The late-afternoon sun has a subdued, almost glowy quality about it, as if it clocked out early and the moon is taking over. The ocean seems too quiet, the water a shifting palette of blues and greys. I strain to see a fish or any sign of life in the watery desert, but none appear. Suddenly feeling lonely, I run my fingers over the carved whale in my pocket. It feels warm, as if radiating an energy of its own.
A tray offers now-cold cheese scones. I face toward where a newAtlantic Daily Bulletinis posted and feed myself one under my veil.
APRIL 14
Weather: High of 50. Clear with moderate breeze to the northwest. Evening temperature to drop below freezing. Possible ice.
Nurse Clara Barton died, and a Royal Flying Corps has been formed. Glancing around to make sure no one’s watching, I slurp down my glass of lemonade, then begin on a second scone. But when I reach the society column, I nearly choke.
Mr. Stephen Sloane made a sizable contribution to the Royal Garden Society to be put toward a “Garden of Smells” in honor of his late mother, Mrs. Amberly Sloane.
I rip the paper from the corkboard, crumple it into a ball, and stuff it into my pocket. Maybe they’re already onto me.
The money towels.A rocket flare lights inside me, and I have to stop my feet from racing in several directions at once. First, I’ll retrieve the money. Then I’ll remove as many of the dailies as I can find. It may be too late—the dailies have been up since morning—but I can’t just leave them out for people to read.
Back to hopping on the balls of my feet, I hurry into thedeckhouse and down the tidal-wave staircase. The walls and ceilings have grown eyes. Every person I pass seems to look right through the veil to my guilty face.
In the Entrance Hall on B-Deck, a few people mill around the corkboard with the daily. I’ll take care of that one right now. I wait at least five excruciating minutes before the area clears enough for me to snatch the bulletin.
“Excuse me.” A man with sharp cheekbones points at the page I’m stuffing into my pocket. “I wanted to read that.”
I draw myself up. “Wait your turn, young man,” I say haughtily, pushing through the felted doors to the Cabbage Patch, hoping he doesn’t follow. The doors close behind me, seemingly more reluctantly than usual.
“Mrs. Sloane!”
“Oh!” I cry, nearly colliding with Steward Latimer in front of Mr. Ismay’s suites. “Why, hello.” He catches me by the arm before I stumble. I shrink away, with crab-like movements of my legs.Get ahold of yourself. You are a first-class lady, not a pastry-bumming street urchin.I straighten my coat, which has slid off one shoulder.
“I trust your steward has been taking care of you?”
“Yes.” I compose my features. “I was surprised to hear you had moved floors.”
“Yes. I’m embarrassed to say Mr. Ismay wasn’t content with my performance, but I’m still helping here when needed. Do you, er, need anything?” A pleasant smile lights his furry face, and he leans toward me solicitously. He doesn’t look likesomeone who’s worried about being scalded by the boiling kettle of scandal.
“Actually, I was wondering where the dailies are posted.”
“There’s one right outside those doors.”
“Yes, but are there others?”
“I could have one brought to your room.”
“Oh, no, please don’t do that. Er, sometimes I feel like reading it in different locations.” What a load of codswallop. But it doesn’t matter. He already thinks I’m an eccentric old lady.
He studies the ceiling and counts off his fingers. “Let’s see, there’s also one on the Promenade Deck, the library, the restaurant, and the Smoking Room. Five, that’s it. We don’t have the capacity to print many, you see.”
Mrs. Sloane, that tough old nut, feels herself soften in gratitude. “Steward Latimer, I know you must think me a loon for carrying around tobacco in place of ashes. But the thing is, Percy loved that particular brand, and, well, the smell reminds me of him.”
“Please, no need to explain. I carried around my baby’s sock for years after she passed. Whatever gets you through is what gets you through.”
“Quite so.” I pull a sovereign from my pocket and hold it out. Mrs. Sloane had said she would tip a sovereign, or ten shillings for each of us, at the end of the journey, and this is the end of my journey in first class.
“Oh, why, thank you.”
“I am grateful for your kindness.”
He bows, and as we part ways, I can’t help thinking that even if the man knew the truth, he wouldn’t hold it against me.
Reaching my cabin, I brace myself, in case the Master-of-Big-Arms waits on the other side of the door. But when I open it, only the citrusy scent of bergamot greets me, chased by the heavy odor of the lilies I stashed in the wardrobe. They’re rotting along with all my plans.
