She must be referring to Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon, whose fashions are all the rage. I remember how Mrs. Sloane’s eyes became as big as chestnuts when I told her that the Scottish baron Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon and his wife would be among the Titanic’s passengers.
“Say, you could be the Merry Widow, just like the operetta. You’re a mysterious woman in mourning, but not even death will quell your allure.” She puts a hand on her heart and holds the other to the ceiling, as if on a stage.
“That might work in the theater, but in real life, widows cannot be so flashy.”
“Says who? Mourning dress is so passé.”
“I wish I could help you—”
“The way I see it, we can help each other. Someone like you needs an ally, hiding up here in first class all by yourself. You never know when you’ll need a friend.” She sidles up to me and touches my nose, as if to prove she can. I shrink against the vanity, and she backs off. “Besides, I’ve got a good ear for gossip. How else did I find out where you were staying?”
Artists may not sell their own work, but she’s doing a pretty good sales job on me. “Do you know Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart of the Ringling Brothers Circus?”
She lobs her gaze to the ceiling. “No. But I could do some digging.”
I have no doubt that with her persistence, even if Mr. Stewart is hiding behind the last boiler on the lowest deck, she will find him. But how exactly am I supposed to keep my chin tucked and create a stir? I sigh. “I’ll wear the clothes, but I won’t do any sales pitches.”
“Of course not. Be as mysterious as possible.” She lowers her voice, as if we are conspiring to rob a bank. “Meanwhile, I’ll be dropping a trail of bread crumbs behind you.”
She extends her gloved hand, and though all the horses leading my rickety sleigh rear up, I take it. Unlike the dead-fish hands that wealthy women usually offer, her grip is solid, a grip that could open her own doors.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night at nine. If you need anything, I’m in room B-47, right by the elevators. It’s good to be in business with you.”
* * *
I head toward the bow, quiet as a shadow in Mrs. Sloane’s black coat, doing my best to look like I belong. Men and women favor me with nods and smiles, but keep their distance, which suits me fine.
The suites that make up the Cabbage Patch end at a well-populated Entrance Hall, which features another tidal-wave staircase. Unlike the aft staircase, tucked behind this one is a trio of humming lifts in an oak-paneled foyer. While I wait, I eye a set of rooms to the side of the lifts, one of which, B-47, belongs to April Hart. One of the boxes stops at our level, and a lift operator slides open a wrought-iron gate.
“E-Deck,” I inform him, in the terse way Mrs. Sloane issued orders.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Three floors down, the box opens, and I pass uncertainly into a hallway, which must be on the starboard side of E-Deck, where the first-class rooms are kept. Unlike the bustling Scotland Road, which parallels it on the port side, this corridor is as quiet as a library, with decorative floor tiles and globe ceiling lights set inside ceramic roses. It’s a notch down from where I’m staying, the engine noise louder, and the cabins closer together. Mrs. Sloane was right about preferring the elephant’s highest end.
The hallway and first-class section terminate at a door that leads into the Collar. Just outside this door, a sign reads “Master-at-Arms.” I edge away from that residence. Of course, law enforcement is berthed just around the corner from where I’ll be doing my sneaking about.
Watching for stewards, I hurry across Scotland Road into the companionway and knock lightly on Room 14.
“Come in,” says a voice in Cantonese.
The lads are tucked in, the room half lit. Wink sleeps tightly rolled into a ball, whereas Olly half hangs off the bed, snoring loudly.
A shirtless Bo kneels over the bottom bunk, his wet hair slicked off his face. His back is steep and contoured like the cliffs of Dover when golden sunlight falls upon them. He glances up at me, and a fire licks my neck. Haven’t I seen my share of backs—dockers’, Jamie’s, though his is more like a slender ridge compared with the cliffs of Dover.
Bo fastens twine around a flat leather pouch and gets to his feet.
“I was just looking for Jamie,” I inform him quietly so as not to wake the lads. The close quarters and the dim lighting make the room feel uncomfortably intimate.
He slowly draws a shirt over his chiseled chest, fueling the fire on my neck. “Jamie said his sister was a card.”
“Oh?” So he talked about me with Bo, at least. “He never mentioned you.”
“Maybe words cannot do justice.” Even with his noticeable accent, his words swagger.
“I can think of a word for you. Wagtail.”
“Wagtail?” he pronounces.
“That’s right. A kind of bird with a long tail feather it likes to shake around for attention.”
He shrugs with one shoulder, appraising me with eyes that seem to see right through the shadows. “Jamie never teached us that one.”
“So, Jamie taught you English.”
He blinks and draws back his head, probably the kind of head unaccustomed to being corrected by a woman. “Jamie helped us all. Better chance for work if you speak English. If you want the best for him, go home. Girls should not wander by themselves.”
Despite the softness of his tone, my face begins to burn, as if I am holding coal in my cheeks. If he looked a few years older, I’d think he was born in the year of the ox. People born in that year are hardworking but often obnoxious.
“You’ve known Jamie now for, what, two years? I’ve known him for eighteen, if you count the year in the womb. I think I’d know better than you what’s best for him.”
“Maybe he has grown since he left. Grown enough not to take orders from sisters.”
My expression hardens. “If you’re not going to tell me where he is, then I’ll be on my way.”
“He did not say where he went. But since you are his sister, I bet you can guess.”
I close my coat around me with more force than is needed. I’m about to spin on my heel when I notice that the blanket on the top bunk is missing, with Jamie’s flannel nightshirt stuffed under his pillow. He isn’t ready for bed yet. If Jamie studies astronomy every night, I have a hunch where he might be. Bo, still watching me, gives me a smile so brief, it could be a trick of the light.
Well, Jamie, maybe I do know you better than you think.