Charlotte leads me in the other direction. A deep alcove with deck chairs is beginning to fill with the after-lunch crowd, their gazes shifting between Charlotte and me. I can see the narrative changing with the observation that the Merry Widow has made a friend. We continue past the alcove to a spot with a single row of four empty deck chairs.
“He favors that one.” Charlotte’s gloved finger points to the chair at the end.
“Then you shall sit between us.” I can more easily make my point by directing my comments toward the man instead of away from him. I raise the back of my deck chair as far as it goes and lower Charlotte’s several inches. Then we wait.
Charlotte removes her hat and places it in her lap, where it rests like a brown turtle napping. A smile rides high on her face between two spots of pink. Crying fish balls, I hope she loses that look soon before she gives us away as mischief makers.
I should attempt conversation. But the things I wish to say verge on impudent, and I’m in no mood to discuss the fineness of the sunny day or speculate on when sea ice will appear.
To my surprise, it is she who opens the door. “It’s so refreshing to meet someone like your brother.”
“You mean, someone who can walk dogs?”
Her face breaks out in dimples. “Jamie makes me laugh. After Mother got sick, I thought I might never laugh again.”
Who’d have thought Jamie could charm someone like her? Ba charmed Mum, but at least she’d been as poor as him.
“What do your parents think?”
“Father moved to Baltimore. The laudanum puts Mother out most of the day.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
She nods.
A middle-aged woman with a high collar of ruffles blossoming around her jaw plants herself right on Mr. Stewart’s chair. She promptly reclines and closes her eyes.
Charlotte gives me a wide-eyed shrug. Now what? If Mr. Stewart sees that his chair is occupied, he’ll leave. Then we’ll have to wait for tomorrow to try again, and with New York just around the corner, we’ve already wasted too much time.
I clear my throat and say in a coarse and overly loud voice, “So when I saw the sign, ‘Healer of Canker Sores, Warts, and Other Burdensome Blemishes,’ I had to go in. You know I’ve had these psoriatic patches on my cheeks for years.” That will not help the Merry Widow’s image, but the truth is a slippery bucket of water anyway, with all the rumors sloshing about. “She gave me an ointment of cod liver oil, pig liver oil, spotty toad liver oil, cuttlefish liver oil—”
Charlotte’s face turns red, and she shakes her head, maybe telling me that cuttlefish don’t have livers.
Behind her, the woman’s eyes unshutter, and her small mouth opens into a tight ring. The feisty Mrs. Sloane had the same kind of mouth, just wide enough to poke in a soft-boiled egg, though she sure could raise a good fuss with it.
Charlotte’s lips move indecipherably, and her eyes slide to one side.
“What?” I mouth back, then continue on with my monologue. “She said to smear it on the patches once an hour.”
The woman scoots to the farthest edge of her chair. If she were a seal, she could just roll off and swim away.
“Pur-ple bow-ler,” Charlotte whispers, making a pecking motion with her finger.
I glance behind me. To my horror, a man wearing a purple bowler ambles toward us from the bow, his attention focused on the folded newspaper in his hands. A jockey-sized man in a valet’s black uniform trails him with a tray of tea.
I redouble my efforts. “Wouldn’t you know, the pustules are crusting over just like blackberry crumble. Here, let me show you.” I lean closer to Charlotte and pinch my veil with my fingers. “It’s not contagious, usually.”
With a horrified gasp, the woman makes a dash for it, her heels tapping with the fury of a typewriter delivering a shocking headline.
Charlotte lets out a heavy breath, and we share a relieved glance that surprises me with the pleasure it brings, like when a strange kitten cuddles up on your foot.
Mr. Stewart stops in front of his chair and tips his hat at us with barely a glance. He’s clearly the kind of man who wouldn’t notice women’s fashion if it came up and danced with him. His valet sets his tray on a side table, then helps Mr. Stewart out of his chesterfield coat.
Mr. Stewart waves him off. “Tea, Croggy.”
The valet presents Mr. Stewart with his tea, then stands like a potted plant beside him, his eyes hooded, the arm with the coat held straight as a towel rack.
Besides the purple bowler, the rest of Mr. Stewart seems ordinary. A plain sand-colored suit with a pinstriped waistcoat wraps his middling frame, and brown rubber-soled shoes look as faithful as a pair of beagles. It’s clear the man values comfort as well as flair. His eyes are the unremarkable brown shade of Bosc pears. I put him in his fifties, with a round face that has begun to jowl. The Chinese believe that jowls are like “money bags,” and the bigger they are, the more wealth they attract.
I switch my voice to Mrs. Sloane’s forthright manner. “Never seen the like, juggling all those things with a pineapple on her head. The astounding part was how she managed to talk at the same time. I can barely walk and talk at once.”
Mr. Stewart’s eyes, which had been glued to his paper, lift.
Charlotte clutches her hat, her teeth snagging her lip. Maybe she can’t walk and talk at once, either. “She?” she mouths at me.
Cod’s sake. I messed up. Well, Mr. Stewart would have learned the truth sooner or later anyway. “Yes, Valor is a girl—Valora, actually. But don’t tell anyone. She thinks people take her more seriously if they think she’s a boy.”
Mr. Stewart’s paper drops a fraction, and he inches closer, his head tilted slightly toward us. Well, that’s a happy mistake. Nothing catches ears like a secret.
Finally, Charlotte’s tongue unsticks. “Well, coordination like that takes years of practice. She must be very disciplined. She was more entertaining than the Marx Brothers,” she says stiffly. “And, er, the magician Ching Ling Foo. And Harry Houdini. Yes, she was better than all three daisy-chained together.” Charlotte’s voice goes unnaturally high.
“I gave her a whole crown,” she adds more naturally, perhaps because unlike her prior statement, this one is the truth. “I would’ve given more if I hadn’t stored it all with the purser. How long do you think that takes to learn?”
I nod, approving of her question. “I know for a fact that their father, God rest his soul, started them when they were toddlers. I’ve seen them perform in the park several times.”
“They?”
“Yes, there are two of them. Twins. Both on this ship. They go by the stage names Valor and Virtue.”