By the Light of the Silvery Moon (38 page)

Amelia leaned her head on her aunt’s shoulder. “Some are laughing. Some are crying … but even their tears prove they are alive.” She let out a low sigh. And I believe the fact that they’re alive is proof God still has plans for their future.”

Aunt Neda offered the slightest nod.

“Aunt, we cannot let this experience take our lives—rob our hearts. The icy waters have claimed enough lives today, don’t you think? You have to hold on. You have to fight.”

Her aunt nodded again, and Amelia was sure she saw a tint of light in her eyes. Then, as if coming to life, Aunt Neda grasped her hands.

“Amelia, did you look around at everyone from the other lifeboats? Quentin wasn’t among them, was he?”

Amelia let out a low sigh. “I’m afraid I did not see him. Damien, either. Nor did I see them on the decks—with the rest of the survivors. I’m afraid they’ve both been lost.” Her words quivered, as did her chin, as she spoke.

How is C.J. handling his loss? she wondered.

Damien had been such a good companion to his father all those years. He’d given up his own pursuit of love and a family to make sure his father was not alone. And Quentin—he’d just recently been found.

Amelia covered her face with her hands. “Do you remember the last time we saw him on the deck? He made sure we were in the right line for the lifeboat, Aunt, as if he was just parting for the evening. I didn’t see him after that, nor did I see him today.” Her throat grew thick, and she tried to swallow down her sobs. Those around her had just settled down on their make-shift beds. A few had already fallen asleep, and she did not want to wake them.

“You loved him—you have to remember that, Amelia.” Her aunt took her hand and pulled it to her cheek. “Years from now you are going to look upon that time, and you are going to wonder. You are going to think that the story of how you saved him at the docks and how you fell in love with him walking the decks was just a fairy tale, just something you made up. But even if you marry and love again, a love like that deserves to be remembered.”

“But don’t you understand? I can’t … I can’t think of him ever again, because if I do, I’ll realize it’s all my fault.” She lowered her head and looked into her hands. “No matter what Quentin said, it is.”

“What’s your fault?” Aunt Neda seemed confused.

“It’s my fault he is dead. I’m the one who gave him Henry’s ticket. If I hadn’t, he’d be—“

“On the streets? Sleeping under a bridge? I’m sure if he could, he would say that God had planned it. You need not carry any blame upon yourself. He got to see his father one last time. He got to be reunited. God planned that. If ever a story of joy found in the midst of pain could be written, it would be this one.”

Amelia nodded, and she tried to tell herself her aunt’s words were true. Then, closing her eyes, she rested her head on a borrowed pillow.

“Ma’am, I have some clothes for you.” A woman approached with some clean clothes folded in her hands. Amelia had heard that the passengers of the
Carpathia
had been gathering them up for the survivors.

Amelia looked down at her dress and coat. “These are fine.” She looked to her aunt, hoping the older woman would understand. These were the last clothes she’d worn—the last Quentin had seen her in.

“Amelia, honey, a bath would be in order.” Aunt Neda cocked an eyebrow, and her gaze seemed to say,
Remember what you just told me.

Amelia nodded. She took the clothes and hurried to the bathing room. It was only as she slipped off her dress, preparing to take a bath, that she noticed a piece of paper inside her coat’s pocket. “What is this?”

With trembling fingers, she lifted it out. Opening the paper she saw that it was signed by Quentin and it bore Saturday’s date. Had he tucked it in there last night when he’d been straightening her coat?

The letter ended there, and a gasp escaped Amelia’s lips. She bathed quickly, dressed in borrowed clothes, and then hurried to her bed.

She curled against the pillow and pulled the blanket under her chin. It was then she heard Aunt Neda’s whispered words. Her aunt was praying—for Amelia—for the other survivors. Finally, after a night of heartache, Amelia found herself falling asleep. If she could dream of Quentin alive—that would be enough for tonight.

April 18,
1912 New York City

A
melia stood at the deck. Even though she entered New York in a manner she hadn’t expected, she yearned to see the city lights. The land. As the lights of the city filled the horizon, she had a strange longing for Southampton. Would she ever enter its harbor again?

A flotilla of small craft circled the larger ship, and Amelia placed a hand over her mouth, worried the small boats would be run over by the
Carpathia.
Men in suits and hats—whom she assumed were reporters—shouted questions. The intensity in their gazes and the gloom of the evening light caused a shiver to move from her neck to the base of her spine. Magnesium flares and flashes from photographers’ bulbs brought back memories of the emergency flares from
Titanic,
and in an instant, scenes from that dreadful night played through her mind once again.

Amelia watched in horror as a pilot ship neared and more reporters attempted to climb
Carpathia
‘s side, but
Carpathia
didn’t slow. C.J. stood at the deck rails, also looking at the lights of the city. He glanced at her and then glanced away. She could tell from his eyes he didn’t want to engage her with words. His eyes said he wanted space to mourn. She didn’t blame him. She imagined that seeing her brought him too many memories.

The wind picked up, and rain started to fall. Thunder rolled through the sky, and Amelia moved back inside to where Aunt Neda waited. C.J. remained outside, the rain washing away his tears.

They continued on through the bay, and with each minute that passed, weariness overtook her. The loss she carried was great. The worry of what waited pressed. The memories. Oh, the memories.

The cries and tears of fellow passengers over the ocean miles had sapped her energy and tired her soul. She wanted to be alone—to have a quiet place to think and pray, but if the reporters in the boats were any indication of what was to come, that wouldn’t be the case.

As the ship continued on, they outdistanced the newspaper boats till only open harbor stretched ahead.

Aunt Neda pointed. “Look.”

Amelia watched a flash of lightning illuminate the Statue of Liberty. Soon the statue, too, was behind them, and they parked at the White Star Line pier. She watched as the lifeboats from the
Titanic
were lowered into the water to be towed away by another ship. She thought she and the other passengers would disembark there, but instead they continued on farther. It was then Amelia noticed the crowds.

A mass of men and women stood behind portable wood fences as misty rain fell on their heads. All those people had come for them. Was Mr. Chapman among them? Did he know she was alive? He would be relieved to know she was, but what filled her wasn’t relief.

Suddenly the idea of trying to make conversation with a stranger seemed overwhelming. Surely he’d understand that it would take time before she would be ready to open up. Tears filled her eyes. What she couldn’t tell him, what she was sure she’d never tell anyone, was how quickly she’d fallen in love with another. And no matter what she did, she could not change things. That love would be forever lost.

Finally, the gangway was lowered, and Aunt Neda took her hand. Without a word, they descended, Amelia wearing the thin dress she’d been given by a kind passenger with her coat over the top. Quentin’s letter was in her pocket. Her aunt wore the same dress and coat she’d been wearing since she’d climbed into the lifeboat. Tears flowed from the faces of those who waited.

Cries of joy gave evidence of many happy reunions. Amelia was pulled into numerous hugs as strangers welcomed her, welcomed them.

Amelia searched the faces, looking for Elizabeth. She had yet to see a photograph of Mr. Chapman, but still she searched men’s faces for any sign of recognition. At the street, a line of cars waited.

As they reached the pier’s front entrance, spotlights lit their walk down the gangway, and the clamor of dozens of reporters filled the air. Explosions of photographers’ magnesium flares caused her to wince, and Amelia continued to search the crowds for a familiar face.

As they waited, Bruce Ismay parted through the crowd and climbed into a waiting automobile. Mrs. John Jacob Astor crumpled into the arms of a young man who led her to another waiting automobile.

“Her husband went down with the ship. He helped women and children into the lifeboats,” she heard one passenger telling the press. “John Jacob Astor is a hero.”

She smiled slightly, remembering the man’s conversation with C.J. Walpole.

“Today is a new day, a day to make a difference, to do what’s right,” Mr. Walpole had told him. Perhaps that declaration had been on John Jacob’s mind as he chose not to save his own life, but to put others first. No one would ever know for sure, but at least in the man’s death he’d have more honor than when he still lived.

Other families were reunited, and most of the reunions were met with tears as mothers climbed into waiting cars with their children, their fathers nowhere in sight.

When Amelia scanned the line of cars again, a door opened and a tall, thin woman jumped out.

“Mother! Amelia!” Elizabeth approached with hurried steps. She pushed past the wooden fencing and pulled them both into a tight hug.

“Is Len here?” Aunt Neda peered over Elizabeth’s shoulders.

“There wasn’t room in the auto, so Len is waiting at the hotel. Mr. Chapman’s cook, Betsie, is waiting there, too. And, Amelia …” Elizabeth offered a soft smile, “Mr. Chapman is here. It was his auto we drove up from New Haven.”

Elizabeth ushered them toward the car. A man stepped out of the vehicle. His face was a mix of sadness and excitement. He was a giant of a man with broad shoulders and thick blond hair with hints of gray at the temples. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to. His gaze was filled with compassion, and she noted tears in the corners of his eyes.

Her tongue felt thick and her throat tight. She assumed on any other occasion she would appreciate meeting Mr. Chapman, but at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn and hurry back to the waters of the bay. To look into the darkness that lapped against the dock and peer into the depths. She wanted to speak into the water and remind Quentin of her love, but it was too late. It would forever be too late.

“Amelia?” Mr. Chapman said, a hint of German accent highlighting her name.

“Yes.” She extended her hand. “I am Amelia.”

He smiled. “And I am Earl. Earl Chapman.”

Behind Earl’s shoulder an ambulance pulled up and two men in uniforms hurried out of it. The medical bag that one of the men carried read, S
T
. V
INCENT
’
S
H
OSPITAL
.

She moved toward the open door of the car, and just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw two stewards from
Carpathia
carrying a man on a stretcher into the ambulance. His face was turned away from her, but his dark, rumpled hair, his ear, and even his neck looked familiar. Her heart pounded, and she took a step in that direction.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and Amelia turned to face her aunt.

“Sweet Amelia,” Aunt Neda’s words came out heavy with emotion. “It’s not him, my dear, although we both wish it was so.”

She turned back to Earl and took in his thick eyebrows and the way his light hair curled at the base of his neck. Tiny beads of perspiration formed on his brow, and he studied her, a pleasant smile touching his lips. “We should get you back to the hotel. You need rest. It’s—” He paused. “It’s been a hard journey.”