Fateful

I say, “Yes, milady.”

As I go, I feel a strange wave of dread—as though I were back in that alleyway last night. Hardly likely to find a wolf stalking here, amid the ship’s crowd. And yet I feel something prickling along my neck and back, the way I imagine a rabbit knows the cat is watching.

The weight of the box pulls at the joints of my arms, but it’s worth it for a few moments of escape. Or so I tell myself. In truth, it’s a little frightening to be on my own in a crowd like this—more people than I’ve ever seen in one place, all of them pushing and shoving. Also, I can’t tell precisely where I’m supposed to go. There is an entry for first-class passengers, another for third class—going to different decks of the ship altogether. I look down at my burden. Which of us counts more: me or my employers’ possession?

Then I feel it again, that prickle at the back of my neck. The hunter’s eyes on its prey. I glance behind me, expecting to see—what? The wolf from the night before? The young man who rescued me, then told me to flee for the sake of my life? I see neither. In the crush, perhaps I can’t see them, but then they wouldn’t be able to see me either. But someone’s watching. I know he’s there, down deep within me, in the place that doesn’t respond to thought or logic, just pure animal instinct.

Someone in this crowd of strangers is watching me.

Someone is hunting me.

“Lost your way, miss?” says a bluff sort of man, with red cheeks and sky-blue eyes. His voice makes me jump, but the interruption is welcome. He wears what I believe is an officer’s uniform, so why he’s speaking to the likes of me, I can’t imagine. But his voice and face are kind, and I feel safer having somebody to talk to, no matter who it might be.

“I’m to deliver this to my employers’ cabin,” I say. “I’m in the service of the Viscount Lisle’s family.”

“Then it’s first class for you.”

“But I’m traveling in third class.”

He frowns. “A bit cheap, aren’t they?”

I ought to be prim and offended that he’s slighted the family I work for. Instead, I have to stifle a giggle. “I know it must be . . . unusual. But now I don’t know how to board the ship.”

“First class, I think. I remember the head steward talking about this now—they’ve arranged for you to have keys to help you get about. Unusual, yes, but nothing is too good for the family of a viscount.” The touch of sarcasm in his voice is light enough to allow me to ignore the joke or enjoy it, as I prefer. I enjoy it. “The stewards will show you the way once you get aboard. Sure you don’t want to get one of them to handle it? That looks heavy for you.”

It’s the nicest thing anybody has said to me in days, and I’m surprised to feel a small lump in my throat. But I know my duty; I know the potential repercussions. “Milady wants me to handle this personally. Thank you just the same, sir.”

He touches his cap before striding away to whatever duty he put aside to help me. I hurry to the first-class gangplank, hoping that whoever was staring at me before is third class. Some foreigner, no doubt.

And maybe it was no more than my imagination playing tricks on me, bringing out the fear beneath my skin. I have reasons enough to be nervous. This voyage—these next few days—are going to change my life forever.

The first-class gangplank is more like a promenade; people take their time, seeing and being seen in the sunshine. Ladies turn that way and this so that their wide-brimmed hats will be seen to their best advantage, and they hold parasols of finely worked lace that cast scrolling shadows below. Gentlemen’s canes and shoes shine. It might be a fashion parade, were it not for the few servants in the mix panting under our burdens. We move so slowly that I dare to put the box down for a few seconds.

As my tired muscles relax, I slip one hand into the pocket of my dress. There I clasp a small felt purse, one I sewed myself out of scraps. I had to do the work late at night, and they only allow us one candle in the attic, so it’s hardly my finest accomplishment as a seamstress. But nobody sees this purse besides me.

The felt is heavy in my hand. Through the fabric, I can feel the weight of coins, the slip of wadded notes. For the past year and a half, I’ve saved every bit of money I could. I even kept a pound note I found on the stair the morning after a dinner party—a real risk, one that could’ve got me sacked if anybody had found out. Nobody did.

I’ve saved enough to live on for a couple of months. That’s not very long, but it’s more than I’ve ever had together in my whole life, even though I’ve been in service since I left school at thirteen. It’s going to be enough.

Enough so that, when this ship reaches the United States, I can walk off it, slip away from Lady Regina and Mrs. Horne, and never, ever come back.

We shuffle forward on the gangplank, and I take the box up again. It feels even heavier than before, but I can bear it. Freedom is only a few days away.

All I have to do is make it through this one trip, I think, as I step off the gangplank and finally board the RMS Titanic.

Chapter 3

MY LORD, THIS SHIP IS BEAUTIFUL.

The path for the first-class passengers to enter the ship begins near their dining hall, and the staircase leading down to it is more magnificent than anything found in Moorcliffe. Gleaming carved wood, stairs arching down in two graceful curves, a cast-iron clock finely molded: This is something I would expect to see in a great manor house, not a ship. Even the creamy beige carpet beneath my feet is thicker and softer than any Aubusson rug.

Or am I naive? As I begin this journey from the life I have always known, I am acutely aware of the limits of my experience. So who am I to judge this ship or its grandeur? Perhaps this is very ordinary, and I reveal myself as an ignorant country girl by marveling at it.

But no. I turn my attention to the wealthy people around me, and although they are too refined to voice their amazement, I can read it in their eyes. A good servant learns how to study faces, to glean hints of her employers’ moods from the slightest change in expression—but no such subtleties are necessary here. They laugh in delight, smile at one another in satisfaction, and allow their hands to trail sensually along the fine wood carving. The Titanic is as spectacular to them as it is to me. No one here is immune to its splendor—

Wait. Someone is. Two someones, in point of fact.

Just inside the doorway, unobserved by most of those walking past, are two gentlemen. Both are remarkably tall and broad-shouldered. One is a little older, perhaps nearing his thirtieth year. He wears a Vandyke beard as black as iron . . . rather like that of the man who briefly accosted me in the street, though my glimpse of him was too swift to be sure of any true likeness. The other—

Him, too, I only saw briefly, but I would never forget his face. The other is the young man from last night.

He is younger than I’d realized. My elder perhaps by only four or five years—twenty-two, then? And now that we are in light—both the brilliant sunshine and the glow from the Titanic’s elegant frosted-glass lamps—I am free to really look at him. To drink him in.

His jaw is strong and sharply angled, throwing his high cheekbones into relief. His mouth is well-shaped, with full lips any girl would desire. Shoulders broad, waist narrow, a hint of real muscle beneath. I remember how firm his body was when he pressed me against the wall. His wildly curly hair—in that deep chestnut color, with fine glints of red that bring out the dark brown of his eyes—I cannot decide if it is his one flaw or his best feature. Untamable, I would guess. He doesn’t clip it short as most gentlemen would in a similar situation. Instead he lets the curls flow freely, as I’ve heard artists and bohemians do. This is no bohemian, though, nor any sailor, as I briefly suspected; the well-cut suit he wears speaks of his wealth and privilege.

My steps slow. The box is suddenly no longer heavy in my hands, or at least I don’t feel the ache of it. I can’t get over the shock of seeing him again, seeing him here, or of the powerful effect he has on me.

It feels as though he must notice me—as though whatever strange force brought us together last night would call to him as powerfully as it calls to me—and yet he doesn’t turn. He and his fellow traveler are distracted. They lean in closely to each other, as though they do not wish their conversation to be overheard. His body is twisted slightly away from that of the man with the Vandyke beard, as though he wished to walk in another direction. But they talk so intently. Are they arguing or conspiring? I can’t tell. And usually I am good at reading people—

The tense moment between them snaps as his companion, the one with the beard, looks up at me—as though he were the one tied to me, not his friend. His icy blue eyes sweep over me, only for a split second, but it is enough to send a chill through the marrow of my bones.

He looks as if he knows me. As if he hates me. And there is something eerily familiar in his gaze. Is that the man from last night after all?

Quickly I turn away. Surely his animosity is no more than a rich man’s irritation. He has caught me eavesdropping on their conversation—intruding on my betters. If he complains to a purser or, worse, to Lady Regina, my life won’t be worth leading over the next five days.

And yet I feel the stare on my back again. It is as real as the clothes on my back. It is cold, and it is evil, and it follows me even as I walk toward the nearest steward to make my escape.

The Lisles’ suite is located on A deck, which I can tell from the steward’s expression is especially grand. The first-class passengers are all escorted to their cabins, but the steward expects me to find my own way. He doesn’t offer to take the box from me, or find anyone else to take it—why should he?—and so I set it at my feet as we conduct our business. I am given the key to their rooms and the safe’s combination without question; I cannot be a useful servant without having access to anything my employers could possibly desire.

Then he takes out another key. “This lets you go from third class to first class.” His face is sour. “We’re not meant to be handing these things out to everyone. United States regulations say we have to keep those doors shut, and if we find you haven’t, we’ll confiscate that key posthaste, and the viscount’s lady will just have to do without her servants for a while.”

This steward has clearly never met Lady Regina; she’d wither him on the spot with a mere glare. But I’m meant to be cowed and serious, so I nod as I drop the key into my pocket and stoop to pick up the box. “Yes, sir. I’ll be careful, sir.”

He nods and waves me off, already eager to turn his attention to people far more worth his time. The rest of the way, I’m on my own.

I cast one glance behind me to make sure the bearded man with the cold blue eyes isn’t watching any longer. He’s nowhere to be seen. And yet I still feel the hunter’s gaze. With a shiver, I hurry toward the lift, eager to get farther from him.

Even the hallways of the Titanic are luxurious. The carpet, now red with a floral pattern, is soft beneath my aching feet, and the white paint is gleaming and new. After the clamor of the dock, the silence is startling. Although others down the corridor are entering their first-class accommodations, nobody is especially close. It feels briefly as though I have the ship to myself.

What would I do, if I were on this vessel all alone for five days? All alone except for the crew, of course; I’d scarcely get very far without them. I could slide down those majestic banisters on the grand staircase. I could sit by myself in the sumptuous dining hall and snap my fingers, demanding course after course of the sort of rich food I usually only get if Cook has burnt it too badly for the Lisles to eat. And what would I wear? With only the crew to look at me—no one to boss me, no one to judge—there would be no more need for this shabby uniform. I imagine taking off my white bonnet and letting it float down from the deck railings into the ocean below. The sharks can eat it, for all I care.

So pleasant is it to daydream, unhampered, that I do not notice the man coming close to me until he is almost at my side.

It’s him. Not my chestnut-haired man—the older one with the Vandyke beard. I know now that he is indeed the same one who accosted me the night before. Nor is this merely awkward coincidence—his gaze focuses on me, and his jaw is set.

“So, you like to listen to other people’s conversations.” His voice is a deep bass rumble, and the words are accented in a way that is unfamiliar to me—Russian, perhaps? The Lisles entertain foreign nobility too rarely for me to be certain. “Last night, and again this morning! That is a good way to hear many interesting things, but very bad manners. Very bad manners indeed.”

It’s almost a relief to think he’s nothing other than an obnoxious man who dislikes eavesdroppers. This close, I can see that he, too, is a handsome man—or would be but for the unnatural chill in his pale blue eyes. “I beg your pardon, sir. I overheard nothing, sir. Please, I beg your forgiveness.” Don’t tell, don’t tell.

“You overheard nothing? Again? And yet you were paying such close attention this time.”

“The room was very loud, sir. Beg your pardon, sir.” Some-times, if you make a slip like this (whether real or imagined), all the aristocrats want you to do is eat dirt for a bit, humble yourself until they feel suitably powerful, and there’s an end of it. But the more I apologize to this one, the angrier he seems to get. The energy around him is increasingly dark, and I feel even more profoundly unsettled than I did before. At least I have already reached the Lisles’ cabin—all I have to do is calm him down long enough for me to get to the other side of that door.

His eyes travel down to the box I hold. “What a heavy burden you carry.”

“It’s all right, sir.”

“The crest of the Lisle estate—am I correct?”

It’s not so unusual that one member of the nobility would recognize the heraldry of another. “Yes, sir.”

“I thought so.” He steps closer to me—too close—and I can tell that his natural scent has a hint of wood smoke about it. His smile is small and tight within the black spade of his beard. There’s something odd about his teeth. “You must be very tired. Will you not allow me to help you?”

He speaks almost kindly, which is more frightening than before. Though I cannot say what it is about this man that distresses me so, I trust my instincts and step away. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“That won’t do at all.” Now anger simmers beneath the surface of his words. One of his black-gloved hands grips an iron handle, and I pull the box back in the split second before he would have snatched it away.

I stumble backward until the cabin door presses against my shoulders. I want to shout for help, but I see no one else, and—I am a servant girl. This is a gentleman. In any dispute between us, he will be believed, and I will not. But why would a gentleman be attempting to commit robbery?

His grin widens. “It would be just like a nasty, thieving maid to try to rob her employers at such a time. Give them an inch—isn’t that the expression in English? Service in the great house takes you out of your humble home and your settled ways. Your proper position in society. So you turn into a conniving little thief.”

“Sir, you are mistaken.” It’s such a foolish thing to say, but I cannot think of anything else. Even now, I must not offend him. “I’ve stolen nothing. This is my employers’ box, and I must put it away, sir. Please excuse me.”

“What would they think if they opened their safe and the box were not there?”

I must assert myself, but how? I’d like to kick him in the shins, but there are no words for the trouble I would be in if I assaulted a gentleman. “Sir, that will not occur. I believe I must now fetch a steward.”

“I do not think he will arrive in time to rescue the little servant girl,” he croons. The bastard is having fun. “Give me the box, girl. Or I shall deeply enjoy taking it from you.”

He lifts his black-gloved hand and strokes one finger down the side of my face. When his eyes bore into mine, fear slices into me—not mere nervousness, but real terror.

These were the eyes that followed me on the dock. Even before I saw him with the young man from last night, he had seen me.

This is the hunter. And he is still hunting me. He has caught me.

Give him the box, I think. Give him the box, and tell them it was stolen, and even if they don’t believe you, they won’t put you in jail. Or will they? Is that all I’ll ever see of America—a jail cell?

But scared as I am, I can’t give up so easily. Lord, but I hate a bully. “No, sir,” I say, and I lift my chin, daring him to do his worst.

He takes the dare.

His hands grab my shoulders and yank me forward so that I’m off balance and his face is close to mine. His breath smells like he recently ate undercooked meat. Then he shoves me back against the door, hard enough that it slams painfully against my head. For one moment, I smell blood.

He hisses, “What scares you the most?”

“Get off me!” I try to shove him back, but the heavy box in my hands makes that difficult.

“Being sacked and turned out to starve?” Although he’s still gripping my shoulders tightly, his thumbs make circles as they press into my flesh—a caress meant to bruise. “Being hurt? Someone you love being hurt? Whatever it is, I can make it happen.”

I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what to do. I just know that I hate him. So I spit in his face.

The saliva dribbles onto his beard, and the ice-blue eyes suddenly blaze like fire. My fear deepens as I realize that this really wasn’t the worst he could do—he’s about to do that now—

Then a voice calls, “Stop this.”

We turn to see him—the other, the younger man, the one who saved me last night and is saving me now. I sag against the door in relief, and the bearded man’s face distorts, as though his displeasure were melting him like wax. “Leave us, Alec.”

Alec does nothing of the sort. “This is neither the time nor the place for your games, Mikhail. Leave the poor girl alone.”

The hunter—Mikhail—responds, “Someday you’ll learn that it is never a bad time to enjoy our birthright.” But he lets go of my shoulders. Something passes between them then: some kind of shared knowledge I cannot guess at.

Are they friends, then? How can that be possible? Mikhail terrifies me, but Alec—his effect on me is something altogether different. Should I be as afraid of Alec as I am of Mikhail? Beauty is no guarantee of goodness; Lady Regina is proof enough of that. I don’t know, and want nothing so much as for this to be over.

Mikhail gives me another look that makes my stomach clench, then tips his hat to me—a mockery of manners, or of me. Then he walks away.

And yet I know this is anything but over.

Alec’s eyes study me in turn, but his look is different. At least my reaction is different. When Mikhail stared at me, I went cold; Alec’s attention warms my blood, flushes my cheeks. Yet I can’t tell if he is looking at me with desire or contempt or—I can’t guess. I can’t fathom the depth of his intense gaze.

He says to me, roughly, “You should watch yourself.”

I cannot tell if it is a warning, or a threat. And yet I know—beyond any doubt—I have been rescued.

Before I can speak, Alec walks away, very quickly, as though he were a criminal escaping from the scene. At first I stare after him in shock, unable to understand what happened here—and what might have happened, had Alec not arrived.

Then I feel the key pressing against my sweaty palm, hard against the box, and curse myself for a fool. I hurry inside the cabin and lock the door behind me, safe—for now.

Chapter 4

AS MY HEARTBEAT SLOWS AND MY BREATHING returns to normal, I try to understand what happened in the hallway, but I can’t.

I’m absolutely certain that Mikhail was the one spying on me as I came aboard the ship. Also I know that, had Alec not arrived when he did, the situation would have become much worse. But I can guess no more.

Mikhail wants this box—the one now sitting on the floor of the cabin. No doubt it contains immense riches; I am sure that Lady Regina’s best jewelry, and the few baubles Irene owns, are enclosed within. More than that, too: It’s no secret, downstairs at Moorcliffe, that the Lisle family is not so wealthy as it once was. Rumor has it that this trip is largely about finding some rich industrial heiress for Layton to wed on the charms of his title—his personality obviously wouldn’t do the trick on its own. No doubt the Lisles would rather marry off Irene, leaving their son and heir to choose a wife from the nobility, but Irene’s charms are too modest for her to make an illustrious match. So Layton will take as his bride the daughter of some Philadelphia man who builds railway track, or perhaps a Boston girl inheriting the wealth earned by mail-order goods.

In short, the Lisle family wants to impress the kind of people they usually spit on. They can’t do that if they’re not traveling in style. So the box contains many of the priceless ancestral valuables the Viscount Lisle’s family has held for the past four hundred years—and now intends to sell.

Reason enough for theft. But Mikhail is traveling first class on the Titanic. Mrs. Horne says tickets cost thousands of pounds, a sum I can hardly imagine seeing in a lifetime, much less spending on a single trip to America. Why would anyone able to pay that sort of money for a voyage need to steal anything? He must be enormously wealthy, almost certainly more than the Lisles.

And the way he looked at me—the cold-blooded stare that chilled my bones—is that because he thinks I overheard something I shouldn’t have last night, or today? Already I realize that our encounter the evening before was more than coincidence; Mikhail was near because he was already tracking the Lisles. I wasn’t his original target.

But perhaps I am his target now.

I shake off that chill as I quickly put the box into the suite’s iron safe. Surely I’m only being silly. If Mikhail isn’t a thief, then he’s merely the kind of rich man who thinks servant girls are his to do with as he will—to threaten, to tease, to bed, and to discard. That’s hardly unusual among wealthy gentlemen. After years of dodging Layton’s randy friends from Cambridge, I shouldn’t find that attitude surprising. Once I vanish belowdecks, to my third-class accommodations, Mikhail will turn his attentions to some unhappy stewardess aboard ship, and I can continue about my business.

Although I do not entirely believe this sensible explanation, I force myself to accept it.

The safe’s door swings shut with a resounding clang, and I sit back heavily on the cabin’s sumptuous bed. As I do, my thoughts drift toward an altogether more pleasant subject.

My mind wants to dwell on Alec. Only on Alec. Even knowing his name makes me feel closer to him somehow. And now he’s saved me from danger twice. If only I had thought to thank him! I imagine my fingers winding into his thick chestnut curls, my mouth open as he leans close—

The daydream makes my cheeks flush and my heart thump too fast. I’m no doubt being foolish, like any other servant girl who has finally had the chance to be alone with an attractive man. The household doesn’t allow any of us girls much chance to be with men of our own class—we’re not meant to fall in love and get married, only to drudge on and on in service until we dry up and go gray and our teeth fall out. And here I am acting like an idiot over a man who’s shown no interest in me, save keeping me from harm like any decent human being would.

Especially given that he protected me today, but threatened me last night. He may not be as serious a danger to me as Mikhail, but that doesn’t mean Alec doesn’t present dangers of his own.