By the Light of the Silvery Moon (2 page)

April 10, 1912
Wednesday

A
lmost on board. Amelia Gladstone took a step forward, her hand wrapped around Aunt Neda’s elbow, leading the way. Her aunt leaned heavily on her cane, and Amelia moved with slow steps. She had never given much thought to leaving Southampton, and those few moments she’d considered it, this picture wouldn’t have crossed her mind. This excitement.

Full. The pier was full. The boarding ramp. The decks. Her heart and soul.

Porters hauling luggage. Men and women strolling. Children, faces bright with excitement. Some in fine dress from tailor’s shops, most in handmade frocks. Reporters snapping photos. Everyone talking at once. The shrill whistle of the train that had just arrived from London to the docks. Laughter. She looked down at her arms. Prickles. Goose bumps raced up them as if her skin attempted to absorb the energy of people around her and the regality of the ship before.

Amelia lifted her head and craned her neck. The RMS
Titanic
was larger than her sister ship
Olympic.
She blocked out most of the sun and sky with four smokestacks jutting into the air. Even from the dock the
Titanic
‘s promenade deck could be seen below the boat deck. Butterflies tumbled in her stomach. Not long from now she’d be walking those decks.

There’d never been a ship like it in the history of the world, which seemed fitting for the occasion.
Titanic
filled the horizon with more than just evidence of men’s great feat. It symbolized
promise,
the promise of seeing her cousin Elizabeth again. Elizabeth was her closest friend—the daughter of her aging aunt, whom Amelia again tried to encourage to move just a bit faster toward the loading ramp.

“Come, Auntie. Watch your step. We don’t want you tripping over anything or anyone. It’s mighty busy here today.”

Amelia stepped closer to her aunt as a mother with two small children passed. The younger boy clung to a ragged blanket, tucking it under his chin. His fist gripped the hem of his mother’s traveling jacket as his wide eyes focused on the ship. The boy’s mouth curled into a circle at the sight of the
Titanic,
and Amelia nodded in understanding.
I feel the same.

“I cannot wait to tell Elizabeth about this.” Aunt Neda pointed a thin finger to the smokestacks high above. “I wish she were here to see it herself.”

Laughter tumbled from Amelia’s lips. “Oh, she’ll see it, Auntie, on the other side. This grand ship won’t lose its luster in one crossing.”

They stepped forward just as a lady dressed in a tailored red wool coat hustled past, moving to the front of the line. Her dark hair flowed in soft waves to her shoulders. She carried a purse on one arm and a hat box on the other.

The woman paused before the steward at the end of the gangplank. “Excuse me. Is this the way to first class?”

The steward’s jaw dropped. He swallowed hard, composing himself. “No, ma’am.” His finger pointed to a gangplank farther down. “That is the one, there.”

The woman glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowd. Amelia offered a smile, but the woman’s gaze passed over Amelia as if her kind offering was of no consequence.

“Yes, of course. I should have known.” And with that she moved toward the far gangplank, her feet gliding over the rough wooden dock as if she walked on a puff of air.

Amelia touched the collar of her yellow dress. She’d been so pleased with her garment this morning, but now she fretted. How did others see her? As simple? Plain? Dull?

How would Mr. Chapman see her?

The promise of meeting Mr. Chapman—the friend and neighbor of Elizabeth and her husband, Len—caused Amelia’s stomach to flip even more than the excitement of the ship. Mr. Chapman who’d written her no less than a dozen letters and ended each one expressing an eagerness to meet her in person. Mr. Chapman who’d purchased the second-class tickets, for her, Aunt Neda, and …

Amelia lowered her head, the excitement of the day interrupted by the heat of anger flushing her cheeks. He’d even bought a ticket for her cousin Henry who’d been foolish enough to land himself in jail just last night.

Mr. Chapman wasn’t her intended—not yet. She had hopes, though, of a future together. And from the letters he wrote—so did he. She wouldn’t let Henry’s getting arrested sink that happy thought.

Truth be told, Amelia was thankful for her cousin’s absence. Even her aunt seemed somewhat relieved that they wouldn’t have to put up with Henry’s foolishness aboard the ship. If trouble brewed, Henry found it. Amelia blew out the anger and sucked in a breath of fresh ocean air. Without Henry she’d be able to enjoy herself. To find a bit of peace before a change in her life situation.

She took one step closer to the gangplank.

“Almost there, ladies,” the steward called. “Jest wait till you see what this beauty offers inside.” The steward talked to her without really looking at her—a stark contrast to the attention he’d paid to the lady in the wool coat.

Suddenly Amelia felt self-conscious.
Will Mr. Chapman be disappointed?

Amelia pushed that thought from her mind. There was no turning back. Mr. Chapman would be waiting at the docks in New York. Would he be even a smidgen as impressed with her as he would be by the great ship? At least, she comforted herself, he had already been impressed enough in her correspondence to ask her to come in the first place.

“Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to walking the decks.” She smiled at the steward. “I’ve heard so much from the papers. I’m eager to see such grandeur with my own eyes.”

Aunt Neda gripped her arm, leaning close to Amelia’s ear. “It is a large vessel, but do you believe they’ll all fit?” Aunt Neda scanned the quay teeming with people.

“Not all of them are coming on, I suppose. Some are watchers. Others goers.”

“Yes, I can see the difference now. Shiny faces. Bright smiles. All things new. Well, except for that man. Pour soul.”

Amelia followed her aunt’s gaze up the gangplank. Two stewards in white uniforms dragged a man between them, escorting him off the ship. He was thin. Matted hair clung to his head. His face was lowered, ashamed as the crowds looked on. Amelia’s heart went out to him. She clutched her gloved hands together and pulled them to her chest. Then she stepped slightly to the side as the stewards approached.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” one steward said, his gaze falling and holding hers. “Thank ye for letting us past.”

“Yes, of course.” She eyed the stowaway. Blood dripped from a gash in his cheek. They passed, and she took a step to follow them. Follow
him.

Aunt Neda’s hand tightened on Amelia’s arm. “Where are you going?”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back. The man … he was injured.”

Her aunt’s eyes widened. “Now? Here?” She looked to the large ship and then back to Amelia. “Can’t one day pass without you running off to tend to the unfortunate? America surely has plenty of poor souls for your mercies—“

“I’ll just be a moment.”

“But the ship. We’re set to board.”

Amelia took another step. “We have hours before it leaves the dock. I won’t miss it. I promise.”

Aunt Neda sighed then pulled a few small coins from her pocket. Coins they’d scrimped and saved for the trip. Coins to finance their new life.

“Thank you, Aunt. I’ll be right back.” Amelia grasped them in her hand and hurried off. A smile filled her face as she scanned the crowd for the stewards.

There. Over by the train station. The stewards threw the man to the ground and kicked his side for good measure. She raced their direction, lifting the hem of her traveling gown as she jogged toward the man. Ignoring how quickly she became winded. Ignoring the stares of the people watching.

“I don’t blame ye, miss,” one viewer called as she passed. “I’d run away, too, if I were you. I have a bad feeling about this ship.”

Amelia wasn’t about to pause to set the record straight. Only as she neared the man, crumpled into a heap on the damp dock, did she slow. Then, just as she was about to speak to him, he rose—his back to her. He was taller than she thought. And as he strode away, confusion filled her. He walked not with the slumped stagger of a beggar but the straight, confident gait of a king.

She rubbed her eyes, unsure of what she was seeing. She almost second-guessed her plan, but something inside told her to be brave. To balm the man’s wounds with her smile—and her gift. She slid the coins into her pocket and instead pulled out the ticket. “Sir?”

The man continued on, as if not hearing her.

She hurried after him, placing a hand on his arm. He paused and turned, eyes widening.

“You talking to me?” he mumbled. Dark brown eyes met hers and a light of interest filled them. They were beautiful eyes that reminded her of lamplight glowing on cobblestone streets after the rain. His gaze remained steady on Amelia, and her throat muscles rose and fell as she swallowed. There was something familiar about this man.

Do I know him?
No, that was impossible. Her lips fell open as she tried to remember what she was going to say.

She looked to his cheek and pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, reaching up and dabbing it. At the feel of her touch, he jerked his head back. She held out the handkerchief, stained with blood. “You’re bleeding.”

He took the cloth, pressing it to the wound. He lowered his head, looking to the ticket in her opposite hand.

“Sir, I have this ticket we are not using and—“

“I’m sorry. I have no money,” he interrupted, speaking so softly it was a murmur. “If I had, I would have bought—”

“No, sir. No purchase. A gift.”

He ran a dirty hand through his hair. “I—I don’t understand.”

“A second chance.” The words escaped with a breath, and she willed her heart to slow its wild beating. “All of us need a second chance.”

“All of us need a second chance.”

Her words replayed in Quentin’s mind as she walked away. Her smile—well, it warmed him even more than the sun overhead.

Only when she disappeared among the crowd did he again look at the ticket in his hand. A gift? Who was he to her? What had he done to deserve such an offering?

He struggled for a breath and moved to the brick wall of a nearby building. Stepping into the shadows, he fingered the small piece of paper. Such a simple thing that offered so much.

Quentin rubbed the spot on his ribs where the steward had offered a firm kick. He deserved it—littering the ship with his filth. Everyone saw him as he was: a beggar, a vagabond. But her—he felt valued when he looked into her gaze. It was a feeling he’d long forgotten.

Who was that woman? She no doubt had seen the stewards dragging him off. Quentin lowered his head. His stomach ached as he thought about her seeing that. Or maybe the ache was because he hadn’t eaten for a while. How many days had passed? One? Two? He wasn’t sure.

He fingered the inspection card—which also served as a ticket—wondering if he could pull it off. Would the stewards really let him on?

Something inside told him to forget the idea.
It’s no use to try.

Then again, the woman had approached him. He had a passage in his hand. If he walked away now, he’d always wonder.

He rose and looked at his dirty slacks and coat. No, they’d never let him on looking like this.

Quentin scanned the docks filled with people, and then his eyes moved to crates and trunks being boarded. A large stack was piled high, with stewards hauling them one by one up to the hold. Each piece of luggage was marked to be stored or taken to the passenger’s room.

He checked his pants pocket, making sure he still had his most valuable possession, and then he slid off his dirty jacket, tossing it into the crook of his arm. Noting a barrel of rainwater next to the wall, he quickly washed his face and hair, using the woman’s handkerchief to dab the gash on his cheek once more. Then he moved to the suitcases and eyed the stack. He had one shot to pick the right one.

A black scuffed trunk sat on the far edge. It wasn’t the trunk of a wealthy man, and that was what he was looking for. On top of the trunk was a bag containing a sweater with a wooden hanger sticking out the top. The tag on it read M
C
H
ENRY
R
M
. B124. It looked as if Mr. McHenry would have his sweater hand delivered to his room this morning.

Quentin hurried over and grabbed the sweater from the hanger. Before the steward noticed his presence, he had the garment in his hand and had hurried around the side of the building. He glanced down at the simple white sweater. It wasn’t his style, but he slipped it on. The sleeves were a bit short, so he pushed them up, nearly to his elbows. Then seeing a muddy area at the building’s corner, Quentin sank to his knees in the mud.

Satisfied, he rose, lifted his chin, and approached the line waiting to board. His eyes scanned the gangplank, but the woman wasn’t there. Good thing. One slip of her lips—one wrong look—and she could give him away.