Ship of Dreams (33 page)

As the British brig
Mary
loomed up, sailors shouting excitedly from her deck, Kent could focus on only one thought: he would see Della again after all.

Lines were lowered to the four men in the lifeboat, while the crew of the brig shouted down for them to tie harnesses about themselves so that they could be hauled up. Kent's brief surge of exultation at their rescue faltered as he realized how feeble the days of starvation and exposure, followed by a frantic stint of rowing, had left him. Just tying the knots took every bit of his strength and concentration.

Tice could not manage his at all, so once Kent felt fairly certain his own ropes would remain tied, he helped the other man with his. Grant and Dawson signaled that they were ready, and the sailors began, slowly and carefully, to pull them aloft. Kent supported Tice until he was out of reach and then, finally, it was his turn.

Though the men above were careful, still he had to fend himself off the hull of the ship as he swung on the rope. A few minutes later, they were pulling him over the rails to lie beside his comrades on the deck. "Where ... where are we?" he managed to rasp out.

"Aboard the
Mary
, bound for Cork, Ireland," said a large man in a hearty Scottish brogue. "Captain Shearer, at your service. And where might you be sprung from?"

"California," mumbled Dawson.

"Havana," added Grant.

"The
Central America
," Kent explained. "Steamer."

The captain frowned. "California, Havana,
and
Central America?" He started to ask another question, but apparently changed his mind. "You're all near delirious with thirst, that's plain. Time enough for questions later. Cully, Williams," he called to two sailors, "bring them along to my cabin." Then, to the emaciated men, "We'll fix you up, right enough, dinna ye worry."

Kent merely nodded, unable to speak further, and allowed himself to be half led, half carried to a spacious cabin. Dawson and Grant, beside him, asked for water, but the captain shook his head. "Not yet. We'll work up to that. First, try a bit of this, to strengthen you."

Sipping at the cup someone held to his lips, Kent discovered it was warm, sweetened wine. He felt it course through his limbs, giving an illusion, at least, of vitality. Next came a mixture of thin gruel, but only a few spoonfuls. "Sleep you, now," said the captain. "We'll bring more later, with some water, and then we'll maybe have some talk."

Kent started to protest, but then felt his eyelids growing heavy. Yes, he could sleep. His mouth, less parched than it had been, relaxed, along with his limbs. He drifted off, to dream of his reunion with Della, of her sweet face and form, and of their future together in his familiar world of New York society.

*
           
*
           
*

New York was much as Della had imagined it—only more so. San Francisco had seemed a big city to her, teeming with life, but New York was on a far grander scale, and even more crowded. Arriving only a day behind the
Empire City
, she and the Eastons, along with a few others who had accompanied them, were quickly ferried to the New York Hotel to join the other survivors.

By now, a full ten days after the sinking of the
Central America
, the story of the shipwreck had reached all of the newspapers. Reporters and curious citizenry crowded around the hansoms as they arrived at the hotel, shouting out questions.

"What was it like?" one man with a pad and pencil called out. "Were you terribly frightened?"

"Are there any other survivors on any other ships?" asked another. "How many were saved, altogether?"

As the first two questions seemed fatuous and she didn't know the answer to the others, Della remained silent, though she heard Ansel Easton speaking to at least one reporter. Her energies right now were concentrated on reaching the hotel, finding the other survivors, and asking questions of her own.

Over the past two days, as they steamed toward New York, Della had wavered between hope and fear—fear that her hope would finally be blasted, fear of her reception in New York, fear of the future. Now she was here, and in only a few minutes she might have the answers that would determine her happiness, her prospects, forever.

She followed the others into the elegant hotel, through the wide lobby and into a salon that had apparently been set aside for them. "Addie! Della!" Virginia Birch, looking far healthier than when they had seen her last, hurried forward to greet them.

"Virginia!" Addie hugged her. "And how is your little canary bird?"

Though her eyes were still shadowed with sorrow, Virginia smiled. "He seems no worse for his ordeal. I left him singing merrily in my room upstairs. Everyone has been so very kind. Why, yesterday, when we arrived, even the drivers of the hansoms refused payment to bring us here."

"We've had the same," Addie assured her. "A lady in Norfolk wanted to give me a trunk, but I refused it, as I have nothing at all to put into one."

Though Addie was clearly trying to cheer up Virginia, much as she had tried to do for Della, her happiness seemed almost oppressive. Della made no objection when the Eastons offered to see about rooms, leaving her to sit next to the other bereaved woman.

"I assume there's been no word of Kent?" she asked Virginia, knowing the answer, but feeling obliged to make the effort.

Virginia shook her head. "Nor of Billy, either. Not that I expected it, really, but I had hoped ... "

"I know. So had I." Della sighed. "Addie kept talking of the possibility of other rescues by other ships, but—"

"Oh, there is something I must tell you at once," Virginia interrupted her. "Mr. Bradford's family—his mother, anyway—was here this morning, inquiring after him. I imagine she'll be pleased to see you, at least, and to hear what you can tell."

Della very much doubted that, but she smiled. "Thank you for letting me know. What does his mother look like? I don't believe Kent ever told me." She'd prefer to spot the woman before she was seen, if possible, and perhaps avoid what promised to be a most awkward interview.

Virginia thought for a moment. "Tall," she finally said. "Quite a handsome woman, really. She had on a large brown hat with white ostrich plumes, as I recall. And she—oh! Oh, there she is now!"

Turning, Della saw an imposing woman in a brown and beige striped silk gown, cut in the height of fashion. As she watched, the woman questioned one of the other passengers, who pointed in her direction. Hastily, Della averted her head, only to see Francis Cadbury bearing down on her from the opposite side.

"Trapped!" she muttered. Virginia regarded her questioningly, but she only shrugged. It was too late for explanations, anyway.

"Young woman!" came an imperious summons. Reluctantly, she looked up to find the tall, haughty woman regarding her as though she were an insect, or perhaps a beggar on the street. And really, without Kent or a single possession of her own, was she much else?

Still, she lifted her chin defiantly. "Yes?"

"Am I correct in believing you to be one of the survivors from the sunken steamship,
Central America
?"

Della nodded, determined to volunteer no information.

"I've been informed—erroneously no doubt—" the woman sent a steely glance Cadbury's way—"that you have claimed to be the wife of my son, Kenton Bradford, of the New York Bradfords."

So this was where Kent's self-consequence had come from, Della thought with an unexpected trace of amusement. Before she could reply, Mr. Cadbury spoke up.

"He claimed it too." He sounded almost obsequious, Della thought. "They plotted it together."

Mrs. Bradford silenced him with a glance. "Well, young woman? Is this true?"

Before Della could answer, Virginia leapt to her feet. "Why, how very cruel! Of course Della was—is—married to Mr. Bradford. If his letter informing you was missent, it is no reason to browbeat her so. She has behaved most heroically, helping to save many of us from the wreck, myself included."

Della grasped Virginia's hand and pulled her back down to the sofa. "Thank you, Virginia, but I can speak for myself." She softened her words with a smile, which disappeared as she turned to face the others. "I was not aware that a marriage was generally considered a plot, but yes, I am Kent's wife."

"He is alive then?" The hope that lit the older woman's face for a moment tugged at Della's heart. Overbearing as she might be, this was Kent's mother. She must be nearly as anxious about him as Della was herself.

Regretfully, she shook her head. "I haven't seen him since the
Central America
went down, madam. It is possible that there may be survivors we have not yet heard news of, but I fear that is unlikely."

Mrs. Bradford closed her eyes, lines of pain etching her face. When she opened them again, they glittered with anger. "But you have the audacity to come here in his stead? No doubt you intended to make some claim upon his family and fortune, as his supposed widow. You'll receive nothing, however, I promise you!"

An outraged exclamation from Virginia, followed by a murmur from the crowd that had gathered to witness the exchange, seemed to penetrate the woman's rage. She glanced around her, as though debating whether to continue.

"Mrs. Bradford," Della said softly, "I know that the loss of your son must come as a terrible shock, and I don't blame you for lashing out at me as a result. If it would bring Kent back to you, and if I thought it would make him happy, I would gladly disappear from the earth this instant. Unfortunately, I must learn to live with my loss, as you must learn to live with yours."

Mr. Cadbury sputtered something, but Mrs. Bradford seemed to realize that Della had offered her a way to save face before the crowd, which included several members of the press. "I—I'm sorry, dear," she managed to say after a moment. "You are right, of course. I am so overset I don't know what I'm saying. I believe I will go up to my room to lie down—but we will talk later, so that you may tell me of my son's last moments."

Something in her eyes warned Della that there was much more she wished to discuss, away from the prying ears of the curious. Though she knew she would have to face her questions soon enough, Della was more than willing to put off the inquisition.

"Of course. I was just about to dine with my friend Virginia, here, who has also lost her husband. If you are staying at the hotel, I'm sure we'll have a chance for conversation when you are rested."

Kent's mother raised one eyebrow sceptically, and the familiarity of the expression made Della suddenly swallow. Kent had looked at her exactly the same way on the day they first met. The resemblance softened her again toward this woman, though she saw no similar softening reflected in Mrs. Bradford's face.

"Indeed we will," she said at last. "I will be making a few other inquiries, as well."

Though the others no doubt assumed those inquiries would be about the shipwreck and her son, Della knew that they would concern herself and her own shaky story. By now, it was even possible that word of her might have reached New York from San Francisco where, as far as she knew, she was still wanted for murder. With a sense of foreboding, she watched Mrs. Bradford move away, with Mr. Cadbury in tow.

"I hope you haven't already eaten," she said, turning to Virginia with forced cheerfulness. "And might there be an extra bed in your hotel room? I feel the need of friends about me, and Addie and her husband quite understandably wish to be alone."

Though her eyes bespoke her curiosity over what had just passed, Virginia agreed at once. "Dinner and then bed," she promised. "And you needn't tell me any more than you wish to."

Della smiled her gratitude. "Thank you. But it seems only fair that you know—most of it, anyway. Come, I'll tell you while we eat."

They found a quiet corner table in the dining room, and there Della told Virginia the story of her counterfeit marriage to Kent, finally culminating in a true wedding only two weeks ago. It was such a relief to finally unburden herself, she even found herself confiding her reason for fleeing San Francisco, and what she had done for a living. Finally the torrent of words ceased and she sat back with mingled relief and apprehension, waiting for shock or condemnation.

Instead, to her surprise, Virginia laughed. "That has to be the most unusual meeting I've ever heard of," she declared. "But I can see why you kept it quiet. Though some of our shipmates knew of it, I tried to play down my own past, too."

"Your past?"

Virginia nodded. "Did you never hear of the Notorious Jenny French, showgirl and actress?"

"Yes, but I never saw ... Wait, that was you?" asked Della in amazement.

"The very one," Virginia confessed. "As Billy was a showman as well, we didn't have to worry too much about his family's approval, but I remember one cousin of his, who— Well, that's of no moment now. But trust me, I do understand."

*
           
*
           
*

By the time they came down for breakfast the next morning, Della felt she'd known Virginia for years. They'd traded stories, each more outrageous than the last, until both were laughing helplessly, forgetting their grief for an hour or two. Finally they'd both fallen asleep, to dream of happier days.