On a Cold Dark Sea(81)

It would take only a few minutes to dash off a note in a suitably breezy tone; Charlotte was an expert at fitting words together to achieve a desired effect. The difficulty was in explaining why she wanted to see him. Every reason that occurred to her sounded appallingly sentimental. Or half mad.

Do you still think about the lifeboat?

You’ll never believe what happened to Charles Van Hausen!

I’ve never forgotten you.

Georgie had been urging her to do it for months. Georgie, who’d reconciled with his mother and become one of Charlotte’s favorite correspondents, liked to tease her: Have you tracked down the dreamy sailor you told me about? Does he have three chins and twelve children? Georgie was coming to visit Lady Upton in a few weeks, and he threatened to confront Mr. Healy himself if Charlotte hadn’t spoken to him by then. Charlotte didn’t think he’d do it, but Georgie’s pestering added a twist of guilt to her inaction.

Then came another letter from America, postmarked in Minneapolis. The news it contained was startling enough to jolt Charlotte into action. Mr. Healy had been there; he’d seen Anna wrapped in Reg’s coat. She remembered the relief she’d felt when Mr. Healy passed out the oars: He knows what he’s about; we’re in good hands.

He’d know what to do.

Charlotte knocked on the door, two quick raps. She’d prepared herself for an aged version of the face that stalked her memories, so she wasn’t taken aback by Mr. Healy’s receding hairline or the crinkles around his eyes. What surprised Charlotte was how genuinely pleased she was to see this middle-aged man she barely knew.

Mr. Healy shook Charlotte’s hand, polite but restrained, and invited her in. He looked much calmer than Charlotte felt, as if the potential awkwardness of this reunion had never crossed his mind, and Charlotte tried to mimic his composure. Her usual technique when meeting someone new was to unleash a barrage of cheery conversation, but she could tell he’d be put off by too much chatter.

“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Healy said, taking Charlotte’s hat. “I thought, at first, of suggesting a café—it would have been more proper, I suppose?”

Charlotte shook her head, as if it didn’t matter to her one way or the other, though she had been surprised when he’d responded to her letter with an invitation to his home.

“My concern was that the conversation might turn to matters best discussed in private. I’m sure you understand.” Mr. Healy showed Charlotte into the front parlor. “Please sit down; I’ll fetch the tea.”

The house had a somber aura of solitude. Charlotte glanced around for clues to his living arrangements. The parlor was cramped but pristine, with a dark-green sofa and matching armchair. Prints of nautical scenes hung in simple wood frames on the walls. There were no toys or photographs or any other evidence of family life, and Charlotte had seen only a single coat on the rack in the hall. But perhaps the parlor was kept neat for visitors, and the children’s things were banished upstairs.

Mr. Healy returned with a tray and set it down on the side table next to Charlotte. A silver tea service was set crookedly in the center, with floral china cups on either side. An array of store-bought biscuits had been spread across a matching floral plate. Charlotte was rather touched by the haphazard arrangement. Mr. Healy had clearly prepared it all himself.

Charlotte nodded yes for both milk and sugar, then took an introductory sip. The tea was hotter than expected, making her wince before she set down her cup. Mr. Healy sat in the armchair opposite Charlotte, unruffled, waiting for her to speak first. It was rather exasperating to have no indication what he was thinking.

“I imagine my letter came as a surprise,” Charlotte began.

“Indeed,” Mr. Healy said. “But a pleasant one.”

“Was it? I’m so glad.”

Charlotte’s nerves began to settle. Mr. Healy was too well mannered to ask directly why she’d come, but she caught a flicker of apprehension in his placid gaze.

“Do you ever talk about the Titanic?” she asked, hoping to catch him off guard.

Mr. Healy shook his head. “Best not to,” he said.

“That’s what I believed, for a very long time,” Charlotte said. “I came back to London not long after. I started a new job, I made new friends, and I told no one. There didn’t seem any point in reliving it or being part of all that gossip or recrimination. I thought I’d put it behind me, but it’s the strangest thing . . .” Charlotte wondered if Mr. Healy would understand, but there was no point to coming if she wasn’t going to be honest. “The more time has passed, the more I find myself thinking about what happened.”

“Are you planning to write about it?” Mr. Healy asked.

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, surprised.

Mr. Healy looked momentarily abashed. “I know you work for one of the papers. I’m sorry, I can’t remember which one.”

“The Record,” Charlotte said.

“That’s it. My wife used to buy it from time to time.”

So there was a Mrs. Healy. Charlotte wondered where she was and if she knew her husband had a visitor today. Perhaps Edmund had purposely asked Charlotte to come at a time when he knew his wife would be out.

“I remember seeing your name on a story,” Mr. Healy said. “Something about a fox loose in a manor house.”