On a Cold Dark Sea(86)
Charlotte pictured herself leaning in toward Edmund and kissing him. Not the next time, but perhaps the time after that. He’d be gentleman enough to hesitate, at first, but that might give way to longing, a willingness to follow where she led. She liked the idea of showing him a few bedroom tricks his wife was unlikely to know. They could have a lovely, life-brightening affair, and when the spark died out, as it inevitably would, there’d be no blame or regret. She’d look back on their time together with wistful fondness, grateful for whatever hours of happiness they’d shared.
But what if her attraction went deeper and turned into something more? Charlotte had never wanted to be married, because no matter what a potential husband might say, he’d always expect his wife’s needs to be subservient to his own. But Edmund, like Charlotte, was content with solitude. They could come to their own unconventional arrangement, living largely separate lives and coming together at month’s end, their affection renewed by distance. It would be a partnership built on companionship and understanding, where their pasts wouldn’t need to be hidden or explained. Lazy mornings with coffee and the papers, walks in the country on Sunday afternoons. Simple routines Charlotte had never admitted she longed for.
It was ridiculous, of course. Edmund was already married, and she had a life of her own, one that would hardly tempt a reserved sea captain. Imagine, Edmund at tonight’s dinner party! Yet Charlotte found she could imagine it: there’d be a few eye-rolls, at first, and a fuss over Edmund’s novelty. He’d be shocked by Isobel Galloway’s latest hijinks—which would please Isobel to no end—and he’d listen respectfully to the old theater bores telling the same stories they’d told at the previous dinner. And in the end, his politeness and self-possession would win them all over. Isobel would tell Charlotte he was lovely and absolutely perfect for her, and Charlotte would know it was true.
Or there could be another path entirely. Charlotte could reach for Edmund, only to have him turn away. He might still be in love with his wife, or have a stronger moral compass than she did. If he showed no interest in her advances, Charlotte would laugh them off in a way that preserved their tentative friendship. She would still make occasional visits to Southampton, and she would encourage him to come to London and meet her for tea at Brown’s or the Ritz. He’d marvel at the prices while she teased him for being provincial. He might even resolve the problems in his marriage and introduce Charlotte to his wife, and she would be genuinely happy for them both. Without a new romance to distract her, Charlotte might finally write the novel she’d always intended to, skewering country society and its pretensions, and Edmund would read it and send her a letter telling her he’d enjoyed it. And when she saw his name on the envelope, she’d feel the heartening warmth that comes from knowing a person you care for has been thinking of you.
Charlotte had always been a storyteller, but only in fiction do events sort themselves into a tidy conclusion. All of these futures with Edmund were possible; all of them could be equally true. She would make her offer, like tossing a stone in the sea, and the repercussions would ripple outward, beyond her control. No matter what happened, Charlotte and Edmund would always be bound together. He was a part of her past, a part of her future, the man who would always make her feel safe.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Years before the blockbuster movie came out, I read Walter Lord’s classic account of the Titanic sinking, A Night to Remember. Like so many others, I was immediately transfixed by the ship’s combination of glamour and tragedy. But it was another book, The Titanic: End of a Dream, by Wyn Craig Wade, that helped me understand why the ship still fascinates us today. Relying heavily on the US Congressional hearings that were held soon after the tragedy, Wade’s book puts the sinking in a larger cultural context, revealing how much social class, ethnocentric snobbery, and technological change influenced the course of events. While Lifeboat 21 and its passengers are fictional, I stuck close to the historical record when describing the events before and after the launching of the lifeboats.
The Titanic sailed with enough lifeboat space for only half the people on board, the result of an antiquated safety code that hadn’t kept pace with the growing size of ocean liners. Yet some of those lifeboats were lowered half full. Not everyone realized the seriousness of the situation, especially early on, and some survivors later testified that there were hardly any people on deck when their lifeboats were loaded. On one side of the ship, male passengers were allowed to board if there was space; on the other side, they were kept out, even if there were open seats.
When newspapers began reporting that first-class men had been rescued while third-class women and children had drowned, it sparked universal outrage. Had third-class passengers been barred from reaching the lifeboats? Officially, no. Once the captain gave the order to launch the lifeboats, third-class women and children were supposed to be given access to the upper decks; a few stewards even led passengers directly to the boats. However, some women refused to leave their husbands—which, tragically, resulted in a number of entire families being lost. Others were simply too hesitant or frightened to venture beyond their assigned quarters; eyewitnesses described huddles of immigrants praying in the third-class common rooms, seemingly resigned to their fate. Others, like Anna, climbed cranes to reach the upper decks when they found their way blocked or were unable to navigate the confusing route to the boat deck. It’s important to remember that evacuating a ship as huge as the Titanic wasn’t an orderly process. The crewmen were new to the ship, and many had little or no training in emergency procedures. A lifeboat drill scheduled for the morning of the sinking was cancelled (for unknown reasons). About 80 percent of the Titanic crew died that night—nearly seven hundred men and three women. Some performed heroically in their last hours, others didn’t, but the odds of survival were clearly stacked against them.