By the Light of the Silvery Moon (22 page)

They made their way to the table, and he scooted the chairs close together so they sat shoulder to shoulder.

Like first class, the room was filled with people who’d come to enjoy the music. An older woman walked by, leaning heavily on the arm of a steward. It made Amelia think of her mother. She focused her eyes on the carpet just beyond the table, attempting to picture her mother’s face.

“I don’t think I mentioned it to you, but my mother used to be a stewardess,” she finally said when she realized Quentin was watching her. “Maybe she still is.” Amelia shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

“So you aren’t some well-to-do lady as I first thought after I met you on the dock.” He touched the cut on his cheek, and she could see it was healing nicely.

A giggle rose up, and her eyes widened. “You thought that?” “Yes. A ticket isn’t cheap. I had no idea your mother was working class.”

“Does it surprise you?”

“Maybe it would have yesterday, but today … No, not really.”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“I heard you talking in the hallway with one of the stewardesses,” he confessed. “She said she knew your mother.”

Tears filled her eyes, and Amelia didn’t know where they came from. It wasn’t as if she’d been dwelling on her mother continuously. She tried to quickly wipe them away. “I’m so sorry. I do not know what has come over me.”

Quentin wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. “It’s all right. You have a right to cry. It’s a sad thing to have a loss like that. I would think something was wrong if you weren’t sad.”

She nodded. Emotion filled her throat, and the words refused to come.

Quentin squeezed her shoulder. “Let me guess. Being on this ship, hardly a moment passes when you don’t think of her. When you look at the water, you wonder what your mother thought as she looked at the same view. When you see the stewards interacting with the passengers, you imagine your mother doing the same.”

She lowered her head, trying to hold in the emotion that pushed its way up from her chest. “How did you know?” she finally whispered.

“I know because I do the same thing. When I walked around my father’s estate, I would try to picture things through my mother’s eyes more than I was my own. That was one reason I had to leave. I ran from that. I entered a world completely different than hers.”

They sat there in silence for a while, each lost in his and her own thoughts. The small band played. They were good, but their music wasn’t as showy as the music in first class. The audience seemed to be enjoying themselves. They mingled more with each other. They didn’t behave as if they were competing … or jockeying to be the most important person in the room.

“My mother would be smiling to see me here,” she finally said. “What would she think of her daughter dining in first class and …” As soon as the words were out, Amelia caught her mistake.

“First class?” Quentin’s eyes narrowed. Glancing at her dress, he understood. “Were these ‘new friends’ that you had dinner with my brother … my father?”

She sat there for a moment, fiddling with the edge of a cloth napkin. Finally, she nodded. “Yes, and they are very lovely people.” The words rushed out of her mouth, as if speaking them quickly would hurt him less. “Your father told me to call him C.J. He’s really a wonderful man, Quentin.”

He balled his fists at his sides and then scooted a chair closer to her. “They’re not going to come looking for me, are they?”

She shook her head. “No.” It was the truth. She tried to calm her pounding heart with that fact.

He leaned forward. “Does my brother care about you?” Quentin’s eyebrows lifted. “I know my brother well—I have a feeling he’s extremely attracted.”

“Yes, he does care, but my feelings are not … Well, I don’t feel the same as he does.” She sighed. It was mostly the truth. Damien Walpole had stirred emotions within her she’d never felt. How could she not be enchanted by a man such as that? He was smart, handsome. Yet she couldn’t imagine spending a life with someone like him—so concerned about his social standing.

The fancy parties and social functions would be hard to stomach, too, especially when there were so many people in need. Living lavishly was such a waste. And she doubted he would understand if she wanted to spend her time assisting the poor.

“I’m glad he cares about you. You should try to return his feelings.” Quentin ran a hand down his chin. “My brother’s a good man. He’s always been there for my father. He’s made wise choices, unlike …” Quentin let his voice trail off.

“But what if I’m not interested in someone like Damien Walpole? What if my feelings lean more toward someone like … you?” Amelia covered her mouth with her hand.

Did I just say that?
Yes, she had. And it was the truth. It was Quentin she looked forward to seeing the most. He was the one who had found his way into her heart.

“That’s not a good idea,” he spouted.

She lowered her hand and pushed guilty thoughts of Mr. Chapman out of her mind, focusing instead on Quentin’s dark-eyed gaze. “I think it is.”

“Don’t you understand, Amelia? I hurt everyone I meet. I am a thief. I am a liar.” He ran a hand through his hair and narrowed his gaze on her. “In fact … if you want to know the truth, my kindness to you has simply been out of obligation.” His tone was sharp.

Her head jerked back. “Obligation?”

“Of course. You rescued me off the docks. You provided my passage. I
had
to be kind to you.”

She rubbed her hands up her arms, trying to brush away a sudden chill. “And that is it, obligation? Is that what our time together has been about?” His face was blurry through the thin film of tears in her eyes.

“Yes.” The word burst from his mouth.

Her stomach ached, and her heart did, too, yet when she looked into his face, she noticed his eyes were not as unkind as his words. In fact, they were just the opposite. “You answered too quickly. I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you’d like. I can play the part of a considerate, caring guy when I’m wearing another’s clothes. It would be easier for you to believe me—that I was no good for you—if I were wearing the rags from the dock. I am certain of that.”

“It’s the opposite. I believe the new clothes have helped what’s truly on the inside come out. I saw you just a moment ago.” She pointed to the table where the older ladies sat. “You listened and joined in conversation with those women. You didn’t need to do that. You helped that little girl, and I’m sure that most guys in first class, your brother included, would have just looked away.

“Quentin, you’re a man of honor who fell on hard times,” she continued. “For so long people saw the rags. You didn’t have the chance to show your real self. Now these clothes have given you a chance to be who you really are.”

His eyebrows narrowed. “You aren’t listening to me.”

“I did listen. I just don’t believe you.” And with that, Amelia rose. “I’ll say good night now … and tomorrow—if you want to tell me you care for me, too—I’ll be around.” She sighed, remembering that she’d be with Damien again for the evening. At least he cared about what she thought. “Yet this voyage lasts only so long, Quentin, and then I’ll be gone. Your father will be gone, too.”

Silence met Amelia as she entered their stateroom, but she could tell Aunt Neda was still awake. Her aunt had cared for her since she was a child, and they’d shared the same room for most of her life. Snoring meant Aunt Neda was asleep. Silence meant she was thinking.

“Auntie, are you waiting up for me?” Amelia teased.

“Amelia, dear, you can turn on the light. You know I am still awake. I’m curious how your time went with Mr. Walpole.”

Amelia turned on the light, and her aunt partially sat up in bed, making sure she didn’t bump her head on the overhead bunk. Aunt Neda was wearing her gown and white sleeping cap. It reminded Amelia of the illustration of Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother from her
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
book. Aunt Neda’s eyes were as big as saucers, and Amelia guessed she’d been imagining all types of romantic story lines in her mind as she waited for Amelia to return.

She told her briefly about their dinner, and then Amelia searched her mind for something interesting to tell her. The truth was, she didn’t remember much about what Damien had said. Her mind was still focused on Quentin. Her last thirty minutes with him had caused the supper with Damien to grow fuzzy in her mind.

“Oh yes. Damien did talk about Paris and the Louvre,” she remembered. “He said he greatly enjoyed
Mona Lisa.
We both agreed that we were thankful for the painting’s safe return.”

Her aunt’s eyes sparkled, and a sinking feeling came over Amelia.

“Aunt Neda. You seem excited about my date tonight, but to be honest, I thought you’d disapprove.”

“Disapprove? Why would I disapprove of you getting to know someone so handsome, so kind?”

Amelia placed a hand on her hip. “Maybe because this whole journey has been about meeting Mr. Chapman—about the possibility of me starting a life with him in America.”

Her aunt smiled. “Dear child, don’t you see? Mr. Chapman is a kind man, and perhaps God is leading you to him, but he is not the reason for all this.” She patted the bed beside her, and Amelia sat. “The reason for this journey is that you needed something to believe in, to hope for. I’ll be thrilled if you discover Mr. Chapman is for you, but I’ll be just as thrilled if you find joy with someone else. Love, my dear, isn’t often as scripted as we plan.”

“But why did you do it, Aunt? Why were you willing to sell most of what you had, pack up the rest, and come with me?”

“Child, I knew you’d never come alone. You’re too dutiful to leave an aging aunt in London with your troublesome cousin as my closest family. I do wonder how Henry’s doing.” She breathed out a sigh.

Amelia wasn’t about to allow her aunt to change the subject. The topic at hand was too important for that. “But was there ever a time you believed Mr. Chapman was the one for me?” Amelia asked.

“I do not know the answer to that, and I can’t know until you meet the man.” She smiled and patted her sleeping cap. “But what I do know is that you would never find out unless you traveled the distance and risked your heart. What if Mr. Chapman
was
the one, and you remained in the safety of what you’d always known?”

Amelia fiddled with the pearl buttons on her sleeve. “Elizabeth
does
say he’s a good man, and he does speak kindly in his letters,” trying to convince herself into having the same enthusiasm for meeting Mr. Chapman as when she started this trip.

“That’s a start. But is he a good man
for you?
Will you become all God made you to be if you join with him in marriage? And in the joining will you help him be all God made him to be?”

Amelia stared at the pattern on the carpeted floor. For so long her aunt had been the simple, caring woman who spent her days sewing in her back room. The most commentary she’d offered was what sounded good for supper or what to do about the recent trouble Henry had gotten himself into. When had her aunt—her mother’s sister-in-law—become so wise?

“I am no stranger to love,” Aunt Neda continued, as if reading Amelia’s thoughts. “You have little memory of him, but Uncle Rupert was the sparkle of my eyes, the patter of my heart. He died too young of a heart condition, but I would rather have had those fifteen years with him than more time with someone else.”

“I’m glad you had that, Aunt.” She placed a kiss on her aunt’s soft cheek. “Now, will you pray for me? Pray for God to show me who is to be the patter of my heart.”

“Of course, dear, I will continue to pray. You should know … as soon as you moved in with me as a child, I’ve been praying for that very thing. I wanted you to have what your mother never found, what many people never find because they’re too afraid to risk their hearts.”

Amelia slipped into her nightgown, and then she turned out the light, climbing into her bunk. Weariness came over her as she climbed between the cool linen sheets.

She turned to the wall, knowing on the other side of it sat Quentin. She doubted he was sleeping yet.

Outside the room, Amelia heard the murmur from the stewards and the voices of other passengers in adjoining cabins. She bit her lip, wondering if Quentin had heard her, too, when she talked to Aunt Neda. The finely constructed walls wouldn’t allow him to make out her words, but did he hear her voice? And if he did, did it bring joy, frustration, anger, or something in between?

If she could guess, his mind was on their conversation, as was hers. Even though she had told him flatly that she didn’t believe that he was a crook and a liar, deep down was there more truth to his words than she wanted to believe?

“Dear Lord,” she whispered softly, “my aunt has been praying for many years, and I join her tonight. Show me the man for me. The man you’ve designed to help me become the best me as I join with him in life.” Amelia sighed. “Oh Lord, show me which man creates the patter of my heart.”

Friday
April 12, 1912