On a Cold Dark Sea(45)

“Rosie—Rosalind—is thirteen. She’s staying with Charlie’s mother right now, in Boston. Mrs. Van Hausen was quite cut up, as you can imagine.”

Mrs. Van Hausen had always been dour, and Charlie’s death had sunk her into full-blown despair. Esme couldn’t bear to be around her. Mrs. Van Hausen openly blamed Esme for Charlie’s unhappiness, forgetting that a failed marriage was a joint accomplishment, and Charlie hadn’t exactly held up his side of the bargain.

“Do you have children?” Esme asked.

Charlotte shook her head. “No, I never married.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, “After Mr. Evers.”

Esme was about to be polite and ask how long they’d been married, but Charlotte seemed intent on moving the conversation away from herself.

“I’m awfully glad you agreed to see me,” Charlotte said. She reached into the handbag that sat on the floor by her chair. “I’ll take a few notes now, if you don’t mind, then we can do the official interview afterward.”

Esme shook her head. “I came to tell you I won’t do an interview. You can put that away.”

She looked pointedly at the pen in Charlotte’s hand. There was a pause while Charlotte seemed to consider whether it was worth arguing. Then she put the pen back.

“All right.”

There was no reason for Esme to linger in a room where spilled sauce streaked the shabby carpets and the half-hearted lighting made everyone look sick. Esme could summon enough superficial conversation to get through the meal and leave before she said things she’d later regret. But what did she have to go back to? An empty house. Her bed. The bottle. It wouldn’t be long before the last of the liquor was gone, and Esme didn’t have the faintest idea how to find a bootlegger; Charlie had taken care of those arrangements. Dragging out this meeting would help her to ration what she had left.

But that wasn’t the main reason Esme chose to stay. Charlotte was the last person she should confide in—a journalist, of all people!—yet Esme trusted her all the same. She realized, with a jolt, that Charlotte was watching her the way Charlie used to, back in England, before they’d ever kissed. It was the kind of look that draws one person to another: I want to know you. Tell me who you are.

And so Esme took a chance, just as she had with Charlie.

“Would you like to hear the real story of my marriage?” she asked Charlotte.

Charlotte looked wary.

“You can’t write anything down, and you can’t print anything I say. I have some very good lawyers at my disposal if you choose to break those terms.”

“There’s no need for lawyers,” Charlotte said. “I’ll keep whatever you tell me in confidence.”

Perhaps she’d be content to simply listen, after all. There were so many things Esme wanted to say, confessions she could never make to her children or the lunch companions she referred to as friends. The truth was bubbling up, after decades of suppression, and Esme no longer felt sturdy enough to contain it. Charlotte suddenly seemed the only person who mattered. The only person who might give absolution.

“My grand Titanic romance,” Esme intoned dramatically. “I believed in it as much as anyone. I was desperately in love with Charlie. Even before the lifeboat. We’d met in England, you see, and I thought he was the most handsome, perfect man I’d ever met. I was married, and I know it was wrong, but I simply couldn’t resist him. You had to have suspected . . .” Esme shot Charlotte a glance, but Charlotte’s face remained perfectly composed. Either she genuinely didn’t know, or she was a masterful liar. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very discreet,” Esme said. “You must have noticed how I clung on to him.”

“I didn’t notice much about you or Mr. Van Hausen,” Charlotte said. “I was more concerned with other matters.”

His death is on your hands! Charlotte had screamed. She’d sounded deranged, which made it easier to brush off. Esme wondered if Charlotte still believed it. She was afraid to ask.

“I felt very bad about Mr. Harper,” Esme said. “My husband was a good man. But I was never in love with him, not like I was with Charlie. I hadn’t been very happy with Hiram—I guess that’s obvious, given my behavior—but I thought things would be different with Charlie. We were starting out wildly in love, so of course we’d have a successful marriage. That’s how it’s supposed to work, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to believe so.”

“Were you very much in love when you married Mr. Evers?” Esme asked.

The question obviously took Charlotte by surprise. Her eyes roamed the restaurant, as if she’d find the right words in a far-off corner. In the end, all she said was, “Yes.”

“You must think I’m a terrible person.”

“No.” Charlotte’s hand reached impulsively across the table in a gesture of reassurance. “Reginald and I were hardly a perfect match. There were times I hated him, too.”

Esme was unexpectedly touched by the confession. She might have even asked a few questions about Reginald Evers if the waiter hadn’t returned with their food. Esme swirled the dollop of cream that bulged from the center of her soup and watched the tendrils of white expand. The smell made her queasy. Charlotte dug into her roast, leaving Esme to talk.