Beneath the Waves

10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Treacherous by Taylor Swift

April 10, 1912

“Which one?”

Sarah points to the wardrobe containing my choices of evening gowns. I walk over in my corset and undergarments and examine the options. They’re all beautiful crystal-beaded creations in rich jewel tones. I close my eyes and move my hand back and forth on the rack. My indecision on what to wear extends even into the 20th century. Sarah notices my dilemma and quickly pulls one out, handing it to me with a smile.

“Don’t worry. I do the same thing, and it’s easier when someone just decides for me.”

I laugh and thank her as she helps me step into the dress. It is a deep purple gown with an elegant high-waisted columnar silhouette. The undergown is a dark purple silk fitted through the waist. The wrapped overdress is the same color, but is a crystal beaded silk chiffon that sweeps into a train in the back. It has a deep squared neckline, and the bodice has short crystal beaded sleeves. A silk band at my waistline in contrasting lilac cascades down into my train. I lower my head as Sarah tucks matching jeweled pins into my hair.

“There. Perfect.”

I smile at her. “I wish you could come with us. It doesn’t feel right leaving you guys behind like you’re lesser than us.”

“Don’t feel bad, please. There is not a single tiny part of me that wants to dine with all those people, to have everyone staring at me. I’m glad to dine with Eric in the saloon. I think if we can get the other maids and valets talking, we’ll learn just as much as you and Ben will.” She’s right, but I think it may take a night or two of rubbing elbows before anyone, first-class or the servants, will divulge anything remarkable.

“That’s true. The help hears everything, don’t they?”

“They sure do,” she laughs. “Well, you’re all set. Do you need anything else before I go?”

“No, thank you. I’m going to relax in the sitting room with my book while His Royal Highness finishes getting ready.” I playfully nod my head toward Ben’s room.

Sarah giggles as she walks toward the door. “Enjoy yourself tonight, Ali.”

I grab my book from the bedside table and head into the sitting room, stretching out on the sofa and opening up to where I left off. I read through hardly two lines before I look up at the electric fireplace. There’s nothing better than reading in front of a fireplace. The flickering, uneven light is just so comforting.

I place my book on the table and walk over to the mantle and begin looking for the switch to turn it on. My house is full of real fireplaces so I’m not used to electric. I wasn’t a Girl Scout, but I can build a fire easily. But right now, I’m clueless. I have a goddamn master’s degree and I can’t find the on switch.

I look around the room helplessly for a moment. I don’t want to ask Ben for help. That would only delay his getting ready. He’d also probably make fun of me, and rightfully so.

I pause for a moment and think of how to remedy this situation.

Oh, yes . Charlie.

Surely he would know how to turn it on. I walk over to the door and pop my head into the hallway. He is standing further down the hall, checking his watch.

“Excuse me, Charlie?” I suddenly feel nervous just saying his name.

He looks up, eyes brightened. “Miss Alice, is there something you need?” He strides toward me and faces me in the doorway. For a moment, I stutter and forget why I called for his help.

“Yes. I, uh… I need help with the fireplace.”

“The fireplace?” He looks at me and smirks before quickly pausing and collecting himself. “Uh… of course.” He sounds flustered. I step aside so he can enter the sitting room. He glances at the fireplace. “Is it not working?”

“I don’t know.” He looks at me puzzled, with one eyebrow arched. “I can’t figure out how to turn it on,” I say as I shrug my shoulders.

He lets out a small giggle and quickly runs his hand along the side of the fireplace, easily flicking on the switch I didn’t realize was there. He stands against the wall, legs crossed, with an elbow resting on the mantle. The fireplace illuminates, and he looks back over at me and smiles. “Voilà.” God, he’s gorgeous. The fireplace isn’t the only thing that just got turned on. Ali, what the fuck? I feel a flutter in my chest as my heart beats faster.

He looks down at the table and notices my book. He picks it up and hands it to me. “Always better to read in front of a fireplace, right?”

“Right,” I agree, barely above a whisper. We both freeze for a moment, holding onto opposite ends of the book. His body looms over mine. Standing this close together, I can hear his heartbeat echoing alongside my own. His brown eyes, dark like wood, but comforting and warm, gaze into mine. I stare at his hand gripped tightly on the edge of the book. I want him to grip me like that. He inhales sharply and lets go of the book, his hand flexes as he releases it. Why is something so subtle, so hot? What is going on with me?

“Have a good evening, Alice,” he says gently, like the dew on morning grass.

He stops in the doorway and looks back at me once more. His mouth splits into a grin. Forget the fireplace. His smile alone is like a beam of sunlight illuminating the room.

He leaves the cabin and I exhale deeply. I feel as though I was holding my breath the entire time he was here. It wasn’t even intentional. It wasn’t as though I forgot to breathe; it was as if I forgot how to.

I have no time left to read my book. As if I could even focus on the words now. I walk across the room to put the finishing touches on my outfit before we have to leave.

I stand in the mirror examining myself as I pull on the matching long evening gloves. I have to admit that I’m impressed by the work of Dr. Conrad and Dr. McCoy’s design team. The dress is exquisite and I actually feel beautiful in it. I swish in the mirror with a slight air of playful confidence. In my reflection, I can see Ben walk through the doorway behind me, fully dressed and dashing as ever. Ben stands in a black tailcoat with satin lapels and a pointed front waist. He has a white formal shirt, waistcoat, and trousers that match his tailcoat. His bowtie is in hand. He has never figured those out. He’s combed his hair back into place after the breeze on deck shifted it slightly.

I turn around to face him and he looks at me, both surprised and impressed. He takes my hand and stands back, playfully fawning over me. “Wow, Al. You look incredible.”

“Thanks. You—”

“Oh, I know!” He interrupts and moves in a small twirl to show me the entire ensemble.

Ben is joking, but I know he is impressed with how well put together he looks. He’s the best-dressed person in any room he walks into, not even for his fashion, but for the self-assurance that oozes from him. I wish I could bottle even an ounce of his confidence.

He looks down at his hand with the undone bowtie and back up at me with a face of childlike helplessness, waiting for me to offer to save him. “You know I’m hopeless with these.”

I smirk and grab the bowtie from him. I slip it around his neck and tie it.

“Hey, what do you think about Harrison?” I’m looking for any kind of acknowledgment that the bad vibes I get from him aren’t just in my head. History remembers him fondly, but something about him doesn’t seem right to me.

“He’s cute, but not my type.” Ben winks at me as I roll my eyes.

Ben sighs and relents. He can tell that I don’t want to have dinner with him, converse with him, or even command his attention at all. “Honestly, Al, he’s pretty arrogant. He seems like a colossal asshole. But we’re supposed to be conversing with the who’s who on the ship, and he’s unfortunately a member of the elite. I’m sure we will have a lot to learn at dinner.”

“You’re right.” I smile, reassured for now, and slip my beaded bag around my left wrist. I’m thankful that at least my poor opinion of Edward isn’t unfounded, and that Ben shares similar concerns. “Ready then?” Ben takes my right arm and leads me out the door.

The hallway is busy with Titanic’s rich and famous all making their way to dinner. Ben and I follow the crowd and he politely bows his head toward the other gentlemen as we walk. We descend from the Grand Staircase to the First Class Dining Room on D-Deck. The room is vast and decorated in white wooden paneling with a blue linoleum tile floor that has a red and yellow pattern. The sheer size of the room is overwhelming; however, I find it sterile and cold. The dining room is beautiful and adorned with the finest decor and furnishings. It is bustling with passengers and conversation, but I feel completely alone.

As we enter the room and make our way toward Edward’s table, many guests have grouped themselves into cliques, no doubt discussing any salacious gossip that may have come aboard. I see the eyes of some of them look at Ben and I with interest, but I keep my gaze forward and try to mimic his confidence. I take a small amount of amusement because it feels like high school all over again. Everyone separates into their social circles, judging those around them while hoping no one sees the skeletons in their own closet. Some things never really change, I suppose. We approach Edward’s table and he stands up, with two empty seats to his right. I stare at the empty seat directly next to him with dread.

Please don’t let that one be mine. Please don’t let that one be mine . Please.

“There you are! I’d like you to meet everyone.” He gestures toward the large crowded table and suddenly I feel like I’m on a stage intended to perform the song I no longer know the words to. “Allow me to introduce my new acquaintances, Mr. Benjamin Turner and his sister, Miss Alice Turner.” He enunciates the word “sister” in a way that makes me internally shudder as if he is not just trying to make it clear that I am single and available, but more so, laying claim that I am his. It’s like I am undiscovered territory and he has just planted his flag of ownership in me. I, however disgusted, smile politely and properly greet each guest that I am introduced to.

“Miss Alice, I saved this seat for you, so we can get to know each other,” Edward says with a sickly sweet smile as he pulls out the chair directly next to him and waits for me to sit down in it. He goes through the motions of chivalry and gentlemanly behavior, but it’s empty and insincere. I look at Ben, who is helpless to save me and sit down. I take great care to mind the appearance of my gown as I attempt to sit in a proper ladylike posture.

There are seven other guests seated with us, and they all seem to be in the same elite social circle as Edward. Arthur Harrison, Edward’s uncle, sits across the table from him. They’re both in the center of the table, no doubt to hear everything and be able to control the conversation. On Edward’s left is his cousin, Francis Holt, his wife Helen, and their daughter Daphne. At the far end of the table is Joseph King, a friend of Edward’s from university. He travels with his wife Cecilia and her sister Martha. I can see the resemblance between the sisters as they both examine me up and down and whisper to each other. I don’t know if they suspect anything or just don’t like me. I assume they are uncertain of Ben and me, likely having never heard of our family or our business before. Perhaps they also see Edward’s attention directed toward me and are intrigued by whatever attachment they think is forming.

I stare at the table before me, examining the intricate design on the porcelain plates. There is enough cutlery laid out for a family of six, and yet it is all just for me. I panic for a moment, hoping to recall the order of cutlery from the etiquette lessons we took to prepare for this. I glance at the menu for the evening. It lists ten courses. Everything from oysters, to roast duckling, to French ice cream. It all sounds wonderful, but I’d kill for a cheeseburger right now. Not some gourmet burger with farm-sourced cheeses and bacon jam, but the most unhealthy burger you can imagine from your favorite local hole-in-the-wall. The kind of place that is covered in fifty years’ worth of grease and oil so thick that you don’t know how health and safety inspections have allowed it to stay open. The kind of burger where just from the sight of it, you can feel your arteries blocking up. The image in my head of attempting to eat a greasy burger in my silk gloves in front of this horrified audience is almost enough for me to crack and laugh out loud.

As we work through the courses, the table is robust with conversation. Some of the conversation is quite entertaining and even relatable. I find the banter between Francis and his wife, Helen, quite refreshing and amusing. It is a stark contrast to how rigid and separate Joseph and Cecilia King seem. I can only assume that this is perhaps a difference between a marriage based on affection rather than convenience or gain. I find it interesting that Francis and the Harrisons are related, as Francis is much warmer and friendlier than Edward or Arthur.

Ben is doing his best work filling in the gaps of our life story. He is quite adept at telling somewhat truthful stories about us but sprinkling in enough falsehoods to cover up the modern details. His skill as a raconteur commands attention in any century.

Edward interjects often with stories that are intended to impress me. I suppose on paper, everything he says and the way he acts is entirely normal and proper of the time. This is what he has been taught to do, I remind myself. For a moment, I think perhaps I judged a successful man too harshly, and maybe my prejudice got the better of me. Maybe I wanted to dislike him, and so I found any detail that would make it easy to do so. But then I watch him wordlessly motion to the wait staff when he wants more wine and I realize my first impression was accurate. I thank the server each time they fill my glass or clear a plate. Edward seems impressed by my manners, but doesn’t feel the need to replicate them himself. Something in his manner of speaking is just insufferable, and the more he talks and the larger he makes himself seem, the smaller I feel. I’ve always felt like you can tell a lot about someone by how they treat people in the service industry. Edward clearly sees people as those above and those below.

I don’t know why, but the evening gloves are perhaps the worst part. I feel trapped in them. They are more restrictive than even the corset. It feels as though my skin cannot breathe, like every inch of me is caged. I’m grateful that dinner is drawing to a close soon. Edward continues to talk. I think he enjoys listening to himself. He seems pleased at how well I listen and smile innocently. Little does he realize I’m really thinking of different ways to remove his head from his body. My fork pierced through his neck. The champagne bottle smashed over his head. Anything for a moment of peace without his incessant fabrications of personal and professional heroics. I find it quite convenient that he is the hero of every story he tells.

As the server clears the last dishes from the table, Edward stands and smooths out his tailcoat. I know what this means. I’m about to be free. Thank fucking God .

“Your company has been lovely ladies, but I believe it is time for cigars and brandy. Gentlemen, shall we?” Ben has been preparing for this, but immediately looks over at me with concern. The confidence he has had on parade tonight drains from his face. I know he’s nervous about splitting up for the first time. Will we be able to keep up this charade if we do not have each other to lean on? I admit I am not sure if he worries more about keeping his own appearances up when we’re apart, or my ability to do so without his help.

“Do you mind, Alice?” He asks like he needs my permission. We both know how crucial these sessions of cigars and brandy are. He can learn unknown trade secrets of major business empires, secrets that perhaps went down with the ship. In order to keep up this appearance, he really shouldn’t be asking my permission. He should take charge, and I should be the quiet follower.

I nod at him sweetly. “Not at all, Benjamin. I am quite tired. It has been a long day and I’m sure you could use company more riveting than mine. I shall walk back to the suite. It won’t take long.” It feels weird calling him Benjamin. I only ever use his full name when I’m annoyed, though I know it is proper for the time we find ourselves in. I appreciate his care in making sure I’m okay. I know that underneath the etiquette displayed in his question, he genuinely wants to know if I will be alright. He knows my face and what I try to hide. He could see how uncomfortable I was at dinner. It’s difficult for me to bite my tongue and act only as a spectator rather than an active participant.

Ben leans into my ear and whispers. “You sure you’re okay?” Maybe we should have a code word or something, so that we know when a situation is undesirable. He gently kisses me on the cheek before stepping back to examine my face.

I silently nod, fake a smile, and watch as he leaves with the other gentlemen. The ladies stay at the table to continue discussing mundane topics. Apparently, the French lace tablecloths Cecilia King ordered for her daughter’s cotillion were not the ones she received. Oh, the horror! The dresses are being shipped in from Italy and the designer is taking too long. How will you survive? I consider throwing a curveball at them and getting a rousing conversation about women’s suffrage going, but decide to just retire for the evening.

I excuse myself from the table and make my way out of the dining room. For a moment, I consider going straight back to the suite, but I know Sarah is likely there waiting to discuss the evening. I’d like a moment alone, just to feel like Ali for a second. I step out of the first exit I can find onto an outdoor deck. There’s a chill in the night air. I enjoy feeling the rush of cold air on my skin. The men are preoccupied with cigars and brandy and the women have all but retired for the night. I am alone. Finally .

I lean over the rail and slightly slump my posture. I can breathe and be alone with my thoughts. It’s nice to even have thoughts, even if they have to be kept to myself. I look out at the water and smell the salt air.

I hear a door swing open and feel a presence behind me.

Out of the darkness is a voice. His voice. “It’s bloody cold out here,” Charlie says to himself. He breathes into his hands to warm himself, before realizing he isn’t alone out on the deck.

“My apologies, Miss Alice.” He seems surprised to find me outside… alone… in the cold.

I motion to the empty spot next to me at the railing. “It’s Alice, please.”

He takes a few steps toward me and positions himself against the railing. He’s standing next to me but facing the opposite direction. I stare at the ocean waves as the ship cuts through the water, and he faces the empty deck as though he’s keeping an eye out for other passengers.

He tips his head to the side toward me. “How was dinner, Alice?”

“Cold," I say flatly.

He turns his head and fully glances over at me, his brow curved. “The food?” He sounds apologetic, as if the service or quality of food did not meet my satisfaction.

“No,” I laugh. “The company.” I smile wryly at him, my sarcasm having accidentally slipped out. I also realize I’ve been leaning over the railing this entire time, my posture not at all the image of ladylike delicacy that it should be, though it does not even seem to concern him.

He arches his back over the railing to stretch, but I can see him smirking. “You seem different from the rest of them, Alice.” It’s dark, and he can’t see me beaming at his observation. I don’t know why, but it makes me happy that he thinks I’m different. I should be nervous about his observation. Do I make it that obvious that I’m not from this time? And why do I even care about what he thinks?

Charlie looks down at me, exhales loudly as if he’s made some sort of decision, and steps back from the rail. “Walk with me?” He tilts his head toward the empty walkway on the deck.

“I shouldn’t.” I can barely muster the words. I don’t understand many of the social customs, but I know this is scandalous. I should leave right now before anyone sees us.

He takes a step toward me and looks down at me. He’s close enough that our noses almost brush against each other. I breathe him in. The smell of sweet vanilla is intoxicating. He looks directly into my eyes.

“But do you want to?”

“Yes,” I say, barely above a whisper.

He takes a step back and smiles, waiting for me to cave in and follow. It works. He smiles like that, and God, I think I’d follow him anywhere. We walk for what seems like hours, talking about everything. I tell him what I can about my childhood in Boston, careful to leave out my birth year or my parents’ divorce. He listens intently as I talk to him about Ben and the relationship we have.

I’m suddenly very aware that I’ve probably been rambling, and I worry that I’ll slip up and reveal something I shouldn’t. Conversation seems to come easily with Charlie, and I can see myself saying something that should be secret. I also just want to know more about him. He somehow feels mysterious and yet also like someone I’ve known for years.

“Look at me, spouting off nonstop. I feel as though I’ve done all the talking.”

“No. It’s fine. I like it.”

“Why?”

His voice grows soft. “I just like the sound of your voice.”

My voice? He likes the sound of my voice? Why in the world would he find listening to me ramble on enjoyable?

I turn my head toward him in confusion. “Mine?”

Charlie turns toward me fully. His gaze intensifies. It stops me in my tracks. “Yes, yours.”

He says that so matter-of-factly, it's as if he’s surprised I’ve never heard that from someone before. To be honest, I don’t think I talk enough to anyone else, apart from Ben, for them to like the sound of my voice.

We stand there frozen, only for a moment. Yes, yours. I let his words linger in my mind, as if I’m slowly savoring their taste. I quickly brush a wisp of hair from my face and attempt to deflect attention from the rosy warmth flushing my cheeks. “Please tell me about you.”

Tell me something awful so I can stop looking at you as if I’ll melt. Tell me you hate babies, or sunsets, or Saturday mornings. Anything that will snap me out of this trance I find myself in.

“There’s not much to tell, honestly. Your life sounds far more interesting.”

“No, really. I want to know,” I press.

He smiles to himself and continues walking. “Well, I was born and raised in London.”

“What part of London?”

He cocks his head, impressed that I asked for a more specific location. “South London. Croydon.”

Admittedly, my skill in geography is severely lacking and hinges solely on my knowledge of sports franchises in the area. I cannot tell you a single thing about the locations of rivers in Europe, but I can tell you which cities have soccer teams and what leagues they’re in. You’d think a historian would have an expert-level knowledge of geography, but not me.

“What do you do for fun?”

He seems surprised I asked such a question. It’s as if he hasn’t thought about life beyond working on ships in quite some time. “What do you mean?”

“When you were home in London, what was fun for you?”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head. “If I wasn’t working or at home, I was usually at the pitch with my mates.”

“So… you like soccer?” I’m trying not to show my excitement. I know a lady of this time wouldn’t have an expansive knowledge of sports, but it’s one of my passions.

“Like it?” He tilts his head back and laughs. “I love it.”

“And your team?”

“A local club, Crystal Palace.” He grins as he excitedly turns around and begins walking backward while he gives me a history of the team and his favorite player, Harry Hanger. It’s odd to hear an English person using the term soccer, but I have to remind myself the term football wasn’t universally used until the 1980s. I wish I could tell him how big the sport has gotten, how wide the audience has grown, and how his small boyhood club now plays in the Premier League.

I notice how well he must know the layout of the ship because he glides backwards easily while maintaining conversation with me. It reminds me of how effortlessly an ice skater can skate backward. His entire face brightens as he talks about his team. The joy he finds in it is infectious. He turns around to walk alongside me again. “I’m sorry if I prattled on too long. No one has ever asked me that before.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad you asked me. It made me happy to share it with you.”

This man is a goddamn golden retriever. He’s charming, but it’s entirely genuine. I have to keep the conversation going to avoid swooning. “Tell me about your family.”

“My father was a carpenter. He owned a furniture store. And my mum, she handled the books for him.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No, it was just me.” Me too. I wish I could tell him that. He sounds wistfully sad. I wish I could tell him I understand what it’s like to grow up lonely. “They lost a few before me, and that was hard on Mum. She always said I was her miracle.”

“Did you always want to work on ships?”

“No.” Charlie’s jaw clenches at the question. “My father taught me everything he knew about carpentry, and I was going to take over the shop until…” His voice trails off as if we’ve landed on a particular part of his history he does not speak of often.

“Until what?”

He sighs, an exhale full of sadness and a sense of remorse. “Mum got sick. She died when I was eighteen. Nothing was the same after that. I just had to get away, so I joined White Star Line and I’ve been on ships ever since. Papa died a few years after.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” I wish I could tell him I understand him, that I too am an only child. I wish he could know that I also realize what it’s like to lose a parent. Judging from the change in tone from when he spoke about his mother to his father, I wish I could also share with him that I understand the concept of having a difficult relationship with a parent. We have more in common than he realizes, and it pains me that I cannot share that with him or comfort him.

“It’s alright, Alice.” He smiles at me like he’s made peace with whatever happened.

“Do you enjoy working on ships?” I try to redirect the conversation toward perhaps a lighter topic.

“It has its moments, but it’s a place for me to rest my head every night. I was on the Olympic for a while. When spots opened up for the Titanic, my friend Alfie was going to take one. But his mother got sick, and he went home to care for his family, so I offered to come in his place. I like the ships well enough, but it’s an odd feeling sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Spending your life traveling, but never feeling like you actually go anywhere. I’m nearly twenty-eight and I feel like there’s so much I haven’t seen. It’s not bad though, living on a ship. Sometimes I get lucky and meet interesting people.” He smiles and winks at me. Charlie looks down at his watch and shakes his head. “Time flies. It’s eleven. The parlors are closing soon and people will be out here. You should get back before anyone sees you.”

I don’t want to leave. I don’t want this to end. I don’t even care who might see us walking together. I look down and see his empty hand and want to weave my fingers with his. He escorts me over to a walkway to B-Deck. He remains outside as I stand in the doorway.

“Tomorrow?” I want to meet here again. I am hopeful that he does too. I don’t know what this is, but I know I want more of it.

He looks at the ground and smiles. It looks like he’s blushing. He’s nervous.

I’m making him nervous.

He looks back up at me and smiles. When he smiles, it’s like he does it with his whole heart.

“Tomorrow, Alice.” He says my name, and it feels as though my heart is free-falling from my chest.

I close the door and grin all the way back to my cabin.