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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 (#u8c0857c3-555f-5905-b0d4-05fecd7554af)
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.
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?”
