By the Light of the Silvery Moon (8 page)

Why does she unnerve me so?
The weight of her gaze penetrated into deep, hidden places. He looked away and stared up at the expansive blue sky dotted with clouds. His stomach ached with the old familiar tension of uncertainty. His desire to get to know her wrapped around his heart like sailing ropes and cinched down.

“Did you live … well, did you live on the streets then, too?”

“No. That was before.”

She waited for him to continue, but what type of excuse could he give?

“You’re probably wondering how I ended up as I did. You have a right to know,” Quentin said. “After all, you are the reason I’m here.”

“I’m just curious. Don’t feel as if you owe me an explanation. You just don’t seem like a street person, that’s all.”

“I’m not—” The words blurted out. “Well, I was, but I shouldn’t have been. I made some poor choices. Stupid mistakes.”

Part of him wanted to share his heart with her. Another part wanted to run. He’d lived too long in the shadows, and the truth was Quentin didn’t like being watched, questioned.

Being on the streets it was better not to be seen. He shifted in his chair and refused to look her direction to see if her gaze was still on him. He didn’t understand why she was being so kind. She knew the type of man he was.

Ever since he was a child, he’d had eyes on him, especially after his father became wealthy. His mother made sure he dressed properly from head to toe. His brother had always been an entertainer, and each time after Damien’s song and dance, all eyes had turned to Quentin. What could the younger brother do? How could he entertain?

For a time—when he was on his own—he didn’t have to worry about living in his brother’s shadow. He had his own money. His own friends. Yet when his money disappeared, his friends did, too.

If he enjoyed anything about being on the streets, it was that no one paid him any mind. People didn’t look long on someone so unlovely. It had been easy to find a dark corner under a bridge or in a wooded park.

But now—he couldn’t explain why he appreciated Amelia’s presence. He hated that she’d seen him at his worst, but deep down he was thankful. He didn’t have to put on airs and try to be something he wasn’t.

She had a contagious inner joy, and when she rested her caring eyes on him, he forgot who he’d been just hours ago. He still felt uneasy, but as the minutes passed, Quentin welcomed the bright thoughts that filtered through the clouds of gray that often stormed through his mind. He allowed himself to consider what he could be. And perhaps what they could be together.

No, it’s too soon to think of that.
He pushed that last hope from his mind.

It had been so long since a woman had taken interest in him, he had to remind himself that just because she offered her friendship didn’t mean she thought more of him than that. Why would she? Why would anyone?

Squinting into the lowering sun, they watched the children play. The rail cast shadows that lengthened, nearing the chairs where he and Amelia sat as the minutes ticked by. The long shadows of the boats, rigging, ropes, and rails became artistic creations splayed on the deck.

When was the last time he’d paused to look at such things? For too long he’d only been worried about his next meal or where to lay his head.

“So, I have to ask,” Amelia was saying. “I can tell by your accent you’re American. I won’t ask how you got to England.” Amelia looked over him and narrowed her gaze. “Not yet anyway.” She smiled. “Have you traveled around the States much? I have spoken to a few people who have visited, and it seems like a beautiful and expansive place.”

“Beautiful, yes, at least most places. I’ve been all over the States. My father’s … uh … work saw to that. I grew up in Maryland. I’ve been to Florida, California by train, and all the States the train took me through to get there.”

“Have you been to New York?” Amelia’s voice rose an octave.

“Yes.” He chuckled at the joy on her face. “Why?”

“Have you seen the Ziegfeld Follies?”

Quentin thought back. The last time he’d been in the city he’d only been a teen. He’d been more interested in the tall buildings and their construction than the musicals.

“No, why?”

“Oh, no reason really. Except that I love the music.” Enthusiasm bubbled out with her words. “Tin Pan Alley songs is what they call them.”

Quentin furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I haven’t really kept up with the latest music….”

“The name comes from music publishers set up in Manhattan. One of my aunt’s neighbors had a phonograph. He didn’t have money for meat from the butcher, but he always had the latest records. I would often go to sleep at night to the music drifting through the walls. He told me about the Ziegfeld Follies in New York, too. Famous stars sing there, and they have beautiful chorus girls called Ziegfeld girls. Once I fell asleep to the music and dreamt I was singing in the chorus.”

She smiled and hummed a tune. Her face lit up as she did, and he imagined taking her to a place like that. In his old life he could have seen to that. Now it was only an impossible dream.

As she continued humming—slightly out of key—Quentin vaguely recognized the tune. A few times over the last two years, he’d slipped into small pubs and had a chance to listen to a few songs before they’d kicked him out. The song she hummed must have been one of the popular ones. If he wasn’t mistaken, the lyrics said something about a moon.

“Manhattan. That’s pretty close to where the docks are in New York. Do you think you’ll get a chance to visit the follies while you’re there?”

“Oh no.” The words blurted from her lips. “I won’t stay in New York. I’m heading to New Haven, Connecticut. I have … uh … my cousin is there.”

“Your cousin. I see.” From the guilty look on her face, Quentin could tell there was more to her story, but he decided not to press.

“Besides,” she quickly added. “To go to such a show like that would cost a lot of money. Money that could be used to help people.”

Tingles ran up his neck, and memories of this morning crashed down upon him. For a little while he’d forgotten who he was and how he’d lived for the past two years. Her words reminded him again how she saw him, how she rescued him.

“I see.” He whistled under his breath. “So I’m not the only one who calls you my angel of mercy.”

Pink rose up her cheeks, and he could see that she liked his pet name.

“Well, I help where I can.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “It seems to me that it’s not necessary to always give and care. Everyone needs a chance to relax, to listen to music they like and enjoy a good conversation.”

Amelia nodded. “It makes sense, but I’m finding it hard even now to sit here.” She smiled. “Even though I enjoy it, I know there are beds that need to be made somewhere. Maybe there’s a tired mother who would appreciate an extra pair of arms to help her with her children….”

“I understand.” And deep down, he truly did. From the time he left his father’s home, he’d worked. When he wasn’t working, he spent time with friends, enjoying the good life. That had kept him busy in a different way.

Even after he lost it all, he didn’t sit. He ran. He lived on the streets and knew each passageway. He walked them. Heading where, he didn’t know. To sit meant he had time to remember, and remembering was the hardest of all.

Amelia nodded and settled back into the lounge chair, letting her eyes close briefly. Quentin felt himself settling in, too. Here, with her, he found a glimpse of peace he hadn’t known for as long as he could remember.

Then, just as Quentin felt himself relaxing into the lounge chair, he glanced up to notice an older woman approaching. The woman’s eyes studied Amelia, and then the woman looked to him. Her eyebrows furrowed as she glanced from his shirt and jacket to his pants and even his shoes. Thoroughly displeased, she turned her attention to his face, and Quentin knew that she saw right through him. To her he wasn’t simply another passenger on the ship. He was someone who wasn’t worthy to be here. She looked at him as a thousand Londoners had looked at him over the previous two years—with disapproval.

Amelia was saying something—asking a question about supper—but he didn’t make out all her words. He only saw the disgust in the older woman’s eyes—the silent accusations. More than anything, Quentin wanted to run again—to find a hidden corner in the bowels of the ship. For Amelia’s sake he remained, but it took everything within him to stay rooted in place.

“So, Quentin,” Amelia asked, “what do you suppose they’ll serve for supper? On a ship this nice, I’d guess it will be something delightful.”

The words were no more out of her mouth than her aunt approached. The thin, older woman leaned heavily on her cane as she walked down the deck. Amelia sucked in a breath and stood to hurry toward her. Guilt over not attending to her aunt weighed on her with every step. More than that, lounging with a handsome man was shameful. After all, what would Mr. Chapman say? Amelia didn’t want to think of that.

“Aunt Neda, please tell me you didn’t take the stairs alone. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you sooner. I suppose I got carried away with the launch.” She felt Quentin’s presence as he rose and stood behind her, but she didn’t know what to say. She felt like a child who’d just snuck a biscuit from her mother’s plate. Her aunt tilted up her head and eyed the tall man. Recognition filled her face, and something else—disbelief. Maybe she should have confessed to her aunt that she’d given the man the ticket and Henry’s clothes instead of letting her discover it for herself.

Instead of commenting to him, she turned to Amelia. “I see your cousin’s property has not gone to waste. I assume the room is also being put to good use.”

Quentin stepped forward. “If it is a problem—“

Her aunt’s lifted hand halted Quentin’s words. “It is not a problem. I know my niece, and I’m not surprised.”

He lowered his head like a child who’d just been scolded, even though Aunt Neda’s disapproval was directed to her niece and not him.

“I do appreciate it,” he said. Then he turned to Amelia. “I will leave you to enjoy the day. Thank you again.” He hurried away before Amelia had a chance to respond.

Her lower lip puckered.

“Do you think I should go after him—to invite him to supper? I’d hate to have him feel as if he doesn’t have a friend on the ship.”

“Amelia. Just because you helped him once does not mean you need to have any further responsibilities. What do you know of the man? He could be a scoundrel or a crook. He was trying to sneak on this ship after all.”

“As any poor man would,” she said in his defense. “Just because one does not have sufficient means does not mean he has an evil heart. I have a good feeling about him, Aunt. I believe there is more to Quentin than what’s on the surface.”

Her aunt nodded but did not respond, and with careful steps Amelia led her to one of the lounge chairs and helped her to sit. Quentin reminded Amelia of the young children who’d come to the orphanage after living in poor conditions. He was wounded—that she knew—and he was scared. Mostly, he was looking for a friend, one person he could trust. She could see that deep in his gaze.

If only I could do more for him.

Amelia hoped to be that friend. Maybe in their weeklong journey she’d get the opportunity. It was a ship of dreams—of hope—after all.

C
larence Walpole walked onto the first-class deck of the
Titanic,
gripping the handrail with each step as if he held on to his last ounce of faith. Leaving England’s shores meant he left his youngest son. Deep regrets churned in his heart, just as the large
Titanic
propellers churned up silt from the bay floor.

He stared into the water. His heart ached. His eyes blinked back tears. How could he still have tears? He’d cried enough to fill this channel—to fill the Atlantic.

His throat felt on fire as he attempted to hold in his own muted cries. It was as if stokers shoveled in smoldering coals and he was forced to keep them down with one swallow. But he did not cry. He had to be strong. He had to prove that God’s strength carried him; otherwise, what hope could he offer?