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.
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.
