by Alma Katsu
That, at least, seemed to give him pause. “But surely he’ll know if you avail yourself of this . . . he’ll realize it’s missing.”
“He won’t know! He keeps it in storage. He won’t even look at it before we arrive in New York and then it will go straight into the safe in our house.”
He rubbed his jaw again. “I tell you what, Mrs. Astor—let me think about your predicament. I want to be absolutely sure that I’ll be able to help you before we take another step. Give me time to think about it.”
“But my child—”
“I won’t take long, I assure you. And I can tell you’re safe for now. I don’t feel anything bad hovering over you at the present time.” He had taken her by the elbow and was escorting her back to the ball, as though she could think about dancing at a time like this.
“But, Mr. Williams . . .” She tried to get him to stop, to talk to her, but to no avail. It was like a mad carousel all around her, a kaleidoscope of color and light. The swell and swirl and sparkle of gemstones and light glinting off silk and satin, the deep black of men’s dinner jackets. Aromas, too. The smell of perfume and pomades, roses in flower arrangements, shrimp and lobster in champagne sauce, good prime rib. The sweet sound of violins; a swell in the background like a buzzing hive; deep male voices swooping in and out; the high, bright tinkle of female laughter cutting through it all like a knife.
Jack. She practically ran into him, his green velvet–clad chest suddenly in front of her like a wall of embroidered moss. She felt the boxer release her elbow abruptly, as though they’d been caught doing something wrong together. Perhaps they had.
Her husband was frowning. Why was he displeased with her? Was it the hand on her arm? Was it because he knew who this man was? Of course he did; he went to watch him almost every day in the gymnasium.
“Come, Madeleine,” he said coldly, taking her arm now. Scuttling away on tiptoe, she tried to look over her shoulder. We’ll talk again; she tried to convey this with her expression. Don’t forget.
Chapter Thirty
Mark would never forget the first time he met Caroline. It had been shortly after the terrible fire at the factory where Lillian worked. The only reason Lillian hadn’t perished in the fire, too, was because she had been sent to take care of a customer: Caroline.
Caroline summoned him to her London apartment, a move he thought rather imperious, but he complied because she had, in a way, saved his beloved’s life. He had been suspicious, too, of the woman who had so quickly become as close as a sister to Lillian. He wanted to see what this was about for himself.
But he understood from the minute he met her. She was forthright but also charming, as radiant as sunshine in that way Americans have. It was apparent that she genuinely adored Lillian, the same as he.
Before long, he came to appreciate Caroline in the same way that Lillian did. He loved her because she loved Lillian. The two women became bound together in his mind. He could almost not think of one without automatically thinking of the other. But after a time, things began to change, imperceptibly at first and then with sudden swiftness. Lillian became stormy, envious, rageful. Caroline became his solace—and he hers. Alliances had shifted with an inevitability that felt beyond what he could control.
By the end, he sometimes wondered if he didn’t hate Lillian, almost with the same ferocity he had loved her. If Caroline hadn’t prayed for Lillian to disappear—as he had.
Or if something far worse had happened. If Caroline had made her disappear. If he’d been deluded in trusting and falling for her. She had always seemed so bright and strong to him—her presence made his fear and doubts fall away. But when she wasn’t around, the questions returned, dark and menacing. Dogged and brutal.
And so it was with an odd and overwhelming sense of relief—joy even—that he realized the sight of Caroline could still take his breath away, still bring him out of his dark mood, as he watched her arrive at the captain’s ball that evening. He wasn’t sure why he’d come to the ball at all except that after their argument this morning over Miss Hebbley, and his disturbing conversation with Stead about anchors, about Lillian—What did the old man know?—Mark didn’t want to be alone. Couldn’t stand the snakelike thoughts that slithered through him.
The police had deemed Lillian’s death a suicide though there’d never been any proof.
Female jealousy was a powerful thing. It could take many forms. He’d seen so himself.
But now, here Caroline was, walking into the reception room, and the crowd seemed to part before her like she was a queen. His mind, too, parted ways with its former broodings. She was too dazzling to be false, too warm to be deceiving. It was his own guilt at work, projecting fears onto her that weren’t true, weren’t possible.
She wore a gown made of gold satin, a tall column of a dress that made her look like a wand of the most precious metal, a king’s scepter. Her dark hair was pinned up with topaz, flashes of a beautiful deep orange winking like daubs of fire. He was reminded how lucky he was to be married to this beautiful, intelligent woman, especially when just before, everything in his life had gone to ash.
She had been a kind of divine intervention.
She spotted him through the crowd and started in his direction. How graceful she was. He took her dainty hand, light as a butterfly in his.
“The music sounds wonderful. I would like to dance, Mark.”
“Of course.” He didn’t bother to explain that he’d been about to ask but had been dumbstruck by the sight of her. He didn’t want to say anything that could break the spell, could make her grow angry and cold again, like she had this morning.
She was a superb dancer. Confident. Responsive. Far more graceful than Lillian, who’d bounded about too enthusiastically, always tending to lead rather than follow.
The touch of the satin of Caroline’s dress under his hand at her back felt so intimate, more intimate than skin. It made him giddy with, if not happiness, something close to it. Relief and wonder and, most of all, gratitude. This marvelous creature is my wife.
Despite everything.
And then, the shadow thought that always followed it—that he’d lose her, too.
But no: she was in his arms now, wasn’t she? Everything else fell away. The anger of their fight earlier, their suspicions, the worries about Ondine. All of it melted. He wheeled her effortlessly through the crowd of dancers. They were both so light. It was like being a leaf carried on the wind. As though they could fly, but only when they were a pair. A burble of laughter escaped from his mouth and she laughed in reply. How well they fit together, her body to his.
They were meant to be together. If only the rest of the world would go away.
Moving to America was a good idea—and Caroline’s, of course. In America, Mark would not be constantly reminded of Lillian. There would be no relatives or friends to ask awkward questions. His past would fade away, immaterial to people who knew him only as Caroline’s husband. He’d be a man with no life before, who existed only in relationship to Caroline. It was humbling but necessary. His gambling indiscretions would soon be forgotten. As little as he cared to say goodbye to England, he had to admit it was for the best.
Best for Ondine, too. They’ll have a fresh new start, the three of them together.
“This is nice,” Caroline said dreamily. “We should go dancing more often.”
“We shall, in the future. We’ll have a whole new life full of brand-new things.”
She tilted her head the other way, following his lead, anticipating his moves. “Sorry it took so long to get away. I had the most difficult time with Miss Flatley. I tell you, sacking her cannot come a moment too soon.”
He made a noncommittal sound, but something niggled at the back of his mind. Sacking her. There was something he’d forgotten to do . . . something important. He’d been too focused on other things. . . .
He remembered the split second Caroline spoke. “Have you spoken to the stewardess Miss Hebbley? Have you had a chance to tell her we’ll no longer be needing her services?”
His stomach dropped to his feet. He stumbled, nearly bringing them both down on the dance floor.
She stopped dancing; luckily, they were at the edge of the floor and out of the way of the other dancers. It felt like the whole world continued to move without them, leaving them behind. It was dizzying. “You didn’t, did you?” she said quietly.
Lying would only make things worse; he knew that much. “I’m afraid not. I didn’t see her, and it slipped my mind—”
“How could you? She could drop in to see the baby anytime, even tonight while we are away from the room. I don’t want to think of what she might do if we’re not there.”
“Oh, surely you’re worrying over nothing.” He thought he could make her see how silly she was being; he didn’t realize that this was the worst thing to say until the words were out of his mouth.
The warm, golden glow had vanished—if it had ever existed.
Caroline froze. “This is our child. I thought we agreed that there is something wrong with Miss Hebbley and we don’t want her around Ondine.”
“I don’t think I agreed there was something wrong with her—”
She pulled away from him, and his hands and the side of his face, which had been pressed to her cheek, suddenly felt cold and empty. “Mark, how could you? You did agree! I feel betrayed.”
The words went through him like a dagger. He stood senseless while she hurried off, pushing her way through the crowd.
And ran into Guggenheim. He could just see her through the sea of people. His wife, just out of his reach. Her head bobbed furiously as she spoke. Guggenheim’s hand fell on her shoulder. There, there. There was something possessive about that hand. Like they were already familiar. Had she known Guggenheim before they’d married?
I feel betrayed.
He’d be damned if he would run after her. He turned, looking for the bar. It was thick with men for whom the trays of champagne punch, circulating around the room, were no better than lemonade. He resolved to join them. He picked the thinnest part of the mass and waited his turn. He knew no one in the pack of dour, unhappy faces. He recognized some from the card tables but had not made their acquaintance. No one was inclined to make small talk with his neighbors; some even looked at their watches. Did even one man want to be here tonight?
A hand fell on his shoulder, firm and deliberate. Turning to confront whoever it was, Mark came face-to-face with a smiling blond man he’d seen with Dai Bowen.
“Do we know each other?” Mark asked.
Williams chortled. “Leslie Williams. I need you to come with me, Mr. Fletcher. Trust me: it’s in your best interest.”
It didn’t seem a good idea, but he obeyed, even as the champagne he’d drunk burbled up in his stomach with curiosity. With dread. What did this man want?
Williams led him away from the crowd and down an alleyway that only the waiters seemed to be using. He found an empty closet and they stepped inside.
“What is this about?” Mark asked. He couldn’t help but feel belligerent, didn’t like standing in a dark closet with this man, breathing in his pomade, his breath reeking of liquor.
“David Bowen is me mate and he told me all about you. Everything. You’ll be needing to keep me on your good side, that is if you don’t want your wife to find out how you’ve been paying for your little habit.” He paused for Mark’s shock of recognition. “I have a proposition for you.”
Mark thought about arguing with him. I know how it looks, but it’s not what you think. It’s just that I’m low on cash here on the ship. . . . Your friend got it all wrong. Caroline knows what I’m doing. . . . One look at the man’s face and he knew he could save his breath.
“Why the glum face—it’s not as bad as you think. You’ll only have to do one thing for me and then you’re off the hook.”
Mark had to admit, it sounded pretty good. He’d needed something good tonight. For a wild second, Mark thought that maybe he was not terribly unlucky but terribly blessed—always falling down on his own mistakes, always receiving a miracle to lift him back up.
Williams took his silence for agreement. “I need you to get something out of storage for me. That’s all. And you get to keep half. Half for you, half for me.”
Williams wanted him to steal something. Not blessed, then. Going from bad to worse. “I’m not a thief.”
“I beg to differ.”
There was a time when he’d have fought a man for saying that about him, but it wasn’t a dirty lie anymore.
Williams was grim faced. “You do this for me or your wife learns everything. Trust me, it’s easy as falling down. And you’ll walk away with good money, enough to buy your wife some new baubles.”
There was no such thing as easy money. Hadn’t he represented enough criminals to know this? “What is it?”
“I have it on good authority that Astor keeps a box of money down in storage.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why wouldn’t the man keep it in the ship’s safe with the rest of the valuables?”
Williams shrugged. “Who knows why rich people do anything? He may very well have another stash in the safe—all I know is I was told he keeps large sums of cash on hand. You find it. But don’t damage the box: it’s got to look like nothing’s been done to it so they don’t have any reason to look inside.”
Mark looked befuddled. “That’s it?”
“The Astors’ luggage is in storage on the G deck, by the squash court. You’ll need this.” He passed a brass key to Mark.
He held it up to catch the light. A plain brass key, like the ones he’d seen used by the ship’s staff. “Where’d you get this?”
“Never mind. Just get it back to me tonight.”
“You want me to do this now?”
“There’ll not be a better time. They’ve been moving luggage in and out of storage all day due to this ridiculous event—so many ladies requiring dresses they’d been saving for America. So many people coming and going, they can’t keep track of them all. And now, everyone’s up here enjoying themselves. No one will be on the squash court or down at the Turkish baths enjoying themselves. The place will be empty.” The boxer had obviously thought this through.
Mark fingered the key. It was weighty. It felt like a sure thing. “How much money are we talking about?”
* * *
—
Mark tried to put everything else out of his head. Caroline, the argument, firing Miss Hebbley. The first order of business was going back to his cabin for an empty suitcase. He moved in that absent kind of way he was used to now, the way things were the morning after a bad night of gambling. How he’d stumble home, his mind straining to focus, his body fighting toward sobriety. How he’d mask the scent of alcohol with a stinging face tonic and a fresh suit; how he’d march through his workday thinking only of the feel of the cards in his hands, and how things would go differently the next night. Mark was very familiar with allowing his body to go through the motions of life while his mind followed the smoky, half-lit fantasies in his head, what he hoped for the future, or memories of a happier past.
Miss Flatley was there with a sleeping Ondine, but it was easy enough to throw her off the scent with a little white lie. Then he went straight down to the G deck, taking one of the back stairwells. Williams had been right: it was quiet as a tomb down there, his footsteps echoing up and down the empty alleyways.
Being away from the throng upstairs was calming. It was tranquil.
He wondered if he would run into any stewards in the storage room trying to bring organization back to the day’s chaos. If he did, he figured he would pretend he’d come down to get something out of his luggage and leave it at that. However, he was rewarded with a room as
still as a crypt. Sure enough, it was a mess, trunks and chests as big as pony carts left in heaps in the aisles. Suitcases were stacked haphazardly to the rafters. From the corners of the room, he heard the squeak of rats and tried not to think about them scurrying in the walls or weaseling their way into the suitcases, ready to spring out at him.
He clambered up and down the tight, twisty aisles, trying to figure out how the room was organized. By stateroom, it turned out. Logically, the Astors’ baggage should be somewhere near his own. He had worked his way through the cavern for about thirty minutes when he found the Duff-Gordons’ luggage, a veritable train. That meant the Astors’ couldn’t be far away.
And it wasn’t. He found it, a mountain of boxes and suitcases taking up three whole compartments. They were the finest suitcases Mark had ever seen: oxblood leather trimmed with piping and monogrammed JJA. Madeleine’s appeared to be shagreen dyed a delicate shade of pear, and came in all sorts of odd sizes, ostensibly for hats and petticoats and other feminine accessories. Both husband’s and wife’s sets had matching trunks. Curiously, most were unlocked. Perhaps the Astors’ staff thought the cases were safe behind the locked doors of the storage room.
It was all too easy, wasn’t it? They were all the same, these people. They were like his wife—open, vulnerable, as if they believed that since the world fell to their feet, that things came easily to them, it must be that way for everyone. Ease. Freedom. Open windows. Unlocked doors.
Mark paused, hands hovering over the brass clasps. Is this what I am now, a thief? No, he refused to lie to himself: he’d been a thief for some time now, like Leslie Williams had said, a cowardly one. A thief who only dared steal from women who’d trusted him, who would never press charges if they found out. Once he stole from the Astors, he would graduate to the ranks of professional thief and there was no question that he’d be subjected to the full weight of the law if he was found out.