By the Light of the Silvery Moon (11 page)

The man raised a gloved finger to Amelia’s mouth, halting her words. So bold was his touch, Amelia didn’t know what to do. How to respond. She looked at him closer. His resemblance to Quentin was startling.

“Miss, please … you don’t have to explain.”

The scraping of the feet of a chair on the shined wooden floor caught her attention. Not three yards away an elderly man rose from a high-backed leather chair and neared. His shoulders slumped as he walked, as if he’d been carrying around a heavy burden for many years. He clenched his fists to his chest. “Do you know him? Do you know my son?”

She looked from the younger man back to the older man. The younger man held out the crook of his elbow for support.

“I’m sorry, sir. I must have been mistaken. I—“

Tears filled the old man’s eyes. “You said
Quentin
,” he interrupted. “You called his name. Do you know him?”

She quickly looked away, remembering the promise she’d made not a few hours prior. The promise not to tell another soul that Quentin was on board, or even to mention his name.

What is Quentin hiding from?

She looked back to the two men, now understanding the resemblance. This younger man was his brother, and this older man…

A hundred questions fought for priority in her mind, but two rose to the top. Why would the son of a wealthy man be living in such rags? Why hadn’t he gone to his father for help?

Both men … and it seemed everyone else in the room … waited for her answer.

Heat crept up her cheeks. “Yes, I have met him.”

“Can you tell me when? How is he doing? Did he look well to you?” The older man leaned heavy on his son’s arm.

“It was recently, and he did look well. He’s been through some hard times, but things are looking up.”

“Were you in a relationship?” the young man dared to ask.

“No, not at all.” Her words escaped as a gasp. She studied the man who looked so much like Quentin. Yet there was no joy in this man’s eyes at knowing his brother’s fate—knowing he was doing well.

“He is well.” The older man offered a relieved smile. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes, exciting, Father.” Deep color rose from the younger man’s open, white collar. She stared at the hollow of his throat as his Adam’s apple bounced. He had a small book of poetry in his hands, and he opened and closed the cover with quick, nervous movements. Though the old man hung on her every word, the young one looked as if he wished she’d vanish into the waves rippling out from the side of the ship. Was
he
the reason Quentin requested his presence to remain unknown?

She turned her attention back to the older man. “If I may be so bold … I assume you
both
are related to Quentin?”

“I’m sorry, dear, I did not introduce myself. I’m certain my manners are still in our stateroom waiting to be unpacked. My name is Clarence Walpole. I ask my closest friends to call me C.J. That—my dear—would be you, too.” He took her hand and softly lifted it to his lips, kissing it. His fingers trembled. Instead of releasing her hand, he clung to it, as if her grasp was the one lifeline to his son.

“I am Amelia, Amelia Gladstone,” she said simply. Then she turned to the younger man beside him, waiting for an introduction.

“This is my son Damien,” Clarence continued. “Quentin—whom you have met—is Damien’s younger brother. We haven’t seen Quentin for five years. During our trip to London, I’d hoped to find him. I wish nothing more than for us to be reunited. Your news is a gift, my dear. Knowing he’s doing well does this old heart good.”

They fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Amelia glanced around. The women—noses upturned—eyed her simple dress and shawl. The men leaned in, as if waiting for her words. They were curious, and she guessed they most likely knew why Quentin was estranged from his family. Perhaps there was some type of falling out?

Her stomach rumbled and lurched as if everything she’d eaten tonight wished to come up. She placed a soft hand on it, willing it to calm. Why did she have to open her mouth like that? What a fool. She should have walked in, helped Ethel find the book, and walked out.

Even though Clarence’s nervous eyes told her he still carried a great burden for his son, his smile was gentle and his manner kind.

Clarence finally released her hand, and she reached out her palm to Damien for a handshake. He twitched as if he’d just been woken up from a dream. He took her hand. It was warm and soft. His fingernails were perfectly manicured. He was just as handsome as Quentin, but his face wasn’t touched by the hardship the younger brother had faced.

Her eyes lingered on his, trying to see the emotions that flashed there—anger, frustration, fear? Yes, a hint of fear remained there. He was afraid of knowing more about his brother. Afraid for his father to know.

She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder as if looking for someone. “I’m so sorry, but I should go find my friend … She, uh, might need me. It was so nice to meet you.” Amelia pulled her hand out of Damien’s grasp.

The old man’s eyes widened as if not wanting her to leave. She felt bad for not telling him more. Felt she owed him some explanation. Yet Quentin had asked her to keep his presence a secret for a reason. And his brother, Damien, obviously didn’t want Quentin’s whereabouts revealed either.

“Nice to meet you, too, dear. I’m so sorry we do not have more time to talk now. Maybe one of these evenings at supper. We’d love to have you at our table.”

“Of course,” she answered before she remembered she was still in the first-class section. She didn’t belong here. She wouldn’t be eating with them, not tomorrow. Not ever.

“I suppose I’ll see you again.” She turned and hurried off, heat creeping up her neck. She walked in the direction of the grand staircase, a sigh of relief escaping with heavy breaths. She would not be seeing them again. She would not be dining at their tables. She didn’t belong in first class. She was blessed to have a passage in second. For all she knew, that brief meeting was a gift to Clarence Walpole—a hopeful word of his son that would carry him for years to come.
Unless …

She considered discussing the situation with Quentin. Surely if he knew his father and brother were passengers on this very ship—first-class passengers—he’d come out of his hiding and reveal his true self to them. Maybe her random act of kindness wasn’t so random at all. A shiver ran down her arms, and suddenly she felt as if destiny brushed up against the ship, like the waves lapping against the hull. How did a simple girl from Southampton stumble into this?

The third-class decks were crowded with hundreds of English, Dutch, Italian, and French passengers—from even more countries, too, he’d guess. Everyone seemed to be talking at once in their own languages. He felt more at home here than on the upper decks.

None of the other passengers questioned Quentin when he sat down for supper among the third-class passengers. And when he was asked for his supper ticket, he’d fibbed and said he’d forgotten it in his room. With a few empty chairs around him, no one bothered to tell him to go find it. There was extra room during this supper shift and plenty of food. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Even with the scents of boiled potatoes and beef, the room still smelled of fresh-sawn wood and paint.

When his supper arrived, Quentin stared at the food before him as if he was trying to decide if it was a dream or real. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and he noticed the gaze of a woman sitting next to him fixed on his.

“Shall we pray?” The woman offered one hand to Quentin and another to the man on the other side of her whom he assumed was her husband. Quentin wrapped his hand around hers. He’d forgotten what it was to feel a woman’s innocent touch. As soon as the prayer was offered, he dug into his food. He didn’t know the last time he’d eaten a meal like this.

Along with the beef and boiled potatoes, there was fresh bread, sweet corn, fruit, and plum pudding. The meat and potatoes were good, but he closed his eyes as he took a bite of the plum pudding and swallowed down emotion with the food. It tasted so much like the pudding Mother used to make.

His body couldn’t seem to get enough of the meal, and he ate it faster than he should.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw that the woman watched him eat.

“So, Mr….”

“Qu—uh, Henry, ma’am. You can just call me Henry.”

“Yes Henry. Well, you have long fingers that move with grace. If I’m not mistaken, I’d guess you play the piano.”

He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If I get to call you Henry, then you have to call me Grace, and this is my husband, Sven.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said between swallows, but even as they tried to make small talk, Quentin cared more for the food, and he was pleasantly surprised when the steward brought him a second plate.

He ate until he felt as if he’d swallowed a piano, and when he set down his fork, he realized nearly the whole table had been watching him. Heat rose up his neck as he saw the pity in their gazes. Understanding, too. If they hadn’t been where he now was, they’d seen it just over the horizon.

After a simple meal, he followed the others to the common room. His eyes immediately moved to the piano. Approaching it, he sat down and started to play “Bon, Bon Buddy.” Those in the room cheered and swayed to his tune, and when he finished and rose, another passenger stood with his bagpipes and began to play. The music really picked up, and then the dancing started. The music was punctuated by the clinking of glasses.

He moved among the small group of people laughing and talking. In the designated smoking room, the air was thick with what looked like a low gray fog. He thought about walking to the poop deck, but as he headed out the door, he felt eyes upon him. A tall woman with reddish hair stood just outside the door with a cigarette in hand. She took a long draw and flicked ashes onto the polished wood boards. Her dark eyes pierced his, and a slight smile lifted the corners of her lips. So intense was her stare that Quentin paused.

The woman tucked her curls behind her ear. “You do not remember, do you?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

A harsh chuckle split her lips, and as she brushed her hair back from her neck, her dress slipped down, revealing a creamy white shoulder.

She lifted her chin and smiled. “I lived in your house in London. In Westminster.”

Quentin cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” Then he chuckled. “Many people did. I remember now.” He smiled an acknowledgment, but still the woman wasn’t familiar. That time had been a blur. He’d had a drink in his hand more often than not. His pockets were full of his father’s riches, and the business he’d begun was going well. Many people had filled his home. Many women had filled his bed, and from the sly smile and sultry gaze she offered, this woman had no doubt been one of them.

“It’s a beautiful evening on a beautiful ship. It’s the type of night one shouldn’t have to spend alone,” she purred, taking a step closer.

Quentin smelled alcohol on her breath and imagined the taste of her lips. He instinctively stretched out his hand and brushed her hair back from her other shoulder. With his touch, she closed her eyes, and her mouth parted slightly.

It would be easy. He had an empty room. He didn’t think this woman—whatever her name was—would resist him sneaking her up to second class. Yet when Quentin imagined meeting Amelia in the hall with this woman’s hand in his, his heart sank. He pictured hurt in Amelia’s eyes, and for some reason that pained him.

Quentin pulled his hand back and then dropped his head. With a sigh, he turned his back to her.

“We can walk the deck if you would like.” Her voice sounded desperate, as if she were afraid he was going to walk away.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have nothing to offer you. I lost my house in Westminster years ago.”

The woman approached from behind him, gripping his arms with her hands and laying a cheek against his back.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” she chuckled. “You’re riding in third class. More than that, people talk. I’ve heard the stories. I assumed you’d be dead by now. I was surprised to see you here.”

“Me, too. Yesterday I would have never thought …” He stopped there. He couldn’t mention Amelia or the gift, even though her presence felt close. Closer than this woman behind him.

How could that have happened? He’d known Amelia for less than a day, yet just the thought of her caused him to question all he’d known. How he’d lived.

Quentin stepped away. “It was nice to see you again. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Wait!”

He turned back.

The woman awkwardly crossed her arms over her chest. “It was nice to see you, too. I hope America treats you well.” Disappointment colored her words.

Quentin walked away, only stopping when he was beyond her view. He sat down on a long bench and lowered his forehead into his hands. The air around him was icy cold, but he hardly noticed. Amelia, only Amelia, filled his thoughts. If he could run from her he would. If she had already pervaded his life this much, what would getting to know her do? Where would spending more time together lead them?