On a Cold Dark Sea(80)

“He was a good man,” Esme said. “A kind man. I wish I’d been a better wife.”

Sabine nodded, briefly and decisively. She’d never chide her former mistress, but her acknowledgment of Esme’s sins marked a rare moment of honesty between them.

The bell over the shop’s front door chimed, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Esme spoke quickly, knowing she hadn’t much time.

“I’ve been talking to the children about our summer plans. Rosie’s always going on that she’s the only one of her friends who’s never been to Europe, and I thought to myself, why not? It would be good to get away, after all that’s happened. I never thought I’d get on a boat again, but Rosie begged and begged, and Robbie said an adventure would do us good . . .”

Esme’s voice trailed off. She wasn’t sure how to explain the next part. How to ask with the requisite nonchalance.

“Where will you go?” Sabine asked politely.

“Rosie wants to see London, and she says Nice has become quite fashionable.”

Sabine had turned away, busy with Esme’s dress. She pulled it onto a hanger while simultaneously craning her neck to see who’d come into the shop.

“Would you like to come?”

Esme knew she’d rushed the invitation; she should have built up to the offer before blurting it out. Sabine looked taken aback, and no wonder. It wasn’t as if she and Esme were friends. They never met for lunch or gossiped over tea. Yet Esme felt herself straining against the constraints of their relationship.

“You could see your family,” Esme said.

At first, she was hurt by Sabine’s impassive silence. Then Esme realized Sabine had locked her face into that blank, stiff expression because she was trying not to cry. For the first time, Esme wondered what it had been like for Sabine to leave her parents, her friends, her country—everything she’d ever known. During all the years Sabine had served her so faithfully, it had never occurred to Esme that her maid might be homesick. She’d never thought of giving Sabine the time and money for a visit back to Paris.

“I’ll pay for everything,” Esme insisted. “I’m selling the house—I hardly need it since I never entertain. It will be a relief, actually, not having to manage that monstrosity.” And the words Esme had said half-heartedly to her lawyer and Charlie’s business associates when they discussed her finances suddenly felt true. Letting go of the house would lighten her spirits. She would be free.

“You are sure, madame?”

The fact that Sabine hadn’t even bothered to protest was a sign of how much she wanted to go. Esme wanted to hug her as she would have hugged Rosie or Robbie. For years, she’d thought of Sabine as one of her children—someone she was responsible for, even though they were practically the same age. The passing of time had subtly reversed their roles: Esme remained childlike and dependent on others as Sabine matured into self-sufficiency. Sabine had never married, never been distracted by the demands of motherhood. She’d carved out her own destiny.

“Of course I’m sure,” Esme said. “My French is atrocious. We’ll be in dire straits without you.”

Sabine shook her head, but she was smiling, and Esme smiled back and reached out. Their fingers intertwined and squeezed. We used to laugh all the time, Esme remembered. We’d laugh and laugh, and Hiram would roll his eyes, pretending to disapprove.

How had Esme never realized that Sabine was the truest friend she had? Sabine had known Esme as both Mrs. Harper and Mrs. Van Hausen; she’d seen Esme at her worst and never faltered in her allegiance. Esme had thought she’d never cross the Atlantic again. Worn down by Rosie’s pleading, she’d tentatively agreed to make the journey, knowing she’d have to drug herself half senseless in order to board the ship.

Or maybe not, if Sabine was along. Sabine would understand why Esme was nervous about sailing; she might even share the same fear. They could confide in each other, take strength from each other. Esme might even be brave enough to leave her bottles at home.





CHARLOTTE

May 1933

Mr. Healy lived in a modest terraced house, indistinguishable from its neighbors on the quiet Southampton street. One large picture window downstairs, two smaller windows on top, the sort of stolidly respectable dwelling the poor aspire to and the rich dismiss. A house that didn’t reveal anything about the people who lived inside.

Finding Mr. Healy had been easy enough. The White Star Line office had been very helpful, especially after Charlotte told them where she worked and said she might mention White Star’s newest ship in her next column. A secretary told Charlotte that Mr. Healy had served on the Olympic in the years after the war and was now a captain with a commercial shipping line. She even gave Charlotte his address.

Ever since Charlotte had returned from America, the memories that had been stirred up by her conversations with Esme and Georgie had become clearer and more persistent. The past, at times, seemed more vibrant than the present. And every time Charlotte pictured the Titanic and what came after, her thoughts circled back to Mr. Healy. His steadfastness in the boat. His determination to save whomever he could. She still thought of him as one of the most decent men she’d ever met. Yet the last time she’d seen him, at the hearings, his entire body sagged with the burden of that poor man’s death. Had his guilt eased with time? She hoped so; she liked to think he’d gone on to live a full, happy life.