by Jina Bacarr
‘But, milord—’
‘Don’t spoil my fun. I can’t wait to see Olivia’s face when she discovers you’ve slipped out of her noose.’
‘I’m going to America,’ Ava said when his lordship asked her about her plans. They’d been driving for a while with Lord Holm trying to entice her to let him drive her to Dublin so she could sup with him at the Royal Hibernian Hotel. She ignored his stabs at flirting, digging her fingers into the tuft velvet interior as soft as goose feathers and inhaling the smell of swank leather as intoxicating as brandy. She smiled. Riding to freedom like a real lady, she stared out the window. She marveled at how the motorcar sped along the road at a good clip, the trees going by so fast they blurred into a swash of green as long as a leprechaun’s tailcoat.
‘Which liner have you in mind for your trip across the pond?’ Lord Holm rested his hand upon her knee. She moved away, but his hand remained.
‘I intend to purchase a ticket on the first ship leaving.’ She lowered her head. ‘If the authorities don’t find me first.’
‘They won’t get a word out of me.’ He leaned toward her to kiss her, but she backed away. By and by, she had her pride. ‘Come now, not even a kiss for the gentleman who rescued you?’
‘You belong to Lady Olivia.’
‘Ah, the loyal servant to the end. You’re a remarkable girl, Ava O’Reilly. So remarkable I’m sorry we didn’t become better acquainted.’ He exhaled. ‘Perhaps I can be of service after all...’
Curious, Ava watched him pull a folded-up note out of his pocket.
A wireless message.
He skimmed it as he spoke, ‘There’s a fine new ship from the White Star Line stopping at Queenstown tomorrow morning to pick up passengers before heading to New York.’
‘Are you certain, milord?’ Ava prayed it was so. She had no choice but to leave Ireland before the authorities caught up to her.
‘Yes. My dear aunt, Lady Scranton, is aboard. According to her telegram, she boarded the ship at Southampton and will be getting off to join me at Cameron Bally Manor House when Lord Emsy makes the formal announcement.’ He leaned closer. ‘Yes, it’s true what they say below stairs. I shall marry dear Olivia and her generous settlement.’
Ava let go with a contended sigh. Thank the heavens.
‘May I be the first to congratulate you, milord.’
‘Thank you, Ava, but I’d rather be aboard ship with you.’
She remained silent, not answering him lest she say something brash and all her plans were dashed. For once she kept her mouth shut, though she did give him a disapproving look.
‘I envy the men aboard the liner they’re calling unsinkable with you to make their voyage a pleasant one,’ he said quietly, resolved to his fate. ‘My aunt insists it’s the finest ship to ever sail the seas with the best service imaginable.’ He looked at her as if he were about to tell her a secret. ‘In first class, I hear you have your own bathroom.’
Ava’s mouth dropped open. ‘A bathroom aboard ship to your own sweet self? Is that legal?’
His lordship laughed.
‘What is this grand ship called, milord?’ Ava asked as the sloping terraces of Queenstown came into view. She couldn’t believe she was here, more determined than ever to book passage on this new vessel. If it was fine enough for a titled lady, it was good enough for her.
A teasing look came into his lordship’s eyes, as if debating whether or not to tell her.
Finally, he said, ‘The Titanic.’
Ava squirmed in her seat when Lord Holm brushed her cheek with his cold lips, trying to convince her to forget sailing on the Titanic and go with him to Dublin. She was not having it. She stuck her tongue out at him, stomped her foot and announced in a steady voice if he didn’t stop the motorcar, ‘I’ll scream like a wild banshee.’
Aye, she was tempting the fates with her threat, but it worked.
Pouting like a little boy who’d spilled his pudding, his lordship deposited her in front of the shipping office for the White Star Line, then with a grunt and a sneer he was off, back to Lady Olivia as if nothing had happened.
But it had and Ava would never be the same. She was no longer the young girl who held her da’s hand tight when she came to Queenstown with its narrow streets winding up steep hills. She relished the memory of those days, seeing him off on his fishing boat until the day he never returned. The sea claimed him as it had so many others, his body washing up on shore while his soul roamed free.
It broke her dear mother’s heart, kind lady she was, her fingers always entwined around the holy black beads her sister in the convent fastened for her. She’d buried three sons before they reached the age of five. Children lost to the ills of being poor, then her husband to the ravages of the sea.
Six months ago, her mum had died, but not before she’d made Ava promise to join her sister in service. Now Ava had broken that promise and she was running off to America. With a price on her head.
Leave Ireland? Her home?
Was she daft?
Her parents were buried here, but she didn’t have even a handful of dirt from their final resting place to take with her.
Only her mother’s black rosary beads.
Ava gripped her hands together and beat upon her breast, calling upon the angels to help her.
Oh, God, please, she prayed, tell my dear mum I’m sorry, but I have to do this. And please, oh, please, make her forgive me.
She would, wouldn’t she?
There was a steep price to pay if she were caught, but the wild intoxication of being free was a heady stimulant that surpassed any grim thoughts she might have.
Heart racing madly, she entered the ticket office, her decision made. Less than an hour later, she was the proud owner of a third-class ticket to New York costing her seven pounds and fifteen shillings after having looked over the contract and terms of the voyage and marveled at the grandness of it all, including the bill of fare.
The menu promised oatmeal, milk, bread and butter for breakfast. Her stomach growled. Hunger filled her belly as she stood on the pier at the rear of the White Star Line building, her skirts blowing wildly against her legs. Nothing mattered but the ticket she clasped to her chest. She closed her eyes tight, not believing her luck had turned. A sudden chill rattled her bones and for an instant she feared the north wind would swoop down and take the ticket from her, but she couldn’t bear the thought.
She held it tighter. Her soul took flight, her heart clenched.
Freedom was hers for the taking.
The Titanic set sail tomorrow… and by all the saints who stood watch over the sea, Ava O’Reilly would be on it.
2
The Titanic
10 April 1912
If there was one thing that made Captain Lord James ‘Buck’ Blackthorn smile more than holding a pretty woman in his arms, it was a winning hand at cards.
To his dismay, at the moment he had neither.
‘I’ll raise you, gentlemen,’ Buck said, stretching his long legs under the green topped playing table. He didn’t relish playing against boatmen, professional gamblers who followed the sea, but he was in desperate need of funds thanks to a voluptuous blonde in Mayfair.
Smoking a cigarette out of an amber holder, Lady Irene Pennington had sought his protection, appealing to his chivalrous nature, though he had no doubt her plea was an act. Still, the gilded lily with the seductive smile made a man believe he was a king.
And not the second son of a duke without home or hearth to offer her.
She’d made him feel loved until her husband, a prominent public servant, returned home unexpectedly from a mission abroad and found out about the affair. That set Buck packing his bags and off on another adventure, much to the disappointment of her ladyship. She hated losing him. He made love as fiercely as he led his men into battle. Such vigor was wildly exciting to the aristocratic set and Lady Pennington was no exception.
A generous offer from his old college roommate, Treyt
on Brady, to join him and his fiancée aboard the Titanic had provided him with the perfect escape.
Which was how Buck found himself sitting in the first-class smoking room on the ship of dreams busily engaged in four-handed poker after the ship stopped to pick up passengers and mail in Cherbourg. The liner was headed next to Queenstown in southern Ireland and was scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning, its final stop before heading out to sea across the North Atlantic.
‘Too rich for my blood, Buck.’ Trey threw down his cards, picked up his highball from the cup holder and with a quick swallow of vodka, he was gone.
Buck cocked an eyebrow. Odd. Trey could well afford to stay in the game. That half-smile of his often meant something else was on his mind.
Most likely, he was off to flirt with the pretty passenger Buck had seen him talking to earlier on the second-class deck. Meanwhile, Trey’s fiancée settled into her stateroom. Alone. Not surprising. His friend’s romantic exploits with the fair sex were at times indiscreet, though his betrothed had yet to find that out.
An American thing, Trey called it.
Buck found it difficult to keep his mind on the game. Why the man neglected his lovely fiancée puzzled the Brit. Doe-eyed and chestnut-haired, Fiona Winston-Hale, Countess of Marbury, seemingly sailed through life in an effortless fashion and would no doubt choose to ignore Trey’s eye for the ladies.
In reality, she fretted over every detail lest anyone discover what dire straits she was in. Due to massive debt incurred by her late father, the countess was in danger of losing Dirksen Castle, her thousand-year-old family home in Scotland. A fire had destroyed the east wing and Fiona had no resources to fund the major repairs.
So Buck introduced her to his friend from his days at Cambridge since Trey was considered quite a catch among the ladies.
The American with the pencil-thin moustache and easy smile was not only dapper and handsome, but heir to a vast fortune made in steel by his late father, F.G. Brady, a multimillionaire industrialist from New York.
While Buck was a member of the British peerage by birth, he was a soldier and high-society gambler by choice.
‘I’ll see you and raise you another fifty,’ said the man seated across from him with a handful of chips in his hand. Mr Charters was a rich manufacturer from Liverpool with a big belly and an even bigger laugh.
‘I’ll raise you another hundred and call,’ said the third man still in the game, a stocky man whose face bore the scars of hard living. He puffed on a big cigar.
Buck listened with more than curiosity when the man announced he was Mr Watts, a cotton exporter from North Carolina. He seemed quite pleased to be aboard the Millionaires’ Special – a dubious moniker given to the ship’s maiden voyage because of the wealthy men aboard. Notices had been posted in the smoking room warning about ‘Games of Chance’ and the likelihood of professional gamblers aboard looking for easy pickings at high-stakes card games.
The warning had little effect on the players.
Buck shuffled his cards. If memory served him, the man with the cigar wasn’t Mr Watts, but a card sharp traveling under an alias. Which made him suspect the man was guilty of dobbing, marking the deck in such a way to tell whether a card was a king, a queen or an ace.
His gut told him the man had substituted a marked deck by the worn edges on the green, gilt-edged cards inscribed with the White Star Line burgee in the center. These swindlers played dirty and had the survival instinct of cockroaches.
He watched the man carefully, his bulging knuckles, broken numerous times, clear evidence of his dubious background.
The gent snorted. ‘Too much for you Brits, eh?’
Mr Charters wiped his face with his silk handkerchief, then threw down his money. ‘I’m in.’
‘How ‘bout you, Captain Lord Blackthorn?’ said Mr Watts, putting down his cigar.
Smoke from the cigar resting on the crystal glass tray drifted toward him. Buck ignored it.
‘A pair of aces, gentlemen.’ He laid his cards down on the table.
‘Three of a kind,’ said the man from Liverpool with a hearty laugh.
‘Sorry to disappoint you gents,’ said the card sharp, ‘but a full house takes the pot.’
The man snickered. He knew Buck was on to him and expected him to act like a proper Englishman and say nothing.
Not his style.
Watts had another thing coming.
‘If this were a game at Pratt’s or White’s in London, sir,’ Buck said, choosing his words carefully, ‘I’d call you a swindler. However, since we’re at sea, I’ll wait until we arrive in New York to settle the score.’
‘I reckon we settle it now.’ The phony millionaire drew a pistol from his coat and pointed it at Buck. Mr Charters gasped, and then ducked under the table.
Buck smiled and didn’t move a muscle. Inside he was seething, but cautious. A man with a gun was as deadly as a cobra.
You never knew when they’d strike.
‘Are you suggesting pistols at twenty paces on the Boat Deck at dawn?’ Buck asked, deadly serious while calculating his next move. He could duke it out with the best of them, whether it was in the ring or playing cards. He had a quick eye and a sure sense of timing. ‘That will prove interesting shipboard entertainment for early morning strollers.’
‘Your lordship ain’t going to make no fool out of me.’ The card sharp cocked the hammer on his pistol.
‘You’re doing a fine job of that yourself,’ Buck said. ‘Brandishing that pistol about like a wild man in a freak show.’
‘I’d keep your opinions to yourself if I was you.’
‘Put that gun down before it goes off and you find yourself in a bigger mess than impersonating a certain millionaire from North Carolina.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘I am, sir. I played cards with Mr Watts aboard the Mauretania. I’ve never found a more honest gentleman.’
Before the impersonator could fire off a shot, Buck pushed his chair away from the table and knocked the gun out of his hand, then slammed him in the ribs so hard the man staggered backward and fell to the floor. His pistol slid over the dark red and blue linoleum tiles like they were made of ice, his eyes fluttering wildly as he lay on his back, unable to get up.
The other gentlemen, engrossed in their card games, barely acknowledged the entire incident.
‘I suggest you disembark when the ship stops in Queenstown, Mr Watts,’ Buck said, shoving the pistol into his jacket pocket. ‘I shall be on deck to make certain you do.’
‘You British aristocrats think you’re so high and mighty,’ said the man, holding his gut as he pulled himself to his feet. ‘Unsinkable, like this ship.’
Buck smiled. ‘No one is unsinkable, sir, they just think they are.’
Disgusted, the card sharp stomped off. Buck didn’t take his eyes off him until he was through the revolving doors. Then he gathered up the winnings and handed them to the portly man from Liverpool, who’d stuck his head out from under the table in time to see the entire scene unfold.
‘Good show, your lordship,’ said Mr Charters, slapping him on the back.
‘A story to tell your grandchildren, sir, about your crossing on the Titanic,’ Buck said, grinning.
‘Your lordship!’
Buck turned to see a steward in his white jacket and brass buttons racing toward him.
‘Yes, man, what is it?’
‘Come with me quickly, your lordship,’ he said, out of breath. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘Urgent?’ Buck questioned.
‘Yes, the Countess of Marbury needs your help straightaway.’
‘Where’s Mr Brady?’ Buck asked, concerned.
‘I don’t know, your lordship. I looked everywhere.’ The steward paused. ‘Her ladyship asked me to summon you.’
Buck remained silent. Trey was no doubt regaling the second-class lady in her cabin with stories of his adventures in the Orient. Indeed, he’d spent most of his time at the bar
in the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. Damn him. He’d hoped embarking on married life would settle him down.
Obviously not.
Buck had no intention of marrying. The former Army captain never imagined himself settling down. He didn’t believe in love or marriage. He saw what it had done to his mother, a frail but kind woman who had left this earth far too early. In the end, she had suffered more from the pain of loneliness only a woman without a loving companion could understand. Yes, she had her sons, and Buck did what he could for her, but it wasn’t enough. He hated his father, the duke, for how he’d treated her. Women were exquisite creatures to be protected and adored, he believed, not treated as property.
Buck had yet to meet a woman who intrigued him enough to give her his heart. He doubted he ever would.
He wouldn’t stand by and allow his friend to treat the countess with anything less than respect. Buck admired her subtlety and graciousness, traits he found lacking in most women. She was a true lady in dignity and manner. He often questioned why he hadn’t fallen in love with her since they’d known each other for years, but she was bred in another era when women hid their feelings. He liked a woman with spirit, a woman who challenged him.
Fiona was delicate and proper. Exactly what Trey needed.
‘Is the countess hurt?’ Buck wanted to know, hurrying down the two sets of stairs to C Deck. If he had to, he’d track his old friend down and drag him by the neck back to his duty.
The steward tried to keep up with him, suggesting they take the electric lift.
‘It’s not the countess, your lordship,’ said the steward, wiping the perspiration from his face, ‘but her lady’s maid. She’s taken a terrible tumble. Sprained her ankle.’
‘Fetch the ship’s surgeon and have him come to her ladyship’s stateroom immediately.’
‘Yes, your lordship.’
The steward dashed off, leaving Buck with a troubled mind. He intended to get Trey alone and set him straight.
I’ll skin your hide if you pull this trick again. This isn’t Cambridge and a student prank. Grow up.