At last, the steward returns. “Please come with me.”
Jamie and I follow him toward the lifts, while Charlotte takes Tao’s arm. “Uncle, shall we?” With Strudel following close at her heels, they set off in the opposite direction, toward the Collar.
The lift takes Jamie, the steward, and me to B-Deck. So, Mr. Stewart is staying on Mrs. Sloane’s level after all. I hope he isn’t in the Cabbage Patch, an area I’m anxious to avoid. The lift operator opens the collapsible gate, and to my surprise, the petite man with the discreet bearing of a potted plant quietly greets us. “Mr. and Miss Luck.”
“Mr. Croggy,” I greet Mr. Stewart’s valet, remembering too late that we’ve never been introduced.
One of his threadbare eyebrows crooks a fraction. “It’s actually ‘Crawford.’”
The blood leaches from my face. “Croggy” must be a nickname, possibly one only Mr. Stewart uses. Now he must wonder how a lowly acrobat he has never met knows it.
Jamie throws me a questioning glance, but I shake my head, hoping my slipup hasn’t ruined everything.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Crawford,” Jamie says smoothly.
The valet recovers his neutral face, then leads us in the opposite direction from the Cabbage Patch. Room B-47 catches my eye. I’ll need to return April’s clothes to her, somehow. Will she notice that the Merry Widow has disappeared? I wish her the best. She has done me a good turn here on theTitanic, and I won’t forget it.
Crawford guides us through another set of felt doors to a quiet section in the bow. His slight figure moves at a pace that neither lingers nor hurries.
“Don’t seem too eager,” Jamie drops in my ear. “See what he has to offer before running off with the bone. And don’t make excuses about being late. It begs too many questions.”
“But—”
“Shh.” He knocks my arm with his elbow as Crawford swivels his thin neck back at us.
Crawford stops and knocks on a door. “Sir? Your guests are here.”
“Show them in,” replies Mr. Stewart.
The room is half as wide as Mrs. Sloane’s suite, with a single bed opposite a couch, a carved armoire on one end, and a mirrored dressing table on the other. The walls are wainscoted in cream, with crown molding gracefully flared to the ceilings.
Mr. Stewart sits reading a book on one side of the couch, which is intricately patterned in reds and golds. His bowler and chesterfield coat have been placed atop the finely crafted mahogany bed. Save for a little fuzz above his ears, the man is bald as a buoy.
He rises from his seat. “Ah, Valor and Virtue.”
Jamie extends a hand. “You can call me Jamie, and this is Valora. We’re very sorry for our delay.”
Mr. Stewart cocks an ear. When an explanation doesn’t come, he frowns, and little pouches appear around his mouth. This visit is not off to a flying start. As he gives Jamie’s hand a curt shake, the chains of his gold watch swing out from where they attach to the pockets of his linen vest, and the forgiving pleats of his pants balloon, emphasizing his stocky legs.
“Please.” He lifts a hand to the couch.
“Thank you,” I croak, my throat still swollen from yelling. I slide onto the velvety upholstery, whose sumptuousness calls attention to my dingy sea togs. Jamie sits himself next to me, barely moving the horsehair seat cushion.
Moving soundlessly, Crawford sweeps up Mr. Stewart’s hat and coat, freeing a spot on the bed for Mr. Stewart to sit opposite us. Above his head, a Tiffany lamp twinkles like a jewel set in the wall.
Mr. Stewart’s eyes dart back and forth between Jamie and me as if not sure where to land. “Where did you learn how to perform like that?”
“Our father taught us,” I say congenially, hoping to thaw the temperature in the room a little. “He was a man with more cream than pail. Always brimming with ideas.”
“You saidwas?”
“He died a few months back,” Jamie says without emotion.
Mr. Stewart’s eyebrows climb toward each other, then flatten. “Ah. I lost my own father when I was about your age,and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him.” His shoulders relax. Finding common ground seems to ease the way forward. He unclips the chains of his watch and holds the timepiece up like a rare coin. “This was his. It reminds me to embrace the moment. Which is why I agreed to see you at this very late hour. Charlie—er, Mr. Ringling—has been looking for a top-notch act, and I think you’re it.”
“Why, that’s brilliant news. Thank you, sir.” A surge of energy runs through me, and I have to stop myself from bouncing off the couch. These boots are making tracks for America. I grin at Jamie, and he grins right back.
“Croggy?” Mr. Stewart flicks his eyes to the dressing table, where an ice bucket beaded with moisture holds a bottle of champagne. As Crawford pours, the fizzy sound seems to make the air sparkle, and soon we are all holding a glass.
