11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Chicken by Your Neighbors
April 11, 1912
We are approaching Queenstown, Ireland, to pick up passengers and supplies. Ben sits across from me at breakfast in the saloon, recounting his night to me.
“Did you learn anything in your first cigars and brandy session?”
Ben smirks. “Well, I learned that Mr. Harrison fancies you quite a bit.” He knows this frustrates me and he seems amused by my annoyance.
“No, he doesn’t,” I say matter-of-factly. Absolutely not. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
Ben laughs. “What do you mean?”
“He likes the idea of me, not me. I think he’s interested in any single woman of good fortune and breeding that he deems worth the chase.”
I suppose I don’t fully know Edward enough to say he is a truly reprehensible man. Perhaps he is simply a product of his time and upbringing. He grew up wealthy, and with that came expectations of how he should live his life. Aren’t we all just products of the expectations laid upon us? I can’t truly fault him for that. He has been expected to take over the family empire, marry well, and continue the cycle. I suppose maybe his true fault is that he just doesn’t realize he’s barking up completely the wrong tree.
“Fair enough,” he laughs. “What did you do last night? Sarah said you got in pretty late.”
“Nothing. I just went for a walk,” I quickly answer, hoping that will be enough to satisfy him with no need for any follow-up questions.
His brow furrows with confusion. “By yourself?”
I shake my head. I look for any reason to remove myself from this line of questioning and inevitable lecture about being careful to not raise suspicion.
I stir my tea continuously, just to have something to do with my hands. As Ben and I sit here, essentially in a staring contest waiting for the first person to break, Charlie walks into the saloon to deliver a message to another passenger. As he walks away from their table, he turns his head back and we lock eyes. I don’t realize I’m still swirling the spoon in my tea, subconsciously picking up speed as my heart races. My heart is beating so loudly I feel as though the entire room can hear. Suddenly my cup has slid off the plate, and in trying to catch it, I’ve awkwardly thrown my spoon. Charlie smirks as he leaves the saloon, and Ben has noticed the entire thing.
I look over at Ben, expecting the Spanish Inquisition, but his eyebrows are raised, and he looks like he’s trying not to burst out laughing. He leans over the table to whisper privately to me. “Al, what the hell was that?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” I pat down my dress. “Do you want more tea?” I try to distract him by picking up the porcelain teapot to refill his cup.
He leans back in his chair, delighted at my embarrassment. “I don’t know. Are you planning on throwing the whole pot at him next time?”
I feel my face flush in mortification; however, once I look up at Ben, I let a small giggle slip out and shrug my shoulders.
“My, my, my. Do my eyes deceive me, or are you blushing?” He is enjoying this far too much. I want to hide my reddening face behind the book I brought with me to read later.
“It’s, uh… very warm in here. We should go.” I lie straight through my teeth. In truth, I can’t answer Ben because I don’t understand it myself. I don’t know who this woman is that has taken over my body. All I know is that if she gets me near Charlie again, she can keep hold of the wheel.
After breakfast, Ben and I walk up to the promenade deck to walk in the fresh air. We pass a contentious game of shuffleboard in progress. Ben stands back to watch the shuffleboard, likely trying to brush up on the rules before being roped into a game himself. He can be quite competitive and will surely play to win. For selfish reasons, I hope he wins. Ben is insufferable when he loses at anything. The only thing worse than a losing Ben is a sick Ben. If he has even a minor cold, he acts like a Victorian child on their deathbed.
I walk on ahead, following a similar path to my walk with Charlie. I’m so lost in the memory that I step on the pale blue ruffled skirt of my dress and trip forward. A gloved hand reaches out to grab my arm, sparing me from my usual clumsiness.
I look up at the mystery figure who has just rescued me from mortification and see a pair of eyes that are familiar to me.
Because they’re my eyes.
Or rather, the eyes of Violet Kelly, my great-great-grandmother.