by Tricia Goyer
Then again …
Even after Amelia tucked the letters away, Mr. Chapman’s words played over in her mind. Betsie and I were talking. Betsie and I were wondering. Betsie might come with us to New York. Betsie, Betsie, Betsie …
Was her aunt right? Had Mr. Chapman found a new love in his cook? Was Amelia coming all this way for nothing?
Amelia sat at the bureau and unpinned her hair, deciding to put it up in a new style. Not because she was displeased with the way it looked but rather to occupy her mind so she could stop thinking of Betsie MacLellan spending so much time with her Mr. Chapman.
CHAPTER 9
Quentin stared into the water. Even after all these years, he could see his mother’s form in the ripple of the waves. The pain of that day at his father’s party wrapped around his soul like the anchor of the Titanic. Yet his feet were rooted to the deck. Part of him hated the water. He hated the fact that something so beautiful could suck away the life of a person so easily.
Another part of him was drawn to its power. For a time—before he lost all his riches—he lived at a cottage near the ocean shore and would fall asleep to the pounding of the waves. It was one of the few things that had helped him sleep over the years. The sound of the waves had helped to dull out the other noises. It had helped him drift away. But it was the sight of the water that caused him to remember. It took his mind back to that place as quickly as if he’d walked through a passage back into time. The pain ripped at his heart, the memories of his mother’s embrace. The embrace gone. How could loving someone hurt so much? He’d told himself long ago that he’d never allow himself to go to that place again. By keeping people at arm’s length, he was protecting himself.
His eyes moved to the tall cliffs along the coast of Ireland. Hills rose above them, the fading light casting gray shadows. He watched until the last of the Irish coast slipped out of view and they were once again on the open water.
He questioned whether he should partake of his meals in the dining area or ask the steward if one could be brought to his room. He decided on the latter. It was best not to bother Amelia again. The poor girl. She had a habit of trying to help people fix unfortunate situations. But there was no fixing him—no rectifying what he’d done.
He touched his hand to his cheek, fingering the cut and remembering the way the stewards had dragged him off. He deserved that. He had no right being here—not with these good people.
Quentin entered his stateroom and sat heavily on his bed. He’d pushed the thoughts of his father out of his mind, but doing so sapped more strength than he could muster. Unwilling to fight the memories any longer, he allowed his mind to go there. To think back to the day of his mother’s death.
The house seemed miles from the pond as his weak legs had struggled to run up the hill. The orchestra was still playing when he ran into the house. Men and women mingled—wearing their finest clothes. He’d tried to find his father in a sea of dark-colored suits. He’d finally found him near the fireplace. Damien had been at Father’s side entertaining the partygoers by reciting memorized poetry. His father’s face had been bright with joy as he’d listened to Damien, but then his mouth dropped as he’d turned to Quentin.
“Son, what happened? Why are you wet?” Concern transformed into horror as he hurried to the nearest window that overlooked the pond. “Quentin, where is your mother?” he’d asked only loud enough for Quentin to hear.
Father turned back, dropping to his knees and grasping Quentin’s hands with vicelike grips. “Son, where is she? Where is she?” he whispered, his face pressed close.
Quentin barely squeaked out one word. “Under …”
Without waiting for more of an explanation, his father darted to the pond with Quentin trailing. The laughter and music had continued as though nothing had happened. His brother most likely recited another poem. Only the maids and the butler—whose job was to be alert to his father’s needs—realized something was wrong and followed.
Then, from the soft, muddy grass at the edge of his pond, he’d watched his father struggle to pull his mother from the water. He’d heard his cries and saw his moans, and then when Quentin knew she was dead, he approached. He stood there wet, quivering. His father only had to take one look into his eyes to guess what had happened. Quentin would never forget the expression on his face when his father’s gaze met his—one of pure pain.
And that was when Quentin had found it easier to look away—to run away, because it was easier to forget when he didn’t have to look into his father’s eyes.
Clarence Walpole gazed at his clothes that were once again arranged in the bureau. His butler, upon seeing Clarence had packed to return to the shore, had set matters right. As he’d packed his things in his trunk the night before, all he’d thought about was the fact that young woman had seen his son. He had to see if what the woman said was true. He longed to see for himself that Quentin was all right, safe.
To Clarence’s surprise when he’d awoken in the morning, he knew he was no longer supposed to disembark in Ireland. One thought filled his mind: “Give your sons to Me.”
The words came as a whisper to his heart.
He’d lain there for a while thinking of that. Wondering if the message was from God. The peace that came with the words told him it was. It pushed away the anxiety that had filled him the previous night when the realization that he was leaving Quentin behind became as clear as the steady vibration from the engines below that stirred his bed.
The new peace didn’t soothe all the anxiety he’d been storing up over the past five years, though. It was as if the Spirit of God had opened up the storehouse of concerns and let warm shafts of light in, dusting off the closest burdens. It hadn’t yet touched the locked boxes of worries and fears he’d been piling up … but casting light on them was a first step, wasn’t it?
“Give your sons to Me,” he whispered into the room. Silent sobs shook his body. Why was saying those words harder than anything he’d worked at or set out to accomplish in his sixty-one years?
From the beginning, Clarence believed he’d given everything to God. His business. His marriage. He prayed about his decisions and didn’t proceed until he was certain of his path. But his sons? Could he trust God with them completely?
He’d done what he could for them, especially after Jillian’s death. He’d made certain they attended the best schools. He saw that their every need was met, and when Quentin had asked for his inheritance, nearly as soon as he was old enough to leave home, Clarence hadn’t argued. His friends tried to tell him he was a fool. Clarence had as many English friends as American ones, and his English friends had been most appalled.
“The things Americans allow their prodigy to get away with!” they’d exclaimed. Never would an English youth ask for such a thing. Never would an English parent indulge a child like that in such a way—even if the child was now a grown adult. No sense of respect or dignity or patience whatsoever.
Damien, too, had cursed his brother—reprimanding him for not being thankful for all he had, saying that he was kicking dirt on their father’s grave while he still lived. But Clarence believed in his boy. He trusted he’d done what he could to ensure Quentin had the skills he needed to succeed in his new venture.
It was only later, when his youngest son stumbled, and all he’d been given had started to slip away, that Clarence questioned if he’d given Quentin too much too soon. And after his son lost everything and had slipped into the London nights, Clarence held on tighter. If not with his hands, with his heart.
And now with the young woman having seen Quentin recently, his instinct screamed to find her, to get as much information as he could from her. But he knew he wasn’t supposed to do that either.
In Your time, Lord, in Your time.
Waiting, it seemed, was harder. Not pursuing Quentin made Clarence feel like he wasn’t really loving with all that he had.
What did it mean to give his sons to God?
Clarence opened his
hands and placed them on his lap. Did it mean he stopped worrying about them? Did it mean he would no longer provide?
Or maybe …
Maybe the answer was simpler than he expected, and it came as another whisper to his heart. Maybe he simply had to trust God, and to pray that his sons would seek Him and do the same. Maybe it was taking the worry off of his shoulders and placing it on God’s lap for Him to sort out.
Somehow after the years of trying to give his sons everything, Clarence had a feeling God knew what they needed most of all.
“Lord, I am willing.” His lips trembled with the words. “Make me more willing, still,” he prayed.
Damien Walpole received most things he wanted in his life, but nothing confused him more than his interest in the woman in the yellow dress. She was beautiful, yes, but he knew many beautiful women. She wasn’t from first class, but somehow the more he thought of her, that didn’t seem to be a problem. She knew Quentin—or at least had known him—and that made her much more intriguing. Of all the women he knew, Amelia was different. Other women would have used their knowledge of Quentin’s whereabouts to get the upper hand over him or his father. But she seemed almost regretful to have mentioned it at all. And knowing that made Damien want to spend time with her. Not only for what she knew but also for who she was. Different, unique—unpretentious.
He dressed in simple black pants and a dark blue shirt he’d left unbuttoned at the neck and rolled up the sleeves. He felt like a college boy again, and maybe that was what gave him the extra hop in his step as he made his way to the stairway that would take him down to the second-class accommodations.
Damien approached a redheaded steward who watered some of the potted plants that lined the hall. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if it was possible to take a stroll on the second-class deck.”
The man looked confused. “But, sir, once passengers board, each class is supposed to stay in their designated areas.”
“I understand why you wouldn’t want those in second or third class coming to first class.” Damien rubbed the back of his neck. “Heaven knows the passengers pay enough not to be bothered, but the other way around …?”
The young, freckle-faced man shrugged. “I can ask my supervisor. It is not something I’ve been asked before.”
“Or … at least if you could get a message to someone for me. I can return with a note. There is a woman, you see…. I met her just briefly, and she’s traveling in second class with her aunt. I thought about inviting her to stroll the deck with me. The first-class or second-class deck, it really doesn’t matter.”
The steward eyed Damien, and just when he was sure the steward would deny his request, the young man’s eyes brightened. “Is she beautiful?”
Damien nodded. “Yes, very much so.”
The steward whistled softly. His green eyes sparkled. “A beautiful woman you say—why that’s a different matter. Please, sir, let me lead the way.”
CHAPTER 10
It was just a simple tea with her aunt. The tea was served in white china cups with a blue floral design and the White Star logo. Kindly stewards passed out fresh scones.
The gasp of the young woman seated at the next table over alerted Amelia that something was amiss. She glanced over, and the woman’s eyes widened—her smile did, too. But it was the pink that flushed the woman’s cheeks that told Amelia a handsome man had just walked into the room.
“That is a man from first class. I saw him board yesterday, I am certain,” the woman said a little too loudly for Amelia’s comfort. “He’s very, very rich. Don’t let his plain dress fool you.”
Amelia turned in her seat, curious. The man’s broad-shouldered form filled the doorway, and her heart did a double beat as she spotted him. It was Damien, and he looked finer in his simple clothes than he had the previous night dressed in expensive attire. As their eyes met, a smile filled his face. He patted the shoulder of the steward who stood by his side and strode over with quickened steps.
Pausing before their table, Damien offered a hand to her aunt first. “Dear madame, please excuse me for interrupting your tea, but may I have a moment with Amelia?”
Her aunt eyed her, and confusion flashed through Aunt Neda’s face.
“Do I know you, sir? You look familiar. Similar to—“
“Aunt, I met Mr. Damien Walpole last night,” Amelia interrupted. She could not allow her aunt to mention Quentin. She could not let Damien know his brother was on the ship.
“I am certain you have not met him before, although there are many handsome men on this ship,” Amelia continued. “I can see how easy it would be to get confused.” She widened her smile.
Her aunt cocked an eyebrow. “I see. Very confusing indeed.” Aunt Neda glanced at Amelia’s teacup that was nearly full, and then she looked back up a Damien. “It seems my niece is almost finished here. I don’t mind if you steal her away, if you don’t.”
Amelia’s throat tightened at her aunt’s boldness, and she tried to swallow down her surprise. Aunt Neda had been the one who had urged her to travel to America to meet Mr. Chapman. “He sounds like the perfect man for you. You cannot miss this opportunity,” she’d said more than once. And now her aunt was going to forget about Mr. Chapman and push her into the arms of the first handsome man from first class who showed interest in her? Surely this was not happening!
So much for her tea. So much for trusting her aunt’s judgment.
“Mind?” Damien smiled. “You are gracious, and I am thankful for the opportunity.” He offered his arm. “Amelia, we just met, but would you give me the honor of taking a turn with you around the ship? It has warmed up outside, and it’s a beautiful spring day.”
All eyes were on her. The woman sitting across from Amelia nodded as if answering for her. The only excuse she could think of for not going with him was that she wanted to finish her tea. But that would only prolong this tension. And a proper English tea was no excuse for delaying an invitation from a man as handsome and well-mannered as this.
Amelia pushed her teacup back and stood. Peering up into Damien’s face, she felt a wash of heat rush from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. His smile was intoxicating, and he smelled like the sweetest dream she’d ever known.
He captured Amelia’s eyes for a moment, looking deep, and then turned back to her aunt. “Thank you much, dear lady, and what name can I utter my appreciation to?”
Aunt Neda offered her gloved hand, and Damien touched it to his lips. If Amelia wasn’t mistaken, she noticed a slight blush on her aunt’s cheeks. “My name is Neda … short for Neandra Gladstone, and I do hope you enjoy the afternoon with my niece. The second-class promenade deck this time of day is something to behold.”
“I will take your suggestion, ma’am. Thank you again.” And with that, he placed a hand on the small of Amelia’s back and led her through the lounge. Amelia had never walked in a parade, but if she had, she was sure that their exit was no different. All eyes were on them—following them. Whispers erupted in small bursts. Who was this man from first class? What did he want to do with a woman from their station?
Since this section of the ship was new to Damien, Amelia led the way to the second-class promenade. They strode side by side, passing fellow passengers, including many families with young children. As they walked from the glass-walled promenade to the open boat deck, Damien again offered his arm. This time she slipped her hand into its crook, feeling his warm skin through the thin linen shirt. He held her hand there, tucking it close to his side. When they approached the rail they paused, but he didn’t release her. Instead of her senses being overwhelmed with his closeness, Amelia felt herself relax.
There was an ease about Damien she hadn’t felt with any man she’d ever known before. From her first impression, Damien knew who he was and he was comfortable with that. Maybe it was because of his money. Or maybe not. Maybe it was because he knew what he had to offer a woman beyond his money.
Her heart pounded faster as
he stood motionless. She grasped the railing and looked up at him. The light from the sea cast a warm glow around him. A spray of water rose up, misting the air. Damien laughed and wiped a hand down his cheek, brushed it against the front of his shirt, and continued staring.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” he asked, staring out at the sea that reminded her of the color of a bluish-gray sky right before a thunderstorm. “The sea is lovely, but not nearly as lovely as the woman on my arm.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Walpole.” The wind took her breath away—or maybe it was his words. “But I don’t think you sought me out just to flatter me.”
“Please call me Damien.” He chuckled and glanced down at her. “And flattery comes naturally, my dear. It’s simply the byproduct of being by your side. My motive is just to spend time with you. To get to know you better.” He brushed a strand of hair that was blowing across her face back from her forehead. “And to tell you the truth, I was intrigued when I met you in the reading and writing room, but you intrigued me before that. I spotted you taking in the sights and sounds when I was boarding. It was then I knew this ride on the Titanic would be spectacular indeed.”
Oh dear, Amelia thought as his lips curled up in a smile. I believe he’s flirting with me.
She squeezed his arm in response to his words. And I believe I like it.
Immediately she thought of Quentin and then Mr. Chapman. Mostly the latter. He’d cared for her over so many months by his kind words. He’d sacrificed to pay for their passage. He even hired a cook to make their lives easier once they arrived in New Haven. Then again, if he spent his time having long conversations with that cook Betsie MacLellan, then it wouldn’t hurt for her to build a friendship of her own on this ship—would it? They were just friends.
Still, even if she enjoyed the flirting, how could what he said be possible? How could she have caught the attention of one of the wealthiest men on the ship just by standing on the deck? And how could she like it so?
