The Glass Ocean

by Beatriz Williams

  “We Americans mostly are, when you get to know us.”

  “Right.” He handed me my teacup and sat back down. The smile lingered a little, just at the corner of his mouth. “He married an American, you know. Robert Langford. The great love story.”

  “Are you serious? She was American? I didn’t read that anywhere. I mean, I knew he married sometime after the ship went down, but I couldn’t even find the date.”

  “They kept it hushed, the two of them. Just a registry office, no notice in the papers. I’ve always suspected there must have been some kind of scandal involved.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He leaned his forehead into his palm and trawled his fingers through his hair. His other hand idled around the handle of his teacup. “Can you imagine Robert Langford marrying for any other reason? Anyway, the story goes, they fell madly in love after they were rescued together. Although inevitably there must have been more to it than that. Nobody falls in love in an instant.”

  I smiled and spoke without thinking. “Don’t they? I mean, she was an American.”

  For an instant, our eyes held. There was a brief, electric connection, like when you put a pair of wires together and set off a spark, and for the space of that second I forgot my own name.

  Then John’s smile disappeared, leaving his face even more plain and harsh than before. He kept his eyes fixed on mine and said grimly, “Not in my experience, no.”

  I examined the tiny, beautiful streaks of gold around his pupils, and all at once I realized what I’d just said. My face—damn you, fair Irish skin!—went aflame, and if I could have shrunk like Alice and dived into my teacup, I’d have eaten any mushroom on the planet. And I don’t even like mushrooms.

  John sighed, slung back the rest of his tea, and reached for the pot. “So. Feeling any better yet?”

  “Feeling better?”

  “Your—ahem—carsickness, Sarah?”

  “Oh! No. I mean, yes. A lot, actually. All that nice fresh air. I think I can even smell the sea from here.” I looked out the window, grateful for the excuse, and saw a long green lawn stretched toward a copse of trees. In the distance, to the left, I could just glimpse the magnificent pale corner of Langford Hall.

  “Torquay’s only a few miles away,” he said.

  “Torquay? Like in Fawlty Towers?”

  “The very one. Loads of beaches, if that’s your thing. Also Blackpool, except in the other direction. The big house overlooks the river Dart. I used to keep a scull in the boathouse, back when I was living here. Before I got married.”

  “What about the dogs?” I asked. “They must like the beaches.”

  “Dogs?”

  I nodded to the bowls by the doorway.

  “Oh. That’s Walnut. Last of the Langford whippets. Callie took him with her when she left.”

  “What? She took your dog?”

  He shrugged. “Her therapist said she needed an animal for emotional support.”

  “What about you? Don’t you get any emotional support?”

  “That’s not the point, Sarah.” He set down his cup and rose from the table. “If you’re finished, we should probably get to work.”

  “Get to work? Now?”

  “Why not? Or have you got anything better to do?”

  “I guess not.” I stuffed the last of the apple cake into my mouth. “What are we doing?”

  “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.” He took the tea things and brought them to the sink. “But since you ask, we’re headed down to the folly.”

  I swallowed. “Folly? Aren’t we already there?”

  “Very funny.” He turned around and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, making me feel as if I were undergoing some kind of examination in a subject I didn’t understand. Maybe John felt it, too. His face, already grim, squished into a frown. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered.

  “Doing what? Helping me?”

  “Nobody’s been down there for years, except Mrs. Finch and her broom. God knows what we’re going to find.”

  My fingers froze around the teacup. My heart went thud against my ribs. I stared at John’s enormous figure propped against the edge of the sink. His head, struck by sunshine. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. Everything crossed, not about to allow a single thing inside.

  “Say that again,” I whispered.

  “Say what again?”

  I put the teacup in the saucer. Picked up the saucer and the pretty china plate with the scalloped edges that held my cake crumbs. Made my way over to the glowering figure of John Langford and set all that ancient, beautiful porcelain in the sink behind him, trying not to let everything tumble from my trembling fingers. “Nobody’s been down there for years,” I repeated. “I mean, you do realize I’m a historian, right?”

  “So you claim.”

  “God knows what we’re going to find.” I held up my hands. “Look at me.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “Yes, I’m shaking. So could you please tell me exactly what you’re talking about? Where the hell is this down there of yours?”

  “I told you. The folly, out there in the garden, past the copse.” He gestured with his hand. “Sort of a summerhouse. The admiral had it built as an observatory, and his son turned it into a shelter for picnics and things, but Robert used it as his study.”

  “His study? You mean he didn’t work in the main house?”

  “No. He liked to write by himself, where no one could disturb him. So he had the old folly fixed up with a desk and shelves and a place to sleep. He’d disappear in there for days. It’s where he wrote all his books and kept all his papers.”

  “And these papers,” I said slowly, staring at the V of John’s cashmere sweater, trying to keep my voice under control. “These papers. They’re still there? Nobody has ever gone through them?”

  “Not a soul. We weren’t allowed.”

  I looked up. “Why not?”

  He gazed down into my face, still frowning, but I had the feeling he wasn’t really looking at me. He was looking through me, almost, or maybe not looking at anything at all. Maybe just lost somewhere inside his own head. Either way, it wasn’t giving him much pleasure. The lines of his face deepened. His hazel eyes seemed to darken, as if a shadow had just passed over his brow. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought somebody was causing him pain.

  “Because,” he said at last, in a voice that surprised me by its softness. “After Robert died, my great-grandmother locked it up. She let the roses die outside, the ones she’d planted herself. She loved him so much, I guess she couldn’t bear to go near that room again.”

  Chapter 8

  Caroline

  At Sea

  Sunday, May 2, 1915

  The first thing Caroline noticed upon waking in her stateroom the following morning was the scent of roses. For a moment she forgot she was on a ship, crossing the vast Atlantic and far beyond the sight of land. The scent made her think of her mother in her garden in Savannah, her attention to her prized roses rivaled only by her devotion to her daughter. The bouquet had been waiting in her stateroom when she’d arrived, yet in the bustle of settling in and getting changed for dinner the previous evening, she’d forgotten to thank Gilbert.

  Although the sky outside appeared leaden, light poured in from the three portholes on the opposite side of the room from her brass bed, the curtains having been opened and tied back to allow in the day. She sat up and blinked, realizing Jones must have already been in the room, Caroline’s outfit for the day carefully laid out on the second bed beneath the portholes. She sniffed again, smelling the roses, and could that be . . . ?

  “Coffee, ma’am?” Jones appeared in the doorway leading into the suite’s private corridor, holding a tray with a silver coffeepot and a single cup and saucer, along with sugar and cream dispensers in what Caroline was already recognizing as the Lusitania china. With its distinctive cobalt-and-white fl
oral design, it was hard to miss. “I know how you like your coffee first thing.”

  Caroline smiled. “Oh, Jones, you’re a lifesaver! I was afraid that all I’d be able to find on this British ship would be tea.”

  Jones settled the tray on the small table next to the washstand by the rose bouquet, then picked up Caroline’s dressing gown from the foot of her bed and helped her slip her arms into it. The maid returned to the tray and poured the rich brew into a cup before measuring out exactly the right amount of sugar and cream that Caroline liked. She’d only had to be told once, the first time—the true mark of a lady’s maid.

  “This is Lusitania, ma’am,” Jones said. “I expect if you wanted a giraffe they’d be able to accommodate you.” A hint of a smile lifted the corner of the maid’s mouth, softening the usual stern features. “And with all these Americans on board, there’d most likely be a mutiny if coffee wasn’t available.”

  Caroline accepted the proffered cup and took a grateful sip. “I think you might be right.”

  “Patrick is asking what you’d like for breakfast, ma’am. There’s already enough food in the dining room to feed an army, but he wants to make sure he has your favorites. I told him you usually took only coffee and toast in bed, but he wanted me to make sure.” She pressed her already thin lips together to show her disapproval.

  “Patrick?” Caroline asked, her head still foggy from sleep, her coffee cup still almost full.

  “The steward, ma’am. You met him yesterday. Irish.” She said this last word with the same inflection one might use when saying “insect.”

  Caroline remembered the redhead with the jovial smile and serious eyes. “Yes, of course. I remember.” She took another sip of coffee, feeling her brain starting to awaken. “Perhaps Gilbert and I can share breakfast in the dining room while on board. He’s usually gone by the time I’m dressed in the morning in New York, so this will be a nice change. Please tell Patrick that I will eat whatever Gilbert is having—as long as it includes poached eggs.” She smiled up at the maid, then watched as Jones left the room to notify the steward and promised to be back shortly to help Caroline dress.

  Despite the sheer size of the ship and multiple assurances from Gilbert that she wouldn’t even be able to tell she was on water, she felt herself sway, feeling a little like when she’d had too much champagne. Or when she discovered a new piece of piano music that took hold of her. But she knew she was on a ship. Knew because of the distant yet distinct odor of burning fuel. With the large funnels on top of the ship billowing out black smoke, she supposed it was inevitable. She took another sip of coffee, sniffing deeply and hoping she’d get used to the acrid scent of whatever powered the ship so that she wouldn’t notice it anymore.

  At least she knew she wouldn’t get seasick. Growing up by the water in Savannah, she’d spent many hours on a sailboat with her various male cousins, plying the waves of the Atlantic off the Georgia coast, learning how to swim, fish, and sail along with the best of them. Until the age of twelve, when her mother had said it was time to start acting like a lady and to stay out of the sun to protect her skin. Caroline still missed the water. And the sun.

  She slipped from her bed, ignoring her slippers and feeling the plush carpet beneath her feet as she padded to the tray to pour more coffee, admiring the East India satinwood paneling (according to Gilbert) and the delicate moldings and plasterwork on the cornices and ceilings. Her least favorite parts of the suite were the overabundance of tiny painted raised floral motifs that decorated most of the walls along with garish gilt-braided trim that, again, according to Gilbert, were meant to be a nod to Marie Antoinette’s Petite Trianon. It was exactly Gilbert’s style and Caroline was glad because she wanted him to be happy. She just hoped that she’d grow used to the décor along with the scent of fuel or she was quite sure she’d develop a bad case of seasickness.

  There was a soft knock on the opened door and a gentle cough, making her turn to see her husband standing in the doorway. Her heart warmed at the way he filled the space, at the way the light made his blond hair shine. And the way he wore his custom-tailored jacket as if he’d been born to wear fine clothes instead of actually being the son of a coal miner.

  She placed her cup on the table then rushed toward him. “Good morning, darling. And thank you for the roses.” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his lips, but he turned from her at the last moment so that she only touched his soft, shaven cheek, which smelled vaguely of shaving cream and his musky cologne that she loved.

  “Roses? I didn’t send any. It must be from Cunard as a thank you. I half-expected roses in every room for what I paid for this suite.”

  Shoving down her disappointment, she kept her fingers laced around his neck, loving the solid feel of him. Reaching up again, she kissed his neck, right below his jaw in the place she knew he liked. “I thought you’d come to my room last night.” She kissed him again, nibbling gently at the soft skin. “I missed you.”

  He reached behind his neck and gently pulled her hands away, keeping them clasped in his. “Please, Caroline. The servants might see.”

  “It’s only Jones since you refuse to have a valet.” She tugged on his hand to pull him into the room, feeling her rising desire.

  But Gilbert stayed where he was, and looked behind her to where her tousled bed sat, inviting. “The beds are so small,” he said. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  She lowered her voice, aware of Jones somewhere in the suite. “How are we ever going to have a child if we sleep apart?”

  She could tell she was making him uncomfortable, but it needed to be said.

  His lids lowered, his pale lashes dark at the roots. “It’s been four years, Caroline. I think we need to resign ourselves to the fact . . .”

  She put her finger over his lips, not wanting him to voice her own fears, believing somehow that to say it out loud might make it true. “Don’t,” she whispered. She pressed herself closer. “Besides, what we do in our marriage bed doesn’t have to be all about making a family.”

  He stepped back, his cheeks ruddy with embarrassment. “I don’t know what to think when you talk that way. I wasn’t . . .” He stopped, his eyes apologetic. “You’re so refined. And when you act . . . like that, it makes me think that my coarser upbringing has somehow rubbed off on you like so much coal dust.”

  She dropped her hands from around his neck, not willing to have this conversation again. Despite her reassurances that her need for her husband had nothing to do with his upbringing, the argument never changed. Moving back, she felt her knees hit the side of her bed and she sat, needing to put distance between them. Instead of the crushing disappointment she’d expected, all she could feel now was a growing, burning anger. Keeping her gaze focused on the middle porthole window, she said with a level voice, “Will you be attending Sunday services with me this morning?”

  Gilbert cleared his throat. “I’m afraid not. I’ve business to attend. I’m sure Prunella and Margery Schuyler would be happy to accompany you. Would you like me to have Patrick pass a note to them to let them know you’ll be joining them?”

  She couldn’t look at him. “No. That won’t be necessary.” She stared at the first sharp stabs of rain as the drops hurled themselves at the glass, sensing each icy needle piercing her skin. She was only vaguely aware of Gilbert kissing the top of her head and then exiting, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet as if he’d never been there at all.

  * * *

  Caroline managed to make her way from her suite to the lifts to take her up to A-deck and the main lounge, where Captain Turner would be delivering church services. She was barely aware of where she was or whom she passed, inordinately grateful for the black-and-white marble tile pattern of the floor surrounding the lifts so she could focus on it instead of her thoughts, which roiled in her head much like the waves outside.

  “A penny for your thoughts?”

  Caroline looked up, startled at the male voice so close to he
r ear. “Robert,” she said, feeling an immediate lifting of her spirits. “It’s so good to see you.” She surprised herself by how much she meant it. “Are you going to the church services?”

  He raised a decidedly wicked eyebrow. “Why? Do you think I’m in need of saving?”

  “We all need saving, Robert,” she said softly. Making an effort to clear her mind of her earlier conversation with Gilbert, she smiled brightly. “That’s where I’m headed.”

  He held out his arm. “Then I will be more than happy to escort you.”

  She put her hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of him even through his jacket sleeve and her glove. He began leading her toward the lift, but she pulled back. “Let’s take the stairs. It’s only one flight, and I’m in need of a bit of exercise to clear my head.”

  He didn’t ask her why, having known her long enough to expect that she would tell him when she was ready. She liked that about him, liked that he’d cared enough to understand this about her. Lifting her skirts slightly with her left hand, she found herself leaning against his arm more than necessary, feeling like a lost child on a cold night in search of a fire.

  The lounge, with its barrel-vaulted skylight and stained glass windows that each represented one month of the year, was already filling with people. They stopped, looking around for seats, Caroline taking a moment to admire the elegant Georgian style of the room with its walls festooned with inlaid mahogany panels, and the floor covered with a thick jade-green carpet containing a yellow floral pattern. They moved toward one of the two fireplaces in the room, both tall and towering, made of green marble with enameled panels. Gilbert would love it.

  Caroline only nodded toward acquaintances, not wanting to stop and chat and have to explain why Gilbert wasn’t with her, and why Robert was. He was too handsome and self-assured to be introduced simply as a friend. Because, if she were being honest with herself, she wasn’t exactly sure what their relationship actually was.

  Robert directed her toward two seats. As he held her chair for her to sit, he spoke softly in her ear. “Did you receive the roses I sent?”