by Tricia Goyer
He stared at her hands opened on the small table.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
He glanced up guiltily. “My mother had soft, delicate hands like that. They’re beautiful.” He didn’t believe he’d said that.
He leaned forward and kissed the back of her hand. Then he stopped himself. He knew what he had to do. He had to tell her what he’d been dreading.
“Amelia.” He cleared his throat, determined to get this done with. Willing to share everything. “I’ve been with many women. I’ve hurt many people. I’ve stolen. I’ve lied….” Quentin felt a tear run down his cheek. “For so many years I made wrong choices—”
“I know.” Her simple statement interrupted him.
“For so long I took what my flesh desired—“
“Quentin,” her voice was gentle. “I said I know, and I have to say something.”
She focused on him until his mind had settled. Until it was clear he was ready to listen.
“You have done many wrong things. All of us have. You have done worse than some … but when it comes to how God sees sin, no one’s sin is greater than another.”
He swallowed hard.
“That’s why Jesus died for us, Quentin. He didn’t sacrifice His life for those who’ve lived perfectly or those who’ve tried to. He died for all of us, and if you ask Jesus, He will forgive you now. At this moment.”
Quentin lowered his head, a battle waging in him. When he was small, his mother had read him stories from the Bible and had often sung her favorite hymns. As he got older, it had been his father who’d told him about God. But Quentin hadn’t listened. He hadn’t wanted to think about God or imagine what God thought about what he’d done.
“Is it that easy?” he finally asked.
“Yes.” Emotion poured out with the single word.
“And all I have to do is pray?” He glanced up at her, taking in the beauty of her face. The joy he saw there. “I’ll do it.”
Quentin lowered his head, and for the first time he could remember, he surrendered. He asked God to forgive him for the foolish mistake he’d made as a boy and all the millions of mistakes he’d made since then.
And as he prayed, something changed inside. It was as if his heart had been cracked open and the pain finally had a place to drain out—into the hands of Jesus.
When he finished and lifted his head, he looked to Amelia through his tears.
“Thank you, Amelia. Thank you.”
Amelia’s heart hammered in her chest. As she’d lain in her bunk last night, praying for Quentin, God had spoken to her spirit. As hard as it would be, Amelia knew God had another gift for Quentin that He wanted her to deliver.
Dear Lord, I can’t do this, her heart prayed. Give me the words to say. Help me to guide Quentin to healing for his pain.
As her words echoed through her spirit, a new strength seemed to gird up her limbs. She rose and walked around her chair, placing her hands on its back.
“Quentin, I want you to imagine your mother sitting here.” A bolt of lightning shot into her heart as she said those words. Quentin flinched. Gazing at him, she noticed that the cut he’d gotten on his cheek the day of the Titanic’s launch was mostly healed, but her words touched a sore spot in his heart that had festered far too long.
“Do you remember how much she loved you?” she continued, feeling God’s strength as she did.
He nodded.
“What do you think she would say to you if she were here? Mostly, what do you think she would say about her death?”
He lowered his face into his hands. She could tell he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to surrender that far. He glanced at her in desperation, as if saying, Wasn’t the prayer I just prayed enough?
“I—I can’t do this, Amelia.”
“Do you know what I think she would say about her death?” Amelia stepped forward, and then she kneeled before him, placing her cheek on his knee. “She would say it was worth it.”
“No!” Pushing her away, he scooted his chair back and stood. “No. You can’t say that. Maybe if I’d led a good life. Maybe if I’d done things differently.”
She remained where she was, on her knees. She didn’t flinch, didn’t budge at his rage.
“Even if she saw who you let yourself become and what you’ve done, she would still think it was worth it,” Amelia continued in a soft voice. “Because … because the truth is your life isn’t over yet. From this day—today—you can live the type of life she’d be proud of.”
A low cry escaped Quentin’s throat, and a couple strolling by stopped and paused. Amelia ignored them. She wasn’t there to impress anyone, and she didn’t need to feel ashamed because of Quentin’s tears. Because of her tears. She brushed her tears away.
Quentin’s shoulders shook, and he looked to the sea. If only he could cast his pain and worries into the depths. If only she could help him.
Then he turned and walked back to her, standing before the vacant chair. He opened his mouth wide as if to say something.
Amelia rose and stood behind him. She lifted her hand, wanting to touch the sleeve of his shirt, but held it in midair instead.
Quentin drew a deep breath. He looked to the chair’s seat, to the floor, and back to the chair again.
“You are right….” He turned to her. “My mother was a good woman. A kind woman. It would break her heart if she knew I’d run from my father’s love.”
Amelia didn’t ask him what his next steps were. She didn’t press for what she wanted him to do. She’d let God deal with Quentin’s heart. She’d done what God had asked. Now she’d wait and pray.
Pray and wait.
CHAPTER 19
After breakfast Amelia strolled the deck, but the bitter wind hit her face. She remembered a similar wind when they approached Queenstown. She knew it was caused by the ship’s movement, because in Queenstown it had died away as soon as they stopped, and it had picked up again when they got back into open water.
It also reminded her of God, and of what had happened to Quentin that morning. Sometimes God’s Spirit hit like a bitter wind, but movement meant progress. It meant God was at work.
She studied a woman reading the French fashion newspaper La Mode Illustree, wondering what it would be like to think only of one’s dress, one’s social calendar. She was eager to see what America held for her—what God had in store once she got off this ship. In her opinion, one could only dress up so often. There was a time to enjoy a fine meal and a time to offer a meal to another.
Amelia wondered how Quentin was doing. After their time on the deck that morning, he’d gone back to his room to think, to pray. Amelia had told him she’d be meeting her aunt at the Sunday morning worship service in the first-class reception room. He’d mention he might meet her afterward. He said he had a lot to think about, but she could see the truth in his eyes. He worried his brother would be there, his father, too.
Outside, brilliant sunlight streamed across a clear sky, but her eyes were drawn to the covered corridor that was being used as the children’s playground. Two small boys with curly hair played with their father. He chased them and they ran with squeals, staying just one step away from his tickles. A sad smile rose when she imagined C.J. like that with his boys.
Lord, restore what was lost. Heal what’s been broken…. Whatever it takes.
She moved from the deck to the library and scanned to see the Titanic‘s position on the chart posted there. They neared America faster than she thought, and, in a way, faster than she wanted. From the moment she received word from Mr. Chapman and money for the passage, she’d been excited—about a new place, a new life, and hopefully love. And now? If she had her choice, they would stop the ship right here and allow her to pull her thoughts together. What awaited in America had not changed. What had changed was her heart and the person she’d chosen to love.
How can I trade my affections from a man of simple means, of character, of noble pur
suits, to one who has spent the last two years stealing and hiding and running? Am I making a big mistake?
Even now she didn’t know if she could completely give Quentin her heart. But could she walk away?
Two Catholic priests sat in the middle of the room. One chattered in German to a finely dressed couple. His Bible was open on his lap. She assumed he was sharing a scripture truth with them. The couple’s eyes were focused on the man, and they nodded often. If Amelia spoke German well, maybe the priest could give her advice.
Passengers packed the library. They, too, seemed to be waiting until it was time for the Sunday service. She took in every detail of the room, the armchairs and small tables scattered about, all in mahogany. Some used the tables to write notes. Others played cards. Glass-cased shelves flanked one side.
She leaned against a white fluted wooden column and waited to head to the first-class reception room. All classes were invited to the church service, which was noble. The only thing was, like Quentin, she, too, worried about seeing Damien and C.J. there. She looked to the clock on the wall once again. She still had another fifteen minutes.
She approached the library steward. He was a thin man with a long, sad face. “I would like a book about New York City.”
“Can you wait a bit, ma’am?” He held up a stack of papers in his hand. “I must serve these baggage declaration forms for passengers to fill out.”
“Yes, of course.” She held out her hand. “The nonresident form, please.”
“It’s hard to believe we will be in New York in two days, with calm weather the whole trip,” someone behind her said.
Amelia turned to the female voice. It was the woman she’d been introduced to the night she’d had supper with Damien. What was her name? Then Amelia remembered—Dorothea.
“Yes, it has been a wonderful trip, hasn’t it?” Amelia studied the woman’s face, searching for any sign of the anger she had seen there the first night. There was none. Amelia guessed it was most likely because she no longer posed a threat to Damien’s heart.
“The trip is better now.” The woman grinned, showing off perfectly white teeth. She was dressed in a long red dress, and the stole around her shoulders appeared to be fur. “I was worried for a time. I thought Damien’s affections were being drawn away.” Dorothea placed an open hand on her chest. “Dear man, he was just getting cold feet. He assured me last night that I was the woman for him.”
Amelia smiled, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How lovely for you.” Amelia nodded. “The two of you are perfect for each other.” Then she glanced at the clock again and took a deep breath. “Would you excuse me? The church service is about to start, and I need to feel a special connection with God this morning. In fact, I have a feeling we all do.”
CHAPTER 20
April 14. It was a day that was never far from Clarence’s thoughts. It had been twenty-one years since he’d lost Jillian. What he hadn’t realized then was he’d lost Quentin that day, too. It had been a slow loss. Quentin still breathed, but even as a boy his eyes carried a burden that weighed on his every action.
He hadn’t been surprised when Quentin left home instead of going to college, determined to make his own way in the world. He hadn’t been surprised when his son had demanded his inheritance with hopes of building an empire of his own.
It had all started when Quentin had seen his mother’s body lying on the grass. Quentin had run and hid. It had taken Clarence three hours to find the boy hiding in a maid’s closet. Since then Quentin had never stopped running, hiding. He ran not only from his father’s love but God’s love, too.
“Give your sons to me,” a voice inside Clarence said, and he again prayed a prayer of surrender.
“Do you know what today is?” Clarence Walpole turned to his son. Damien’s face was pale. Did that have anything to do with that woman, Amelia? Ever since she’d shown up at the library and had called Damien by Quentin’s name, things had been different. Had Damien grown to care for the young woman? He wasn’t sure. Did Damien battle with worry and concern for his brother as their liner steamed away from England? Clarence guessed this was the case.
“Of course I know what this day is,” Damien stated flatly. “You ask the same question every year, Father. How could I forget? It’s not every day you see your mother dead by your brother’s hand.”
The hairs on Clarence’s neck rose, and he looked at him with shock. “Don’t blame Quentin!”
Damien slid his arms into his jacket, preparing for the Sunday service they were going to attend.
“And who am I supposed to blame?” Damien’s words shot from his mouth. “I’ve been angry for over twenty years … and you’re just figuring this out? And he’s not the only one I’m angry with. I don’t understand, Father, why you’d asked me to be the one to stay with Mother’s body until the undertaker arrived. Stay with her while you went looking for Quentin. It’s a memory that haunts me to this day.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that. I needed you to guard her body. I didn’t worry how it would affect you—though I should have. My thoughts were on your mother. She had dressed so carefully, done her hair just so. One of my last memories was of her applying the slightest amount of rouge to her cheeks and smiling at her reflection, pleased. It always satisfied me to see her content, and as she strode into the party that night, she had such confidence, as if she were the queen of England herself.”
“What does that have to do with afterward—after the accident?”
“Don’t you understand? I didn’t want anyone else to see her that way—lying there with her dress and hair such a mess. It was as your mother would have wished. She would have been horrified to think of her guests’ last memory of her being laid out like that. Instead they remember her walking down the stairs like a princess on her wedding day.”
“I wish I had that memory, too, Father.”
Clarence could hear the tremble in his son’s voice.
“After all, I was only a ten-year-old boy.”
Amelia entered the large first-class reception room, and her heart warmed to see passengers from all classes seated around the room.
Scanning the crowd, she found Aunt Neda seated in the middle of the room. Her aunt had saved Amelia a seat, and she waved her direction.
After weaving her way through the crowd of people speaking in low tones, Amelia sat. Those who weren’t from first class marveled at the luxurious room. Amelia noticed a brightness in her aunt’s eyes, but she soon discovered it wasn’t because of the lush carpet and finely styled chairs.
“After you left the dining room, I met the most pleasant lady,” Aunt Neda said. “Nellie invited me to join her family at their table. She’s been living in India with her husband and three children—can you imagine that? Her baby is sick, and she is returning to America. Her husband is on the mission field still. What a brave lady for traveling with children alone, but, Amelia, I have to admit it does not seem right that a man should send away his family in order to stay and tell strangers about the Bible.”
“It’s a sacrifice,” Amelia whispered, but her thoughts weren’t on the family her aunt spoke of. Instead she considered what sacrifice God was asking of her. Was God asking her to walk away from the stability that Mr. Chapman offered? Or was he asking her to leave behind her mounting emotions for Quentin? If only she could be sure.
Quentin smoothed his suit pants and paused near the group of people filtering into the first-class reception room. His heart pounded and his mind told him to turn, to run. Instead he fixed his feet on the spot and focused ahead. If he could just make it through that doorway.
Ahead of him two women chatted. They wore fine clothes, and he guessed they were from first class.
“So did you get a chance to meet Mr. Walpole?” one woman asked the other.
Quentin’s ears perked to their conversation.
“Mr. Walpole, yes, I met him last night. He’s traveling with his son. I have never seen a more h
andsome fellow. Damien is his name. He has money as well. Tonight I might have to make an introduction.” The woman fanned a gloved hand in front of her face as if just talking about Damien excited her.
“Doesn’t Mr. Walpole have two sons?”
The second woman shrugged. “I thought so, but I heard a rumor that one died. Tragedy falls on the rich as well as on the poor, I suppose.”
The crowd moved forward, and Quentin followed. His hand tightened around the doorjamb. In a way, the woman’s words were right. He was dead. Dead to his family. Dead to ever being a son.
He knew from the moment he walked out on his family that would be the case. For a time, his father had tried to keep in touch, but the more he walked into dark places, the more he wanted to hide. What son would take an inheritance while his father still lived? He was worse than the drainage of waste on the city streets in the slums of London. So he’d told himself it was better not to allow himself to recall his father’s love than to long for it. He had no right to yearn for what he’d thrown away.
He considered pausing, turning, but as his eyes scanned the room, he saw something—someone—he no longer wanted to run from.
His father was turned to the side, talking to the young man next to him, but as if an invisible hand tapped him on his shoulder, he paused and turned, as if he sensed Quentin’s presence there.
Then, as if he moved in slow motion, he rose and his mouth whispered Quentin’s name. His face brightened as he stood. His arms flung open. “Son, son!”
