The woman scoots to the farthest edge of her chair. If she were a seal, she could just roll off and swim away.
“Pur-ple bow-ler,” Charlotte whispers, making a pecking motion with her finger.
I glance behind me. To my horror, a man wearing a purple bowler ambles toward us from the bow, his attention focused on the folded newspaper in his hands. A jockey-sized man in a valet’s black uniform trails him with a tray of tea.
I redouble my efforts. “Wouldn’t you know, the pustules are crusting over just like blackberry crumble. Here, let me show you.” I lean closer to Charlotte and pinch my veil with my fingers. “It’s not contagious, usually.”
With a horrified gasp, the woman makes a dash for it, her heels tapping with the fury of a typewriter delivering a shocking headline.
Charlotte lets out a heavy breath, and we share a relieved glance that surprises me with the pleasure it brings, like when a strange kitten cuddles up on your foot.
Mr. Stewart stops in front of his chair and tips his hat at us with barely a glance. He’s clearly the kind of man who wouldn’t notice women’s fashion if it came up and danced with him. His valet sets his tray on a side table, then helps Mr. Stewart out of his chesterfield coat.
Mr. Stewart waves him off. “Tea, Croggy.”
The valet presents Mr. Stewart with his tea, then stands like a potted plant beside him, his eyes hooded, the arm with the coat held straight as a towel rack.
Besides the purple bowler, the rest of Mr. Stewart seems ordinary. A plain sand-colored suit with a pinstriped waistcoat wraps his middling frame, and brown rubber-soled shoes look as faithful as a pair of beagles. It’s clear the man values comfort as well as flair. His eyes are the unremarkable brown shade of Bosc pears. I put him in his fifties, with a round face that has begun to jowl. The Chinese believe that jowls are like “money bags,” and the bigger they are, the more wealth they attract.
I switch my voice to Mrs. Sloane’s forthright manner. “Never seen the like, juggling all those things with a pineapple on her head. The astounding part was how she managed to talk at the same time. I can barely walk and talk at once.”
Mr. Stewart’s eyes, which had been glued to his paper, lift.
Charlotte clutches her hat, her teeth snagging her lip. Maybe she can’t walk and talk at once, either. “She?” she mouths at me.
Cod’s sake. I messed up. Well, Mr. Stewart would have learned the truth sooner or later anyway. “Yes, Valor is a girl—Valora, actually. But don’t tell anyone. She thinks people take her more seriously if they think she’s a boy.”
Mr. Stewart’s paper drops a fraction, and he inches closer, his head tilted slightly toward us. Well, that’s a happy mistake. Nothing catches ears like a secret.
Finally, Charlotte’s tongue unsticks. “Well, coordination like that takes years of practice. She must be very disciplined. She was more entertaining than the Marx Brothers,” she says stiffly. “And, er, the magician Ching Ling Foo. And Harry Houdini. Yes, she was better than all three daisy-chained together.” Charlotte’s voice goes unnaturally high.
“I gave her a whole crown,” she adds more naturally, perhaps because unlike her prior statement, this one is the truth. “I would’ve given more if I hadn’t stored it all with the purser. How long do you think that takes to learn?”
I nod, approving of her question. “I know for a fact that their father, God rest his soul, started them when they were toddlers. I’ve seen them perform in the park several times.”
“They?”
“Yes, there are two of them. Twins. Both on this ship. They go by the stage names Valor and Virtue.”
Mr. Stewart pulls at his whiskery jowls, staring out into the endless blue, though I hope his ears are on us.
I tuck my pumps under my skirts. “Their timing is impeccable, like two boots walking. They do these one-arm handstands and then grasp each other’s hands with their free arms.”
“That doesn’t seem physically possible!”
“If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d agree. You should see what she and her brother can do on a tightrope. It’s as good a spectacle as a royal pageant, but they fly.”
Charlotte clicks her fingernails together. “I certainly would pay to see a flying royal pageant.”
Mr. Stewart goes back to his paper.Come on, Mr. Stewart, visualize the possibilities. Hear the roar of the crowd.
“Well, once they hit America, someone big’s going to grab them. Like the Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus.”
At the mention of one of Ringling Brothers’ rivals, Mr. Stewart begins fidgeting.
“There are certainly lots of opportunities in New York,” adds Charlotte. “They’ll be like two fat tuna fish in a sea of sharks.” I grimace at the startling visual that conjures.
Finally, Mr. Stewart makes a throat-clearing noise. “Excuse me, ladies. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”
