by Jane Goodger
“Charlie,” Rose had said quietly. “May I have a word?”
He stepped back from the window, just far enough to talk to Lady Rose without the man overhearing. Charlie could picture Marcus going up to this very window and making inquiries about Rose and learning quickly that a lady traveling with a scruffy blond man had indeed booked passage on the Adriatic. “Could you please sound less . . .” Charlie struggled for a word, until he finally settled on “hoity-toity.”
“Hoity-toity?” Lady Rose repeated. “Did I truly?”
“Yes, my lady, you did. You do know Marcus will murder me if he realizes I have helped you. Any one of your brothers will, of course, but I think Marcus would be particularly brutal. The less attention you can draw to yourself, the better.”
She lifted her chin. “And perhaps you should remember to call me Rose. I daresay there are very few husbands traveling in second class who call their wife lady.”
“It’s difficult,” he ground out.
“So is everything about this trip, but we shall manage. Now, please allow me to pay for our passage. While I don’t believe I have the funds for first class, I see no issue with you allowing me to pay for second class. After all, you are doing me a very great favor and this is the least I can do. And to be honest, Charlie, I’ve read terrible accounts of steerage and I cannot tell you how relieved I am that we won’t be forced to travel that way.”
Hot shame filled him, but he wasn’t about to let his pride stop him from allowing her to purchase a second-class cabin. At least Lady Rose—Rose, Rose, Rose, he thought with frustration—could avoid the humiliation of the physical exam if she was in second class and would have a bit more privacy.
In the end, he let her pay, knowing it was for the best; she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb quite as much in second class as she would have in steerage, where passengers slept together in one large room. And if he were honest, sleeping in a large room with a few hundred unwashed men wasn’t something he particularly looked forward to either. But he did wonder which would be worse, sleeping in a roomful of unbathed men or sleeping in a tiny room with sweet-smelling Rose.
Rose stood at the rail, clutching it with gloveless hands, her knuckles even paler than her face. Go back, go back, go back, she screamed to herself. There was still time; the gangplank was still letting passengers on board, many in tears as they left behind loved ones. Rose’s eyes were dry; she was too terrified to cry. She’d sent a telegram minutes before they’d boarded: I am safe STOP Cannot marry Weston STOP Will wire when destination reached STOP.
She wondered how long it would take for her parents to receive the telegram and whether they were already in a panic looking for her. She hadn’t left a note, hadn’t wanted anyone to know she was gone. No doubt her maid had been the first to realize something was amiss. Sarah had probably been curious, wondering if Rose had gotten up early to go to the stables. Rose had done that on numerous occasions. Did they even know she was gone yet? Or was everyone making assumptions? They’d know soon enough.
Her mother would be devastated, her father livid. And the duke, oh God, it didn’t bear thinking. What would a man like Weston do after being humiliated so? She wanted to be glad of her escape, but at that moment, watching as the crew prepared to pull back the bridge onto the dock, she couldn’t even revel in that thought.
Rose looked down into the dark, swirling waters of the Mersey, idly wondering if she would survive a jump. When the bell rang, a delicate sound above the murmur of the passengers, the engine came to life, a great deep rumble like some animal stretching and awakening, vibrating beneath her feet. And then the ship began to move and real panic set in and her breathing became shallow. Charlie stood next to her, a calming presence, and once in a while he’d look over, no doubt worried that she was about to do something rash—or more rash than running away. Oh, Lord, this was a horrible mistake.
“We should probably go to our cabin,” Charlie said after a time.
She turned to look at him, and she knew her panic was clear in her eyes. “Oh, Charlie, what have I done?”
If she had asked that question thirty minutes ago, he would have likely replied, “Nothing that can’t be undone.” But now, with the sun setting behind Liverpool and the ship pulling away from port, gaining speed—it was already too far away to safely swim to shore—there was no reversing her decision. “You’ve saved yourself,” he said.
Bless him for saying that. His words, spoken so matter-of-factly, calmed her as nothing else could. She was saving herself. Yes, she was leaving behind a terrible mess, and she doubted her mother and father would ever forgive her, but it was worth it to not have to marry Weston. She had to keep telling herself that. Rose took a bracing breath. “Let’s go see our cabin, shall we?”
The mood of the other passengers was solemn and Rose sympathized. They were more like her than she realized, all leaving home, all likely believing they might never see their loved ones back home again. A young couple who stood in front of them while they waited to be directed to their cabin seemed especially sad. The woman leaned heavily upon her husband as she wept.
“It’ll be all right, Charlotte, you’ll see. We’ll come back when we can,” her young husband said, but his words only caused the woman to cry in earnest. The man looked back at her and Charlie, giving them an embarrassed smile. “She’s got four sisters back in York, you see.”
“I have four brothers,” Rose said, feeling her throat close up. She swallowed and pushed down the sadness; it would never do to put on such an emotional display in public. If she cried, which she prayed she would not, she hoped to do so in complete privacy. Already she’d made a cake of herself in front of Charlie and she’d vowed that would not happen again.
The young woman turned, her eyes red and watery, her nose pink. She looked the picture of misery.
“I do apologize for making such a scene. I didn’t even think to cry until the engines started and then I couldn’t stop,” she said, laughing a bit. “I’m Charlotte Browne. With an e. And this is my husband, Roger.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Browne. We are Mr. and Mrs. Charles Avery of Cannock.” Rose gave Charlie a smile, proud that she’d handled the introductions so flawlessly.
They all stepped forward, closer to the steward. “What takes you to America?” Roger asked. “We’re settling there with my brother and his wife. He has a haberdashery in Boston. Not buttons and such. Men’s clothing. It’s different in America. Don’t know why, but there it is. My brother is an excellent tailor and he has a very fine business and could use my help. They left two years ago and convinced us to join them.”
“Convinced you to join them,” Charlotte pointed out good-naturedly. It was obviously something that had been pointed out before, because Roger took her jibe in stride.
“She was excited up until a few minutes ago,” Roger said. He draped his arm around his wife, an easy gesture that made Rose slightly self-conscious. She and Charlie were supposed to be married, but they were acting like virtual strangers. Then again, she’d never seen her parents touch one another unless it was absolutely necessary, such as for a dance or to disembark from a carriage, and they’d been married for thirty years.
When Charlotte and Roger were busy with the steward, Charlie leaned in close and whispered, “Are you feeling better now?”
“I’m quite fine, thank you. And but for a momentary lapse, I’ve been fine this entire trip. Thank you for your inquiry.”
He chuckled, deep and low, and something about that laugh made her feel slightly off. “You ought to pay attention to Mrs. Browne. She acts the way a person in second class ought to act.”
“I have no idea what you could mean,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Ticket, please,” the steward said. He was dressed in a smart navy uniform, his shoes polished to an impressive shine, which Rose found oddly reassuring.
Charlie handed over his ticket and the steward directed them to their stateroom.
&nbs
p; Rose knew, of course, that their stateroom wouldn’t be as luxurious as she was used to, but she couldn’t stop a gasp of dismay when she saw it. It was hardly bigger than her wardrobe at home. Two narrow bunks with thin, straw-filled mattresses were crammed on one side, the floor space so limited, Rose had to turn sideways to walk from one end to the other. There were no blankets, no pillows, no window.
“It’s meant only for sleeping,” Charlie said loudly over the sound of the engines, which felt as if they were beneath her feet. He heaved his bag onto the top bunk, situated uncomfortably close to the wooden ceiling; he would not be able to sit up properly once in bed. He put her carpetbag at the foot of her own bunk. “I expect we’ll spend much of the day topside.”
Rose felt as if she were slowly being torn apart, as if someone was pulling at the delicate thread of a seam, revealing more and more of her fear. Even Charlie, her dear friend, seemed like a stranger to her. This space was too small to share with a big man like Charlie. It was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, his large size, his scent, which reminded her of home. In this cold cabin, she could even feel the heat from his body. It was downright uncomfortable and completely unwanted.
She didn’t want to feel anything.
“Charlie,” she said, sitting abruptly on the hard mattress. “I think I’m about to cry. Would you mind very much leaving?”
She looked straight ahead, staring at the wall, and noticed then that someone had carved a small heart with two sets of initials. It was such a sweet gesture, one likely done by a man who was truly married to the love of his life. She could sense Charlie looking down at her, no doubt with a furrowed brow. She’d seen that look a hundred times when he was caring for one of the horses that had taken ill.
“Of course, my lady.” And he made for the door.
“Do not call me that,” she shouted, standing so abruptly, she smacked her head—hard—on the top bunk. “Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.” She rubbed her smarting head and glared at Charlie as if it were his fault her head was hurting. “I’m not your lady. I’m no one’s lady anymore.” She took a breath, horrified that she’d shouted and cursed, horrified that Charlie was now looking at her as if he had, indeed, bludgeoned her. “I’m sorry, Charlie. My nerves are frayed and . . . and . . . you’ve been so kind and I’m just a horrid person who is breaking her parents’ hearts and who is going to America to marry a man who probably doesn’t even remember who I am.”
“I’m sure he remembers you, my l—” He shook his head hard. “Rose. I’m sure he remembers you. Hell, I can’t do it, my lady. It’s wrong.”
She stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “Say my name, Charlie.”
He looked down, his cheeks ruddy. “Rose.”
Rose placed her hands on his face and gently lifted to make him look at her, and he met her gaze, his eyes holding some strong emotion—likely anger—before he took a step back and she dropped her hands. “Rose,” she said.
“It’s a boundary I don’t want to cross,” he said, sounding slightly put out. Ah, so he was angry.
Rose let out a small laugh. “My goodness, Charlie, we’re unmarried and sharing a cabin. I think we’ve crossed the biggest boundary already.”
He smiled slightly and finally gave a sharp nod. “Fine. Rose it is.”
“Or Mrs. Avery, if you will.” She grinned at him, expecting him to smile, but he became even more grim-faced.
“Do you still need that cry?”
Rose thought a moment and shook her head. “Perhaps later. What about you, Charlie? You’ve left behind your father, and I know you have friends back in Cannock.”
“Dad understands.” He looked away, and Rose knew it must have been difficult saying good-bye to his father.
Rose hadn’t said good-bye at all. Guilt came flooding back, making her almost ill. She would write her family when she reached New York and pray everyone forgave her.
While he waited for Rose to join him in the dining hall, Charlie made fast friends with half a dozen shipmates and saved one young mother by fashioning a rattle out of two spoons for her cranky baby, who was happily banging the contraption against the wooden table where they sat. The fare was edible, if not especially flavorful. But it was plentiful.
The dining area was large enough to accommodate the fifty second-class couples. Already, Charlie felt himself in rather good company, having met a law clerk, a secretary, and a man who claimed he was the finest butler in all of Britain. His wife, a patient woman with a ready smile, rolled her eyes in good humor. “He has a position already,” she said, patting his arm. “The son of our master set up house there with his new bride and we’ve accepted the position. He paid for our ticket, don’t you know.”
“Could have paid for first class,” her husband muttered.
“And have us think we’re better than we are? Oh, no, I’m quite happy in second and thankful we’re not in steerage.” She shuddered.
“Yes, but I can smell it,” the banker said, and they all laughed. Charlie laughed, too, but only to be polite. He was only one wealthy lady away from being in steerage, which was where he really belonged.
Mr. and Mrs. Browne came to dinner a bit late, and Charlie wondered if the glow in Mrs. Browne’s cheeks told the reason why. He envied them their easy love for one another and he wondered if he and Rose would actually make people believe they were married. He was so damned nervous around her, feeling like some kind of imposter. It was bad enough he had to call her by her given name (his father would want to thrash him within an inch of his life), but to share such a tiny cabin with her was beyond improper.
“Where’s Mrs. Avery?” Mrs. Browne asked when she saw him.
“She wasn’t feeling hungry, but I expect she’ll be out soon,” Charlie said, even though he really had no idea whether Lady R—Rose—would be out at all. If he were to slip up in front of these fine folks, he’d kick himself and hard.
“Here she is,” said Mrs. Browne, as if she were seeing an old friend.
“Hello.” Just the sound of her voice did something to him. How the hell was he going to survive being in the same cabin as her for eight long days?
He thought he’d steeled himself for the sight of her, as he always did when he had advance notice, but she looked so lovely in this unlovely place, he couldn’t help but stare. How could she look like a queen wearing an ugly gray dress buttoned up to her chin?
“Have I missed dinner? I thought I didn’t have an appetite, but it seems I am quite famished now. What is on the menu?” As one, everyone looked at Rose, then back at Charlie, and he could almost imagine what their thoughts were: How on earth did that man manage to get that woman to marry him?
Charlie didn’t sound completely uneducated, but he didn’t sound as if he’d been to Oxford or had a tutor or been drilled in comportment either. Hell, had Mr. Browne just sat up a tad straighter? He counted himself lucky that he knew how to read and had learned basic sums. He was not the sort of man a woman like Rose should be with and he had a feeling everyone at the table knew it. Rose looked from person to person, a pleasant smile on her face. “Have I missed dinner?”
Charlie stood and noticed the bemused and curious looks of the other men at the table. None of them, not one, had stood when their wives appeared. But damn if it didn’t look like they were all about to launch themselves to their feet. Thankfully, Rose sat next to him and, to his surprise, grabbed his hand and held on as if she might slip away. He looked at her and for the first time realized she was nervous. This girl who had been to balls, who had spoken easily to people at the highest levels of society, who had been engaged to a duke, was nervous. He squeezed her hand gently, trying not to dwell on the fact it was soft and smooth and felt perfect in his.
Within a few minutes of her sitting, a young uniformed man placed a plate of beef stew in front of her.
“It’s not awful,” Charlie said, and felt like he’d slain a dragon when he earned a small smile. “You probably need
this back if you’re to eat properly.” She turned toward him and let out a small laugh when he placed her right hand onto the table near her fork.
“So, Charlie, what are your big plans when you get to America? Heading west or staying in New York?”
From the corner of his eye, Charlie could see Rose turn to him, no doubt curious about his reasons for leaving. Or perhaps not. She’d never asked him about his plans.
“My uncle works in a restaurant there and he’s promised me a job. He’s recently made maître d’ at Delmonico’s.”
Rose’s face lit up. “I’ve heard of it,” she said, seemingly delighted that she could add to the conversation and apparently forgetting that, as his wife, she would already have been privy to this information. “My friend Caroline wrote me when she first moved to New York. It’s a marvelous place and attracts the highest level of society, such as it is in New York.” Charlie widened his eyes and tried to convey what he was thinking. It was something like: shut up now. Rose saw his expression and snapped her mouth closed. “Of course,” she said, with a nervous smile, “we could never afford to dine there. I understand it’s quite dear. Caroline married well, you see.” Her voice sort of drifted away and Charlie held back the urge to chuckle.
“You didn’t know where Mr. Avery was working before now?” Mrs. Browne asked her, her tone light, almost teasing.
A telling blush tinged Rose’s cheeks. “I’d forgotten,” she said brightly. “Details like that flitter in and out of my brain all the time.” She laughed and everyone at the table joined in.
“Perhaps I’ll be able to bring home some food from the kitchen and it will be almost as good as sitting down in one of their fancy dining rooms,” Charlie said.
They all shared their stories, some expressing a bit of concern over tales of high unemployment, but most seemed to have a well-thought-out plan. Charlie wondered if that was the case in steerage. He knew he was lucky, for he would have a job the moment he stepped off the boat, but scores of others would be on their own. His uncle had written in great detail of the difficulties facing immigrants since the panic two years ago in ’73.
