Chapter 2
“Wow!” Tristan scampered across the carriage seat to the window, his knee crumpling the edge of the page in Emmeline’s book.
“Tristan,” Emmeline objected, not that anyone could hear her over her little brother’s excitement.
“She’s huge!” He squished his face against the window. “And she’s got four chimneys!”
Father chuckled. “On a ship, they’re called funnels.” He gently pried Tristan from the window as the carriage stopped.
Emmeline fussed over her book, trying to smooth out the crumpled page—a brand new copy, too!—and exited the carriage last. Compared to the hustle and bustle in the harbor, the carriage, even with Tristan’s constant chattering, had been peaceful.
Under the cloudy skies, a buzzing crowd had gathered on the Southampton docks. They talked and yelled, laughed and jostled, waved at friends and acquaintances, and hugged each other goodbye. Horses neighed, uncomfortable in the throng, and a train whistle blew nearby.
Emmeline clutched her book tighter against her tailored jacket and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat, blowing a puffy, sea-foam ostrich feather off her face. With that last obstacle out of the way, she rested her gaze on the ship.
Tristan was right. The ship was enormous.
Her elegant black-and-white body ran so long that Emmeline couldn’t see the stern from where they stood, and the long line of people boarding through the gangways were dwarfed by the massive hull.
The black-topped orange funnels rose gleaming into the sky, and not a speck of dirt marred them or the hull.
The ship was picture-perfect, even though Emmeline imagined a picture could never do it justice.
Mother handed off their luggage to a porter—Emmeline held on to her book—and they snaked through the crowd, undergoing a cursory medical inspection before they were allowed to ascend the stairs to the gangway.
Emmeline hadn’t realized how high up the gantry was until they were walking along it.
She leaned over the fence, gazing at the sea of hats below.
Goodbye, England. She wasn’t particularly sorry to leave, but she wasn’t looking forward to getting home, either.
This ship, and the seven days on it, might be her last glimpse of freedom.
People tended to be more relaxed on ocean liners—no extravagant finery required for dinner, and a more lenient observation of all those societal rules her mother drilled into her head daily.
If one wanted to lounge on deck in their less-than-Sunday best, they could do so.
One week of freedom left. One week before her parents enacted their punishment.
“The bridge is for the captain and crew,” Father said to Tristan, who was bouncing down the gangway, with Brendon following close behind. “But I’ll see if I can get us a visit to the Marconi room to show you how the wireless works.”
“Yes, please!” Tristan said.
Father smiled and ruffled his hair. “And I have it on my best authority,” he continued, facing everyone, “that a special new automobile model is being transported on the ship.”
Tristan gasped. “Can we see it? Can we drive it?”
“I hope that wasn’t confidential information,” Brendon said to Father.
“Brendon,” Mother gently admonished him.
Emmeline pouted as she followed her family. Brendon could joke, but if she had said that, Mother would already be preaching about her unladylike, brazen behavior.
She reached the end of the gangway and forced her frown into a smile for the steward, who helped her on deck and tilted his cap. “Welcome aboard the Titanic, miss.”
As she stepped inside, the pale smile turned into a real one.
The ship must indeed be new; she still held that strangely delectable smell of fresh paint.
An ornate oak-wood grand staircase with a sweeping landing invited passengers to the upper deck.
Its gold-embellished railing formed a perfect harmony with the warm, cozy wood-paneled walls and the black-and-white tiled floor of the reception area, gleaming in the light of the electric lamps.
“Our cabins are one deck up.” Father led the charge, but Tristan whizzed past him, running up the stairs between two older ladies, who jumped aside with a surprised yelp.
“Boys,” Mother called, wrapping her arm around Tristan’s shoulders as he ran back to her. Brendon followed, hands clasped behind his back, observing their surroundings with the polite interest of a real estate agent evaluating the property.
Emmeline admitted the ship’s interior was just as impressive as the exterior, but as they reached the next deck, she was truly driven speechless.
Here, the grand staircase boasted a large statue of a cherub in glossy bronze, and above them, the space opened to a massive dome—at least twenty feet across—its frosted glass bathing the room in bright daylight.
Like a delicate web, fine black-and-gold scrollwork reached across the dome towards its center, crowned by a glittering electric chandelier.
Emmeline didn’t know how long she stood there, marveling at the dome and wondering if she was indeed on a ship and not in a fine mansion, but eventually, she came to her senses.
She’d fallen behind. Her family had already moved toward their rooms. It wasn’t hard to spot them down the narrow, whitewashed hallway.
Tristan and Brendon ran from one cabin to the other as if powered by steam engines themselves, and a second later, Mother exited a door further down and put her hands on her hips.
“Emmeline! You would not believe what they did.”
“The boys?”
“No, these people!” Mother poked at her ticket. “Your cabin is all the way down the hallway from ours, and you’ve been given a double berth! This will not do.”
Father came out of a cabin and leaned on the door frame. “I’m sure two beds are better than none, dear.”
“What if they stick a stranger with her?”
A stranger. Emmeline mused to herself. A young woman her age; she’d like books and theater and know all the latest gossip, and they’d become the best of friends during the voyage.
Or they’d make a scandalous mistake and put her with a man.
A young man; a handsome stranger with golden locks and a devastating smile who’d kiss her hand and beg her not to give him up, for you see, he’s running from his mysterious, fascinatingly dark past—
“Emmeline!” Her mother frowned at her as if she knew exactly what she was daydreaming about. “I’ll go to the inquiry office. This must be sorted out.”
Emmeline sighed. “I’ll go.”
“Alone? But—”
“It’s a ship, Mother. I’m hardly going to take the wrong turn and end up in the Bronx, am I?”
A string of giggles emanated from the boys’ cabin, followed by Tristan’s, “Look, it folds! The sink folds inside the cabinet!”
Mother looked towards the cabin, then back at Emmeline, as if judging which side would wreak more havoc if left alone. “Very well. But while you’re at it, please also check for our assigned dining seats, the deck chairs, and book the Turkish baths for us—”
“Ew!” Tristan popped his head out. “I’m not going. I don’t want to see naked ladies!”
“You wouldn’t see them. They’ll be in separate rooms,” Brendon said with an eye roll.
“You boys don’t need to go. Just Emmeline and me,” Mother said.
Of course. The boys have a choice. I don’t.
Wordlessly, Emmeline turned and headed down the hallway.
“And be back quickly!” Mother called after her.
“Yes, Mother,” she muttered.
Despite three people handling passengers’ requests—two by the long counter and another at a smaller window—the inquiry office was packed.
A line had formed, snaking left and right to make use of every inch of the room, and Emmeline took her place at its presumed end.
A lady at the counter waved her hands, complaining to the purser about her cold, damp room.
Emmeline sighed and opened her book. It looked like a long wait, and she’d left off just as Tinkerbell drank the poison meant for Peter—
Someone bumped into her from behind, sending her book flying.
She flapped her arms, surely looking very silly as she tried to catch it, and sillier still as the book unceremoniously landed on the floor, cover up.
For once, Emmeline was grateful her wide-brimmed hat obscured her reddening face.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said to the couple in front of her, who’d retreated a step away from the disturbance. She bent to pick up the book.
Another hand landed on the cover simultaneously with hers.
Emmeline looked up, only to hear an “Ouch” as her hat grazed something. Someone’s face.
Scratch that about gratefulness. This thing was a menace. Emmeline grumbled and took the damn hat off, not caring if she bent an ostrich feather or two. She gazed upon her poor victim and froze.
It was a young man with piercing, silvery gray eye, and wavy dark hair, striking against his pale, well-defined face.
High cheekbones, a long, narrow nose; a lock of hair rebelliously fanning his straight eyebrows.
But Emmeline hadn’t frozen because he was good-looking, in that unusual, fascinating way; she froze because the second he saw her, his eyes widened, and his intake of breath indicated he was about to say something, but he didn’t.
Emmeline shook her head. “I’m—uh—I’m so sorry. For my hat. I didn’t see—are you injured?”
He was staring at her as if he were a King-Vampire, gazing upon his long-lost love.
All right, a bit far-fetched, perhaps, but his clothes didn’t help the case.
He was wearing a strange, heavy overcoat with shoulder capes and, beneath it, a deep sapphire dinner jacket and unusually tight beige pants, disappearing into polished black boots.
He had no business being here. Clearly, he should be standing at long-abandoned castle ruins overlooking dreary, foggy moors as the wind billowed his cloak and ruffled his hair and clouds rolled above him.