Titanic Affair (11 page)

He broke off as he whirled her expertly past two other couples.

‘I mended it,’ he continued, ‘and used it to help me ply my trade. I delivered parcels quickly and I could go further afield than the boys on foot. By attaching a cart to my bicycle I could carry more parcels. Bit by bit, I built up a business. As soon as I could afford it I bought an old motor van. It was broken down but I repaired it. I was just starting to make some headway when my father died. He had been ill for years, but it hit my mother hard. She was still taking in washing; still scrubbing floors. She took to her bed for a few days after my father died, knocked down by grief. The ladies she cleaned for gave her notice. They said she was unreliable.’ His hand gripped her own more tightly. ‘She’d been working for them for ten years.’

She heard the hard edge in his voice, and knew how much it had affected him, that his mother should have been so badly treated.

‘It doesn’t seem to have made you bitter,’ she said. Although his voice had been hard, there had been no bitterness in it. ‘You could have started to hate those with wealth, resenting them for everything they had, but you didn’t.’

‘I can’t see the point in bitterness. It’s destructive. I channelled my disgust, using it to make me work harder than ever. I bought more vans. Eventually I had a whole fleet of them. Once the business was doing well I put it in the charge of my brother and travelled to
America
. I had heard great things about it; that it was a land of opportunity. I quickly saw it was somewhere I could achieve even greater things. I set up a similar business, and once it was established I moved my family over there with me. I sold the English business and used the profits to help my brothers and sisters. Of course, I made sure my mother never had to go back to scrubbing floors again. I hired someone to scrub her floor; then someone to do the heavy housework for her. Then the light housework. Then someone to fetch and carry. It’s a strange thing,’ he said. ‘First, my money saved her from drudgery, but then it stopped her having to do anything at all.’

‘And that is why she became ill?’ ventured Emilia.

‘I didn’t realize it at the time, but yes, I think it is.’

‘Not having enough to do is as bad as having too much to do,’ she said.

He nodded.

Tightening his grip on her hand a little, he guided her round the edge of the dance floor. The effect of his slight change in his grasp was to make her aware of him all over again. She had waltzed before, on rare occasions when her parents had entertained. She had only been eighteen at the time, but her parents had thought it would be good for her to gain some social experience and develop some poise. They had hosted a number of social evenings, and she had danced with the young men from round about. But they had never made her feel alive in their arms; expectant; as though she were waiting for something. Their grips had been firm, their dancing assured. But with them, a waltz had been a dance. With Carl it was something more. Much more.

He was speaking again. She recalled her thoughts from the paths down which they had been wandering down and focused on what he was saying.

‘I made the mistake of trying to shelter my mother from everything,’ he said, ‘and ended up sheltering her from life itself. Until you came along, standing up to me.’ He looked down into her eyes as the music came to an end. ‘You’re a very remarkable person, Emilia.’

‘I don’t think you should call me that,’ she said, suddenly self-conscious. It made her afraid. If once she let Carl Latimer close to her, she did not think she would have the strength to push him away again.

‘No. I know I shouldn’t,’ he said huskily. ‘But I want to. And I would like you to call me Carl.’

She must not contemplate it, even for a moment. It was true, she already thought of him as Carl, but to call him by his first name, to say it out loud, would be unthinkable. It would produce an intimacy that would be threatening to her peace of mind.

‘It’s out of the question,’ she said, pulling away from him.

He held on to her hand, so that she was forced to turn back towards him.

‘You wondered what had turned me into the person I am today,’ he said, ‘and I have told you. But I have wondered the same about you. What gave you the courage to stand up to me the way you did? What made you interfere when you heard my mother’s wistful voice? I’ve made a journey from poverty to wealth, but I have a feeling you’ve made a journey the other way. Yet, like me, it has not made you bitter.’

‘Carl,’ came a voice at their elbows.

Emilia saw his face darken.

Nevertheless, he turned round politely.

‘Adlington,’ he said.

Emilia saw a distinguished-looking gentleman with grey hair who was dressed in immaculate evening clothes. On his arm was an equally distinguished, grey-haired lady, who was wearing a dress by Paul Poiret, and who was dripping with diamonds.

‘I didn’t know you were on board,’ said Mr Adlington to Carl. ‘What a pleasant surprise. We haven’t seen enough of you lately. Have we,
Victoria
?’

‘No, indeed we haven’t,’ said his wife.

‘Will we be seeing you and Isabelle at the Jannson’s party when we get to
New York
?’ asked Mr Adlington.

Isabelle? thought Emilia. Who is Isabelle?

She had no time to worry about it, however, because a voice at her own elbow claimed her attention.

‘Miss Cavendish?’

She turned to see a beautifully-dressed woman in early middle age, whom she knew to be Mrs Gisborne, as she had heard the waiter addressing the lady by that name.

‘I hope you will forgive me taking such a liberty, but I felt I ought to give you a word of warning,’ said Mrs Gisborne, taking Emilia’s arm and leading her from the dance floor. Emilia would have resisted, but Mrs Gisborne’s next word arrested her attention.  ‘Carl is such an attractive man, and I can see you are not immune to his charm, so I feel I must put you on your guard.’

She allowed herself to be led from the dance floor, feeling apprehensive.

‘It is as well to know the truth, before anyone comes to harm,’ said Mrs Gisborne, slipping a magazine into her hand. Then, bowing, she moved away.

Emilia glanced down at the magazine. It was open at the society pages. There, staring back at her, was a photograph of Carl. He was looking relaxed and happy, in the midst of a group of young people.

Beneath the photograph was a caption.

A happy alliance.

A rumour has reached this magazine that an interesting announcement is shortly to take place concerning Mr Carl Latimer, lately of England, and Miss Isabelle Stott, the dazzling adornment of one of the oldest families in Boston. They will unite their two countries, as well as their persons, with a formal engagement, which will be announced as soon as Mr Latimer returns from
Europe
. . .

Emilia’s limbs went weak, and she sank down in a chair, her eyes tracing and retracing the photograph of Carl and Isabelle. They would be announcing their engagement when he returned from a business trip to
Europe
. Even now, he was as good as engaged.

Feeling suddenly sick, she was about to slip out of the dining room, when she realized how rude it would be of her to leave without saying goodnight. Unable to face Carl she returned to the table, making her excuses to his mother.

‘Sea sickness?’ Mrs Latimer asked sympathetically. ‘Well isn’t that a shame? You look a bit pale, dear, but I’m sure you’ll feel better when you can lie down. Would you like Miss Epson to go with you?’

‘No, thank you, I will be all right.’

‘You go on then, dear. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Carl you’ve had to leave us.’

Relieved that her sudden absence did not seem rude, Emilia left the dining-room once again. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes as she hurried through the public rooms and down the narrow corridors until she finally reached her stateroom. She opened the door with trembling fingers, and gratefully closed it behind her.

She stood leaning back against the door. She had been having such a marvellous evening, and then suddenly, everything had collapsed.

She had thought . . .

What? she asked herself angrily, as she pushed herself away from door and went into the bedroom, throwing the magazine down before sitting at the dressing-table and unpinning her hair. What had she thought? That he was attracted to her? That he liked her? That he more than liked her . . . ? Yes. And why?

Because of her feelings for him.

She had been aware of a growing connection with him throughout the evening as he had revealed details of his past, and she had thought that connection was mutual. She now realized she had been wrong. Carl had no feelings for her. He had told her about his past because she had asked him to, and as for taking her in his arms, he had done it because it was a requirement of the waltz.

Thank goodness she had discovered the truth in time. Now that she knew, she could fight her attraction.

She began to brush her loosened hair.

He might be the most interesting man she had ever met, and he might be the most attractive. He might make her tremble from head to foot when he took her into his arm. But he was beyond her reach.

Her course was clear, she thought, as her hands stilled. She must be at pains to avoid him. It was only for a few days. It should not be too difficult. Now that he had thanked her for helping his mother he would have no reason to seek her out, in which case it was unlikely their paths would cross. Though they were on a ship, it was large, and it should not be impossible to avoid him. It would only be for a few days, and then she would be landing in
New York
.

She would send a telegraph to Charles, she decided, remembering that Freddy had told her of their friend’s removal to
America
. As she had been compelled to visit
New York
she would make the most of it, and she hoped she would be able to see him before setting sail for
Ireland
. She would like to know how he was getting on in the antiques trade, and perhaps she would also be able to meet Julia. And Charles, she hoped, would be able to advise her on cheap but respectable lodgings, so that she would have somewhere comfortable to stay until she could book her return passage.

Once in
Ireland
with her godmother, it would be easy to forget Carl Latimer, she told herself. She would have a new life opening out in front of her, and she would soon put him out of her mind.

That, at least was the theory. But she was uncomfortably aware that it might not be so simple.

Carl sat in the smoking-room with a glass of brandy in his hand.

It was now two hours since Emilia had made her excuses to his mother and returned to her stateroom. He had seen her leaving across the dining-room but, being tied up in conversation, he had been unable to stop her. By the time he had disentangled himself, she had gone. He had wanted to follow her, but on his mother telling him that she had been feeling sea sick he had reluctantly let her go. He had seen his mother back to her state room and then he had retired to the smoking room. But whilst the conversations about politics and business swirled all around him, he did not hear a word of what was being said.

Forty-eight hours ago it would have been a different story. He would have been leading the conversation, not ignoring it. But since then much had changed. So much so, that he was no longer the same man who had boarded the ship in
Southampton
. And all because of Emilia Cavendish. She had challenged his most deeply held beliefs and shown him they were nothing more than paper blowing in the wind.