By the Light of the Silvery Moon (27 page)

He glanced over at her, and his gaze narrowed. “I don’t like the sound in your voice, Amelia. You’re up to something.”

She shrugged. “You’re the one who asked me to save a nice dress. I was just hoping for a date—supper and music and a handsome man at my side.”

“Yes, but … Well, I’m not sure if that suit will fit me.” Amelia clapped her hands in front of her. “Will you try?” Quentin let out a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose I can.” She smiled and noticed a smile on his lips, too. “Wonderful. I’ll meet you in our dining room in an hour. I do believe you’ll look dashing in a suit.”

Q
uentin scanned the tables of the second-class dining room, looking for Amelia. He didn’t see her, but Aunt Neda met his gaze and waved. She seemed happier to see him tonight than she had previously. He hoped that was because she’d noticed the joy on her niece’s face.

Neda Gladstone sat with a group of older women dressed in bold colors of red, blue, and green. Each wore a simple gown, and a hint of rouge colored their cheeks.

He waved to Aunt Neda and then continued to scan the room. A sad smile lifted on his lips as he heard the older women’s voices rise in laughter.
Mother.
She would be near that age if she were still alive.

Quentin let out a low sigh. Although he’d missed the past twenty-one years with her, he cherished that his last memories of her were when she was young, beautiful. With long blond hair and large brown eyes, his mother had caught the attention of all whenever she entered the room. A farmer’s daughter from North Dakota, his father had met her when he went to talk to her father about building a water tower along his creek for the steam engines. Dad said she had worn a simple dress and had been harvesting potatoes in their garden when he first saw her. He claimed it was love at first sight.

His mother had seemed all too happy to leave the farm, and she’d been content with her simple house until her father’s business grew and grew. Then, even as she entered more prominent social circles, it had appeared to Quentin that her gaze wasn’t on what she had or who she was but on what she could get and who she could be. It scared him even as a child.

Was that what had caused him to keep Amelia at bay? She was just like the woman his father had fallen in love with—sweet, simple—but he’d also witnessed how she reacted to this ship. She appreciated nice things. He didn’t have anything to offer her today, but what about the future? If he found a decent job, would she be content with that? Or like the fine women of this ship—like his mother—would she always be looking for more?

Quentin didn’t have time to worry anymore, for when he saw the eyes of many in the room turn, he knew deep down that Amelia had just entered. Turning slowly, he saw her ten feet away. Next to him, a group of young women traveling together paused their conversation to watch her step through the doorway.

Amelia wore a cream-colored dress that fell from a black bow at her ribcage in soft drapes to the floor. A black velvet bow tied at her right shoulder as well, with more drapes cascading down. Simple sleeves curved over her shoulders, and she wore no jewels. Instead her blond curls were pinned in a swoop at the base of her neck, and a few curls touched her cheekbones.

Had they only been on the
Titanic
four days? It seemed he’d known this woman his whole life—and he couldn’t imagine the days ahead without her.

They finished supper and moved to the second-class reception room. Yet instead of following Quentin and Aunt Neda to a nearby table, Amelia turned to the orchestra, hurrying over to them. For a moment, she talked to the bass violinist. He nodded, and then a smile filled his face. When Amelia scanned the room again, her eyes finally fell on Quentin, taking his breath away.

For someone who’d lived in the shadows for the previous two years, his first inclination was to look away, to step back, to run out through the doors and find his way to a far deck. But the way she looked at him … Quentin’s heart pattered as he stepped forward and offered his hand to her.

“I asked them to play my favorite song,” she said with a smile.

“And what song would that be?”

A tune began and Amelia hummed along. Quentin cocked an eyebrow, trying to remember the words. It wasn’t as if he’d attended any concerts lately or had a gramophone to listen to. It was a newer song than those he’d heard at the World’s Fair six years ago.

He led her to the nearest table, and as they sat she started to hum. Soon her humming turned into words, her singsong voice loud enough for only him to hear.

“By the light, of the silvery moon,

I want to spoon,

To my honey I’ll croon love’s tune.

Honey moon, keep a-shinin’ in June.

Your silv’ry beams will bring love’s dreams,

We’ll be cuddlin’ soon,

By the silvery moon …”

Heat rose to her cheeks as she finished the last line. “I—I really hadn’t thought much of the words before. I just like the tune.”

Quentin nodded. “Well, if there is a sliver of a moon left. By tomorrow it might be gone….”

“Yes, that is a shame. The night never seems to be the same without a moon.”

Amelia looked around at the happy passengers shined up like new pennies, and she smiled, disbelieving she was really here. Her mother had told her about the people all fancied up in lace and leather. And the music. And the fine furnishings. Often her mother described the fine things—what she’d seen and washed and mended—with such vivid detail Amelia had thought she’d seen it herself. Now she was dressed in fine things, a part of it all.

Amelia touched the silky fabric that draped from her dress. What would her mother think to see her now, wearing these fine clothes on the fastest, most extravagant ship? What would her mother think about a number of Amelia’s fellow passengers being some of the most well-known and richest men and women in the world? A humored smile tugged at her lips. Her mother would be far from impressed about the last part.

“I’ve cleaned the toilet pots of rich and poor alike,” she’d told Amelia once. “Waste is waste and people are people, no matter how you fancy them up. It takes no character to show favor to someone whose pocketbook declares their worth.”

“The body grows hungry again and cold,” her mother had continued, transferring her thoughts from ‘back then’ to the reality she faced with her daughter. “Clothes dirty and tear and clean water is drunk down. We must take care of ourselves, dear daughter. We don’t have enough to give—enough to go around.”

As Amelia listened to the music, as she looked around at those in the room, she thought about things in a different way. When she was little, those words had warmed her just the same as her mother’s hug. She knew Mother did what she could to provide for her.

But now, as she thought if it, she wondered what would have happened if her mother would have reached out more. There was always, it seemed, someone who was worse off. If her mother would have sacrificed to meet other’s needs, would God have filled in their needs with unexpected bounty?

Great character, she now knew, was realizing that the help you offered to a poor person would only soothe their soul for a few hours, but doing what you could despite the brevity of the gift benefited both the giver and the receiver. Character was realizing the need would still be there tomorrow just as fierce but still doing something to give comfort for an hour.

In her mind’s eye, she again tried to picture Quentin at the docks. Where would he be if she hadn’t offered him the ticket? He would have missed out on this, but she would have, too. The music in the room punctuated her thoughts. Her heart swelled inside her, and she knew that all of it was worth it. All she was and where she’d come from were for this moment. She looked from the fine wood paneling to the carpets to the lines on the table. All she didn’t have back then made her appreciate what she had now. It also gave her hope for what was to come.

Who had God planned for her to walk her life’s journey with? She didn’t yet know, but she was praying—asking God to make the knowing clear. And for now she’d enjoy this time with Quentin. Enjoy that God had brought them together.

“You’re thinking of something, someone. Is it your Mr. Chapman?” Quentin’s words interrupted her thoughts.

Amelia gasped. “How … how did you know about him?”

“Your aunt. The other day when I was looking for you, she gave me an earful.”

Amelia gasped. “What did she tell you?”

Quentin’s finger’s tapped on the tabletop as if he were playing along to the music filling the room on an invisible piano.

“She told me he was a dear man that had been writing you often and was looking forward to meeting you in America. She told me he paid for your passage—which means my passage, too. And …” He paused for a moment and cocked his head, looking at her as if trying to decide if he was going to say any more or not. Amelia didn’t press him. Instead she just waited.

“She also told me that she had a feeling deep down that you were going to exit this ship with a different idea about your relationship with Mr. Chapman than when you boarded.”

Amelia chuckled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

She eyed him for a moment. She still wasn’t sure what her final thoughts were going to be when she disembarked, but she knew they would be different. They weren’t halfway through the voyage yet, and her thoughts were already different from when she’d first boarded.

Amelia touched her fingers to her lips. Her smile was larger than she thought.

“I suppose we’re just going to have to find out when the time comes. But to answer your question, I wasn’t thinking about Mr. Chapman. I was thinking about my mother. If she were here, there would be laughter and dancing, much dancing. She would have thought it foolish to hear such fine music and not honor the musicians by truly enjoying it.”

He rose and extended a hand to her. “Well, if a dance is what you want, you could have just asked.”

As he pulled her into his arms, his whispered words caressed her ears. “I’d like to think my mother would have been dancing, too.” His voice was reminiscent, wistful.

As he led her across the dance floor, Amelia clung to him tighter. She’d known the truth all along, even after spending time with Damien. She could care for a man like Damien. She could appreciate his care for his father. They could talk and laugh, but it was Quentin who moved her. His eyes seemed to reach into her heart and squeeze. He looked at her as if he had nothing to offer, and that was what she appreciated. He did have nothing to offer, except himself. His heart.

When the music stopped, they walked to the glass-enclosed promenade deck and stared into the sky, hand in hand.

The sliver of moon hung there, and Amelia yawned. It had been the most wonderful day, and she didn’t want it to end. Yet tomorrow they’d have another day together on this grand liner. And the day after that …

She turned to study his profile that was lit by the lights from the rooms where music played and people danced.

“Have you thought about what’s going to happen when we reach New York?” she dared to ask.

He turned to her and smiled. “How did you know I was thinking about that?”

“The plain truth is, Quentin, I want to spend more time with you. I don’t want to get off of the docks in New York and walk away and wonder what became of you. But I also know it is no coincidence that your father—that your brother—is on board. You need to—“

“Stop!” he raised his hand. “I don’t need to do anything.” His voice was sharp, but she didn’t back down.

His words came from the depth of pain he’d been carrying. She hadn’t caused the pain, but his sharp words stung just the same. The wonderful mood of the evening crumbled at her feet like a dry and dead rosebud.

She cocked her chin higher and crossed her arms in front of her, not intimidated. “All right, tell me then, what’s going to happen when you get to New York? You don’t have a penny to your name.” “I can find work. Maybe at one of my father’s railway yards. I know some of the guys. Maybe if I approach them they won’t tell my father.”