Fateful (22 page)

“For me?” I don’t know anyone wealthy enough to send me a Marconigram, at least not anyone who isn’t on this ship. It must be a mistake, but I don’t feel like sorting it out right now. Instead I ball it in my hand and nod at George, who tiredly walks off, no doubt headed to the ship’s doctor.

As soon as we’re alone, I say, “How could you do such a thing? Hurt Mr. Marlowe, let Alec out without caring about the consequences?”

“How could I not?” Mikhail pulls out one of his cigars and smiles, as relaxed as if he were enjoying brandy with the other millionaires in the grand dining hall. “Mr. Marlowe, you and your son still fail to understand the risks of your situation. As long as Alec is not initiated into the Brotherhood, he must change every night. As long as he changes every night, he is a danger to himself and to others.”

“Only because you turned him loose,” Mr. Marlowe retorts. “We took precautions, dammit.”

“Did you not take precautions the night of Gabrielle Dumont’s death?” Mikhail replies.

I jump in. “Alec didn’t kill Gabrielle. You did. You set him loose to make him think he killed her. You threw me at him to try to make him kill me.”

Mikhail rolls his cigar between two fingers, leering at me as though every word I say pleases him. “And tonight he killed a man, did he not?”

Silence. Neither Mr. Marlowe nor I can answer. Alec would rather have died than done that.

“It’s like they always say in English: The third time’s the charm.” Mikhail steps closer to Alec’s father. It’s as if I no longer exist. “If your son joins us, he regains control over his nature. Over his destiny. He will gain allies throughout the world who will never desert him. And for such a small price! All Alec needs to give us is the loyalty we would give him in return. Along with a percentage of Marlowe Steel’s profits, of course, and the use of your considerable personal influence. But is that too much to pay for your son’s safety and happiness? Consider our offer, Mr. Marlowe. Talk to your son. Get him to see reason before it’s too late.”

With that, Mikhail saunters off into the night.

Mr. Marlowe walks silently with me back into the ship. Once we’re alone again, I say, “You mustn’t listen to Mikhail. You know they’d own Alec forever afterward.”

“It’s not my decision to make.” His voice is hollow. “Alec alone must make that choice.”

“But he listens to you—he loves you so much. Don’t lead him astray.” I want badly to tell Mr. Marlowe about the Initiation Blade, but if he breaks now—if he tells Mikhail about it and tries to bargain with it behind our backs—what little power it’s given us will be lost. “Please, sir. You’re hurt. You’re shaken. Anyone would be. Go to sleep now and think on it in the morning.”

“I’ll sleep after they’ve brought Alec back to my cabin.” He rouses himself from his stupor enough to pat my hand. “Thank you, Miss Davies. For everything. But now you—you had better get some rest.”

“Sir—” But he’s walking away from me now. I can influence him no more.

I hurry back to my cabin. The efficiency of the
Titanic
crew can’t be denied; the blood has already been mopped from the floor of the corridor, and the walls have been washed back to a gleaming white. The poor dead steward is—where, I wonder? Down in the hold? Already buried at sea? Tomorrow morning, half the people who witnessed this madness will think they merely had a bad dream.

Myriam is in the other half. As soon as I open the door, hoping to tiptoe in, she launches herself off the bunk and grabs my hand. “We have to talk,” she whispers as she propels me down the hallway toward the women’s toilet facilities.
“Now.”

The third-class women on this deck share washing facilities, with many WCs, many sinks, and an entire wall of shower stalls in one great white room. Dozens of us all use it together, which some seem to consider a hardship. At Moorcliffe, I’ve only got my chamber pot, so it seems nice enough to me. So late is the hour that Myriam and I are alone in the white-tiled space.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her. The hem of her nightshirt is too short for her statuesque frame, revealing quite a lot of leg. “And how it concerns you. No stories. Tell me.”

I know I should lie, but I’m too exhausted to come up with anything. So I blurt it out—the whole truth, about Alec, the Brotherhood, Mikhail, Gabrielle, werewolves, everything. What does it matter if I say it out loud? It’s not as though Myriam would ever believe me. The only danger is that she’ll now believe I’m completely mad.

Once I’ve finished, Myriam blinks once, then says, “I believe you.”

“What?” She’s not even all that surprised. “Do they have legends about werewolves in Lebanon or something? Do you know about them?”

“There are stories, which I thought ridiculous until now,” she snaps. “But you are not imaginative enough to invent such details on your own.”

I want to argue with her about my imagination, but if she believes me, I had better leave well enough alone. “Well, it’s all true. Myriam, what are we going to do? How can Alec get out of this?”

She holds up one hand. “Alec is a good man, and I know you care for him. But this is his burden. Not yours, not unless you take it on yourself. Tess, walk away from this. At best you will be hurt when he leaves you—and you know he must, don’t you? More now than ever before, now that this man has been killed. At worst, you could be the next one to die. Have nothing else to do with him.”

“I can’t. I know you’re right, Myriam, but—I can’t.”

“You are a fool,” she says, but almost tenderly.

“Tell no one.” I put force into my words; this is important. “It’s dangerous for you to know this.”

“As if I would tell anyone this. I do not want my first stop in America to be the nearest lunatic asylum.”

Exhausted and shaken, I want to wipe my eyes with my handkerchief, but that’s not what’s crumpled in my hand, is it? That’s the Marconigram, the one that can’t be for me. As Myriam watches me, equally puzzled, I unfold the bloodstained paper and see my name. Could there be another Tess Davies on board?

But as I read on, I realize this really is for me. A blade of pure terror shoves its way into my chest.

TESS I GOT CUT UP IN THE STREET TODAY. THESE MEN GRABBED AT ME AND CUT A SHAPE IN MY PALM LIKE A Y. IT BLED SOMETHING AWFUL BUT I’VE BANDAGED IT. THEN THEY GAVE ME MONEY AND SAID I WAS TO WIRE YOU. I’M MEANT TO TELL YOU THAT IF THE COUNT GIVES THE WORD, THEY’LL FIND ME AGAIN AND CUT MORE THAN MY HAND. WHAT DOES IT MEAN, TESS? ARTHUR IS TAKING MATTHEW AND ME TO HIS MUM’S NEVER FEAR. I AM SCARED FOR YOU AND WHATEVER YOU’RE MIXED UP IN GET OUT OF IT. WRITE ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS. I LOVE YOU. DAISY.

The Y shape must be the one I recognize from the Initiation Blade. The symbol of the Brotherhood.

Chapter 19

APRIL 14, 1912

They found my sister. They could kill my sister, and they will if Mikhail says the word.

I try not to think about it, but that just brings up another horrible image: the dead steward last night, lying in a pool of his own blood. Alec must be in such pain right now; I know his father told him the truth.

“Ow,” Irene whines as the hairbrush hits a tangle. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me when I pull your hair.” I try to bring my mind back to what I’m doing. There’s nothing I can do for Daisy now, nor for Alec, and I won’t get a spare moment to see him or ask how we can help Daisy any sooner by dragging and daydreaming through my work.

Irene’s “mystery illness” vanished last night after an enormous row between her and her mother; I wasn’t here, but both Ned and Mrs. Horne have whispered the news to me. As Mrs. Horne tells it, Irene’s an ungrateful girl who doesn’t understand the opportunities Lady Regina provides for her. As Ned tells it, Lady Regina’s so cruel to Irene that it’s all he can do to stick to his duty instead of telling the old cow off. I know which version I believe. Irene must not be able to bear the haranguing any longer, because she’s up early today and prepared to look her best.

But she looks as pale and weak as if she truly were ill. Her eyes don’t even focus on her reflection in the mirror. I venture, “Are you sure you’re all right, miss?”

“No.” She puts her head in one hand, and I realize she’s about to cry.

“Oh, Miss Irene. Don’t be sad.” I sit next to her on the little bench and put an arm around her. Normally she pulls herself together quickly enough, but this time she rests her head on my shoulder, and I can feel hot tears soaking through the sleeve of my uniform.

“I’ve got to get married,” she says, as if it were a death sentence. “Mother wants me married before the year is out. Soon as we can manage it.”

“I’m sure you can. It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it, miss? You might meet someone you like.” I’ve wished for it, for her sake: maybe some bookish son of a wealthy family who would like her sweet, unassuming ways. He could be in New York City, or Boston.

“Mother doesn’t care if I like him or not.”

Time to be honest, I suppose. “Is it—is it about the money, Miss Irene? I don’t mean to be impertinent, but downstairs we’ve all suspected that perhaps—the family finances—”

“Money?” Irene looks up at me, and to my astonishment, she starts to laugh. “Do you think they want to marry me off for the money?”

That’s exactly what I’ve thought. I can’t imagine what else it would be.

As I stare at her in consternation, Irene says, “You see, Tess, it’s much worse than that. I’m . . . ruined.”

I was only slightly more surprised when I saw Mikhail transform into a werewolf. “Ruined” is a polite euphemism; what it means is that the young lady in question—Irene—has lost her virginity before being married.

How could that be possible? She’s been chaperoned about, hardly let out of the house except in “society,” where the rules are generally obeyed. Some young girls find ways around that, I imagine, but
Irene
? She’s so modest, so unlikely to run wild.

And how would Lady Regina know? The question is rhetorical at first, but then I think about it. “Miss Irene—please tell me—nobody hurt you, did they?”

“No. I wasn’t mistreated.” By mistreated, she means raped: Thank God for that much. Loose strands of pale brown hair hang over half her face; the other is already coiffed. It’s like you could split her down the middle—the picture of the proper Edwardian girl and the real woman within. “I love him. I took the risk. And now I have to pay the price.”

Oh, no. “You’re not with child, are you?” But that can’t be right. My job includes rinsing out all Irene’s underthings; I know the schedule of her courses as well as my own. That’s been clockwork the whole four months I’ve been with her.

She lifts her face to mine, and her smile is sad. “Not any longer.”

Suddenly the past few months make sense. I was promoted to ladies’ maid unexpectedly, and abruptly, when Irene’s previous maid went to a new situation in Scotland. Downstairs we all talked about how odd it was for her to leave with almost no notice, and how strange that the Lisles gave her a glowing reference despite that. Now I understand. That maid would have known that Irene was pregnant; she would have noted the missed cycles and perhaps have seen her through the miscarriage. The Lisles would have wanted her gone to keep the rumor from spreading through the household, but they’d have taken good care of her to insure her silence.

“Mother doesn’t know who the father is,” Irene says. “It hurt her so deeply that I wouldn’t tell her. I know you must loathe her, and I wouldn’t deny that sometimes she behaves abominably, but you must understand, Tess. Mother married into the nobility. She’s never felt as easy as her friends who have a title in their own right. Layton’s been such a disappointment to her, and what I did—there’s not a mother in England who wouldn’t be angry with me, after I got with child by a man I refused to name.” Irene takes a deep, shaky breath. “I think she has it in her head it’s some wealthy young man I met at a cotillion, someone I could blackmail into marrying me if I were more ‘practical.’ So now she says she can’t trust me not to go astray. She wants me married quickly, and I have to face it, even though I love someone else.”

Not some wealthy young man. Someone who could spend some time with her. Someone she loves. Someone who probably loves her in return.

Before I can think better of it, I blurt out, “It’s Ned, isn’t it?”

Irene reels back, and I can’t tell whether she’s more shocked or relieved that someone finally knows. “Did he tell you?”

“Not that you were ever together! Nothing about the baby. He’s not breathed a word, miss. But—well, he’s always been sweet on you.”

“And I’ve always been sweet on him.” Irene’s smile is wistful. “His father was in our service too, you know. I remember playing with Ned on the grounds as a child, before Mother caught me and scolded me for associating with my inferiors. Even then I knew there would never be anyone else for me.”

Ned and Irene. There’s never been anyone else for him, either; I feel sure of that now. A hundred separate incidents come together in my mind to form a delicate snowflake pattern—the two of them always searching for ways to be in each other’s company. And the other evening, on the deck, he said he would never take a wife because there was no point in marrying anybody besides the one person in all the world you wanted most. He was thinking of Irene, a girl he can never have.

I know he must love her, but my Lord, how he has hurt her. “He shouldn’t have put you in that position, miss. Ned’s a good man, but it was—careless. Thoughtless. To let that happen to you.”

“Oh, don’t blame him! It was—once, only once, and we were both so carried away.” There’s color in her cheeks now, real happiness, if only in memory. “Last autumn, one day, I was meant to be at Penelope Chambers’s tea party, but she fell ill in the middle of the afternoon and we had to go home. Father had the driver and nobody else was free to fetch me, so Ned came. And then there was that rainstorm—oh, Tess, do you remember that rain? It was like the sky had been split open.”