The Deep

by Alma Katsu

  He pushed her away. He saw the look of confusion and hurt in her eyes. He knew, without understanding why, how intense the knife of betrayal had been. How she seemed to crumple inward at it, at his insistence that they stay apart.

  What have you done, Annie?

  Could she have thrown herself overboard? Get a hold of yourself, man.

  Doesn’t she know that he is cursed, that loving him is a curse? He’s responsible for the deaths of two women. Wonderfully smart and vibrant women whom he did not deserve. They didn’t just die after falling in love with him, either—they died after he’d broken them, made their hearts bleed in pain.

  He won’t be responsible for yet another.

  It’s clear there will be no going to sleep tonight—not without drink. Back at his cot, he eases open the tiny locker at the foot of his bed for his gentleman’s flask. He rattles it: about a quarter full. The nurse on duty won’t like it if she catches him drinking, though many of the men do it.

  He downs swig after swig, not bothering to pause long enough to taste it. He just wants to knock himself out. But it isn’t worry over Annie that makes him so desperate. It’s what he can’t forget or forgive: what he did to Lillian.

  And what he did after, too—days after Lillian’s body was found, pulled from the Thames. The memory of it replays in his head, again and again, as he drifts into a thick sleep:

  How he got down on his knee and proposed to Caroline.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Annie whispers.

  Mark startles awake.

  She can smell whiskey on his breath.

  He is afraid to see her again—his eyes are full of hatred. But this time she is prepared. While he slept, she gently strapped his arms down to the bed so that he could not protest or push her away.

  “Shh,” Annie says calmly. “I understand, Mark. I really do. I understand that you don’t want to relive the past and, though it hurts me, I forgive you. But—let me speak. I’ve come for another reason: I’d like to help you restore your life. Because you said you were alone in the world—but you’re not, Mark. Ondine is still alive. She survived the sinking. Didn’t they tell you?”

  It’s as though a switch has been thrown and the deadened, resigned man comes alive in front of her. “What are you talking about?”

  She is happy to be the one to tell him this, to be the one to bring joy back into his life. He obviously has been suffering since the sinking. Now his life will be better and he will have her to thank for it. “I was there when Caroline . . . drowned. I dove into the water after her. I helped save the baby. Only I was injured and lost consciousness. I don’t know what happened to her afterward, but I know Ondine is alive, Mark.”

  He stares at her in disbelief. “Why are you telling me this now? Why didn’t you try to get in touch with me after the accident?”

  She feels attacked. “I didn’t know you survived that night, did I? I told you: I was injured. I’ve been ill, and only recently got better.” She doesn’t want to go into details, to tell him about Morninggate, the lost years, the voices, the uncertainty. The past is the past. She resolved to put it all behind her as though it had never happened.

  She tries to take his hand, but it is still strapped down. “I can help you find her, Mark. The first thing is that we must go to New York. They’ll have records of the survivors there. They’ll be able to tell you what happened to your daughter, where they sent her. I’ll go with you. You won’t have to find her on your own.”

  But he doesn’t look comforted. He is still angry with her.

  Worried, Annie tries again. “You must believe me, Mark: I only want what’s best for Ondine. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Mark, but it is the truth: there’s something else, something you didn’t know about.”

  He’s not paying attention to what she’s trying to tell him, however. “Where did you get that?” He is looking at her brooch. Tries to point at it but realizes he’s bound to the bed. “Did you steal that from my wife?”

  She persists. “Your wife is dead, Mark.” She lets him absorb those words, feel the weight of them. “Those terrible things happening on the Titanic? It was exactly as Mr. Stead told us. A spirit was behind them.”

  “Enough, Annie! Stop,” Mark barks at her, yanking his wrists out of their bindings. His tone is sharp and abrupt, like a slap. She pulls back, stunned.

  He rubs his face, which has gone as dark as a thundercloud. “I can’t listen to this nonsense anymore.” Is it her imagination or does he look guilty? “You know nothing about it. I can see you’re out of your wits. The trouble on the Titanic obviously had its effects on you.”

  Annie feels herself shaking, crying. It’s mortifying. But he’s pushing her away again, and she doesn’t think she can bear it.

  “No, now don’t cry. I’m not angry. Only worried for you.”

  But it’s too much, his pity. It only makes everything worse.

  She flees, feeling more desperate and disoriented than ever. She thought the story of Ondine, above all, would change him. Would make him see.

  But something—or someone—has clearly turned him against her from the start.

  She reaches into her pocket, for the item that she had discovered after tying his wrists, while patting down his bed. A notebook of some kind. She’d slipped it away to look at later; he’d woken up before she’d had a chance to open it.

  But now she pulls it out and sees that it’s a small journal. She had seen Mark carrying it close to his chest on the Titanic—opening it here and there in the smoking room when he thought no one was watching. When no one was watching . . . except for her.

  She opens it to the first page, and a chill runs through her at the name inscribed, even though she had known, had suspected all this time, what she would see written there.

  Lillian Notting.

  1912

  WESTERN UNION, April 14, 1912

  FROM SS CARONIA

  7:10 a.m.

  Captain, ‘Titanic.’ Westbound steamers report bergs, growlers, and field ice in 42N from 49 to 51W April 12th.—Compts. Barr.

  FROM SS BALTIC

  11:55 a.m.

  To Captain Smith, Titanic, Have had moderate variable winds and clear fine weather since leaving. Greek steamer Athenai reports passing icebergs and large quantities of field ice today in lat 41.51N long 49.52W. . . . Wish you and Titanic all success.—Commander.

  FROM SS CALIFORNIAN

  6:30 p.m.

  For Captain Smith, Titanic: Ice sighted at 42.3N, 49.9W.—Compliments, Captain Lord.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  14 April 1912

  Titanic

  Caroline woke to a scream.

  A woman’s scream.

  It took a moment before she could place that it had come from her dream, from her own past. She had been with Mark that night. She would remember it always, every second of it: how they’d stolen off to a small room in the attic where there was no chance of being discovered. How they rushed, not even taking off all their clothes. Shushing each other, so afraid of being overheard. They couldn’t let Lillian know.

  Caroline opened her eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness in their stateroom. The Titanic swayed gently beneath her bed.

  Her hand felt around for Mark’s reassuring presence, but he wasn’t there. Instead, there was a warm hollow in the mattress. A depression, too, on the pillow. Despite these discoveries, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all wrong. This was not the shape Mark usually left behind in their bed, the scent lingering on the air—of a heavy citrus and musk cologne—was not Mark’s. This didn’t even feel like the blanket that was on their bed: this one was woven silk, rich as anything she’d ever felt in her life.

  Where was she?

  She sat up too fast and fel
t the room spin. She clasped a hand over her mouth, afraid that she was going to be sick. After a few morbid wobbles, the spinning stopped.

  The scream was now only a distant echo in her mind. It had been replaced by the sound of water running. Water sloshing in a tub. The occasional low rumble of a man’s voice. A man talking to himself while he bathed.

  It was not Mark’s voice.

  Her stomach lurched again. Tiny snippets of scenes played in her head. The dream had dissipated; reality was taking its place. The last thing she remembered was the ball. The chandeliers, too bright. The crowds of women and men in evening dress. Candlelight glinting off silk and satin, jewels and gold. Music and conversation.

  The fight with Mark. The suspicion, tangling itself around her heart. Not really that he’d dallied with Annie, or wanted to. Only that he didn’t love her, Caroline, that he was incapable of it, after everything that had happened.

  Then she remembered: leaving the dance floor. On someone else’s arm.

  She knew where she was: Benjamin Guggenheim’s room.

  In a flash, she bolted out of the bed and stood on uncertain legs in the center of the ruby-red Axminster rug. How had this happened?

  She pressed a hand over her eyes. She remembered taking a bit too much of her medication. She would’ve preferred to stay in that night with Ondine, but Mark had already left for the ball, she recalled now, and she was afraid of making him even madder by standing him up. She remembered Mark taking her hand and leading her onto the dance floor—and it had been heavenly dancing with her husband, something they hadn’t done in a long time. It had felt so good, as good as the best times they’d ever had. And then they were arguing over that stewardess. And then Mark disappeared.

  Her gown was draped over a chair in a way that told her it had been done by a valet. Someone had seen her here, in another man’s bed. Shame crested high in her chest. She thought she might faint.

  I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  Last night, she’d been upset after Mark had left. She’d told Guggenheim she needed air, expecting the millionaire to bow courteously and leave, but he had followed her outside. They’d stood at the railing. The night air had felt delicious at first, washing away her overheated anger. He’d said he could tell she was upset and encouraged her to tell him what was troubling her—and God help her, she did. He listened as she spoke, and the way he watched her made her feel she was the only woman on earth. He made no attempt to interrupt or to tell her what he thought, or explain why Mark did the things he had. He merely listened, which Caroline noted with the greatest relief.

  Eventually, the conversation turned to other things. She spoke of her father in Pennsylvania and how she looked forward to seeing him again and to simply being in America, where she knew what was expected of her. What to say, how to act.

  “You were quite brave to have your child overseas,” Guggenheim remarked as they stared over the great black expanse.

  Her cheeks warmed—the task she most dreaded was explaining Ondine to her father. Though Caroline had written to tell him she was bringing Mark; still, the marriage would be a surprise. Better for her father to have met Mark before she broke the news to them. He’d like Mark’s levelheadedness, his intellect, his manners.

  Or so she had thought. Now, she wasn’t sure what to do.

  “You’re cold,” Benjamin had said, running a finger over the goose bumps on her arm. The blessed relief had turned to chill and set her teeth to chattering. People strolled by in furs and heavy coats, eyeing her with curiosity—or perhaps it was disdain. They might’ve recognized Guggenheim and knew of his reputation. “Let’s go to my rooms for a drink. I have something that will warm you up.”

  Guggenheim sent his servants away and poured cognac himself. Caroline took in his stateroom as he made the drinks. It gave the impression of being different from hers, but certainly that couldn’t be. Nevertheless, it seemed warmer. Richer. The chairs were draped with ornate tapestries. A beautiful chess set, the pieces cut from stone, waited on the table, midplay. A heavy perfume hung in the air, spicy and musky. Through the door, she saw into the bedroom, a burgundy silk dressing gown hanging from a hook on the wall. It was, in every respect, a man’s room, more so than any study or billiard room or hunting lodge she’d ever been in, Guggenheim’s own stamp all over it.

  As they sipped, he’d talked about himself. He had to be her father’s age, but Caroline found him easy to be with. Every conversation with Mark had gotten so fraught. Ondine, money, where to live, how to spend their lives—every subject was a problem, likely to set off a confrontation. She was tired of walking on eggshells around him. Of feeling like she always had to defend herself or apologize for her wishes.

  It was easy being with Guggenheim. Perhaps because they both had money—his fortune was ridiculously greater, of course, but the principle was the same. They both had the same way of looking at life.

  “I hate to see you suffer for making one bad decision,” Guggenheim said, caressing the back of her hand very lightly with his index finger. They had swung around back to talking about her marriage. “One bad, hasty decision. I’ve made bad decisions, too. Hasn’t everyone? Should we be made to suffer for it for the rest of our lives?”

  That was what she’d done with Mark—acted hastily. She’d only gotten close to him because of Lillian. Maybe it was Lillian she had loved all along, and never Mark. Mark had been a handsome distraction, a conduit to Lillian. But it was Lillian who’d held her heart, whom she mourned deeply.

  The thought brought her to the brink of tears.

  What was Guggenheim saying now? Minutes slipped by in a honeyed haze. They were sitting side by side on the settee now, Guggenheim’s arm on her shoulders, weighing her down, drawing her close. The smell of spice and musk was intense now, filling her lungs and her head. The cognac had numbed her lips, making it hard to speak. He explained how things were, what she could expect. That he had a wife with whom he had not been close for years but could not leave. Children who were taught to care little for their father and would inherit everything. But he still needed companionship.

  “I sense that we are unusually compatible, Caroline. I would like to find out. Would you like that, too?” His breath smelled of cigars and cognac and was warm in her ear. He brushed her cheek.

  She turned her head and found his mouth on hers. It was a gentlemanly kiss, not opportuning. Not strong either, like Mark’s. Mark’s kisses were always hungry. Guggenheim was testing her—gentle, almost teasing in its hesitance. She kissed him back, drawing courage from the cognac. She cupped his smooth cheek, stroked it. This is the sort of man I should be with. She remembered thinking that if she said it to herself enough times, she would come to believe it.

  She felt safe with him, she told herself.

  Or at least, she felt safe in her loneliness. Felt it was, somehow, matched.

  Now, as she moved through the empty hallways, past the quiet bustle of the few stewards who were awake this early, preparing for the day, she saw the truth in the darkness: she had done a terrible thing. Her life was turning to ash, crumbling around her.

  She slipped into their stateroom, noticing with some concern that the door seemed to have been left open by a tiny sliver—perhaps it hadn’t been shut firmly in the night and had drifted open with the movement and sway of the ship, though the detail gave her an eerie sense of misgiving. She closed it soundlessly behind her. By some miracle, Mark was in bed. She expected to find him awake, in his dressing gown, arms crossed, a storm brewing on his face, ready to fly at her. Where were you? Where have you been all this time? But his gentle snores drifted in from the other room.

  She eased out of her gown—a hideous thing to her now, a reminder of her perfidy, fit only for burning—and into a dressing gown. Standing over her dressing table, her fingers found the packet of cocaine Dr. Leader had prescribed for her. She was so eager for the medici
ne that she almost spilled the contents of the glassine envelope all over her vanity set, but she managed to tap powder into the water glass and add water as she’d been instructed. It was more powder than she was supposed to take in one dose, but she gulped it down anyway. A little more now and then, what difference did it make?

  She stood over the crib to look at Ondine. It always soothed her to look on the baby while she was sleeping. So peaceful, so blissfully unaware of life’s tribulations. Sometimes, it frightened Caroline to think that she was responsible for another life now, but usually it made her happy. Happy to have someone who would love her without reservation. Someone to raise, to protect. Someone who would be with her always. Tonight, she felt guilty looking down on the sleeping baby. She’d betrayed Ondine’s father. The future was now suddenly very uncertain. Very unclear.

  Without any warning, the baby started to cry. Or not cry, not exactly. It was like no sound Ondine had ever made before. It was more like choking, a strangled, muffled sound. It was a sound designed to fill a parent with sheer, unadulterated panic. Caroline snatched her up but then could not think what to do as the child blinked her eyes open, crying and—no, choking. What in the world could Ondine be choking on? Without thinking, she flipped her over her arm, patting her roughly on the back. It didn’t seem to help. Panic overwhelmed her. And irrational, confusing questions flooded her mind in outrage. What would fit in that tiny mouth of hers? Could that terrible Miss Flatley have left something in the crib? Caroline lifted the baby, trying to see into her mouth. As the seconds ticked by and the strange gargling sound continued, Ondine turning redder in the face, beginning to gasp, Caroline—not knowing what else to do—jabbed her fingers straight into the back of Ondine’s throat.

  There. There. She felt it, whatever it was. Something solid and metallic. She began to pull.