Fateful

The feather mattress is soft—so much softer than the lumpy flock pallet I’ve slept on for the past four years. And this cream-colored coverlet: The fabric isn’t silk, but it’s so sleek to the touch it might as well be. This bedroom is as grand and elegant as any of the Lisle family rooms back at Moorcliffe. More even than that.

For a moment I imagine myself a fine lady, traveling in style aboard the Titanic. I imagine that I am wearing a beautiful negligee of Viennese lace instead of my drab black servant’s dress. I lie back on the soft, soft mattress and wish that I could close my eyes and give in to sleep.

Then I wish I could open my eyes and see Alec lying next to me.

Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. You don’t know his last name. You don’t know if he’s good or bad or in the fathomless distance between the two. You don’t know anything about him, except that he keeps bad company, is brusque and strange, and is rich enough to sail first class—which means he’d be after only one thing with a maidservant.

But as I lie on the soft bed, feeling the silky fabric next to my skin, giving in to that one thing seems tempting enough—

Abruptly I sit upright and push myself off the bed. There’s already some cool water in the china jug on the nightstand; I use a bit to splash my face and shock me back to my senses. Enough time for daydreams and romance and whatever else might follow after I reach New York City. For now, it’s best if I stick to the hard reality of the tasks ahead.

First class was almost silent; third class is anything but.

“Permesso, permesso,” says a swarthy man I think must be Italian, as he pushes his way through the crowd, followed by his wife and no fewer than five children, all of whom are chattering at once. Men and women of every age and size and shape and nationality are shoving into one another in an eager search for their cabins. It doesn’t smell like wood polish and cedar down here on F deck; it smells like honest sweat and mothballs.

I’d expected to be repulsed by this bedlam, but instead, it energizes me. Though this is a strange crowd, it’s a happy one. I realize that, for the first time in my life, I’m surrounded by people who share my goal of starting over in America. Because the big trunks they’re hefting, the bundles of clothes the women hold close—those aren’t supplies for a sea voyage. They’re the foundation of a new life.

Besides, even the third-class accommodations are impressive on this ship. While it’s not as sumptuous as first class by any means, the floors here are polished wood, and the walls freshly painted bright white. The brass fittings gleam, and a poster informs us that our tea will include vegetable soup, meat, bread, cheese, and a sweet. As much as that! I bet tonight I won’t feel hungry even once. This is far better than the damp, chilly attic room I left behind at Moorcliffe, or the bread and butter we had to make do with most nights.

At last I see the number of my room. The steward said I wasn’t rooming with Mrs. Horne, which is a small mercy. I dare to hope that I’ve got the room to myself; they say maiden voyages of ships never sell every ticket, because most people want to wait until the kinks have been worked out on a journey or two. After years of sharing my bed with one or two other servant girls, having a bedroom to myself seems like the height of luxury.

I open the door. No such luck.

White, cast-iron bunk beds stand on either side of the room. On one of the lower bunks sits a girl, perhaps a year or two older than I am. Although I’m not actually surprised to see someone, I am surprised to see that they’ve put me in the same room as a foreigner.

I don’t even have to ask if she’s a foreigner. I just know. Her skin is a deep tan, her thick hair such a perfect black that it almost has a bluish gleam, and her brilliantly embroidered skirt and shawl aren’t the kind of thing I’ve ever seen anyone in England wear.

But I’ve always heard that foreigners were dirty, and this girl isn’t. As strange as her clothes are, they’re clean, and actually rather pretty. And I’ve always heard the “English rose” described as the ultimate standard of beauty: delicate frame, pale skin, pink cheeks, and fair curls. I’ve always rather liked that description, because it applies to me—at least it would, if I ever got to wash up properly and wear something nice. And yet this girl, dark and statuesque as she is, is far lovelier than I am.

Even more surprising: She’s not hopping up to greet me, begging my pardon, or welcoming me to the room. In fact, she seems more displeased to be sharing a room than I was. Even though I’m English—as though all the world didn’t look up to England!

“Who are you, then?” she demands. Her accent is thick, but her English is good.

I put my hands on my hips. “I’m Tess. And who are you?”

“Myriam Nahas. Why are you on this ship?” It sounds almost like she’s asking how I dare to be here.

“I’m ladies’ maid to the Honorable Irene Lisle, daughter of the Viscount Lisle, who is traveling with her mother and brother to do the season in New York.” I say it as grandly as I can. Their titles ought to give me some credit here, at least. They don’t. Myriam couldn’t look less impressed. So I snap back, “Why are youon this ship?”

“I’ve left Lebanon to join my brother and his wife in New York City.” Pride shines from her, and yet I can also see how tired she is; she has already traveled all the way from Lebanon, and she still has an ocean to cross. “He has a garment business there that is doing well. I can help sew for him. Perhaps that doesn’t sound very fine to the likes of you, but it suits me.”

It sounds fine enough. I’m jealous, in fact. Myriam is aboard this ship for the same reason I am—to emigrate to the United States—but unlike me, she has family and a job waiting for her.

Maybe that’s what annoys me about her. Or maybe it’s that she isn’t being deferential and obedient, like I would have expected from a foreign girl. Most likely it’s just that she seems to be annoyed by me first, for whatever reason. But our eyes are narrowed as we stare at each other, and I sense a power struggle in the making.

“I have taken one of the bottom bunks,” Myriam adds. “They shift around less with the moving of the ship.”

“Then I’ll take one as well.”

“Others will be in this room with us. They, too, will want bottom bunks.”

“They’ll be out of luck, won’t they?”

Her eyes narrow. “They will attempt to persuade one of us to move, and it will not be me.”

I sit down deliberately on the other lower bunk. “I don’t intend to settle for less just to make you more comfortable.”

“Nor I.”

“Listen here. I’m an Englishwoman, and this is an English ship.” That ought to settle her.

Instead, Myriam folds her arms and lifts her chin, and despite my annoyance with her, I can’t help but notice the perfection of her profile. “You are a servant,” she sneers. “I answer to no one but myself.”

Anger flushes my cheeks, and I open my mouth to tell her what I think of impudent foreigners—but then the door to our cabin opens again, revealing our other two roommates. The first lady is ancient, seventy-five if she’s a day; the second is older. They totter in, carrying little more than carpetbags, with their snowy-white hair atop their heads in braids. I don’t recognize the language they’re speaking, but a badge on one of their cases has a flag that I think is Norway’s. Their wrinkled faces crease into smiles of welcome, and whatever they’re saying to us sounds friendly.

And there is absolutely no way either of them can take a top bunk.

I clamber up to one of the top bunks instantly, and turn to snap at Myriam to do the same—but she already has. We stare at each other, shocked to realize that, despite our sour tempers, neither of us is actually that bad. It’s almost funny. If we knew each other any better, I think we’d laugh.

Instead, I flop back onto my bunk. It’s not as soft as the ones in first class, but it’s better than back home. Comfortable as anything. I imagine it as a magic carpet, whisking me away to another, better world.

“Do they tell stories about magic carpets in Lebanon?” I ask Myriam as we walk down the corridor on F deck.

“I believe you are a few centuries behind the times,” she says, but not unkindly.

Though I still think she’s rather rude, and she still seems to have her back up where I’m concerned, we’ll get on well enough for a few days’ journey. As I don’t need to return to the Lisles until shortly before the ship gets underway, I decided to take a walk belowdecks, and she’s joined me. Hopefully I can talk to her about emigrating to America; she’s the first person I ever met who has the same goal as I do.

Of course, I don’t intend to admit that’s my goal. Nobody can know until we reach New York City. But I might find out some things anyway.

Although there’s still plenty of bustle in the corridors, that has slowed down somewhat as everyone has found their bunks and is getting themselves settled. Amid the hubbub of the corridors, I see a ship’s officer, which surprises me—I’d have thought that only stewards would come down to steerage. Even better, I recognize him; it’s the friendly man who helped me on the dock.

He remembers me too. “I see you’ve got yourself sorted out.”

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

Then he glances at Myriam, no more than a simple look—and just like that, he’s caught. Her beauty holds him fast, as if he were a fly and she were honey. Myriam likes the look of him too, I can tell. But she doesn’t simper or act silly in a rush to make conversation, the way I have the few times I’ve been able to talk with young men in the village pub. She simply smiles back at him, slow and warm, completely unhurried. This is obviously a much better way to handle it. I must remember this for later.

The officer pulls his hat off his head, as though we were gentlewomen. “George Greene, ship’s seventh officer, at your service.”

“Myriam Nahas.” She inclines her head only slightly. Her eyes never waver from his.

“Tess Davies,” I say, just so neither of them forgets I’m standing here. “It’s a lovely ship.”

“Finest in the White Star fleet. Finest in the world, if you ask me.” George gestures toward the doors at the far end of the corridor, the ones blocked off that we’re not supposed to enter. “Would you like a bit of a tour? Haven’t time for much, but I could show you ladies around the lower decks. More down here than meets the eye.” When Myriam hesitates before answering, he quickly adds, “We have first-class amenities down here, so that will be useful to you, Miss Davies. Knowing how to get between different classes of the ship, I mean, since you’ll be running about so much.”

It’s nice to be called “Miss Davies,” as if I were a proper lady. And I don’t think he’s just trying to impress Myriam, either, at least not with that; real kindness and politeness shine from George’s blue eyes.

“It would be very interesting to see more of the ship,” Myriam says, as though George’s company hasn’t anything to do with her decision to come along.

George, anxious to please, leads us through F deck, showing us the third-class dining hall first. Long wooden tables reach from side to side of the enormous room. This, too, is bright and cheerful—better than the servants’ table downstairs at Moorcliffe by far. “And there are decks outside for you, too,” he says. “You won’t be cooped up all journey, like you would on most ships. Titanic has a lovely deck just for third-class passengers, so you can have a bit of fresh air.”

Myriam folds her arms. “Such special treatment to people who just had to be combed and picked over as if we were dogs.”

They combed the third-class passengers? Looking for lice, I realize. How insulting. Thank goodness George told me to enter through the first-class passageway.

The poor man can’t apologize fast enough. “Begging your pardon, Miss Nahas. It’s crude and unconscionable treatment, and you can be sure it’s not White Star policy. It’s those American laws. You wouldn’t believe the nonsense with quarantines and all they stick us with.”

“Well. If it’s all the fault of the Americans.” Myriam tosses her hair, slightly—but not entirely—appeased. “Of course, I’ll be an American soon.”

How will poor George get out of this one? I can’t help a small smile as I look at him. But the good man rallies quickly. “Then I suppose they’ll improve in a hurry, won’t they, miss?”

Instead of replying, Myriam smiles. I feel rather unnecessary, but I keep tagging along, more for mischief’s sake.

After that, he looks around a bit to make sure we won’t be witnessed, then takes us to a heavy door that brings us to the first-class section of this deck. “Can’t lead you through—more of those American regulations—but you can pass by here if you need to, Miss Davies.”

“Won’t I disturb the first-class passengers in their cabins?”

“No staterooms down here,” George says in a tone of voice that makes it clear no rich people would ride down this low, where you can feel the movement of the ship. “But special amenities for them. Like the Turkish bath.” I laugh, disbelieving. I half thought those only existed in old novels about exotic foreign lands. “Steam room and all,” he says. “Nice as any you’d find in Istanbul.”

“Have you been to Istanbul?” Myriam looks doubtful.

“Only once, Miss Nahas, and that too briefly. But I’m told by those in the know that the fittings here are the finest. Porcelain tiles, feathered fans, lounging chairs, you name it.”

“How well-traveled you are.” Myriam’s much more impressed by George than by the baths, and he actually seems to glow as he realizes it. I try not to roll my eyes.

“What else is through there?” I say, honestly wanting to know. Lord only knows whether Lady Regina or Layton will demand any of the services provided in this area.

George grins. “Want to play a game of squash?”

“Squash! On an ocean liner?” I start to laugh, and Myriam joins in; it’s both disbelief and delight. The Titanic is like its own floating world.

“Anything the heart could desire,” George swears. “And you don’t have to worry about the waves upsetting your game. See how steady she sails? We might as well be skimming over smooth glass.”

My laughter stops. “We’re already at sea?”

“Set out more than a quarter hour ago.”

“I’m late!” Good Lord, the Lisles will have been expecting me for nearly half an hour now. “I’ve got to go. Oh, blast, how do I reach the upper decks? Wait, no, I’ve got it.”

“Never fear,” he says as I use my key to open the locks that keep me out of first class. “You’ll be there in a flash.”

“Thank you!” I call behind me as I run into the first-class area of the ship. The door clangs shut. No doubt George and Myriam are perfectly happy to be left alone. Much happier than Lady Regina will be when I show up late again.

As I step into the lift, and the grated door shuts behind me, I see someone standing in the corridor—the dark figure of a man.

And in that first moment, I know it’s Mikhail.

The lift rises, erasing my old view, and I slump back against the wall to gather my breath. The lift operator, a boy a few years younger than I am, doesn’t appear to notice anything in particular. He’d have noticed a first-class passenger down there, wouldn’t he? He would have held the lift for him.

So it must have been my imagination. Mikhail wouldn’t have followed me down here.

He wouldn’t still be hunting me.

I try very hard to believe it.

Chapter 5

THE MIDAFTERNOON SUN GILDS THE DECKS OF THE ship as if it were a golden ornament instead of anything real. I would swear that the Titanicglides above the surface of the ocean, because this is as smooth and idyllic as flying is in dreams. And the ocean now looks as I always imagined it: depthless, dark blue, crowned with foamy waves—

“Tess!” barks Lady Regina. “Don’t fall behind.”

So much for daydreams.

I walk a few steps behind Lady Regina, Layton, and Irene, carrying the ladies’ shawls should they need them. Apparently travel at sea can sometimes be cold, though this afternoon is anything but. The ship is heading toward Cherbourg to pick up the final passengers. So if the ladies will stay on deck until then, I can actually glimpse a bit of the coastline of France.

I try to think of such things: pretty metaphors about the ship, or the excitement of seeing another country for the first time in my life. If I think about those things, then I don’t have to think about Mikhail. I’m in first class now, his part of the ship. He could walk by at any instant, and then I will have to know, for certain, whether it’s just my imagination or whether—whether he’s truly hunting me.

Then maybe I could tell someone, though I’m not sure who could help me. George Greene seems a kindly man, but he’d still believe a gentleman’s word above that of a servant, I’m sure. Ned, perhaps? But what could Ned do about it?

No, I’m alone in this.

Irene’s ivory-colored dress fits her well, thanks to my sewing, and the blue ribbons that gather the neck and sleeves flutter nicely in the breeze. I do wish Lady Regina had taken my advice about her daughter’s hat, though. It is wide-brimmed and high-crowned, the latest in fashion, but it overwhelms Irene’s slight frame. As fond as I am of her, I can’t help but think that she looks a bit like a mushroom. The enormous hat wobbles on her head while she animatedly talks about some excitement on deck as the Titanicleft port, an incident I missed while Myriam and I were down below.

“They say we came within four feet of colliding with the tugboat,” Irene insists. “A man on deck declared that was a bad omen. He says he will disembark at Cherbourg.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” sniffs Lady Regina. “Ahhh, look there. The Countess of Rothes. Well worth the knowing.”

Irene’s sigh is so soft that Lady Regina can pretend to ignore it. But Layton snaps, “She’s hardly any older than you, but she’s done a fair bit better for herself, wouldn’t you say? You might want to learn from her example.”

“I hope the countess married for love, not for money,” Irene says.

“She married well,” Layton says. “She kept an eye out. You might try doing the same, Irene, instead of hiding up in your library all the time.”

Sometimes I hide in the library with her; more often I go on my own. Irene promised me at Christmastime that I might borrow what books I wished, Sherlock Holmes or anything else, and if anybody in her family ever noticed them missing, she’d swear she’d insisted that I read the volume in question. It was kind of her, though we both knew there was little chance of anybody else in her family noticing a missing book. Between the three of them, I doubt they’ve ever read anything more complex than Burke’s Peerage.

“Humph. I believe those would be the Strauses.” Lady Regina’s nose crinkles as if she’s smelled something bad. “Enormously wealthy Americans. They own some store in New York City—Macy’s, they call it. I suppose that is so nobody will realize it is owned by Jews.”

I sneak another peek at the Strauses; I’ve never seen any Jewish people before, and I’m curious. They don’t look any different from anyone else. In fact, they look like a rather nice elderly couple, walking along the deck arm in arm. Lady Regina holds her head high as they pass, refusing to acknowledge them, and Layton follows suit. Irene’s cheeks turn pink at their blatant rudeness. Happily, the Strauses don’t even notice. They are deep in conversation with each other, obviously affectionate in a way the Viscount Lisle and Lady Regina haven’t been in years, if they ever were.

Lady Regina nudges Irene. “Now there are some Americans far more worthy of our acquaintance. Howard Marlowe of Marlowe Steel—quite a large concern. One of the new titans of industry in the United States. And that must be his son, Alexander. A very eligible bachelor . . . and, it seems, extremely handsome as well.”

I stop peering over my shoulder at the Strauses so I can see this handsome man for myself—and my feet suddenly seem fixed to the deck. I can’t move, can’t breathe. Because Alexander Marlowe is Alec.

Our eyes meet. His gaze is dark and devouring. Something blazes within him as he looks at me, but I can’t tell if it’s anger or desire. My breath catches in my throat.

“Mr. Marlowe!” Lady Regina trills, stepping forward with her hand outstretched. This is remarkable behavior toward a man she’s never met, particularly one who isn’t a member of the nobility. “I am Viscount Lisle’s wife, Lady Regina. So pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine, madam.” Howard Marlowe is as tall as his son, though Alec’s thick curls must have come from his mother—the father is as bald as an egg. “This is my son, Alec. He’s been studying in Paris these past two years. It will be good to see Chicago again, won’t it, son?”

“It will.” Alec turns from me, and for the first time I see a smile on his face—small and rueful, and yet a smile all the same. Somehow when he’s smiling, he’s even more beautiful. “I’ve missed being home.”

I seize on each fact as though it were another precious coin to add to my stash. His name is Alexander Marlowe. He is from Chicago. His father is a steel magnate. Although this last fact makes it even more obvious that Alec can never, ever be mine, it is something else I can know about him. Knowledge is the only thing about Alec I can ever possess.

Mr. Marlowe, his father, is all politeness to Lady Regina—but he doesn’t humble himself the way so many people do. Obviously he doesn’t care for titles; he knows what he’s worth. “And may I have the compliment of being introduced to your children?”

“My son, the Honorable Layton Lisle. My daughter, the Honorable Irene Lisle,” Lady Regina says, stepping back as though she were presenting some sort of show pony instead of her own child. Irene is always shy with strangers, but she manages to nod and smile. That would do, but Lady Regina continues, “Irene has just completed her London season, and we are eager to show her more of the world.”

“Always a fine idea,” Mr. Marlowe says.

“And we were just talking of Chicago!” I glance down at the deck, not only to keep myself from staring openly at Alec, but to prevent myself from laughing at Lady Regina’s obvious lie. “How we would love to visit that fine city.”

“Any good shooting there, what?” Layton looks nearly pleasant for a moment as he thinks of one of the few things he enjoys doing, namely blowing the heads off some ducks to make himself feel manlier. “Chicago’s rather on the wild frontier, I take it.”

Alec doesn’t respond with any of the jokes or invitations that most upper-class young men would; instead, he looks almost grave. “I don’t go in for shooting. And Chicago is no longer the western frontier.”

Mr. Marlowe shoots his son a look, perhaps a warning against rudeness, though Alec spoke reasonably enough. “Chicago is a true world city now. Even you must have heard of the Columbian Exposition! We have museums, theater, all the refinements you could wish.”

Normally I would expect Lady Regina to snort with contempt at the idea of anything in America being refined, but she’s all sunshine and light now. “You make Chicago sound most thrilling, Mr. Marlowe. If we do travel there next month, I trust we may call on you and dear Alec to introduce us to society?”

“But of course, madam. It would be my honor.” Mr. Marlowe’s smile is more stiff now, and who can blame him? Lady Regina is essentially forcing a friendship on them—and any fool can tell why. Between this and her unsubtle mention of Irene’s already having had her debut, Lady Regina’s all but announcing that she’d like Alec to consider Irene as a bride.

It stings like a thousand cuts. It stings because Lady Regina is being rude and obvious. It stings because Irene is now so exposed, so awkward, and all she wants is some nice quiet man who would actually value her goodness more than her fortune. Above all, it stings because it reminds me that Alec will belong to some rich woman somewhere, and never, ever to me.