By the Light of the Silvery Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  Thursday

  11:30 a.m.

  The noonday sun was nearly straight overhead, and the coast of Ireland shone beautifully as they approached Queenstown harbor. Amelia had never seen hills so green. White houses speckled across them. Rugged cliffs ringed the coast. If Amelia wasn’t on her way to meet a man who could possibly be her future husband, she would have wished to stay and explore Ireland for a while.

  She walked to the deck and noticed the screws of the Titanic churning up water brown with sand. Because the Titanic was too large to enter the harbor, tenders carried passengers and supplies out to the ship. When the gangplank went down, some passengers departed. Others joined the voyage. Amelia had come to watch, almost expecting Quentin to be one of those leaving. Her chest warmed when she didn’t see him. God had a plan for him on this ship. Something deep down told her it was so.

  She turned and scanned the expanse of decks and funnels that rose around her. Where could he be? After breakfast, she hadn’t bothered to knock on the door of his cabin. And she knew not to expect him at lunch. She hoped to see him again, maybe this evening or tomorrow, but she wouldn’t push. What Quentin needed most from her was patience, time, and prayers.

  Amelia smiled seeing the new passengers’ wide-eyed and gap-mouthed expressions as stewards welcomed them. She no doubt had looked the same only the day before.

  Titanic was surrounded by a flotilla of small boats. Vendors hauled all sorts of goods onto the ship and disappeared into the passageways leading to first class. Fashionably dressed ladies waited with their purses on their laps, eager to see the goods Ireland had to offer—small trinkets or jewelry that they could wear back home to show off their world travels.

  Laughter carried up from a lower deck, and Amelia smiled. Few others on the ship had funds for frivolous purchases. Most in second and third class were starting a new life in America. Every penny they could scrape together would be used for that, but when it came down to it, Amelia guessed the excitement of those down below excelled those in the highest, fanciest decks. She reminded herself that true treasure wasn’t about accumulating more, but about living each day with hope of what God had just ahead.

  Bags of mail were also carried up the gang planks. All her letters to Mr. Chapman had taken this type of voyage. And now she herself would be the special delivery. Would Mr. Chapman be disappointed? Would she?

  Growing up she’d never thought much of marriage. She cared more to know that she could roll up her sleeves and offer a helpful hand to the orphans around town. Some young men had fancied her, but none of them understood her heart’s passion—to care for those who did not have a mother or a father, who were hardly treated better than the dogs on the street. Would Mr. Chapman understand? From his letters it seemed he would, or had she read more into the lines than what had been there? Her aunt always did tell her she read too much goodness into people’s motives.

  As mail was being carried on, waste pipes poured into the harbor entrance. Within a matter of minutes, hundreds of seagulls fought over remnants of breakfast floating on the water.

  Amelia clung to the rail of the ocean liner, staring into the deep, blue ocean. In all her life, she never thought she’d leave Southampton. How many ships had she seen arrive and leave again? More than she could count. For a while she had watched them—waited at the docks and watched the crews disembark. After awhile she knew it was no use. Her mother would never return.

  “Awk!” the squall of gulls filled the air. Some swooped around the deck, but most circled the liner’s waste pipes. They swooped and turned with hardly a flutter of their wings, so effortless was their rise and fall. As she watched, flutters of her mother’s stories filled Amelia’s mind.

  “In France if you are found strolling along the boulevards without plans for supper, the locals will fight over you, each family welcoming you into their home,” her mother had told her once.

  “On the Atlantic, the captain was so punctual, he visited the lavatory every three hours on the dot.”

  “In the Overland Route in North Africa, we were forced to travel ninety miles across the desert on two-wheeled omnibuses that held six persons and were drawn by four horses. We traveled through the moonlight, and the only sound was the grinding of the horse’s hooves on the sand and the voice of the driver directing them.”

  These were only a few of a thousand stories Amelia’s mother had whispered in her ear. From as long as she could remember, Mother had put her to bed and laid beside her telling her of the places she’d visited, some of the tales more fiction than true.

  “In New York a lady greets you in the harbor. She’s so tall her crown touches the clouds. In Ireland the hills are covered with emeralds.” Amelia had fallen asleep to such stories.

  “Is my father in New York?” she’d asked as a young child. “Is my father in Ireland?” Her mother answered “maybe” to all her questions about her father. And then one day—the pull of the water, the ships, and maybe lost love—drew her mother away.

  Laughter rose even louder than the gulls’ cries, and Amelia strained to listen. She walked to the railing and looked down. Far astern, on the poop deck, the third-class passengers waved at the shore and called out. A man brought out an accordion and struck up a tune. Children gathered around, laughing and dancing, chasing each other.

  For the first six years of Amelia’s life, her mother had worked around Southampton instead of traveling and working out at sea, but all that changed after Amelia’s sixth birthday.

  They’d shown up at Aunt Neda’s doorstep with two cardboard suitcases and a tattered rag doll she’d named Ibette. Even though her mother and aunt had argued for a time, Amelia could tell from her aunt’s kind eyes she would not be turned away.

  As she’d grown, she understood the sacrifice her aunt had made. Not only did her aunt have to feed four mouths—Elizabeth’s, Henry’s, Amelia’s, and hers—as a widowed seamstress, but the whispers around the neighborhood must have been yet another burden to carry. They were whispers Amelia didn’t know about until a neighborhood friend asked Amelia if she, too, was going to be the mistress of a great sea captain like her mother. Amelia didn’t know if the rumors had any weight to them, or if they were simply invisible knives, fashioned to cut deep. What she did know was that from that moment she determined to be nothing like her mother. She had stayed away from the docks and the ships—until now. This trip—and the man who waited—changed everything.

  Soon the transfers were complete, the tenders cast off, and with screws churning up the sea bottom again, the Titanic turned, pointing her nose down the Irish coast. The ship moved gracefully through the water, moving up and down, over the swells in the harbor. Amelia returned to her room to find her aunt resting.

  As Aunt Neda napped, Amelia decided to write a letter to her Southampton friends.

  Dear friends at the Seaman’s Orphanage at Tremona Court,

  I expect you will be glad to hear about my journey upon the greatest ship ever built. I am not sure how to put all I’ve experienced into words. It feels as if I’ve been on this great vessel for a week, rather than just a day.

  When we left, the docks were filled with well-wishers who were envious that they could not join us. Maybe they will get their chance someday. Maybe you will, too. If you do get to ride the Titanic to America, make sure you visit me in New Haven.

  The ship itself is lovely. The rooms are paneled in fine wood; the carpets are lush to walk on; the decks polished like a mirror. There is decorative paper on the wall and fine china dishes! And our needs are cared for by an attentive and friendly staff.

  Our room is just as large as the one Aunt Neda and I shared back in our apartment, but the linens are of the best quality, and the wood used in the room is polished to a shine. There is even running water for our wash basin. I was allowed to visit first class, and I’m sure even royalty would be impressed with the details. There are leather chairs, leather-bound books in the library, and crystal chandeliers. I wish I had a
photograph to send to you!

  Last night the food was wonderful and plentiful. The hardest thing was not being able to wrap up what I couldn’t finish and save it for another date. The other hardest thing was knowing that each minute on this ship carried me farther from all of you. My consolation, however, is that because we can write letters, we don’t ever have to feel as if we’re far part.

  Looking at the clock, I see it’s almost time for tea. I believe I’ll take Aunt Neda to the lounge. I’ll write more later as I am able.

  A friend who cherishes you,

  Amelia Gladstone

  The sea was calm. Her penmanship untouched by the ship’s movements. Aunt Neda’s snores filled the room, and Amelia wished it was warmer so she could sit out on the deck.

  She also considered going to the library or one of the lounges to write in her journal, but she’d get distracted watching everyone else. Instead she stayed in the room and pulled out the small journal with the brown leather cover and wrote some of the things she’d written in the letter. Then she wrote about the lift, and the grand staircase, and the chairs in the dining room that were bolted to the floor. Her words filled four pages, and only when her hand started to cramp did she set the book and fountain pen to the side.

  She smiled as she closed the journal, imagining her children and grandchildren in future years pausing to listen to her read about her journey on the most elegant ship on its maiden voyage. There was only one problem….

  Like the letter, the journal spoke little of what mattered most—about the experience that impacted her deeply. How could she write all those pages and not mention meeting Quentin, or running into his brother, or meeting Geraldine—the stewardess who knew her mother?

  Yet Amelia hadn’t shared most of those things with her aunt either. Perhaps because she was still pondering all those things as she held them in her heart.

  After writing in her journal, she wrote a letter to Mr. Chapman. She figured that she’d arrive on his doorstep before the letter, but how quaint it would be to have him read the words she wrote while on the ship with her sitting right next to him.

  Dear Mr. Chapman,

  It may seem strange that I will most likely hand you this letter in person, but I thought you would like to know a little about my trip. It will also help jog my memory so we can share about my journey from Southampton to New Haven. There is so much to look at and to experience and to see on the Titanic that I am afraid I will forget something. Forget one hundred things.

  The ship is just leaving Ireland now. This ship has three promenade decks. A lounge runs along each. The ship is delightful, but the crew is special. Each of them seems as excited as we are to be on this voyage. I’ve never received so many smiles and greetings. As I walk the decks, the sound of the orchestra punctuates each step.

  She stopped the letter there, partly because she didn’t know what else to say without mentioning Quentin, and partly because these were details she wouldn’t forget—no matter how many days passed. It made her nervous to think of Mr. Chapman reading a letter with her sitting right there. What if he had no smile on his face as he read? What if he didn’t laugh at the right moments? She’d always assumed he’d be easy to converse with, since he seemed to write well, but what if he was more like her uncle Rupert, God rest his soul, who spoke little and was more concerned with a good book?

  The thought of such a thing seized her pen. So she rose and checked her hair briefly in the mirror before leaving the room, taking her finished letter in her grasp.

  After finding her way through the correct passageways, Amelia posted the letter to the orphans by the second-class library door.

  “This ship is made in Ireland,” she heard one man say to another as the ship again slid back into the sea, “solid as a rock.” She smiled and told herself she could write about that in the next letter.

  With her letter posted, she returned to her room. When she opened the door and stepped in, she saw her aunt was awake. Her aunt’s head jerked up and her face flamed. On Aunt Neda’s lap were letters from Mr. Chapman.

  “Amelia, you’re home so soon.” Color rose up Aunt Neda’s neck.

  “Find good reading material, Aunt?” Amelia teased.

  Aunt Neda smiled and fanned her face with the letters. “I hope you don’t mind, dear. I woke up from my nap and was afraid to venture out to find you. There are so many passageways and levels. I feared I’d get lost.”

  Amelia laughed, remembering when the roles were reversed and her aunt was the one who used to catch her up to no good.

  “Aunt, you know I don’t mind. I’ve read those letters to you a few times each, and I don’t blame you. There isn’t much to do in the room alone. I apologize for not waiting for you to wake before I walked to the library.”

  “No problem, dear. As long as we do not miss tea.” Her aunt placed the letters on the top of the bureau and spread them with her hands. “And I do hate to mention it, but I’ve noted something I didn’t realize before. Maybe it’s because this time I read all of the letters back to back.” Her brow knitted and her aunt’s thin, age-spotted hands continued to play with the letters.

  “What is it, Aunt?” Amelia stepped forward and placed a hand on her aunt’s arm. “Do you have a concern about Mr. Chapman? You don’t feel we’ve acted hastily by moving all this way, do you?”

  “My dear Amelia, I’ve never had a concern about Mr. Chapman. Elizabeth’s recommendation is good enough for me.” Aunt Neda lifted her gaze and looked at Amelia with watery blue eyes. She sighed and then continued, “But don’t you feel it strange, dear, that he seems so taken with his cook? That Miss Betsie MacLellan will be someone you might want to keep an eye on.”

  Amelia gasped. “Aunt, how could you say such a thing? He hired her for us—for me—to make things easier.”

  “Yes, dear.” Aunt Neda smiled. “And although it was a very fine gesture, maybe you should read these three letters and tell me what you think of the way Mr. Chapman favors her so.”

  Amelia nodded and took the letters her aunt had pulled from the stack, but as she read, she didn’t think anything appeared unusual to her…. Well, at least not too much. Instead her heart endeared even more to what a dear, dear man Mr. Chapman was.

  Dear Amelia,

  It was very exciting news for me to hear that you were able to book your passage to America. You will arrive just in time for spring in New Haven. There is no more beautiful time with the flowers blooming and the trees resonating with the songs of birds.

  As I told you in the last correspondence, after talking to Elizabeth, I hired a cook, Miss Betsie MacLellan. She has been practicing, cooking for me breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Elizabeth shared recipes for some of your favorite meals. A few of the recipes were written by your aunt’s own hand, and reading them has made me feel closer to you both.

  Also, dear Amelia, it must be trying to pack for such a voyage. I believe I’ve told you before that Elizabeth has a small carriage room behind her home that we are remodeling for the use of you and your aunt. One of our neighbors down the street recently lost his grandmother, and he provided us with extra furnishings. If you bring yourselves, your most precious keepsakes, and your clothing items, that will be enough. And once you settle in, perhaps you can help me choose new furnishings for my expansive home. I’ve filled the rooms with pieces that others have given me. They are functional for a bachelor but not nearly nice enough for a lady’s proper home.

  I’m looking forward to hearing more from you.

  With sincerity,

  Your Mr. Chapman

  Dear Amelia,

  The weeks seem to creep by as I wait for the calendar month to flip to April. Only two newsworthy events have taken place that merit the ink to write about. First, the ground has thawed, and I was able to plant a garden behind my home. Len and Elizabeth helped me, and we expanded the plot over what I’ve had the previous years. We all felt we would need a larger plot because of more smiling faces (and hungry stomach
s!) around the dinner table. I’m most excited about the onions and radishes. Last year they were plentiful, and I hope this year will be no different.

  The second notable event is the fact I had to go to the tailor and have many of the waistbands of my pants taken out. It seems the efforts of my new cook, Miss Betsie MacLellan, have been beneficial to my girth. Len always complained I was stick rail thin. He’s been complaining less and less. Although we have continued to try out English recipes, there is nothing finer than a piece of Betsie’s apple pie. I’ll ask her to make a pie for you for your first dinner in America.

  Yours, Mr. Chapman

  Dear Amelia,

  My hope is that this letter reaches you before you board the great ship Titanic. I saw an advertisement for it in the New York paper. It seems that even more passengers have purchased their passage for the return trip from New York to London than those who have bought tickets to travel from Europe to New York.

  I found many of the facts interesting. Did you know it took three thousand men two years to build the Titanic, and only three of the four funnels are working smokestacks? The fourth is hollow and simply for looks.

  My cook, Miss Betsie MacLellan, and I have been wondering what types of meals they will be serving on the great ship. We expect that they will be very grand indeed. It seems no expense has been spared by the White Star Line when it comes to the Titanic.

  I am more than eager to see the ship with my own eyes when it docks in New York. I’m sure half the city will come out for that. When Betsie and I were talking about it the other day, she expressed her interest in seeing the ship, too. If Len and Elizabeth can take their own vehicle to New York to meet you and your aunt, I might invite Betsie along. She’s eager to meet you, my dear, and to see the ship with her own eyes would be an event she wouldn’t soon forget.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Chapman