Jamie appears a hundred feet away with Strudel tugging him forward. I shake my head at him, and he continues back the way he came.
Charlotte watches him leave. “If the news is good, is there any”—she licks her lips—“possibility that Jamie would go with you to America?”
I cannot see her face, but perhaps she doesn’t want me to read it. “That’s my hope, though he has other plans.”
She points her delicate chin at me, and her soft eyes press for more.
The sea coughs up mist, and with it, a rainbow shimmers in the air, stirring a memory in me. “Jamie and I always wanted a pet. One day, during a break in the rain, we saw a rainbow, and that meant it was a lucky day. So, we decided to sneak a baby heron out of the London Zoo.”
Charlotte gasps. “Oh, my!”
“We got halfway home before Mum discovered it in Jamie’s jacket and made us give it back. You know how she punished us?”
“How?”
“She kept us apart—it was the worst thing she could do. We were as miserable as a pair of trousers torn in half.” I draw up my knees and lace my hands over them. “We used to be inseparable. But now he wants to shovel coal.” I lean my head against the back of the chair, grateful once again for the veil. “When your family falls apart, it’s a knife twisted in slowly.”
Charlotte nods, fiddling absently with one of the buttons that trail down her front like glittery ants. Her hands are as smooth as magnolia petals and don’t bear a single freckle. I hide my own hands, suddenly feeling like the imposter that I am.
“I know that feeling. Father wanted Mother to be a socialite, which he thought would be good for business. He considered her work with the Home for Little Souls to be beneath her. But the more parties Father pushed her to attend, the more she resented him. He stopped pushing after she got sick, but they rarely talk now. And the funny thing is, she loved my father before.”
Am I like Charlotte’s father, wanting Jamie to be someone he’s not? I know Jamie prefers the view of the sky from the ground, not up in the air like me. But the circus is a means to an end. If Mr. Stewart comes through, we’ll get the chance to shoot the three balls of fame, fortune, and a future in America, all with one swift jab of the cue stick. How could anyone turn down such an opportunity?
Jamie pops up again, this time stopping in front of our chairs. At the sight of him, Charlotte’s lips bloom like a rosebud unfurling.
“No-show,” I inform him.
Strudel puts her paws on Charlotte’s lap, and she strokes the dog’s curly head. Without warning, the dog jumps down and begins scratching and growling at the floor.
“Hey, pups,” says Jamie. “What’s down there?”
“It’s the rats.” Charlotte’s face still manages to look pretty despite the statement. “She has the nose of a bloodhound. Once, Mother’s favorite gelding wandered off, and Strudel found it at the end of Central Park, two miles away.”
Strudel stops growling and paces between the deck chairs, looking up at Jamie.
“Looks like someone wants to walk more.” Jamie gives the dog a vigorous scratching. “Guess you’ve got twice as many legs, don’t you?” He stretches his back. “We’ll do another circuit, see if we can’t find your Mr. Stewart.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to join Jamie.” Charlotte’s dark lashes flutter from me to him.
“Why should I mind? I’ll wait here.”
The two walk far enough apart not to attract attention but close enough to converse. Charlotte moves with a gentle sway, her hat dipping toward him often.
It could be my imagination, but I swear Jamie’s walking taller than before, with a higher-held chin, even a little swagger. If Charlotte asked him to come to America with her, would he go? Or would the siren call of the boiler rooms drown out even her pleas? If so, he would definitely have taken leave of his senses. A fine lady with money and a backbone doesn’t come along every day. And neither do sisters.
I count 117 passengers who pass in front of me, including three dogs, eleven children, and one baby—but no Mr. Stewart. Gazes still linger on me, but folks are less interested in the Merry Widow than talking about the acrobats. If I were less worried about finding Mr. Stewart, I might savor the victory of outshining myself.
To pass the time, I read the Atlantic Daily Bulletin, a copy of which has been posted on the wall of the deckhouse behind me, and consume two glasses of lemonade and four oatmeal biscuits under my veil. By the time the pair returns, my bladder is madder.
Jamie crouches by my chair. “I know it’s not your favorite thing to do, but wait. If Stewart wants you badly enough, he’ll find you. Come meet us for dinner. The men want to celebrate.”
“What’s there to celebrate?” I grumble.
“A successful and lucrative show. Bo won’t be there. He’s doing sketches for passengers, so there’ll be an extra spot at the table.”
“Fine.” At least it’ll take my mind off the man with the purple bowler.
* * *
To my surprise, a new steward stands by the window in B-64, a folded towel over his arm. “Oh, Mrs. Sloane. I was just tidying your room.” He clasps his hands and angles his head of thinning hair solicitously.
“Steward Latimer tidied it this morning.”
“Wonderful. I shall be on my way, then.”
“Is he . . . around?”
“I’m afraid Steward Latimer is now attending another floor.”
“But why?”
“I’m not quite sure. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No. No, thank you.”
The door thuds ominously behind him. Did Steward Latimer request the move, or was he reassigned? With the choicest rooms in the Cabbage Patch, why would he want to work elsewhere? On the other hand, maybe the choicest rooms come with the fussiest occupants—Mr. Ismay, for example.
And Mrs. Sloane?
Maybe his suspicions are adding up, and he doesn’t want to be scalded when the kettle finally boils over. He knows Mrs. Sloane asked about Mr. Stewart. Does he also know Mr. Stewart is the man behind the show with two Chinese acrobats? He’s seen the picture of my parents. Put that together with my strange arrival, and perhaps Steward Latimer saw a pattern in the bread heels being juggled. Was the fact that Percy’s urn contained tobacco rather than ashes the odd pineapple that upset the whole routine?
The lemonade and oatmeal biscuits make a queasy gurgle in my stomach, and the air under my veil grows warmer by several degrees. Of course, if he thought I was an imposter, they’d have the Master-of-Big-Arms waiting for me. They wouldn’t be tidying my rooms.