I slowly sat up and looked at my sister. She was still writing diligently, lost in her work. Her brow was furrowed, tendrils of her blond hair were brushing her cheeks, and she had ink stains on her right hand. It took her a moment to notice that I had woken up, and when she did, she looked at me and smiled.
As I turned back to Luc, he was looking outside again, his emotions shuttered.
A while later, a porter knocked at the door and told us that we were approaching Paris. The train was running a little late as we pulled into Gare Saint-Lazare. We still had to return to the hotel where we’d stayed two weeks ago to retrieve our luggage, then get back to the station to board the next train at one o’clock. That left us only half an hour.
“We must rush,” Luc said as he looked at the station clock. “We cannot miss the train.”
Grace and I followed him through the busy station to the street outside, where he hailed a taxicab to take us to the hotel.
The Paris streets were crowded with pedestrians, omnibuses,automobiles, carriages, and wagons. It was cool and cloudy with a light drizzle as we passed the Square Louis XVI and then followed a road that bent one way and then the next past the Palais Garnier, where the Opéra national de Paris performed. Our hotel was close to the opera house, but the minutes were ticking by, and Luc was stiff beside me. He spoke in French to the driver, who seemed to be just as anxious as Luc.
We finally arrived, and Luc spoke to the driver, who nodded and waved him inside.
“He’ll wait for us,” Luc said, “but we must hurry.”
We left the taxi and ran into the hotel lobby. The desk clerk was busy helping another customer. Luc tried to wait patiently, but he finally interrupted them.
“Pardon,” he said and spoke in rapid French. The other customer didn’t look pleased, but Luc seemed to communicate we were in a great hurry.
After an eternity, all the luggage was brought out to the taxi, and we were on our way back to the station. The traffic soon became so bad, we were at a standstill, and Luc was saying things under his breath in French.
I pulled out my pocket watch and my heart fell.
We only had five minutes left.
Grace glanced down at my watch, and her face revealed her disappointment.
“We won’t make it,” I said to Luc. “It’s already too late.”
“We have to try,” he said. “Perhaps there is another train leaving for Cherbourg that can make it on time.”
His optimism was inspiring, but it wasn’t realistic.
The taxi driver helped with the luggage, but when we got to the ticket counter, the agent shook his head.
Luc’s shoulders fell, and he let out a frustrated breath as he forcefully pushed away from the ticket counter. When he looked back at me, I could see his defeat. “I am sorry. We will have to find passage on another ship.”
“It will be okay,” I said, stepping close to him to put my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry we’ll miss theTitanic, but it doesn’t diminish my success. There will be other opportunities.”
He nodded. “Oui. Of course. This is just a little setback. We won’t let it stop us from our goal.” He glanced at Grace and said, “I am sorry I could not make this happen.”
She offered him a beautiful smile. It wasn’t forced or feigned, and it communicated her respect for him. “You have done so much for us. You have nothing to be sorry about.”
A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, and he returned Grace’s smile before he went back to the ticket counter to purchase our fare to Cherbourg for a later train.
I was relieved they had finally moved past their dislike of one another—yet something else pinched at my heart. Ever since I’d woken up on the train, I had observed something disquieting.
Luc looked at my sister much differently than he looked at me.
11
GRACE
APRIL 19, 1692
SALEM VILLAGE
The sun was warm upon my shoulders as I worked in the garden outside the ordinary in Salem Village. Rich, black soil moved easily beneath my fingers as my thoughts drifted to the alarming news we’d learned three days ago in 1912. It was all I had been thinking about in both paths.
