By the Light of the Silvery Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  Amelia glanced in the mirror, disbelieving it was her reflection she saw there. It seemed she was looking at someone else. Someone older and more dignified.

  The dress was beautiful. Out of all the ones she’d seen her aunt sew over the years, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen one like it. It was what her aunt called a “tunic dress.” The top layer of fabric went to her mid-calves, and the longer, sheer fabric under it went to the floor. The sleeves had the same style, with the silky blue fabric reaching her elbows and the same sheer fabric down to her wrists, fastened with pearl buttons. Her aunt had helped her with her hair, too. She’d pinned it up in the back, and soft curls fell around her face. She appeared like one of those models in the fashion magazines, and Amelia had to pinch herself so she knew she wasn’t dreaming.

  Damien had told her to meet him at the entrance to the first-class dining room. He must have cleared it with the steward who guarded the passageway between first and second class, because as she approached, the red-haired young man simply stepped aside. “Enjoy your supper, miss,” he said with a tip of his hat.

  She told herself to breathe as she entered the dining room. Even though she felt as if she didn’t belong, no one seemed to pay her any mind as she entered.

  White linen draped the tables. White napkins were poised upon each china plate. Empty crystal goblets waited to be filled, and stewards stood by waiting to fill them.

  Her eyes scanned the room, and she noticed a man rise from a far corner. It was him. Damien hurried toward her. He extended his arms as he neared and immediately took her hands into his.

  “Amelia.” Damien leaned forward and kissed her cheek. She pulled back slightly, shocked from his closeness, and as he pulled away, Amelia didn’t turn to look into Damien’s face. Instead her attention was drawn to a woman who stood just behind him. She was a bit taller than Amelia, with dark hair, and her beauty made Amelia feel like a daisy next to a prize-winning rose.

  Amelia recognized her immediately. It was the woman in the red coat from the docks. She’d pushed her way to the front of the line. She’d treated the others in line as if they were of no consequence. Amelia wished for that now. Wished she could fade into the paneled walls.

  The woman’s gaze bore into Amelia. It was as if bullets shot from her piercing eyes into Amelia’s heart. Amelia sucked in a breath and took a step back. Noticing her response, Damien looked over his shoulder. His smile faded.

  “Dorothea,” he stated flatly. “I should have known.”

  “Damien, darling!” Her gaze softened, and she rushed forward, falling into his arms. He seemed startled. He offered her a quick hug and then stepped back.

  “Dorothea, I would like to introduce you to Amelia Gladstone.”

  Amelia smiled. “Nice to meet you. I love your dress—“

  Dorothea glanced to her quickly and then dismissed her with a nod of her head.

  What am I doing here?

  “Damien,” Dorothea said, turning her attention back to him. “I’ve been wanting to show you the art pieces my father picked up in Paris. We didn’t get a chance to do that last night. What do you think about having supper in our private promenade deck and looking over them? I know how you like art.”

  “I’m sorry.” Damien stretched a hand to Amelia. She placed her hand in his, and he pulled her closer. “I have asked this beautiful woman to join my father and me for supper, and my hope is that our date lasts late into the night.”

  Dorothea’s mouth fell open, and she glanced to Amelia once again. “Oh yes, I heard about you. You’re that girl from second class that Clarence was talking about. So nice of you, Damien, to invite her.” She leaned forward and patted his cheek with a soft hand. “You were always one to lend a hand to riffraff.” With that, she turned and walked back to a table where an older couple sat. Amelia assumed they were Dorothea’s parents. Partly because she looked like them, and partly because they peered at her with the same expression of disdain. Their gazes caused her stomach to tie into knots, and any confidence she had entering the room disappeared.

  Damien placed a hand on the small of her back and led her to a far table. She focused on her walk, on not tripping on her dress, on appearing as though she belonged.

  As they moved, Damien leaned close. “You’re tense,” he said into her ear. “Ignore them. You are better than them, Amelia. Their worth is based on their wallet, and yours … on your heart.”

  She paused and turned to him, studying his face. “Do you really mean that?”

  “Of course I do. Why would you ask that?”

  She released the breath she’d been holding. “You say kind things, but I’m not sure you’re really looking at me … or if you just know what to say to a woman to cause her knees to quiver.”

  He studied her face for a moment, and she thought she would melt under his gaze. “I’m looking at you, Amelia. And the more time I spend with you, the more I’m amazed by what I see. I’m looking forward to introducing you to my father. He’s going to like you. He’s going to see the kindhearted person that I see.”

  “Really?” she smiled. “I’m looking forward to getting to know him—and you—too.”

  “Wonderful.” Damien smiled. “Wonderful.”

  They continued on to the dining room table. Clarence Walpole rose and greeted her with a smile. “Amelia, it’s so good to see you again.”

  “You too … C.J.” She offered him a smile and took the chair between the two men.

  As soon as she sat, Clarence Walpole leaned forward. His hair, a shock of white, was perfectly combed—not a strand was out of place. A handlebar mustachio curled up at each end, giving him a distinguished look. For a man of means, his face was tan and leathery, as if he spent more time out in the sun than indoors. He dressed in fine clothes, but she could tell by his presence, by his attitude, that he was a man who knew hard work.

  “So, Miss Gladstone, I know we should wait until the meal is served, but I have to know. Have you seen my son Quentin recently, within the last month?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen him, and it was rather recently.” She looked to Damien, unsure of what else to say.

  “My father has tried to keep track of Quin,” he said. “While we were in London, we discovered a trail he left behind—bad investments, a long line of riffraff, of friends. We heard many sad stories….”

  “None of that matters, though.” Mr. Walpole lowered his head. “No matter what he’s done, he’s still my son. His photo will always be on my mantel. He will always carry my name.”

  The pain in those words sent a stab to Amelia’s heart. Everything within her wanted to tell him—tell Mr. Walpole that his son was not only alive but on this ship. But she’d made a promise. This was not her matter to solve. She could only pray for Quin. Pray he’d stop running. Pray he’d trust in his father’s love.

  “He has a good heart.” She stated it simply. “The world has not ruined that.”

  Tears filled the older man’s eyes. He pressed his lips tight and then swallowed. “Thank you,” he finally managed to say.

  They dined on cream of barley soup, lamb with mint sauce, green peas, and creamed carrots. The stewards came around to refill their glasses, and even though the food was delicious, Amelia found herself having to force it down.

  Tension pervaded the table. Mr. Walpole wanted her to say more—she could see it in his eyes. He wanted the details of where she’d seen Quentin, how she knew him, but he was a gentleman and didn’t press.

  She spoke instead of her aunt and her skill as a seamstress. She spoke of the shop Elizabeth would set up with her aunt once they got to America. Yet from their bored expressions, it was clear no one was interested in the conversation, not even her.

  Amelia struggled to form the correct words. Struggled to not appear a fool. She moved the food around on her plate with a fork. She was certain it was the finest meal she’d ever eaten, but she couldn’t concentrate on the taste of it for the likes of her. She looked to Damien. What would a
schooled, proper woman say? Would she talk of art and music? Of her travels or great literature? Amelia was sure one would, but she had no knowledge of any of those things.

  She placed her hands on the chair’s armrest, preparing to rise. To excuse herself. But a man’s approaching steps halted her. He had light hair and a mustache. He wore a blue serge suit, tailored perfectly. Amelia recognized his face. She’d seen it in the papers many times.

  John Jacob Astor approached, and though his walk was that of a millionaire, his face was a map of worry lines. “C.J.!” He opened his arms to the older man. “It is so good to find you here. I needed to see a friendly face.”

  Clarence motioned to the empty dining room chair beside him. Without hesitation, John Jacob sat.

  “John,” Clarence offered him a smile. “It’s good to see you. How’s business?”

  “Business. I believe it is going well. I have been vacationing, my friend. I am not quite sure what is happening in the world. Leisure has been my main responsibility.”

  “I heard a man jumped from an airplane in Venice Beach, California. He floated to the ground in something called a parachute,” Damien commented. “Maybe you should have patented that.”

  “My question is, what would have happened if the contraption had not worked?” C.J. wrinkled his brow.

  “I have known many who have done much more foolish things.” John Jacob nodded. “But that is not something I would choose to do … or want to put my name on.”

  Damien laughed. “Good choice.”

  “So how are you enjoying your accommodations?” C.J. looked around the dining room.

  “The company looks familiar, but the ship is exquisite. Yesterday when I awoke, I thought I was in my Astoria Hotel. Madeleine practically had to remind me that we were on the ship.”

  “I could see how you’d make that mistake. I’ve never ridden on a ship finer than this.” C.J. took a sip from his water glass, his eyes still focused on John Jacob. “Speaking of your new wife, Madeleine, I hear congratulations are in order. You have a new baby on the way.” C.J.’s face brightened.

  John Jacob lowered his head. “It seems you’re one of the few that has offered a kind word. It’s the reason for our long vacation—you know—trying to stay one step ahead of the commentaries.”

  A heaviness weighed on Amelia’s chest. Even though she hadn’t gossiped about this man, she’d judged him with her thoughts as she’d read the paper. She’d judged him, too, when she saw him boarding the dock with his young wife. Yet seeing him here—close up—he was a man like any other.

  “Listen to me.” Clarence placed a soft hand on John Jacob’s arm. “As long as you try to run from the past, it will keep trailing you. What you’ve done cannot be undone. A child is a gift—remember that.”

  “Yes.” John Jacob focused on Clarence’s face as if clinging to a lifeline. “Thank you, I will.”

  “More importantly, today is a new day,” C.J. continued. “You’ve made mistakes aplenty. All of us have. God will forgive you for any wrong deeds. You know the hurt you’ve caused others, but the truth is, your misdeeds hurt God’s heart even more.”

  John Jacob nodded, and from the look on his face, he appreciated C.J.’s words. Amelia guessed that most people in his life were more apt to talk behind his back than to speak to him heart to heart.

  “Take time tonight to talk to God about all that’s bothering you,” C.J. continued. “Also remember the next step you take can be a step in the right direction.”

  With the soft tone of Clarence’s words, the lines in John Jacob’s face softened.

  “Thank you. You’ve given me something to think about.”

  While most would bristle to have such a sermon shared in a public setting, John Jacob clung to the hope—the truth—C.J. offered. And with relief on his face, they turned to new topics of conversation—the stock market, their time in Europe, and the weather.

  “It seems as if you’ve met a lot of interesting people,” Amelia said to Damien as the two older men continued their conversation.

  He took a sip of the water in his crystal glass and nodded. “These are the influential ones. The interesting ones are something very different.” He chuckled. “Like the railroad man who taught me how to kill a man in a poker game with a flip of my wrist and make it look like he’d just passed out. How to hop a train without being seen. How to scale the outside of a building …”

  “Have you done any of those things?” Amelia’s eyes widened.

  “No, of course not, but at least I know how.” He chuckled. “You may note how my father fits well here, but I guarantee if we were to walk down to the third-class gathering room, he’d enjoy himself just the same. There are days he’ll attend great luncheons and then at night join some of the men at the railroad yard for hobo stew. He sees the worth in people when most just focus on their worth—as in money.”

  “Sounds like a great man.”

  “Yes, well, many think so. But sometimes I think he cares too little for his holdings. He’s made foolish decisions and put his trust in the wrong places. The wrong people.”

  She squirmed in her seat, wondering if it was his brother that Damien spoke of. From the pained expression on his face, she had a feeling it was.

  “You’re nervous, Amelia.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s to be expected, I suppose. I’m sure you’ve never sat amongst such a gathering.”

  “No, I haven’t … so near to the likes of these types of folks.”

  She blinked slowly, trying to decide if she should tell him the truth. She picked up her fork with quivering fingers. It wasn’t them—the people in the room—who intimidated her. It was Damien. His presence made her feel impatient and exhilarated in a way she hadn’t known before. She wanted to get to know him better, while at the same time she feared knowing more and being disappointed. Or maybe it was the secret. How could she share an honest conversation with Damien when she held back telling him the one piece of information that could change everything?

  “You’re right.” She looked around. “I’ve never been in a gathering like this, but that’s not what is making me uneasy.”

  “Then what do you have to be nervous about?”

  She thought of a dozen things she could say. It was the people, in a small part. The names and faces she’d studied in the newsprint were living, breathing, fleshy people moving around her, laughing and talking. It was this fine dining room and the food on her plate. It was his father, C.J., who looked at her with such intensity it was as if he could read the joys and fears that had been embossed upon her heart. But the one thing that outweighed them all was that Damien’s brother was on this very ship. And before that he’d been a thin man in rags without a coin to his name. Did Damien really understand that? Did he understand how his brother had been living?

  She bit her lip—remembering the defeat on his face as he was dragged off the ship. Why had things come to that? Why hadn’t Quentin allowed his own family to care for him when he needed care? They could have purchased a ticket for him in one of the finest rooms on this ship. Why had it come down to her mercies that had brought him on board?

  It was a story she didn’t fully understand. Quentin had wanted to keep his presence a secret, but what would keep a poor man from seeking help from a father who seemed to be caring and compassionate in every way?

  As she sat there, quiet tension mounted between them.

  Damien picked up the menu and placed it to his chest. “Don’t worry. If you refuse to tell me what the matter is, I refuse to tell you what we will have for dessert,” he said with a playful smile. She supposed he was trying to ease her nerves, but all his teasing did was make her heart flip over in her chest and provide her with another thing to worry about. Could a man like him honestly be interested in me?

  Surprised laughter bubbled from her lips, and she briefly closed her eyes, sending up a quick prayer for guidance. Damien seemed like a fine man, and his father, too.
She could guess why Quentin didn’t want them to know his fallen state—it was his pride that kept him at bay—but if she had a family member in such a situation, wouldn’t she want to know?

  C.J. and John Jacob Astor finished their conversation, and John Jacob excused himself to check on his young wife who was resting in their room.

  Just when Amelia considered telling both C.J. and Damien about Quentin, the older man rose.

  “If you’ll excuse me, this old man has occupied your supper long enough. I can see you have much to discuss. It was a pleasure meeting you, Amelia; honestly it was. As Damien can tell you, when thoughts of Quin arise I can think of little else. It’s a surprise I can even run a business.”

  He rose and patted Damien’s shoulder. “In fact, without my eldest son, I couldn’t.”

  Just when Amelia was sure C.J. was going to ask Damien to walk him to his room, he looked at her and paused. It was as if his mind were someplace other than this room—in a different time. Finally, he sat down again, scooting his chair close to her. “I’ve been battling within myself all evening, my dear. More than anything I want to ask you questions about my son. I can tell by your reluctance that at some time he told you we are estranged … and maybe he even made you promise not to share his whereabouts. Is that correct?”

  As C.J. spoke, her heart ached as much as if he pierced it with his words. She nodded. “Yes … yes to both of those.”

  “I won’t ask you to tell us more than you feel comfortable saying, but I want you to know I’m also praying that if God releases you … Well, I can imagine nothing greater than hearing more about Quentin—what he said, how he looked, everything you can tell me. My heart aches….” He paused and placed a hand on her shoulder. “No, I won’t burden you with that, but—“

  “Do you need me to see you to your room, Father?” Damien interrupted.

  “No, oh no. I’ll have one of the stewards show me the way.” He shook his head and stood again. “You know I’ll get lost if I attempt it on my own.”