I lock the door behind me and rush to the chaise longue, relieved to find the two towels and one sock of money still inside the seat cushion. Maybe they aren’t onto me quite yet. But there’s no sense in taking chances by staying here, with so much already on the line. I stuff the money in my slipper bag, along with Mum’s Bible. Sweating, I remove my coat, which is weighing me down, remembering to remove the whale from the pocket. Then I hurry out the way I came.
A cramp in my foot stops me in my tracks right at Mr. Ismay’s door. All this unnatural hot-footing in these torture racks has finally done my pins in, and maybe me along with them. Naturally, it would be here that I am discovered. One can only swim across a moat full of alligators so many times before eventually meeting a gruesome end.
Two women approach from the Entrance Hall, chatting loudly. Wonderful. I ignore them and look at Mr. Ismay’s door, pretending that I’m waiting for him to answer.
“Oh, Mrs. Sloane, isn’t it?”
I will my hat to swallow me as the well-dressed figure of Lucy Duff-Gordon marches up, her auburn hair in a curl down one side of her neck. A finely woven straw hat in peachy gold features an array of feathers and ombre ribbon. She looks like a tropical bird.
The second woman stands a foot shorter and wears a boat of a cabbage-rose hat. I recognize her as the woman who asked me if my dress was Lucile my first time on the lift.
I lick my lips, trying to keep the moisture going. “Why, hello, Lady Duff-Gordon. Nice to see you. Well, don’t let me keep you—”
“Lucy, please. Mrs. Bertha Chambers, may I present Mrs. Amberly Sloane?”
“Ah. You’re the Merry Widow. Did Mr. Ismay invite you for the wine tour, too?”
“Uh, no.” I try to stretch my curling foot enough to get it to relax.
The brass knocker on Mr. Ismay’s door ogles me with its giant orb, like the one-eyed squid Jamie and I once saw in a fisherman’s bucket. To my horror, Lucy knocks.
“I was just, that is, I just remembered I’m needed elsewhere.” I begin to hobble away, but Mrs. Chambers steps in front of me, peering at my dress.
“Is that House of July?”
“Yes.”
Lucy crosses her arms. “No, that’s not House of July. That’s my dress.” Her eyes bear down on mine like two cannonballs.
A trapped fly buzzes around my innards, making it hard to think. Why would April give me Lucile to wear? Well, now’s not the time to get it sorted. Any minute, Mr. Ismay will open the door. “Ah, of course you are right.”
Lucy’s face loses its sharpness. “Marigold Fantasy is one of my favorites, but the ribbons are supposed to crisscross, like this.” She tugs the ribbons on my sleeve and spends an eternity tying them in a crisscrossing fashion like a corset. For cod’s sake, women have enough things to fuss over as it is. She starts on the other sleeve, and I have to stop myself from ripping it off and running down the hall. “I’ve got a new Strawberries and Cream dress that would look fetching on you. I would love for you to wear it.”
So, Lucy wants to create a stir of her own.
“I shall think about it. Lovely seeing you both.”
“What’s there to think about?” Lucy sniffs.
“Bit of a recluse,” Mrs. Chambers murmurs as I stumble off, praying there are no alligators around the next corner.
30
By the time I reach the Smoking Room and tear the fifth daily from the wall, I feel like I’ve sprinted across the Atlantic Ocean. It occurs to me that the crew might simply replace the missing pages with new ones. But with it being so late in the day, maybe not. The square clock on the staircase landing already reads half past five.
When I finally slip into Room 14, Wink and Olly are making the walls ring with a rendition of “Lamb of God,” conducted by Jamie. The blankets have been tucked and the seabags hung straight as Christmas stockings. Bo sits on his bunk, wiping his carving tools with a cloth. I press my back against the door and exhale in relief.
Jamie drops his arms. “Where you been, Sis?”
“Overslept. Charlotte gave me the news.”
“So why don’t you look happier?” His eyes drop to the slipper bag of money I’m carrying. The lads stop singing, and Bo looks at me through the mirror, his eyes concerned.
“We have a problem.” I pull out one of the dailies and point at the society column.
Jamie reads it aloud for the rest of them, then crumples the page and throws it out the porthole. “Rest in peace, Mrs. Sloane. You’ll stay down here from now on. I’ll ask Charlotte to hide you in her room. She’s just on the other side of E-Deck.” The first-class side, he means.
Olly squirms, jostling Wink beside him. “Or Wink and I can share a bunk. We learned how to pray for you, too. Wink can do Catholic, and I can do Protestant.”
Wink nods vigorously.
“Thanks, lads.” It doesn’t feel right imposing on Charlotte, but the thought of spending the night in the same room as Bo makes my chest flutter. I run my fingers through my clipped hair, wishing feelings could be trimmed away as easily as a few locks. As if sensing my discomfort, Bo stores his tools under his bunk and busies himself in his seabag.
“Charlotte’s place will stink less and be safer,” Jamie says. “How about you take my place at dinner?”
Wink and Olly launch themselves off the top bunk. I pull down the wall chair and sit heavily. “No. I don’t have an appetite, and I want to stay put somewhere awhile.”
He nods and hefts the slipper bag. “I’ll see if I can store the money with the purser.”
Bo gives me a brief smile before following the others out. “Lock the door, Stowaway. And congratulations on the meeting.”
I’ve only known him a few days, but our brief moments together have already etched themselves in my mind. How long before time rubs them away? The less I think about him, the faster it’ll happen.
A bright knock interrupts my brooding. When I open the door, Drummer’s narrow face peers back at me. He’s holding a piece of White Star stationery. He glances into the room. “By yourself?”
“Yes. Aren’t you going to dinner?”
He shakes his head. “I am needed in Boiler Room 6.” Fireman Brandish must need Drummer’s help to put her “on the boil” again. “But first, I am writing a letter to my wife, Chin Chin. I want to end the letter with something”—he clears his throat—“poetic.”
I force back a smile as Drummer fiddles with his paper, a sheepish look on his face.
“What do you think?”