On a Cold Dark Sea(42)

“I don’t. I went back to London soon after the sinking.”

Then why are you here? Esme wondered. She told herself to be patient and wait for Charlotte to reveal her hand.

“We all rather scattered, didn’t we?” Charlotte asked, as if they were discussing old school friends. “Did you see anyone from the boat, afterward?”

“Well, Charlie, of course . . .”

Esme saw Charlotte brace herself for a show of grief. No. She mustn’t talk about Charlie.

“And Sabine, my maid.”

Charlotte nodded.

“She was with me for years,” Esme said. “She turned out to be quite a good seamstress, and she began making dresses for me, and then my friends wanted her to make things for them, and it all progressed from there. She has her own boutique, now, on Madison Avenue.”

“Well done,” Charlotte said, “though I am surprised. She seemed such a meek little thing.”

“She still is, in some ways,” Esme said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard her raise her voice. She has a quiet kind of strength, though. I depended on her a great deal, in those months afterward, and she was so loyal. That meant a lot. I was sad to lose her as a maid, of course, but I did all I could to help her get started with the shop. I’m very proud of her.” What would Esme have been, without Sabine? Sabine was the one who had comforted Esme when she cried for Hiram, the night before she married Charlie. Sabine had always listened; she had always understood.

“And you remember Mrs. McBride and her sisters?” Esme continued. “They used to call on me, when they were visiting New York. She passed away ten years ago or so, and Mrs. Westleigh just last year. I don’t think the youngest one is up to traveling anymore.”

“I wonder what happened to the little Swedish girl,” Charlotte said.

“Anna,” Esme said. She wondered, too. She remembered the young woman hunched in the middle of the boat, shivering, her face blank with shock.

“I haven’t been able to travel by ship since then,” Esme said. “It drove Charlie crazy, because he always wanted to spend a summer in France or Italy. He said money was no fun if you weren’t spending it, and I know thousands of people make the crossing every year with no danger whatsoever, but I just can’t seem to get myself on a boat. You may be one of the only people who understands why.”

“I do,” Charlotte said. “The White Star Line arranged for my passage home, and I was terrified the entire time. I didn’t set foot on a boat again until this week.”

It made no sense. Charlotte was so broken up over Charlie’s death that she’d gotten over her fear of sailing, jumped on a ship, and rushed to see Esme, a woman she hadn’t spoken to in twenty years?

“I’m honored you made such an effort on my behalf,” Esme said.

That hit a nerve, because Charlotte looked away. She was definitely up to something. Mrs. Gerstner came in with a tray, and the conversation paused as coffee was poured and passed. When Mrs. Gerstner left, Esme kept her cup by her lips, sipping slowly. She’d force Charlotte to talk first.

“Mr. Van Hausen’s death made all the papers in England,” Charlotte said.

“Goodness.” Esme wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or dismayed. “I didn’t realize he was so well known there.”

“Your marriage was one of the few happy stories to come from the whole Titanic catastrophe,” Charlotte said. “You gave people hope when there wasn’t much to be found.”

Esme had a scrapbook in her room, filled with clippings from the week of her marriage. She could still recite the headlines: “The Triumph of Love over Loss.” “An Unlikely Titanic Romance.” “Titanic Widow Weds Her Rescuer.” It had seemed as if the whole world were rooting for her and Charlie to be happy.

There’d been other kinds of stories, too, but those she hadn’t cut out.

“There are many people, in England and America, who still think of you quite fondly,” Charlotte said, so kindly that Esme might have mistaken her for a friend if she hadn’t already been on guard.

“I’ve been amazed at the number of condolence letters I’ve received, from perfect strangers,” Esme said. “It’s quite overwhelming.”

“People feel as if they know you, even if you’ve never met. They worry how you’re coping. You must know that.”

Charlotte was leaning forward, and her voice had softened into that of a sideshow hypnotist. She hadn’t been so cunning in the lifeboat, Esme remembered. She’d thought shouting and haranguing would bring others to her side. Which it hadn’t, of course.

“I’m a reporter for the London Record,” Charlotte said. “I’d like to tell your story, yours and Mr. Van Hausen’s.”

Esme shrank back, repulsed. Charlotte had swanned into her home with sympathetic murmurs and put-on concern, thinking she’d trick Esme into doing what she wanted. Esme dropped her cup in its saucer with a clatter and stood up. Insults and questions swirled in her head, but all she managed to say was, “Get out.”

Charlotte rose cautiously, a mouse placating a territorial cat. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I’m sure you’ve been approached by all sorts of papers and magazines, and I thought you might agree to an interview with someone you knew, so as to stop all the bother.”