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.
But I’m the one he’s looking at with those dark eyes.
And I’m the one he speaks to.
“You—had no more difficulties aboard?” Alec says.
My cheeks flush with warmth. “No,
