On a Cold Dark Sea(69)
Esme feels the mood in the boat shift. The immigrant girl is the only one crying, but the other women are struggling to maintain their composure. The old woman is pale—like she might faint any moment—and the mother is looking around wildly, and the women in the back are squawking over the fireman’s smoke, as if it matters at a time like this! They’ll all be at each other’s throats if someone doesn’t impose order. Esme turns to the younger crewman, the one who appears to be in charge. He has an open, honest face, and a self-possession Esme admires.
“Mr. Healy, is it?” Esme asks. “You have command of the boat?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We need a distraction. I thought I might make introductions.”
Mr. Healy doesn’t see the point of social niceties at a time like this, when it’s taking all his strength to pull clear of the ship. But if the rich American woman keeps the passengers occupied, it will stop them pestering him, at least. He guesses they have ten minutes at most before the Titanic is gone. He pushes his oar up and down, back and forth, wondering why he can’t see the light he’d been told to head for. One of the officers on deck told him the rescue ship was only a mile or so away, but Mr. Healy hasn’t been able to find it. He mustn’t let anyone else know; it would only start a panic. His only hope is to stay close to the other lifeboats, which are already worryingly far away.
Esme shifts her body around so she can make eye contact with the others. “We must work together,” she says loudly, instantly drawing all eyes. “It’s the only way we’ll survive. So we might as well get acquainted. I’m Mrs. Hiram Harper, from Philadelphia.”
For a moment, Esme sees the absurdity of her gesture. Here she is, in the middle of the open ocean, acting as if she’s hosting a dinner party. But her fellow passengers don’t seem put off by her presumption. They watch her intently, greedily, grateful to have their attention drawn away from the Titanic’s death throes.
Esme tilts her head slightly to the left, toward Charlie. “Charles Van Hausen,” she says. “Of the Boston Van Hausens.”
She is gratified by the reaction to his name: eyes widening in recognition, a few direct stares. She has placed a claim on Charlie by introducing him, but she can’t imagine it’s raised any suspicion: it must be obvious to all of them that she is a woman traveling without the protection of her husband, and he is a family friend acting as her escort. There were a dozen such pairings on the Titanic; it’s perfectly respectable. The old lady gives Esme a puzzled look, but Esme barely notices. She is too preoccupied by the women in the back, who seem quite pleased to have a Van Hausen on board.
“My maid,” Esme says, with a gesture toward Sabine.
The slight shift of her body brings the Titanic in view. The stern is still partially afloat, and Esme feels a bright, jumpy sort of panic. Why haven’t they gotten farther away? It’s all happening so fast, but she mustn’t speak of it, mustn’t acknowledge what is happening a quarter mile away. She turns and smiles encouragingly at the woman with two children.
“Mrs. David Trelawny,” the woman says stiffly.
She is wearing a brown traveling coat and modest hat; her children are bundled up like Arctic explorers. Judging from the woman’s voice, they are British, middle-class, and not accustomed to making conversation with strangers.
“My daughter’s called Eva, and this is Tommy. He’s six and Eva’s nine.” Mrs. Trelawny’s voice has started to falter. “My brother-in-law’s to be married on Sunday, in New Jersey.”
Her arms are like wings encircling her chicks, and she flaps them from the children’s heads to their shoulders and back. Everyone in the boat can sense her unspoken questions: Will there be a wedding? Or a funeral instead?
The old woman on the bench next to Mrs. Trelawny speaks up next. “Mrs. Abraham Dunning. I am returning to New York after a sojourn in southern France for my health.” Her voice quavers with age, but she speaks confidently. “This is my tenth Atlantic crossing. All the others passed without incident, not even a rainstorm. I used to joke about my luck, didn’t I, Braxton?” She twists her shoulders in a stiff half turn and looks at the woman holding the tiller. “My nurse.”
“That you did, ma’am.” Nurse Braxton’s voice is deep, her demeanor humorless. Just the sort of person Esme can imagine bossing around her patients.
“I shall certainly have a story to tell now,” Mrs. Dunning says. “Won’t we all?”
Mrs. Dunning shakes her head wryly, and the amusement in her voice strikes Charlotte as unseemly. “Charlotte Evers,” she says.
Charlotte thinks, fleetingly, that it’s not her name at all. It has no meaning without Reg. She tips her head toward Anna. “She told me her name was Anna Halversson, but I haven’t been able to understand anything else.”
“Halversson?” Mrs. Dunning asks. “Norwegian, are you? Swedish?”
Anna nods. She knows what “Swedish” means, at least. Worry for Emil has settled into her bones, a leaden ache. What can she do, when she cannot make herself understood? He’s gone now, taken by the waves or the cold, and she wishes she could crouch back in the bottom of the boat. If only she could block out all these people and voices and grieve in peace.
“You’re good to look after her, Miss Evers,” says one of the women in the back.