On a Cold Dark Sea(36)
Newspaper work required a quick tongue and a quick mind, Teddy told her, and Charlotte had both. The survivors she interviewed trusted her to tell their stories, just as the gentlemen she’d once stolen from had trusted in her innocence. No one who looked like Charlotte was suspected of having ulterior motives. As she learned how to build the framework of a story around what people said—an act of both translation and creation—Charlotte discovered that writing brought the same satisfaction as crafting a scheme with Reg. It allowed her to be someone else, someone who shaped unruly reality into a narrative with a satisfying end.
When the Senate began its investigation into the disaster, Charlotte traveled to Washington, DC, as the Record’s newest correspondent. There, all it took was a bashful, girlish giggle, and the other reporters ushered her into a sought-after front-row seat. In the overcrowded hearing room, she listened to the testimony of Mrs. McBride and Charles Van Hausen. They glided over the truth of what happened, of course, but Charlotte felt oddly detached from their stories. What they described seemed to have nothing to do with her, and she took no notes. It was different when Mr. Healy gave his evidence. There’d been something between them in the boat, an instantaneous trust she’d never felt with anyone else. His distress latched into Charlotte as if it were her own pain, and for one absurd moment, she wanted to leap up and defend him before all those condemning faces: It’s not his fault! Instead, she slumped her shoulders and slid lower in her chair, hoping Mr. Healy wouldn’t see her. Charlotte hadn’t spoken to him since the rescue, and she was shocked at how his once-confident expression had been dulled by grief. Yet she shied away from offering a kind word, or even an acknowledgment of her presence. What was the point? Mr. Healy would always be a reminder of the past, of a night Charlotte was determined to forget. She was looking only to the future.
When the British inquiry began in May, Teddy and Charlotte were called back to London. By then, Charlotte was eager to return home—she was tired of the constant attention that came with being a foreigner—but she hadn’t counted on how difficult the journey would be. When the ship pulled away from the pier, her limbs felt shaky with nerves. No one would have known it to look at her; she managed to chitchat with Teddy and was breezily friendly with the stewardess who showed her to her stateroom. But she could hardly bear to remain below deck. As long as she was outside, scanning the horizon, Charlotte was able to stave off panic, but dinner sent her into a whirlwind of fear. She pictured the floor of the dining saloon tilting, china crashing to the floor, water pouring through the cracked windows. Sleep wasn’t possible the first night, not with her ears constantly alert for shouts or a knock on the door. The engines’ steady hum gave no reassurance, for she expected it to cut out at any moment. The thought of passing three more nights in such agony brought her close to tears.
The second evening, Charlotte lingered with Teddy in the second-class lounge after dinner. When she caught him yawning discreetly behind an upraised hand, she asked him to see her to her stateroom. She didn’t even bother with finding a suitable excuse, knowing only that every minute she spent in his company was a minute she wasn’t afraid. When they reached her door, she wordlessly took his hand and brought him inside.
Teddy, like any good reporter, knew there were occasions when it was best not to ask questions. If he was surprised to be kissed by a woman so recently widowed, he didn’t show it, meeting Charlotte’s advances with good-natured acquiescence. She hadn’t intended to pull him so close, or tug at his shirt, but once her palm made contact with the bare skin of his back, she realized that the longer she continued, the longer Teddy would stay. And so Charlotte forged on.
It struck her as rather ridiculous, all the panting breaths and fumbling with clothes, though Charlotte tried to maintain the solemnity she thought such an encounter demanded. As they collapsed onto the bed, each of them wincing as they pulled apart to adjust their twisted wrists and cramped legs, Teddy laughed. The realization that physical relations needn’t be deadly serious—that the entire process might even be funny—was a salve to Charlotte’s despair. She felt like a child again, all wide-eyed curiosity, and had to remind herself that in Teddy’s eyes she wasn’t an innocent virgin but a woman who’d experienced a marital bed. Charlotte’s heart raced when Teddy maneuvered on top of her, but the act wasn’t as painful as she’d expected. When Teddy had satisfied himself, he slid down to her side with a content grunt and regarded Charlotte with moist-eyed gratitude, the recipient of an unexpectedly generous gift. Charlotte felt the warmth of his body soak into hers, soothing her far beneath her skin. When he began to pull away, she asked him to stay, and he did. For the rest of the journey, she spent her nights curled up against him, sleeping more soundly than she had in ages.
It wasn’t love. Charlotte found Teddy soothing, that was all, and they continued to soothe each other from time to time, whenever they were lonely or frustrated or giddily celebrating a professional success. Charlotte told Teddy early on that she wasn’t interested in marriage, and if Teddy had hoped otherwise, he never let on. Charlotte knew they’d make for an uneasy domestic match, for despite Teddy’s happy-go-lucky fa?ade, he was just as ambitious as she was. When Teddy got engaged to a suitably domestic-minded woman, their physical interludes came to an end, with no regrets on Charlotte’s part. By then, she’d had other lovers, men who intrigued and amused her, men she thought herself passionately in love with until their mysteries were revealed and the attraction withered. At work and in bed, Charlotte was always drawn to novelty.