By the Light of the Silvery Moon (4 page)

Quentin stepped back out onto the deck. A woman nearly walked into him. Her face was white, and she gripped a blue shawl around her shoulders. She had dark hair and a touch of gray at her temples. She longingly looked at the gangplank that would take her safely back to land.

“I have a bad feeling about this. A bad feeling,” she muttered under her breath.

“There is no need to worry, ma’am.” A red-haired deckhand cocked his chin and spoke as if he’d built the ship with his own two hands. “
Titanic
has been inspected bow to stern and declared man’s finest creation. God himself cannot sink this ship.”

Quentin smirked as he heard the man’s words. He’d thrown more than enough boasting words into God’s face—and look where it had brought him. Yet while he shook his head, the woman stopped her pacing, relieved.

Quentin scanned the sea of men in suits, women in fine hats, and children who wove in and out of the flow of bodies with their parents’ calls nipping at their heels.

When he didn’t see the woman, he strolled along the second-class promenade deck, walking in step with the orchestra playing festive ragtime tunes that welcomed those who continued to board.

He’d seen the advertisements—T
ITANIC
, S
HIP OF
D
REAMS
. To him it wasn’t the ship that was so impressive but the fact he was on it. Being gifted the ticket was his first piece of good luck in years, and that was why he’d decided to risk walking the decks. The more he thought about hiding away, the more he felt drawn to walk boldly in his borrowed clothes. No one here would know him. From the moment he stepped out of his room, clean and shaven, he had presented himself as if the last two years on the streets hadn’t happened.

He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin slightly higher. Many people looked his way, and with each glance he battled the urge to look away. He wasn’t used to people looking at him, smiling. Over the last two years, most had ignored him or had looked the other way. Some had even paused their steps, turned, and walked the other direction if he was in their path. It was amazing what a bath, haircut, and a shave could do. He ran a hand down the smooth skin of his cheek, thankful that a shaving kit and scissors had been packed in the suitcase.

Quentin didn’t see the woman anywhere, so instead he turned his attention to an arriving boat in the harbor. As he watched, a long line of people departed the luxury boat ferry and boarded the
Titanic.
Color drained from his face as he recognized many in the group—Isidor Straus, owner of Macy’s department store and former congressman of New York, and his wife, Ida. Major Archibald Butt, military aid to President Taft, and Colonel Archibald Gracie. Each of them Quentin had dined with, knew personally, not just as figureheads. Of course, that had been then—in his old life.

As more of the world’s wealthiest men and women boarded the
Titanic,
Quentin stepped into the shadows. Even though he knew none of them could recognize him at this distance, he didn’t want to take the chance. Of course, even if they thought he looked familiar, they would never expect him in these handmade clothes or on the second-class deck. They’d expect him to be in first class, mingling and strolling the decks with a beautiful woman on his arm. Here, now, the only beautiful woman he cared about was his angel of mercy, and she’d seen him at his worst.

He lowered his head as he imagined what she thought of him—his ragged attire, his unkempt hair, his stench. She was thoughtful enough to provide him with passage, and perhaps she would sit with him at a meal—as she’d written in the note—but he knew nothing would come of it beyond that. Why would someone so wonderful and kind be attracted to a man who couldn’t even provide a roof over his own head or bread for his table? A man who’d tried to sneak onto the ship and had been dragged off in shame. She wouldn’t be interested, and that was that.

A fellow second-class passenger, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, approached, gripping Quentin’s arm as if coming upon an old friend. “Sir, you wouldn’t believe my luck. I was ticketed for the
Olympic,
but because of the coal workers’ strike, my ship was canceled and I was transferred here. My ma breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been worried about the dangers of crossing the ocean but was pleased when I told her I’d be on the
Titanic.
This ship, they say, is unsinkable.”

Unsinkable.
That’s what he’d thought about his life up until two years ago.

Quentin blew out a slow breath. It was easy to make claims, to have a vision, but few things were as perfect as they seemed. “I’m not sure any ship is unsinkable.”

The man cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, well, let’s not test that. I’m excited to get to America again.”

“Again?” Quentin asked.

“My sister and I visited America six years ago. She stayed, so I visited her three years later. She’s living in Minnesota now. It’s there I have a job as a horse trainer.”

Quentin nodded. How long had it been since he’d had a simple conversation with an average citizen? “It’s easier to work with wild horses than people—that would be my guess.”

“Precisely.” A chuckle split the man’s lips. He extended his hand. “Charles Bainbrigge from Guernsey.”

Quentin nodded, gripping the man’s hand in a tight handshake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Que—” He cleared his throat. “I’m Henry Gladstone.”

“How about you, Henry?” the man asked. “Is this your first trip to America?”

Quentin tucked his hands into his pant pockets and leaned back against the deck’s rail. “I was born there, actually.”

“Sure enough, gov’nor, I can hear your American accent now. Have you been in England long?”

“Five years. Five long, long years. I left my father’s home and moved to London to start my own business when I was only twenty-one. But we don’t need to talk about that. Tell me, can you tell a horse is wild just by looking at him? Or is there something you see in his eyes?”

The man cocked an eyebrow. “All horses are wild to some extent. The key to taming them is being mindful of the present moment. It does no good to approach the beast with an agenda. He’ll see you coming from a mile down the road. Instead, accept him for who he is. Then gently lead him in a way that shows how he can be different.”

“Seems like good advice, and not only for our animal friends.”

“That be right, gov’nor. There’s truth in that. I feel like a wild stallion at times, and the more I have friends who push for their way … the more I want my own.”

The man continued on, talking about the unruly temperament of the last horse he’d trained. And as he talked about the importance of not getting angry or frustrated with a horse since it just made matters worse, Quentin’s mind wandered.

It seemed one hundred years ago that he’d traveled from his father’s estate in Maryland to Europe. If his father could find such success in America, Quentin had been sure he could replicate it in London, England, The Square Mile. For a time it had worked. His steel supply business flourished. Everything he’d set his hand to had succeeded. Then—not weeks after his twenty-fourth birthday—everything changed. An English competitor came in, and most of Quentin’s customers turned to that man for their supplies. Lavish living took all that remained of Quentin’s wealth. Within months he went from having everything to having nothing at all.

He lowered his head, not wanting to think about how far he’d fallen after that—lower than he ever thought possible. Did things. Unimaginable things.

Charles finished his story and then hurried on to talk to the next passenger who dared to make eye contact. As Charles moved on, Quentin turned to the rail, noticing the ships’ guests were now departing the gangplank. Wistful looks radiated from their faces, and he still could not believe he wouldn’t be one of the thousands watching the
Titanic
sail away. Instead he’d be waving to them from the rails. A simple slip of paper Quentin carried in his waistcoat pocket told him he could remain. He took it out and looked at it, reading the name again: H
ENRY
G
LADSTONE
. If going by another identity offered a chance to start a new life in his homeland, then Henry Gladstone he would be.

Amelia stepped into the narrow hallway just outside their stateroom, smoothing the soft fabric of the yellow dress her aunt had sewn for the voyage. She looked to the door of the room next to her, wondering if the man from the dock was there. She had yet to get his name. She also hadn’t told her aunt of the gift. She wouldn’t understand that Amelia had given her cousin’s passage to a beggar and drifter. In fact, there was much Amelia did that she didn’t reveal to her aunt. Sometimes safety, Aunt Neda believed, was more important than helping people.

Should she knock on the man’s door, just to check on him? She raised her hand to knock, but an excited gasp from behind her caused her to pause. She turned to see a dark-haired woman who looked to be her age. The woman’s cheeks glowed pink, and she hugged her arms as if trying to hold in her excitement.

Amelia turned, and the woman paused before her.

“Can you believe this? Such an amazing ship!”

The woman’s excitement was contagious, and laughter slipped from Amelia’s lips. “I just unpacked. I’m off to explore the second-class promenade.”

“Second class? Haven’t you heard? The first-class decks are open to us until we launch.” The woman wore a simple dress and clutched a book to her chest. “My husband, poor dear, has a headache and told me to go ahead without him. I was heading up to the deck to read, and then I heard about the chance to explore. Care to walk up with me to first class and look around?”

“Yes, wonderful.” She extended her hand. “My name is Amelia.”

“And I’m Ethel Beane. My husband is Edward. We were married just a few days ago.”

“So is this your first time on a ship?” Amelia asked.

“It is for me, but Mr. Beane has made the journey several times.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you traveling alone, Amelia?”

“Oh no, my aunt is with me. We were awoken early with news that my cousin wouldn’t be joining us…. It overwhelmed her. Aunt Neda told me she needed to rest—to calm herself.”

Following the crowd, they walked down various passageways to a grand staircase that led to the first-class promenade. On the top of the grand staircase, a glass dome cast muted light down the stairs. A cherub lamp guarded the way, and a carved clock displayed the time. Eleven twenty-six, it read, just over thirty minutes until the launch.

They walked side by side as they took in the dining area with white walls and oak furniture. They gazed at the books in the library, and Ethel placed down Edward’s tattered book and picked up one from the bookshelf. She held it in her hands, exclaiming over the leather cover and pristine paper. Yet even the beautiful books couldn’t keep them from further exploring. They walked from room to room, exclaiming over each one.

Amelia’s favorite room was the Verandah Café, decorated in modern “Art Nouveau” style. Their eyes grew wide as they viewed the swimming pool, gymnasium, and squash court. It seemed to Amelia one could live a year on this ship and not be lacking for luxury.

Two men in fine suits approached and eyed them boldly. Heat rose to Amelia’s cheeks, and if she had been carrying a fan, she would have covered her face with it. The men smiled at her reaction, and though they continued walking, their gazes lingered as they passed.

“I am married, but maybe we should stop and make introductions,” Ethel said a little too loudly for Amelia’s comfort.

The men turned and smiled, but instead of pausing, Amelia hurried her pace.

“Please, I am not looking for romance upon this ship.” Amelia smoothed the soft fabric of her yellow dress. Her shoes clicked on the polished floors, and she forced herself not to look back.

“Do you have a suitor?” Ethel tucked her shoulder closer to Amelia’s as they walked, as if they’d been dear friends their entire lives.

“I do … of sorts. Nothing we have written in our correspondence has made it official, but I have a dear friend named Mr. Chapman who lives in America. We enjoy each other’s company through letters, and he suggested that my moving there would make it possible for us to strengthen our friendship face-to-face. And also to see if our friendship could lead to … more.” The last word dropped from her lips like a loosened rose petal. “He even paid for the passage for my aunt and me.” Amelia failed to mention that he’d paid for her cousin’s passage, too, and that another man—a beggar no less—now occupied that room.

“Is he handsome, your Mr. Chapman?” Ethel asked.

Amelia conjured up an image in her mind. As she’d read the letters, she pictured a tall, dark-haired man with broad shoulders, but unfortunately, Elizabeth had commented little about his appearance. Mr. Chapman had spoken nothing of his looks within the letters, and Amelia had been too shy to ask.

“Handsome? I have yet to see a photograph, but I am certain he is. He is a businessman and also highly respected in his community.”
Looks aren’t everything,
she’d decided. What mattered more than a man’s chiseled jaw or handsome eyes was a giving and caring heart, which Mr. Chapman seemed to possess.