“No, ma’am. It’s Baxter. I’ve a suitcase for you.”
Remembering the young porter who found Mrs. Sloane’s trunk, I open the door and quickly take the alligator suitcase. “Thank you.”
Inside, I find a marigold silk dress that’s fussier than I expected from April, with too many buttons and ties on the wrists. I wish she had delivered the case herself, not just so she could instruct me on how to wear her creation, but because I enjoy her company.
Perhaps she no longer needs me, now that her fashion has caused the stir she hoped for. I guess I no longer need her either.
April 14, 1912
After a restlesssleep, Sunday morning bustles in with the call of a bugle. The ship muscles us forward, and the port ofNew York grows brighter. Will it be a beginning or an ending for me? All the optimism I’ve felt since setting foot aboard this ship has steadily mixed with dread, as when a warm spring mingles with the cold sea, leaving an unsatisfying tepidness in my bones.
At least I haven’t been arrested, which means no one is the wiser about the imposter in B-64. And surely, Mr. Stewart will tell us his decision today. We did our job, and now he’s doing his, handling arrangements, sending telegrams.
I pull the comforter over my head, trying to fall back asleep. Jamie isn’t expecting me for breakfast anyway.
A pine boxrests in a field of hollyhocks. Is Ba at last gone?
Jamie’s tree stands empty, and the leaves have fallen off. He’s run off for good. Flown away to that space he loves so much.
I approach the box with a lump in my throat. My hand trembles as I lift the lid back from its hinges, dreading what I’ll see.
Suddenly, I’m in the box. The dark wraps around me, squeezing tighter and tighter, and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe...
I flip the comforter off me, gasping. Someone’s knocking at the door.
“Mrs. Sloane?” calls a female voice. “Mrs. Sloane, are you there?”
I hurry to the door, my nightgown, which is drenched insweat, grasping at my legs. My face feels like I’ve stuck it in a boiler.
“Just a moment,” I say sternly. “Who is it?”
“It’s Charlotte.”
I crack the door to make sure she’s alone. Her soft brown eyes blink at me. A nautical-style dress nips in at her waist, giving her a waspish figure. I quickly let her in.
“Jamie sent me to check on you. He hadn’t seen you all day, and it’s past three.”
My stomach grumbles like a creature from the deep, and she eyes my damp nightgown. I hug myself and try not to feel like a hobo. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Any news?”
“Yes. Mr. Stewart wants to meet with you and Jamie tonight after dinner!”
With a shriek, I clasp my hands to the ceiling and nearly fall to my knees.
“His valet will fetch you at eight thirty. I’m so happy for you!” With a squeal, Charlotte flings her arms around me, enveloping me in the scent of sweet peas. “I was thinking. If you do end up in New York”—her eyes drop to the carpet—“maybe you’d like to visit? We have horses and plenty of space. Half the rooms we don’t even use. I wish we had more people to fill them.”
“That’s kind of you.” Her offer touches me, even though I know it’s Jamie she’s thinking about. Still, this is good news. Surely she wouldn’t encourage a friendship between us unless Jamie had given her hope of a future together. And if that’s the case, Jamie’s definitely headed toward America.
“Well, I’d better go. Mother’s waiting for me to accompany her to the cocktail hour. Bottomless shrimp boats are the only thing that get her out of bed. I can’t wait to hear what happens tonight.”
After she leaves, I secure myself into the marigold dress as best I can, leaving the wrist ribbons loose, since I can’t tie those one-handed. Then I lid my head with the provided hat—a grand dame with a wide brim that at least puts space between me and the viewer.
As I slip on the vanilla coat, I notice an object on the floor: a hackle feather, like a tiny white canoe. It must have fallen out of my coat pocket. I freeze, hunched like a heron over the feather. Its tip points toward twelve o’clock.
Something’s going to happen.That’s a weak superstition, refusing to commit either way. A superstition like that should just be called a “stition,” because there’s nothing super about it. Yet the hairs on my arms stand on end.
Crossing to the window, I open it and let the bloody thing sail into the wind.
Before slogging to E-Deck, I stop for a snack at the lemonade stand, which fortunately is deserted.
