On a Cold Dark Sea(44)
“Hiram wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone,” she said. “You’re so young. You have a whole life ahead of you.”
Queasy with guilt, Esme remembered her last glimpse of Hiram on deck, as he stoically watched her leave. Had he thought her a loyal wife, in those final moments? The thought that he’d gone to his death knowing about Charlie felt suddenly like a greater betrayal than her unfaithfulness, for it was a wrong she could never set right. In the bleak early morning hours before her wedding, as Esme paced and fretted over her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, she even blurted out her regrets to Sabine, who shook her head when Esme asked if Hiram had ever questioned Esme’s nighttime absences. Sabine was too na?ve to lie, but Esme wasn’t comforted by her assurances. If Hiram had doubted Esme’s fidelity, he wouldn’t have confided his fears to a maid.
It was lack of sleep, Esme told herself, that made her so lackluster at the moment she should have been happiest. The wedding was appropriate to their circumstances: a simple ceremony performed at Charlie’s family home, with only immediate family in attendance. When Esme said her vows, it felt as if she were acting out an elaborate fantasy: This is what it would be like to marry Charlie Van Hausen. And if their wedding night was a disappointment, with none of the passion of their shipboard couplings, Esme wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on it. They needed time to rediscover each other, that was all.
It wasn’t until the following day, when Charlie and Esme left for the train station, that they learned how much their lives had changed. A gauntlet of reporters and photographers extended along the sidewalk in front of the house, and Charlie and Esme had to jostle through them to get to the car. There were more newspapermen waiting for them in New York. Esme pretended to find it a bother, but secretly she was pleased. She’d always known that she and Charlie belonged together; now, it seemed as if the world agreed.
But true love only sells papers for so long. Within a few days, there were other stories, raising questions about Charlie and how he’d managed to live, when so many other first-class gentlemen had died. The old rumor that a man had snuck into a lifeboat dressed as a woman—which Esme thought had been put to rest at the Senate hearings—was exhumed and reexamined. Charlie’s payment to the crewmen was once again questioned, his generosity twisted into something shameful. What made it worse was Charlie’s unwillingness to fight back. The more Esme defended him, the more he retreated.
And now here was Charlotte, popping up like a ghost from Esme’s haunted past. Older, of course, less histrionic, but still unmistakably herself. Charlotte was one of those lucky women whose allure wasn’t solely dependent on youth. It was amazing, really, that Esme had remembered her so quickly, when they’d been together only a few hours, such a long time ago. Then again, those hours had dragged like years. Thinking of the lifeboat made Esme physically ache for the Charlie he’d once been, the man who’d grabbed her hand when she pulled. During all the rituals of loss she’d endured since Charlie’s death, Esme had struggled to talk about her husband without hinting at her disappointment or their unhappiness. Now, she felt a shuddering longing for the Charlie who’d died long before. She still loved that man—she always would—and that realization released the tears she hadn’t even known were there.
Esme and Charlie had never talked about the boat; she’d followed his example and tried to forget. But in an echo of her younger, lovestruck self, Esme wanted to talk about the object of her adoration, to relive every touch and feeling. Charlotte had been there. She might understand.
Esme wiped her face with her sleeve and dragged herself up from the bed. From the hallway telephone, she called the Metropolitan Hotel and left a message for Mrs. Evers, asking if they could meet. Then she took a bath and a nap. When she woke up, refreshed and nearly sober, a note in Mrs. Gerstner’s neat handwriting was waiting on the bedside table: Mrs. Evers invites you to dinner as her guest at the Metropolitan Hotel. 8:00 p.m. It was the first time, Esme realized, that she’d be leaving the house since Charlie’s funeral.
The Metropolitan was one of those genteelly shabby hotels that stays in business thanks to below-market prices and word of mouth. Just the sort of place that appealed to penny-pinching English travelers, Esme thought as she stepped out of the taxi. The doorman was slow-moving and seemingly mute, but Esme was relieved to be spared the fawning that would have awaited her at the Ritz or the Waldorf. How heavenly it was to be anonymous.
Charlotte was waiting in the cramped, ill-lit lobby, and she led the way into the equally glum dining room. The ma?tre d’ escorted them to a table by the front window, well away from the few other diners. Esme ordered soup, as per usual; in her efforts to remain slim, she’d grown accustomed to picking at meals rather than eating them. Saving her conversational strength for what was to come, she agreed with Charlotte that the weather had been lovely, and it was a shame to see all those hobos camped out in Central Park. Charlotte asked about Esme’s children, and Esme felt a nourishing flush of pride. She’d made a success of that part of her life, at least.
“Robbie’s at Harvard. We’re so proud of him . . .” Esme stumbled and paused. “That is—I’m so proud. He’s smart and he’s kind, and you should see him on the football field! No one can keep up with him.”
Charlotte smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure, but she couldn’t know how extraordinary Robbie really was. He’d inherited Charlie’s exuberance and Esme’s bubbly laugh, but his good nature was underpinned by a wary protectiveness of those he loved. Esme never could have gotten through the funeral without Robbie beside her, slipping his hand in the crook of her elbow so she wouldn’t stumble. Even as a child, he’d been the one to coax her out of her room when all she wanted to do was sob her way through a bottle. He’d had a way of calling out “Mother?” with a catch in his voice that she couldn’t resist.