By the Light of the Silvery Moon (13 page)

Damien guided his father down the grand staircase beneath the opulent, white-enameled, wrought-iron skylight on A deck and descended through the four decks to the first-class dining room entrance on D deck. The expanse of the dining room ran the full width of the hull. He took in the spotless white linen tablecloths, crystal and silver stretching in each direction. Fresh flowers and fruit baskets decorated the tables. A dining steward led them to one of the recessed bays, which allowed small parties to dine in privacy. It was only as they neared that Damien saw the beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting at their table.

“I asked your father if I could join you tonight. I hope you don’t mind.” Dorothea’s red lips curled upward in a smile. She wore a red dress with a black lace shawl that swooped up to one shoulder and was pinned with a jeweled rose. Rubies and emeralds and diamonds sparkled from the pin—and so did the interest in her eyes.

“No, of course I don’t mind.” Damien forced a smile. He turned to his father but noticed the older man was lost in his thoughts. Father no doubt was thinking about the blond woman they’d met in the library. The woman who’d mentioned Quentin. The lady’s beautiful face was still fresh in his own mind. She had perfect features and wide blue eyes. She’d worn the same flowing yellow dress she’d worn earlier, and the shawl about her shoulders gave her a special naïveté. He wanted to be angry with the woman for bringing up his brother’s name, for stirring up hope in his father’s eyes, but instead he was more intrigued. It was obvious Amelia hadn’t known his brother very well or for very long. Her surprised innocence proved that fact.

The dining room steward pulled out a chair decorated in French fleurs-de-lis.

“Your mother would like these chairs,” his father proclaimed, speaking of her as if only a few weeks had passed since her death and not nearly twenty years.

Dorothea sat, smoothing the skirt of her dress and touching her wide-brimmed hat that was decorated with bows and flowers, ensuring the arrangement was still in place. “I do think the chairs are exquisite. I was telling my mother just today it would be lovely if we could find something similar for our dining room back home.”

“Which dining room?” Damien lifted an eyebrow. Dorothea’s family owned three homes in New York and Maryland alone.

“Oh, Damien, you’re such a kidder. That’s why I love you so. The home nearest to yours, of course. You’ve known all along that’s the home that matters most to me.”

Dorothea took a breath and continued on, without even giving him a chance to respond. “I’ve been eager to see you again. The weeks in Paris couldn’t pass fast enough. My mother was intent on acquiring new art for our homes, and she dragged me through gallery after gallery. The only highlights were the shops we visited … have you heard of Paul Pioret?”

Damien cocked an eyebrow. “I can’t say I have.”

“Really? That’s unbelievable. Mother says his contributions to fashion are equal to Monet’s contributions to art. In fact, while we were there, a famous photographer came and took photos of gowns designed by Poiret. My mother says I would have done a better job than the models did, but that is of no consequence. They will be published this month in the magazine
Art et Décoration
.”

Damien nodded as she spoke. It was no secret that Dorothea’s mother considered him husband material for her daughter, but as he sat there, he tried to imagine spending the next five, ten, twenty years having to talk about designers and magazine spreads. Just thinking of it, he already felt the tension tightening in his chest. No wonder all the men he knew retired to smoking rooms after supper. Every man needed peace from such chatter.

“The whole time I was away, I thought of you and our last time together.” She leaned close and whispered so his father wouldn’t hear. “I’d never been kissed like that night in the center of Times Square. A thousand people could have been walking by us, and I would not have known.”

Damien smiled at that memory. He did enjoy Dorothea’s kisses. They always had that.

The seven-course evening meal was of higher quality than he expected. Virginia and Cumberland ham, baked jacket potatoes, even corned ox tongue—something he’d only seen in the finest restaurants.

As the meal continued—courses being brought out one by one—he and Dorothea chatted about their vacations and the grandeur of the ship, and by the way she stirred her soup until it was cold, he could tell she was disappointed that the romantic fire that was usually between them wasn’t even a flicker.

The scene that played out was no different from a hundred other similar events he participated in through the year. Women wore their finest new gowns, men wore evening suits, and some couples even found their way to the dance floor.

Dorothea leaned forward and grasped his hand. “Do you care to dance?”

Damien lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “To be honest, my dear, I’m not in the mood tonight. There was a strange woman, you see, who found us in the first-class reading and writing room. She called out to me, but not by my name. She called out the name, ‘Quentin.’”

Dorothea gasped, and from the corner of his eye, Damien noticed his father lower his head.

She dabbed her linen napkin to the corners of her lips and leaned even closer. “How does this woman know Quentin? Did she say?”

His father lifted his head and met Dorothea’s gaze, answering for his son. “She did not. I believe she was as much surprised by the meeting as we were. She thought Damien was Quentin—you know how much my sons look alike.”

“Yes, I remember well.” Dorothea smirked. “Of course I was always one who thought Damien to be the most handsome of the two.” She squeezed his hand tighter.

His father turned his attention to the orchestra that was launching into another number. Seeing she once again had Damien’s full attention, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“Damien, if you’d like, we can go back to my stateroom. Mother and Father are most likely in bed. We have a private promenade deck. I thought we could enjoy more privacy—enjoy catching up.”

“As much as I’d like to, darling, can I pass on your invitation tonight? You’ve noticed my father is out of sorts. After a brief stop at the smoking room, I’m going to make sure he gets to bed. He’ll get lost in these passageways if he tries to find the way himself.”

“I understand. He always seems shaken up with matters that concern your brother.” She leaned closer so her voice could be heard by him alone. “I feel badly. Did the woman have any more details about Quentin?”

He noticed something in her eyes—a piqued interest. She wanted him to tell her a tidbit of information no one else knew. Not because she cared, though. She wanted to tickle the ears of the other women who gathered in the lounge with her inside knowledge.

“I’m sorry, dear,” he stated simply. “If I am to find out anything else, you’ll be the first to know.”

When Dorothea excused herself, Damien retired with his father to the first-class smoking room, located on the promenade deck. Leaded glass panels had been inset into carved mahogany-paneled walls. Massive leather armchairs sat beside marble-top tables, but as Damien looked around the room, being there held little appeal. He’d sat with these same men—or others like them—and discussed the same topics: travel, music, art, politics. He’d served his father faithfully, yet he couldn’t imagine bearing one more night. More than that, he couldn’t get his mind off that woman in the yellow dress.

He strode through the groups of men dressed in silk waistcoats, oxford shoes, gold watch chains. At their command, railroads were laid, news was printed, new factories were built—old ones torn down. As he sat he knew he’d not be able to handle one more story of conquest, so he told his father he was going to listen to the orchestra. Once in the lounge, he pulled up a chair and watched the musicians, but his thoughts weren’t on the lively tunes.

Damien couldn’t get Amelia off his mind. Her beauty interested him from the first moment he saw her. And her lack of awe over those in first class intrigued him even more. She was nervous in the library, but she didn’t look at the men and women there with wide-eyed wonder. He liked that. He liked her. And more than that—he had to know what type of involvement the woman had with his brother.

Clarence Walpole didn’t wait for Damien to return from the lounge. Instead it was Arnold who had found him and walked him back to his room.

The opulent stateroom was quiet as he entered. His butler had turned down his bed, laid out his sleeping garments, and retired to his own room. Clarence was glad for that. He could barely make it to his private bedroom before he dropped down to his knees.

He folded his hands in front of him and placed them on the silky bedspread. The tears came, and a groan escaped his lips. His groan was a prayer.

Clarence had told God he’d wanted just a word about Quentin, to know that he was well. He’d prayed the same thing for months, and what had the young woman said?

I’ve seen him recently. He’s doing well. He’s gone through hard times, but he’s doing better now.

He leaned forward so his forehead rested on his fists, and he uttered thanksgiving to God. After that he prayed he’d have a chance to talk to the young woman again. And that God would put it on her heart to tell him Quentin’s whereabouts. Yes, they were on their way back to America, but he could get off the ship in Ireland. They’d be docking in Queenstown tomorrow. He could disembark, return to London, and find his son.

Clarence rose with new energy in his movements. He moved to the bureau and began to pack the things his butler had already hung out. He could use his help, but he could also go alone. If Damien argued, Damien could stay on the ship, too.

Clarence decided then that he’d find the young woman first thing in the morning and do whatever it took to enlist Amelia’s help. All he knew was he didn’t want to return to America if there was even a slim chance of finding Quentin.

April 11,
1912 Thursday

Q
uentin struggled for breath as his mind clawed for wakefulness. Perhaps it was the ever-present vibration of the engines that had caused him to dream about the trains again. The trains that carried away all he’d loved on golden tracks.

He remembered the first time he’d climbed aboard the large black engine. He’d been allowed to sit up front on the conductor’s knee. His mother’s laughter remained even more prominent in his mind than the sound of the engine. He guessed it had been loud—trains always were—but it was her joy that had made him so happy. She’d been depressed all their months in London. His father had sent them there to stay with her family while his business flourished in America and a home was being built for them in Maryland. His father had wished for his wife to see their home complete—to not have to worry about its construction. Finally, the time had come when he’d sent for them.

Quentin didn’t remember the passage across the ocean as much as he remembered his first ride on the train. His father had invested in a raw materials business that provided steel and wood to feed the hungry railroad tycoons like James J. Hill, whose Great Northern Railroad controlled the northwest part of the country. His investment had paid off. The fine home with the pond in the back was proof of that.

Another woman filled his mind, too, one who had some of the same qualities as his mother. Or at least the qualities he remembered most. But what had happened after they parted? Why hadn’t she answered the door? He’d heard her inside. He’d heard the rustling of papers. Was she angry with him for not coming to supper? Had Amelia finally realized the type of man he was?

He imagined her aunt talking to her, bringing her around to the truth that he was a scoundrel. Her aunt hadn’t been happy to see him. She’d seen through the facade to who he really was.

He walked to the mahogany bureau and opened the top drawer. His filthy rags lay bunched in the corner of the room. They were not worth saving, but the one thing he’d carried in his pocket the last five years—and all the years before that—was worth … everything. Quentin pulled the pearl necklace from the drawer and turned it over in his fingers. No matter how hungry he’d been. No matter how desperate for the drink and some company found seated upon the barstool of a London pub, he’d never been desperate enough to consider selling it.

A shiver moved down his spine when he remembered finding it in his clutched fingers as his mother lay dead on the grass. His father hadn’t questioned what had happened to the necklace. And Quentin had never revealed that he had it hidden away. Since that time, he’d carried it around to remember—remember that it was his foolishness that caused her death. He’d looked at it again, remembering that his life had been an unworthy one to risk hers for—his last five years had confirmed that fact.

Fingering the pearls, he told himself he needed to stay away from Amelia. Remaining in her life would lead to her destruction, too, but he couldn’t keep his mind off her. He’d walked away from most good things in the last five years. His heart begged him to hold on to her friendship. Last night she’d refused to talk to him, but maybe today would be different.