By the Light of the Silvery Moon (9 page)

Clarence stared into the water. The light played on the ripple of waves flowing away from the ship, stirring a memory. He gripped the rail tighter as he was taken back to that place again—the place that never left his thoughts.

Jillian’s still form under the water. The shock of jumping in and pulling her body to the shore. Her blond hair splayed—tangled and limp on the grass. Her beautiful dress clinging to her frame, and her arms limp at her side.

Yet it was her face Clarence could not forget. Pale yet serene. Perfect, as if someone had cast a porcelain doll to model his wife. He’d never seen her so still. Even in her sleep, Jillian had been restless, as if sleep was an interruption to her full and fulfilled life. She’d always been excited for what the next day held, whether it was ordering uniforms for their sons’ new school or gathering flowers in the garden to fill the crystal vase on their dining room table. He’d never been one interested in attaining wealth for himself. Clarence had worked for all he had for her—for their sons. Yet what joy was work without Jillian to celebrate in the rewards?

Even after almost twenty years, he couldn’t help but think of how excited she would have been to be on such a fine ship as the
Titanic.
They’d traveled across the Atlantic Ocean a number of times in their twelve years of marriage, but those steamers could not hold a candle to the opulence he found here. It was like comparing a simple wedding band to queen Victoria’s jewels. And because of her—because of the memory he carried in his heart—he’d booked one of the finest rooms he could afford for the joy of imagining Jillian experiencing the richness and comfort with him.

Besides, Damien would enjoy it. His eldest son reminded Clarence of the boy’s mother. He appreciated fine things, and Clarence worked hard to see he enjoyed them often. Unlike most of the other wealthy passengers who prided themselves in stacking up their riches, filling the banks and growing their worth in figures, Clarence knew that money was fleeting. He’d seen much lost with little effort. Since then he’d decided to enjoy what he had while he could—and share each treasure-filled day with Damien while he had the chance.

Cold air nipped at his cheeks, and Clarence turned so his face met the breeze full force. It was no use looking back to England. The sight of the land slipping into the horizon would remind him he was returning yet again to America without Quentin. With each step through the London streets, Clarence felt his youngest son’s presence, yet just when he believed he was close to finding Quentin, his son again disappeared like a reflection of the moon on a still pond at daybreak.

“Clarence Walpole, is that you?”

Clarence turned to find Thomas Andrews, designer of the
Titanic.
A smile filled the man’s face, and Clarence wondered if Thomas’s buttons would burst from his chest puffed out with pride.

“Thomas, I expected to see you here. I have to say, son, you’ve built one amazing ship.”

Thomas lowered his head bashfully then lifted it, meeting Clarence’s gaze with a twinkle in his eyes. “I didn’t build the ship. That was a task for a large crew, but I do believe my design turned out well.”

“Well? I’d say that is an understatement. Is it true there are watertight steel compartments supposed to render her unsinkable?”

Thomas laughed. “Clarence, that is just the beginning. Have you ever heard of a ship with submarine signals with microphones? Their job is to tell the bridge by means of wires when another ship or any other object is at hand. Not to mention the collision bulkhead to safeguard the ship against an invasion of water should the bow be torn away. The
Titanic
has both!”

Clarence offered a low whistle. “Who would have ever thought it possible? I’m planning on doing more exploring—I’m eager to see the Turkish baths and photography darkroom—although I’d better wait for Damien to lead the way. You’ve heard rumors, no doubt, of how dreadful I am with directions.”

“Who needs to find his own way with a staff such as you have?” Thomas glanced at his watch. “Speaking of business, I told Mr. Ismay I’d give him a private tour, so I must be going. Please do tell your sons I hope they enjoy the trip.” And with a quick wave, Thomas Andrews hurried away.

Sons.
Clarence guessed it was simply a slip of the man’s lips. Most people he knew didn’t mention
sons.
Most spoke as if Damien was his only child. The same thing had happened after Jillian’s death. No one—not even her closest friends—spoke her name. It was as if she’d never existed. That bothered Clarence, but it was understandable. To mention someone meant mourning their death in the same breath. The difference was he had not buried Quentin. Five years had passed since his son had walked out the door, his pockets full of his inheritance—five long years.

But his youngest son still lived—he was sure of it. Something deep in his heart told him to hope. He had faith in God that somehow, somewhere that fact would be confirmed.

Clarence dared to turn. He glanced back at the narrow strip of land. His last glimpse of England. Somewhere back in that all too familiar place his son walked the streets. If only he could know Quentin was well. That would have been enough. If only he could have seen a glimpse of him. It would have appeased his father-heart.

But until then he could only trust. God saw his son. God loved Quentin, and at this moment that had to be enough.

The sea air chilled to the bone, or at least that was what Aunt Neda said as they strode out of the breeze, heading inside to the glass-enclosed second-class promenade deck.

“Yes, this is much better.” Aunt Neda tucked stray strands of gray hair into her bonnet.

“It’s to keep you dry. You can take in the sea air without being splashed by the spray.” Amelia spoke to her aunt, but her eyes scanned the passengers, looking for Quentin. Men, women, families walked along the enclosed deck. An older boy ran by in suspenders and cap, but Quentin was nowhere to be seen.

“I feel as comfortable here as I would walking down Market Street.” Aunt Neda smiled. “I can barely feel the vibration from the engines.”

Amelia nodded an acknowledgment, but her mind wasn’t on her aunt’s words. Aunt Neda had meant no harm, but Quentin hadn’t heard her aunt’s words that way. She saw the shame on his face as her aunt had pointed out his borrowed things—and that memory caused Amelia’s heart to ache. Amelia had seen the same look hundreds of times, if not more, on the faces of those she’d tried to help. Her greatest joy was to offer help to someone in need, yet many people accepted her gifts feeling worse about themselves. Charity was hard to accept sometimes, no matter if the hand that offered it did so with a noble heart.

Aunt Neda patted Amelia’s hand. “As delightful as this is, I’d like to return to our room to write a few letters to our friends back in Southampton before supper.”

“Yes, of course.” Amelia tried not to smile too broadly. With Aunt Neda writing letters, she’d be able to find Quentin and apologize. To clear the air and maybe get to know him better.

They used the lift to take them back to D deck. She marveled at the contraption and smiled at the kind young man who seemed as excited about operating the lift as they were about riding in it.

“It seems you enjoy your job,” she said, taking in his wide-eyed gaze.

“I enjoy meeting all our guests the most. And what is your name, ma’am?”

“Amelia Gladstone, and this is my aunt Neda.”

“Gladstone?” he chuckled. “Are you related to our former prime minister?”

Amelia laughed as if she hadn’t heard that question every day of her life. “If I were, I’d be riding in first class. I have no doubt about that.”

“What do you think of the magnificent
Titanic,
Miss Gladstone?”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. If I weren’t looking out the windows, I’d never know it was moving, so smooth the ride.”

They chatted until they reached their deck. As soon as the lift doors opened, she stepped out and scanned the hallway. Her heart fell. There was no sign of Quentin. A steward in a sharp white suit was the only one who walked down the long passageway.

Once her aunt was settled back in the room, Amelia shut the door of their stateroom behind her and moved to the next door. Amelia took a deep breath and knocked—quietly enough so her aunt wouldn’t realize what she was doing, but hopefully loud enough for Quentin to hear. She thought she heard rustling inside but wasn’t sure.

Was Quentin hiding from her? She wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Amelia turned as footsteps approached. An older stewardess neared with a pile of fresh linens in her arms.

The stewardess paused before Amelia, tilting her head to the side. “Emma?” She tossed her gray curls as soon as the words were out. “Nah, that’s not possible.”

“I’m not Emma, but surely you couldn’t mean … Did you believe I was Emma Gladstone?” Amelia took a tentative step forward. A thousand butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Her hand covered the spot where her racing heart was sure to jump from her chest. “That’s my mother’s name. She was a stewardess on many ships. Did you know her?”

The woman nodded, and the look in her eyes told Amelia she was thinking back to a distant past. “Oh, I did.” The stewardess was short but erect, with a pert nose and full cheeks. An Irish lilt softened her words.

“Have you seen her lately? By lately, I mean the last twelve years?” Amelia’s words were eager, intrigued and worried at the same time.

“Darlin’, it’s been eighteen years at least. Emma looked as young and beautiful as you the last time we worked side by side. Ye look exactly like her, you know. But when I remembered how many years had passed since I’d seen my friend, I knew you could not be. In fact, I remember when she was with child—she tried to hide her age to keep her job, but she could only do it for so long.” A memory sparked in the woman’s eyes.

Amelia touched a hand to her cheek. She had a hundred questions about her mother—what had she been like? Had she been happy on the ship? It would make Amelia feel better to know that if her mother chose her work over her daughter she would have been happy doing so, yet one question rose to the top.

“Since you knew my mother before she had me, do you know who my father is? Did she ever mention him?”

The older woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, child. If she told me, I do not know. It’s been many a year—too long. I’ve sailed many voyages. I’ve worked with so many friends. The stories run together, you see. And maybe …” She let her voice trail off. “Maybe it’s best to enjoy the present rather than worry about the past.”

There was something in the woman’s gaze that told Amelia she knew more than she offered up, yet Amelia didn’t press. She remembered the prayer she’d just prayed—to let go of the past and let it sink to the bottom of the sea. It was enough to have met this woman, wasn’t it? To know she looked like her mother. To experience a taste of what her mother had experienced as she sailed away from the quay at Southampton.

“This is a great privilege meeting you on this ship, of all the ones,” the stewardess continued. “Your ma would have thought something great of this. That’s why I remember her when so many other stewardesses are lost in my memory. Emma got excited over the smallest things. Old sugar lumps from the kitchen and tea in chipped china cups. She loved the sunsets over the ocean. She’d sit by me in the evenings as we put our tired feet up and say, ‘Geraldine, you’ll never imagine what I saw today.’ I feasted more on her stories than even the food put before me.”

“Yes, I remember that about her.” Amelia twirled a blond curl around her finger and slowly released it. “As a child I never knew how much I lacked, because dinner was always a party.” She chuckled softly. “Partly from the stories … and partly because my mother’s obtaining enough food for the day was something to appreciate.” Amelia’s voice caught in her throat. Her mother had worked so hard for the simplest of things.

Geraldine offered a sad smile and lowered her voice. “Since you’re asking, my child, I suspect you haven’t seen her recently?”

Amelia’s eyes grew moist. “No. She left for work … years ago … saying she’d only be gone for one month. I haven’t heard a word since. At least I am grateful that she stayed around, caring for me until I was six.”

Emma patted Amelia’s hand. “I am certain she’s out there somewhere, getting caught up in the thrill of the voyage. Never much of a land lover was she. I’m surprised she stuck around as long as she had—says something about her love for you, I suppose.”

Emotion tightened Amelia’s throat. If her mother had really cared she would have stuck around longer. She wouldn’t have left at all. “Well, thank you.” Amelia took a step back, and another smile filled Geraldine’s face.

“What is it?” Amelia asked. “Did you remember something more?”

“No.” The woman clucked her tongue. “I was just thinking Emma wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she saw the glory hole of this place.”

“Glory hole?”

“Oh, just the name of the stewards’ quarters—the name given because there’s nothing glorious about them. A foul place, most are, but not here.” She offered a low whistle. “The most comfortable room I’ve ever slept in on the seas … and speaking of sleeping, there are a few more beds I need to make up. Ones I didn’t get done before the launch. You should have seen us hustling to get everything ready for the guests. We’re still not done. In fact … be careful what walls you touch—some places still have wet paint!” The stewardess’s smile lifted her round cheeks. “I’ll be seeing you, dear. And if my old memory surprises me and offers up another occurrence, you’ll be the first to know!”