Ship of Dreams (34 page)

The Eastons met them downstairs and Della was just as happy to surround herself with friends, against the possibility of Mrs. Bradford accosting her again. It still cost her a pang to see Addie and Ansel together, so radiantly happy, but she did her best to conceal it. Ansel was again doing his best to cheer them up, this time with more success.

"Billy was a true hero, Virginia. When we were all in the water during those endless hours of darkness after the ship sank, he kept our spirits up. Though he was sick and injured, he sang songs and recited limericks until we nearly forgot our plight."

Though a tear trickled from the corner of her eye, she smiled. "That sounds like my Billy."

"I should like a chance to thank him," Ansel continued. "Will he be joining us, do you think?"

All three women turned to stare at him. "Ansel, what are you saying?" Addie asked, aghast.

He looked confused. "Is he not upstairs? I assumed he would have reached New York by now, but perhaps he was delayed."

Della stared, and Virginia leaned forward to put a trembling hand on his sleeve. "Do ... do you mean—?"

It was Ansel's turn to stare. "Did no one tell you, Mrs. Birch? I just assumed ... Your husband was among those rescued by the
Ellen
, along with myself. He and one or two others, to include my friend Robert Brown," he added to his wife, "went aboard another ship before we met the
Empire City
, thinking they might reach New York more quickly that way."

Virginia looked as though she might faint. Della hugged her, then kept one arm around her waist, supporting her until she was certain she would not collapse. "Is there any other news you've held back?"

Addie began to scold him as well, but he shook his head. "You must believe me when I say I never meant to occasion such a shock, Mrs. Birch."

But Virginia beamed through her tears. "It was the nicest shock I ever received, Mr. Easton, and I thank you."

Just then, a familiar, musical voice rose above the general murmur in the dining room. "Jenny? Is that my Jenny I see?" Turning, they saw Billy Birch himself crossing the room, though with a decided limp.

Virginia knocked her chair over as she scrambled to her feet, then hurled herself at her husband, nearly knocking him down as well in her enthusiasm. He joined them at the table, and for the next ten minutes, Della let the happy chatter wash over her. Finally, when she could wait no longer, she touched Billy's sleeve.

"Mr. Birch, have you any word of Kent? Did you see what became of him?"

His comical face grew serious. "Dear Mrs. Bradford, I wish I had. I saw him just before the ship sank, along with Easton here, on the wheelhouse. But I never saw him after, nor heard his voice."

Della nodded. It was what she had expected. "Thank you," she managed to whisper before her throat closed entirely. Then, aware that her grief would dampen the others' justified joy, she excused herself from the table. Going upstairs, she packed her few donated toiletries, as Virginia and Billy would want this room to themselves.

She carried her small satchel back downstairs, uncertain what she should do next. Perhaps it would be easiest to simply leave this hotel and stay where there would not be constant reminders of her loss. She hadn't a cent to her name, however—the twenty dollar goldpieces she had sewn into her gown before leaving the
Central America
had gone to help pay for the tug into Norfolk. So where was she to go?

"There you are!" came a feminine voice. Turning, she saw Kent's mother bearing down on her like a ship in full sail. "I've been inquiring after you all morning. Come, I've had a room prepared next to mine. Let us go upstairs and talk."

"Of course," said Della tonelessly. What choice did she have?

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All that day and the next, Della mechanically answered every question put to her by Mrs. Bradford, giving the story she and Kent had devised between them. Once or twice she considered telling the truth, but to do so would cast Kent in an unfavorable light, as well as putting herself at potential risk.

So emotionally exhausted was she that she did not protest when Mrs. Bradford insisted on dressing her as befitted her station as Kent's widow, in expensive black silk. Mrs. Bradford made a great show of parading her "poor, widowed daughter-in-law" through the hotel to speak with reporters, always making certain her own name was mentioned in any interview.

After a few days, the press began to turn its attention elsewhere, every reporter having spoken with every survivor at least once. Most of those with friends in New York had already left the hotel, and the rest were making plans to do so. The Eastons and the Birches had gone, and Mary Patterson's mother had come to bring her home. No one Della could call friend was left.

"I've had enough of hotel living," Mrs. Bradford announced early on the fourth day. "I'm ready to go home. I suppose you may as well come with me, Della, for the time being, at least." She always used Della's first name when they were alone, apparently finding that distasteful familiarity preferable to crediting her with the Bradford name.

Though a few days' acquaintance had not served to endear her to Kent's mother, Della felt a spark of interest in seeing the house where Kent had grown up. And certainly it was preferable to being thrown penniless into the streets.

"If that's what you wish, ma'am," she said, marvelling in a detached sort of way at her own lack of spirit.

"Wish?" Mrs. Bradford looked down her patrician nose. "Not particularly. But it would look poorly if I left you to your own devices. I imagine we'll find something suitable for you to do, however."

Della blinked. "Am I to be a servant, then?"

"Of course not. That wouldn't be appropriate. But I'm certain you would prefer to make yourself useful. You've not been used to a life of luxury, after all."

"Oh, no, ma'am. I'm just a poor Irish prospector's daughter." It appeared her spirit was not entirely dead after all.

Mrs. Bradford's eyes narrowed. "Sarcasm doesn't become you, Della. If that's all you have, let us go down. The carriage should be here by now."

Della followed, her heart a shade less heavy than it had been a few minutes earlier. Grief might have subdued her temporarily, but she knew now that though she had lost her hope of happiness, she had not lost herself. Her spirit, at least, had survived.

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CHAPTER 21

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

After several days of sleep, interrupted only for increasing amounts of food and water, Kent felt recovered enough to take a hand in his own destiny. He sat up, to discover that his broken leg had been splinted and wrapped. A crude crutch leaned against the bottom of the bunk.

Rising, he put his weight on his left leg, the crutch under his right arm, and found he could walk without assistance. Dressing himself took more energy than he had expected, still weakened as he was by his long privation. He persisted, however, and at last felt ready to venture out of the cabin, where his fellow survivors still slumbered, to search out the captain.

Blinding sunshine greeted him when he reached the deck, reminding him vividly of the early weeks of his voyage with Della. The thought strengthened his resolve. Blinking to clear his vision, he located Captain Shearer on the wheelhouse of the brig, talking with the pilot.

His progress was slow, and he feared the captain might move away before he could reach him. With an impatient exclamation, he tried to quicken his pace. "Sir! Captain! Excuse me," he called out as he neared the wheelhouse. "A word with you, if I might."

Captain Shearer turned in amazement. "Whatever are you doing up, Mr.—is it Bradford?"

Kent nodded, saving his breath for more necessary words. "Did you say we were headed for Ireland?"

"Aye, with a shipment of sugar and molasses from Cuba. But you should still be abed, sir. It'll be days yet before you're strong enough to be walking about."

"I'll sit, then." And he took a seat on a pile of ropes by the foot of the stairs. Still shaking his head, the captain descended to stand next to him. "How long before we can return to New York?" Kent asked then.

The captain frowned, running a thoughtful hand over his graying whiskers. "I'll not be headed that way for a month and more myself, I fear. In a hurry to get there, are you?"

Assuming the
Marine
made it safely to some port, Della could have reached New York days ago. He thought of her in that great city—friendless, penniless, and grieving, thinking him dead. "Yes, I am."

"Hmm. Well, then. I'll see what I can do. No promises, mind you, but I'll do my best. And now, return you to the cabin, or you'll be no good to anyone once you do get home."

With that, Kent had to be content. At least he'd done something.

Three days later, his action was well rewarded when Captain Shearer hailed a bark heading in the opposite direction. The other ship slowed, and after a brief exchange, its captain agreed to take the shipwrecked men aboard. By now, all four had regained enough strength to make the transfer without undue difficulty, and an hour later they found themselves aboard the
Laura
, out of Bremen, headed west to New York City.

Though the captain and crew pleaded with Kent to join his comrades below, he refused. For now, at least, he preferred to stand at the rail near the prow, watching the water recede beneath the blessed ship that was bearing him back to Della.

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The Bradford residence was the most imposing house on a street of imposing houses, a street lined with stately elm trees and soaring brownstone mansions on the banks of the Hudson River. Della, after her first exploration, felt completely out of her element here. The house, the neighborhood, bespoke the Kent of the earliest days of their acquaintance: Kenton Bradford of the New York Bradfords, proud stickler for the social niceties and strict adherant to the customs of class.

The house was exquisite, with its broad balustered staircase, artworks by noted American and European artists in every room and hallway, and thick, richly colored carpets throughout. Never had Della seen such opulence, from the gilt and marble mantelpiece in the parlor to the intricately carved bedstead in the room she was assigned.

She found it hard to envision the Kent she had grown to love—the freer, more adventurous man with a lust for life—in this setting. Still, this was his birthright, his history, so she tried her best to understand it. Memories were all she would have of him now, and she wanted to make his memories hers, that she could have that much more of him to take away with her.

For she would not stay here long. She had already determined that.

Mrs. Bradford did not want her here, a constant reminder of her son's loss and the questionable judgement he had shown in his final weeks of life. Della was a discord; she had more in common with the servants than the mistress of the house. The only person who made her feel at all welcome was Judy, Kent's younger sister, but she was recently engaged and frequently away from the house.

"Thank you, Mrs. Glendover," said Della automatically to yet another neighbor who had called to express condolences to Mrs. Bradford and herself. "You're very kind."

"Poor, poor dear," the woman murmured, though Della noticed the appraising glance that raked her. "And you too, of course, Willa," she added to her hostess. "Have you contacted Charles yet with the news?"

Della had no doubt Mrs. Glendover knew perfectly well that Kent's younger brother hadn't been heard from in years. How easily these society matrons hid malice under the guise of polite concern! Mrs. Bradford's reply surprised her, however.

"Not yet, but you'll be pleased to know that I have had a letter from him, only last month. He intends to be home before winter. That will be a great comfort to me, as you can imagine."

"Oh. Oh, of course. What a relief for you, I'm sure." Balked in her attempt to gloat over the black sheep of the family, Mrs. Glendover settled for gleaning gossip. "I suppose he'll be taking over the business now?"

Mrs. Bradford hesitated—not surprisingly, from what Della knew about Charles—before saying, "Yes, I imagine he will. All of this is still so much to adjust to, you know." She artfully applied a handkerchief to her eye.

At once Mrs. Glendover was all apologies, and a few moments later she took her leave. Before Della could ask about Charles, however, more callers were announced. She forgot all about Kent's brother at the sound of the very names she'd been dreading.