By the Light of the Silvery Moon (30 page)

Quentin smoothed his suit pants and paused near the group of people filtering into the first-class reception room. His heart pounded and his mind told him to turn, to run. Instead he fixed his feet on the spot and focused ahead. If he could just make it through that doorway.

Ahead of him two women chatted. They wore fine clothes, and he guessed they were from first class.

“So did you get a chance to meet Mr. Walpole?” one woman asked the other.

Quentin’s ears perked to their conversation.

“Mr. Walpole, yes, I met him last night. He’s traveling with his son. I have never seen a more handsome fellow. Damien is his name. He has money as well. Tonight I might have to make an introduction.” The woman fanned a gloved hand in front of her face as if just talking about Damien excited her.

“Doesn’t Mr. Walpole have two sons?”

The second woman shrugged. “I thought so, but I heard a rumor that one died. Tragedy falls on the rich as well as on the poor, I suppose.”

The crowd moved forward, and Quentin followed. His hand tightened around the doorjamb. In a way, the woman’s words were right. He was dead. Dead to his family. Dead to ever being a son.

He knew from the moment he walked out on his family that would be the case. For a time, his father had tried to keep in touch, but the more he walked into dark places, the more he wanted to hide. What son would take an inheritance while his father still lived? He was worse than the drainage of waste on the city streets in the slums of London. So he’d told himself it was better not to allow himself to recall his father’s love than to long for it. He had no right to yearn for what he’d thrown away.

He considered pausing, turning, but as his eyes scanned the room, he saw something—someone—he no longer wanted to run from.

His father was turned to the side, talking to the young man next to him, but as if an invisible hand tapped him on his shoulder, he paused and turned, as if he sensed Quentin’s presence there.

Then, as if he moved in slow motion, he rose and his mouth whispered Quentin’s name. His face brightened as he stood. His arms flung open. “Son, son!”

Quentin’s feet felt planted to the ground, and he watched as his father staggered forward with shaky steps.

Intense elation started as a buzzing in Quentin’s chest. He took a hesitant step. His knees softened. His father continued forward, his face beaming. Then, as if strength had been poured into his legs, Clarence Walpole set forth in a run.

They hurried toward each other, and tears filled Quentin’s eyes. His father had aged—the gray hair and wrinkled face evidence of all the years lost. The crowd parted, letting them through, and before he could catch his breath, his father’s arms were around him. Holding him. His father lifted slightly, as if Quentin were a young boy and he wished to sweep him into his arms.

His father’s arms. Warm, strong. Quentin’s throat thickened. Words refused to release.

His father pushed back slightly to look into his face. He held Quentin’s cheeks, as if making sure he was real. And as Quentin looked into his father’s gaze, he didn’t see anger. He didn’t see questions. He saw only an acceptance he didn’t expect or deserve. He saw home. He saw love. He realized yet again what it meant to be a son.

T
he room had just quieted, as if the Sunday service was about to start, when Amelia caught sight of a man entering the room. It was Quentin. He looked reluctant, and then his eyes widened.

“Son, son!” she heard Clarence Walpole call. The room stilled, and everyone watched as the older man rose and stumbled forward.

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat as she noticed Quentin’s eyes widen. Then as a tear broke through and trickled down his face, he stepped forward into his father’s embrace.

C.J. wrapped his arms around his son, and he lifted slightly, as if Quentin were ten again and he prepared to scoop him up. The tears came. Amelia didn’t know who was crying more, the two men or herself.

“Son,” C.J. repeated. Even from where she was seated near the front, Amelia could hear their words.

Her hand covered her mouth. She’d hoped for this, but she’d never expected it.

C.J. touched his son’s face, and he looked deeply at him as if trying to assure himself he was really there. All eyes in the room watched them, but they only had eyes for each other. Quentin’s lips lifted in a smile, and Amelia wondered what brought the most joy … seeing his father again or feeling his acceptance. If Quentin had doubted how much the older man cared before, there was no reason to doubt now.

C.J. moved his hands from his son’s face to his shoulders. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Quentin raised a hand to halt his words.

Quentin stepped back slightly. “Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight, and am no more worthy to be called your son”

C.J. turned to a man who had followed him. Amelia assumed it was C.J.’s butler. “And ask the steward for the best room still available in first class. I wish for my son to sleep as close to me as possible tonight. And if he needs clothes, we’ll find some.”

Happiness sluiced through Amelia, making her feel weak in the knees.

“That’s Quentin, isn’t it?” Aunt Neda tried to make sense of what was happening. “So he’s also the brother of …”

“Damien Walpole.” Amelia nodded.

“Oh dear.” Aunt Neda lifted a hand and placed it on her cheek. “It seems the men trying to win your heart are brothers.”

Amelia wasn’t concerned about that now. All she cared about was the joy in C.J.’s face that brought a smile to Quentin. C.J. lifted a hand and squeezed his son’s shoulder as if still trying to believe he stood there.

Amelia scanned the salon. Every person in the room was watching them. Some leaned awkwardly to get a better view. Some stood on tiptoes, trying to discover what the commotion was about.

“My son!” C.J. turned and raised Quentin’s arm high. “My son whom I haven’t seen in five years … He’s here, on this very ship. Praise be to our Lord.”

“His son? The one who left, robbed his very father?” one of the first-class men said, leaning heavily on his cane.

“His mother drowned, too. She died saving him. What a shame.”

A murmur of disapproval carried through the first-class passengers. It was only then that Amelia understood what Quentin had risked coming up here. Amelia looked to C.J.’s face, and there was not one hint of hesitation.

As he returned to his seat, his arm wrapped around Quentin’s shoulders, C.J. didn’t notice the raised eyebrows and furrowed brows of his colleagues and friends, but Amelia could tell from Quentin’s downcast eyes he’d heard. Every gesture, every word had been noted.

Tears filled her eyes, and she understood. She doubted a day passed during his growing-up years when he wasn’t reminded of the accident. Many of these same people had been there when his mother had drowned. They knew that she gave her life for his, and if their gazes back then were anything close to what they were today, they didn’t think it was a worthy trade.

“Tomorrow night, on the last day of the voyage, we will have a party on this ship like no one has ever seen!” C.J. called to the crowd. “There will be food and music … a full banquet in the A La Carte Restaurant. Everyone here is invited. Bring your family, your friends! First class, second class, third—it does not matter. All must come to take part in the most joyous occasion!”

Cheers rose from around the room, mostly from the third-class passengers. It was one thing that they were allowed into the grand reception room to worship together. What would it be like to attend a party put on by one of the wealthiest men on the ship?

Seeing their joy displaced some of Amelia’s anger from a moment before, and she decided that no matter what life held for her, she never wanted to be so wealthy that she forgot about the true treasures she had in family, friends, and the healing hand of God that restored what had been hurt and broken for so long.

The service started then, but Amelia’s heart was already full. As they began singing their first hymn, she couldn’t keep her eyes off of Quentin. The words echoed through her heart:

It was the cheers in the room that caught his attention first. Damien had expected a solemn and traditional church service, but the noise from the room sounded more like a rugby game.

He entered the reception room, surprised to see most of the churchgoers on their feet. They were looking at something, cheering about something. He followed their gaze and a gasp escaped his lips. There, in the front of the room, was his father with his arm around Quentin.

Anger mixed with surprise pulsated through Damien. Surely many people in this room knew of his brother’s deeds. He was shocked his brother had the nerve to show his face here of all places.

Quentin had lost and wasted what had taken their father years to earn. Losing the money was one thing, but the harm to his father’s reputation was another. Yes, Clarence Walpole had a mind for business, but the man couldn’t control his own son.

And now?

Damien balled his fists, wishing he could pound them into his brother’s chest. If his brother were going to be the fool, why couldn’t he have chosen another time, another place? Word of this
reunion
was sure to hit New York by wireless before they even reached the shore. More than one reporter had tried to get his father to talk about Quentin asking for his inheritance. Damien cursed under his breath, hating knowing what this would look like in print.

Over the years the society pages had produced photos of Quentin throwing lavish parties, and later lying drunk in the gutter. There were news stories of him entertaining a new woman every night. His father hadn’t turned the reporters away, but each time they’d approached, he’d only offered one comment. “While my son makes choices that hurt my heart, he will forever be the son I love, and until he returns home again, I will display his photo upon my mantel.”

As the church service ended, Damien ran a finger under his starched collar and attempted to control his emotions as he strode to his father’s side.

“Father?” he said sweetly. His eyes scanned the crowd, noticing all eyes on him.

Clarence turned to Damien. “Damien. Your brother—look, he’s here. He’s been on the liner this whole time.”

Then Clarence’s smile faded just slightly. “Son, Damien, why don’t you look surprised?

Amelia returned to her room, dropping her handbag onto the sitting bench. She pulled off her white lace gloves one finger at a time then plopped down on the bench herself. She noticed Aunt Neda hadn’t tightened the faucet all the way closed, and the water dripped a drop every few seconds.

She replayed the disapproving comments of the first-class passengers. Each drip of water spurred her anger. She wanted to give them a piece of her mind for their harsh judgmental attitudes. They’d been at a church service, after all. She set her lips in a grim line and told herself this wasn’t her battle to fight—as much as she would enjoy taking up arms. It was the life Quentin would have to face, whether he liked it or not.