushioned bench and willed the Titanic to move faster. Willed it to take her to a man who could be trusted—her Mr. Chapman who waited on the distant shore.
Damien guided his father down the grand staircase beneath the opulent, white-enameled, wrought-iron skylight on A deck and descended through the four decks to the first-class dining room entrance on D deck. The expanse of the dining room ran the full width of the hull. He took in the spotless white linen tablecloths, crystal and silver stretching in each direction. Fresh flowers and fruit baskets decorated the tables. A dining steward led them to one of the recessed bays, which allowed small parties to dine in privacy. It was only as they neared that Damien saw the beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting at their table.
“I asked your father if I could join you tonight. I hope you don’t mind.” Dorothea’s red lips curled upward in a smile. She wore a red dress with a black lace shawl that swooped up to one shoulder and was pinned with a jeweled rose. Rubies and emeralds and diamonds sparkled from the pin—and so did the interest in her eyes.
“No, of course I don’t mind.” Damien forced a smile. He turned to his father but noticed the older man was lost in his thoughts. Father no doubt was thinking about the blond woman they’d met in the library. The woman who’d mentioned Quentin. The lady’s beautiful face was still fresh in his own mind. She had perfect features and wide blue eyes. She’d worn the same flowing yellow dress she’d worn earlier, and the shawl about her shoulders gave her a special naïveté. He wanted to be angry with the woman for bringing up his brother’s name, for stirring up hope in his father’s eyes, but instead he was more intrigued. It was obvious Amelia hadn’t known his brother very well or for very long. Her surprised innocence proved that fact.
The dining room steward pulled out a chair decorated in French fleurs-de-lis.
“Your mother would like these chairs,” his father proclaimed, speaking of her as if only a few weeks had passed since her death and not nearly twenty years.
Dorothea sat, smoothing the skirt of her dress and touching her wide-brimmed hat that was decorated with bows and flowers, ensuring the arrangement was still in place. “I do think the chairs are exquisite. I was telling my mother just today it would be lovely if we could find something similar for our dining room back home.”
“Which dining room?” Damien lifted an eyebrow. Dorothea’s family owned three homes in New York and Maryland alone.
“Oh, Damien, you’re such a kidder. That’s why I love you so. The home nearest to yours, of course. You’ve known all along that’s the home that matters most to me.”
Dorothea took a breath and continued on, without even giving him a chance to respond. “I’ve been eager to see you again. The weeks in Paris couldn’t pass fast enough. My mother was intent on acquiring new art for our homes, and she dragged me through gallery after gallery. The only highlights were the shops we visited … have you heard of Paul Pioret?”
Damien cocked an eyebrow. “I can’t say I have.”
“Really? That’s unbelievable. Mother says his contributions to fashion are equal to Monet’s contributions to art. In fact, while we were there, a famous photographer came and took photos of gowns designed by Poiret. My mother says I would have done a better job than the models did, but that is of no consequence. They will be published this month in the magazine Art et Décoration.”
Damien nodded as she spoke. It was no secret that Dorothea’s mother considered him husband material for her daughter, but as he sat there, he tried to imagine spending the next five, ten, twenty years having to talk about designers and magazine spreads. Just thinking of it, he already felt the tension tightening in his chest. No wonder all the men he knew retired to smoking rooms after supper. Every man needed peace from such chatter.
“The whole time I was away, I thought of you and our last time together.” She leaned close and whispered so his father wouldn’t hear. “I’d never been kissed like that night in the center of Times Square. A thousand people could have been walking by us, and I would not have known.”
Damien smiled at that memory. He did enjoy Dorothea’s kisses. They always had that.
The seven-course evening meal was of higher quality than he expected. Virginia and Cumberland ham, baked jacket potatoes, even corned ox tongue—something he’d only seen in the finest restaurants.
As the meal continued—courses being brought out one by one—he and Dorothea chatted about their vacations and the grandeur of the ship, and by the way she stirred her soup until it was cold, he could tell she was disappointed that the romantic fire that was usually between them wasn’t even a flicker.
The scene that played out was no different from a hundred other similar events he participated in through the year. Women wore their finest new gowns, men wore evening suits, and some couples even found their way to the dance floor.
Dorothea leaned forward and grasped his hand. “Do you care to dance?”
Damien lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “To be honest, my dear, I’m not in the mood tonight. There was a strange woman, you see, who found us in the first-class reading and writing room. She called out to me, but not by my name. She called out the name, ‘Quentin.’”
Dorothea gasped, and from the corner of his eye, Damien noticed his father lower his head.
She dabbed her linen napkin to the corners of her lips and leaned even closer. “How does this woman know Quentin? Did she say?”
His father lifted his head and met Dorothea’s gaze, answering for his son. “She did not. I believe she was as much surprised by the meeting as we were. She thought Damien was Quentin—you know how much my sons look alike.”
“Yes, I remember well.” Dorothea smirked. “Of course I was always one who thought Damien to be the most handsome of the two.” She squeezed his hand tighter.
His father turned his attention to the orchestra that was launching into another number. Seeing she once again had Damien’s full attention, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“Damien, if you’d like, we can go back to my stateroom. Mother and Father are most likely in bed. We have a private promenade deck. I thought we could enjoy more privacy—enjoy catching up.”
“As much as I’d like to, darling, can I pass on your invitation tonight? You’ve noticed my father is out of sorts. After a brief stop at the smoking room, I’m going to make sure he gets to bed. He’ll get lost in these passageways if he tries to find the way himself.”
“I understand. He always seems shaken up with matters that concern your brother.” She leaned closer so her voice could be heard by him alone. “I feel badly. Did the woman have any more details about Quentin?”
He noticed something in her eyes—a piqued interest. She wanted him to tell her a tidbit of information no one else knew. Not because she cared, though. She wanted to tickle the ears of the other women who gathered in the lounge with her inside knowledge.
“I’m sorry, dear,” he stated simply. “If I am to find out anything else, you’ll be the first to know.”
When Dorothea excused herself, Damien retired with his father to the first-class smoking room, located on the promenade deck. Leaded glass panels had been inset into carved mahogany-paneled walls. Massive leather armchairs sat beside marble-top tables, but as Damien looked around the room, being there held little appeal. He’d sat with these same men—or others like them—and discussed the same topics: travel, music, art, politics. He’d served his father faithfully, yet he couldn’t imagine bearing one more night. More than that, he couldn’t get his mind off that woman in the yellow dress.
He strode through the groups of men dressed in silk waistcoats, oxford shoes, gold watch chains. At their command, railroads were laid, news was printed, new factories were built—old ones torn down. As he sat he
knew he’d not be able to handle one more story of conquest, so he told his father he was going to listen to the orchestra. Once in the lounge, he pulled up a chair and watched the musicians, but his thoughts weren’t on the lively tunes.
Damien couldn’t get Amelia off his mind. Her beauty interested him from the first moment he saw her. And her lack of awe over those in first class intrigued him even more. She was nervous in the library, but she didn’t look at the men and women there with wide-eyed wonder. He liked that. He liked her. And more than that—he had to know what type of involvement the woman had with his brother.
Clarence Walpole didn’t wait for Damien to return from the lounge. Instead it was Arnold who had found him and walked him back to his room.
The opulent stateroom was quiet as he entered. His butler had turned down his bed, laid out his sleeping garments, and retired to his own room. Clarence was glad for that. He could barely make it to his private bedroom before he dropped down to his knees.
He folded his hands in front of him and placed them on the silky bedspread. The tears came, and a groan escaped his lips. His groan was a prayer.
Clarence had told God he’d wanted just a word about Quentin, to know that he was well. He’d prayed the same thing for months, and what had the young woman said?
I’ve seen him recently. He’s doing well. He’s gone through hard times, but he’s doing better now.
