On a Cold Dark Sea(10)
Bewildered, Charlotte allowed Reg to escort her into the stateroom. A settee was set against one wall; two berths were flush against the other. Her bags had been stacked in front of a small bureau. It was nicer than any room she’d ever slept in, yet at the moment it felt as close and stifling as a prison.
Reg leaned against the doorjamb, one foot crossed against the other, a posture intended to show her he was perfectly at ease. But Charlotte knew him well enough to spot the tense set of his jaw.
“Who is he, then?” she demanded.
“Georgie’s a friend.”
That could mean anything. Reg had dozens of so-called friends.
“Does he have something to do with that spot of trouble you’re in?” Charlotte asked.
Reg exhaled sharply, a sound that could have been a laugh if he’d made the effort. “Yes.”
Charlotte felt the disappointment first, a heavy, dull pain pulling her down. It was supposed to be just the two of them. With a flush of shame, she remembered the fantasies she’d entertained over the past few days: Reg half-drunk, reaching for her; her own mock-reluctant surrender to his seduction. What a fool she’d been, to think she could ever trust him! Reg had lured Charlotte onto this journey with half truths, like one of his marks, and she had fallen for it. Her embarrassment hardened into anger.
“I know Georgie wasn’t part of the plan,” Reg explained, with exaggerated remorse, “only it turned out he needed rescuing at rather the last minute, and there wasn’t time to check with you, and I couldn’t turn my back on him. Loyalty is one of my few admirable qualities, wouldn’t you say?”
It was the same way he chattered at cards, a melodious flow of words distracting attention away from what his hands were doing with the deck. It only infuriated Charlotte more.
“Why is he here?” she demanded. “For once in your blasted life, tell me the truth!”
She’d shocked him: good. Reg’s smile wilted, and he looked down. It took him a very long time to decide what to say.
“Georgie is George St. Vaughn, late of Cambridge University. He is also the son of Lord Upton, second cousin to the queen, and an all-round blighter. Georgie and I were discovered in what I believe is best described as a . . . compromising position, in his rooms at college. Cue scandal, uproar, and calls for my immediate beheading.”
The words tumbled and spun around Charlotte as she struggled to understand.
“I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you before,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
Charlotte realized that the simplicity of his apology meant it was sincere. But that moment of compassion was quickly overpowered by dizzy uncertainty. What was he saying? What did it mean?
“Georgie’d be recognized in first class, so he’s traveling as my brother.”
“Your brother.” Charlotte nearly spit out the word. “So, we’re to be a happy family?”
“We could be.”
Charlotte stared at the face she knew so well, the face of a man she didn’t know at all. A compromising position. She didn’t know how it was possible for two men to do such things, only that it went against nature to do it. Her first impulse was to leave. There was still time; she could pick up her bags and stalk off the ship. Back on the train, back to London, back to Mr. Thornton.
“Please, Lottie.”
Reg’s plea cut through the haze of wounded pride. If she stayed, she’d be condoning behavior she could think of only as sinful. She’d have to pretend she didn’t care. Yet even that humiliation, she realized, was preferable to returning to her old life.
Charlotte nodded, briefly and painfully. “I’ll do my bit.”
Reg reached out to her—for a pat on the shoulder, a squeeze of the arm—and she twisted away.
“Go find your brother,” she snapped. “We’ll be off any minute.”
Charlotte missed the celebratory departure from Southampton, the waves and shouts between deck and shore. She sat alone in her cabin, palms clenched around her knees, as the coals were shoveled and the engines sprang to life. She spent hours in that cabin during the days that followed, fuming and squeezing back tears. For the steward’s benefit, she had to rumple the sheets on the upper berth each morning and wet her husband’s towel so it looked used. But of course Reg never slept in her room; he spent every night with Georgie, and she tortured herself with thoughts of what they might be doing.
Her fellow passengers, she gathered later, were dazzled by the Titanic’s grand appointments and air of glamour. For Charlotte, all those public spaces were merely backdrops to an unending, excruciating game of make-believe. At every meal, during afternoons in the lounge, or on deck, she played the dutiful wife, pretending to find Georgie’s company tolerable. He was an overgrown child, all eager smiles and self-amused giggles, shooting glances at Reg the way a puppy begs for scraps at the table. His attempts to befriend Charlotte were laughably clumsy. When he tried to butter her up by telling her how highly Reg thought of her, Charlotte was too tired and frustrated to summon a polite response.
“He thinks of you as a sister,” Georgie insisted.
“Yes, we had quite jolly times together. Until you came along.”
Georgie looked so wounded, like a child that’d gotten a slap instead of a pat, that Charlotte almost felt guilty. Then he went off on a story about his mother’s sister’s horse, and her moment of empathy passed.