On a Cold Dark Sea(66)
“I’m afraid I’ve developed a taste for fog and rain,” she said lightly. “Awfully kind of you to suggest it, though.”
“If I do come back to England—not that I plan to—but if I do, may I call on you?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said. Then, more warmly, “I do hope you will.”
They smiled at each other, and Charlotte felt Reg’s spirit with them, nudging them closer together. He’d rest in peace, Charlotte thought with uncharacteristic sentimentality, if he knew we were friends.
Georgie’s voice and bearing were still British, but he’d adopted an American forthrightness that Charlotte admired. He openly admitted his faults and wasn’t afraid to speak honestly about the past. If he’d stayed in England, the dutiful son of Lord Upton, he’d never have become the man sitting next to her, a man at ease with himself and proud of the life he’d created. Charlotte handed Georgie one of her cards. She didn’t know if he’d make the effort to correspond, or if they’d ever see one another again. If not, she’d understand. London and The Oaks would feel very far away tomorrow, when he woke up and looked out at the mountains from his mammoth bed.
But Charlotte hoped this wasn’t the end. Georgie, she realized, had reawakened a long-buried part of herself. He’d given her back Reg.
“I never asked you,” Charlotte said, tentatively. “Were you near the ship when it went down?”
Georgie nodded.
“It must have been awful.”
Georgie immediately understood what Charlotte meant by “awful.” “We had to push a few men away from our lifeboat,” he said. “We’d have tipped over otherwise.”
Charlotte put all her effort into breathing steadily. There was no reason to get into all that, not now.
“I imagine you had an easier time of it,” Georgie said. “You took a seat and rowed away, eh? Any millionaires in your boat?”
“Charles Van Hausen. And Mrs. Harper. They married afterward, as you might have heard.” Charlotte intended the words to be carelessly amused, but they came out wrong. There was some sort of catch in her throat. “And Mrs. Dunning, and Mrs. McBride. There was a Swedish girl, absolutely drenched . . .”
She needed to be clearer. To explain what happened in a logical way. Charlotte remembered the hotel manager giving her a mischievous smile and telling her he had bottles of whiskey in the back, available for the right price.
“There was a man, in the water,” Charlotte declared, reckless with the elation of honesty. “Would you like to come up for a drink? You’re the only person I know who might understand.”
PART THREE: THE LIFEBOAT
APRIL 15, 1912
1:55 a.m.
The sailor grabs the top of Anna’s life belt and pulls. The shift in weight tilts the boat, and the old woman’s cane slips from her fingers, landing with a clatter at her feet. The woman across from her gasps and clutches the boy and girl at her side. Anna kicks her legs wildly, uselessly, as the edge of the boat presses against her chest. Every breath is a struggle.
There are fifteen people in this lifeboat built to hold sixty-five. They sit on four wood benches, in emotional states that range from nervous distress to uncomprehending shock. The passengers are American, British, and French; eleven adults and two children. The two crewmen are English and not accustomed to maneuvering on the open sea. They have no training in sailing or navigation, and a lifeboat drill scheduled for that morning was cancelled; they owe their survival to the unknown officer who added their names to the emergency muster list. Slightly more than two hours have passed since the iceberg scraped the Titanic’s hull, and it has been one hour since the first lifeboat was lowered. Lifeboat 21, one of the last to leave the ship, has been in the water for five minutes.
The sailor shifts his grip to Anna’s waist, tipping the boat farther to the side. Esme braces herself against the bench where she sits between Charlie and Sabine. The maid’s face is pinched tight with fear. In the back of the boat, a trio of middle-aged women unleash a Greek chorus of protests as the feathers on their hats swirl. Esme is pressing Charlie’s handkerchief to her face to staunch the bleeding from her cut cheek. It’s not painful; the cold air has numbed her skin. But she wonders if it will cause a scar and if she is a terrible person for worrying about her looks at such a time.
The Titanic is sinking. The tip of the bow is already submerged, and the water continues to progress inexorably upward, leaving a scatter of flotsam in its wake. The passengers of Lifeboat 21 watch the tiny, distant figures still aboard attempt to stave off the inevitable, scurrying upward as the tilt of the deck grows ever steeper. Even as they see it happen, it seems impossible.
Grunting, the sailor drags Anna inside. Water streams from the hem of her dress, and she collapses into a self-protective huddle at Charlotte’s feet. The boat settles into an even sway. Charlotte looks down at the bedraggled creature below her, whose face is hidden beneath a tangle of brown hair. Indistinguishable shapes churn in the surrounding sea. Charlotte keeps her eyes on the girl instead.
Esme sees someone bobbing in the water, a few yards off. The face is a blurry flash of white amid a tangle of deck chairs and wreckage, and Esme can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman, dead or alive. Charlie and the sailor look at each other, silently conferring. Already, Charlie has assumed a certain authority, which Esme thinks no less than his due. It’s only natural that the crewmen would look to a first-class gentleman for leadership. She places the handkerchief on the bench between them, hoping Charlie might use it as an excuse to touch her, if only for a moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice.