by Jina Bacarr
‘Fiona is right, Trey. If a lady can’t turn to an old friend, then who can she turn to?’ Buck said, standing up and facing his friend. The smell of brandy on the American’s breath filled his nostrils, but it was the fierceness in Trey’s eyes that made him determined to set this conversation on a calming course. ‘She’s quite upset over the maid’s accident and since you were unavailable, she turned to me for support.’
Buck made no excuse about his obvious undertone.
Trey smirked.
‘Always in control, aren’t you, Buck?’ Trey poured himself a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter on the silver tray. His voice wavered, slurring his words. ‘Then again, you always were, even when we were Cantabs,’ he said, using the slang word for students at Cambridge. ‘Whether you were heading up the debating club or rowing against Oxford. I haven’t forgotten what good friends we were back then, Buck, though at times you make it difficult.’ Trey swallowed his drink, then banged the glass down on the small round table, startling the countess.
‘Since you’ve returned to take over your duties, I’ll retire to my cabin.’ Buck turned to the countess and kissed her hand. She held onto him, not wanting to let go. After assuring her with a smile he wasn’t abandoning her, he pulled away. ‘I’ll send a stewardess to assist you, Fiona.’
‘I’ll take care of that, Buck,’ Trey said, the tone of his voice clearly indicating he wasn’t amused to find his friend in the company of his fiancée. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, the countess’s welfare is my responsibility.’
‘My only hope is you don’t forget it.’ Then, with a slight bow to the countess, he left. He’d dispatched many a cad to the mat over their treatment of a woman, but Trey was his friend. In spite of his impoverished state of nobility, the millionaire was jealous of him.
Afterward, Buck walked up and down on the Boat Deck, his collar pulled up against the wind, his thoughts scrambling. The ship moved silently, though he could feel the rhythm of the engines as he strolled the deck. The sea was calm, the cold night warning him the chill he felt wouldn’t be short-lived.
His thoughts pushed on, wondering what insanity he’d inflicted upon the two people he loved most in the world by coming up with this marriage scheme. His motive was to see them happy, or as happy as two people could be who found themselves in the damnable situation of needing what the other had to offer. Even if it didn’t involve the intertwining of the human heart, especially for Fiona. He admired her allegiance to her father and the tenants on her lands.
What next? Trey knew Buck had a fondness for his fiancée. No doubt the American suspected their relationship went beyond a social friendship, more so on Fiona’s side than his, but Trey saw only a man and a woman who shared a personal closeness he didn’t understand. God knew, Buck talked often about the pretty young girl he rode horses with on his trips to Scotland in glowing terms.
He wasn’t blind to her affections, though he never gave her cause to believe he could ever care for her in the manner she deserved. She kicked him in the gut with her warmth and generosity, giving more than she received. Yet her goodness also created a tension between them that made him forget he was a rogue. That unnerved him more than anything else.
He’d resigned himself to spending his life searching for a companion who burned his soul with a fire he couldn’t put out, who made him want to never stop kissing her.
Not a dear soul like Fiona who never ventured from the mores of society. She was in love with him, but she would never say so.
But he did remember one night when the moonlight cast a lovely glow on her skin and her eyes blazed with such want for him, he wondered if he was wrong about her, that a fire burned within her she’d never shown to him or any man but wanted to… no, he wouldn’t bring that up. Wouldn’t embarrass her or himself.
Not now, not ever.
5
Queenstown, Ireland
11 April 1912
8.30 a.m.
The morning sounds hit Ava’s ears. Dogs barking, doors and gates slamming, vendors selling fresh prawns, horse-drawn carts rolling up and down the cobbled streets.
Get up, girl! Today’s your day to claim your freedom.
Ava jumped awake, eager to be on her way to the Titanic. As her heart raced, she heard—
‘Who is in charge here?’ a loud voice bellowed from downstairs, making the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. A bitter taste sat on her tongue, her mouth dry. No mistaking the bloodcurdling brashness of the man.
The law.
They couldn’t know she was here, could they?
‘Mind your horses, mister,’ she heard Florie Sims call out. ‘I’m coming.’
Ava leaned over the banister and saw two men waiting for the landlady. The one in charge wore dark gray, his hat pulled down to mask not only his face, but what she imagined were his soulless eyes. She’d seen such men in her village, men who proclaimed they were upholding the law.
‘I’m looking for Ava O’Reilly,’ the man said, poking around downstairs. ‘She rooms here?’
Ava gasped. It hadn’t taken them long to track her down. Mercy, they’d not put their filthy hands on her.
‘And who’s asking?’ Florie said, indignant.
‘Constable Mason-Jones. I have orders to bring her in.’
‘Humph, that don’t surprise me none. She’s upstairs.’ Florie shifted her baby to the other hip.
Ava panicked. Oh, dear Jesus, give her the strength to escape this wretched man. She couldn’t go back, she couldn’t. Not when she was so close to boarding the grand ship. Holy Mary, it was a miracle she needed.
And it was right under her nose.
A breath of warm air as fragrant as spring touched her. Ava turned around.
The open window.
She smiled, hope surging in her heart. As fine an escape as if it were the door to heaven.
She had minutes.
She grabbed her small bag and plopped her black felt hat upon her head. She was about to pin her ticket for passage aboard the Titanic to her chemise when—
The wooden floor vibrated under her feet. Dear Lord, they were coming for her, as if the constable threw all caution aside, pounding his boots on the stairs.
Ava didn’t waste another precious second. Clenching her ticket between her teeth, she tossed her small bag out the window she’d seen the man bolt through yesterday and jumped onto the roof. She shivered and judged the temperature to be about ten degrees. A brisk wind blew her hat off. The landing stunned her, but she didn’t stop.
She got to her feet and saw her skirt had caught on a nail. She tugged on it, but it wouldn’t budge. She pulled on it, ripping the fabric… and with the wind at her back sending chills through her, she climbed slowly down the shaky trellis laden with braided ivy so she wouldn’t fall.
She kept going – what choice did she have? Hanging on for her dear life, promising the Almighty anything if He kept her going… pushing the bothersome ivy out of her face, thankful for the calluses on her hands from scrubbing the carpet keeping her grip strong until—
Her boots hit the ground. Without taking a breath, she grabbed her bag.
‘There she is!’
‘Stop in the name of the law, Ava O’Reilly!’ she heard the constable yell down from the open second-story window.
She looked up at him, disbelieving. Stop? Was the man daft?
With her ticket clutched in her fist, Ava took off running, up one winding street and down the next. The smell of cooked onions and cabbages filled her nostrils as she sidestepped piles of horse manure in the middle of the road.
She kept going, the morning dew on the air giving way to a fine salty mist, sweeping away her fear. She wasn’t safe. Not yet.
If the landlady confirmed to the constable she had a ticket on the Titanic, he and his man would come looking for her and try to stop her from boarding the ship.
What to do?
She found herself along the Deepwater Quay near the railway station. S
he looked out into the harbor. The Titanic was too big to dock here. The passengers and mail would have to be ferried out to the liner by tender.
Mail.
Her eyes grew wide. Bags and bags of mail unloaded from the train and piled up here on the pier waited to be put on board the tenders going out to meet the great ship.
A hundred, maybe two hundred sacks.
Ava blessed herself and swept her eyes upward. Sweet Jesus, was there any better place to hide?
Two hours later, emerging cautiously from between two large sacks of mail, Ava popped her head up, looking around in a slow circle for the constable. She saw dockworkers carrying sacks of mail loaded on their shoulders and heading for the tender, Ireland, to set them aboard. Calling out orders, smoking, the men didn’t see her cowering behind the big, burlap bags.
A few passengers arriving late on the train hustled toward the Ireland while steerage passengers huddled together on the pier, carrying on with endless chatter and a tune or two. No police in sight.
Ava exhaled. The coast was clear.
A fine nap she’d had, covered by an empty sack and lulled to sleep by the sounds of the sea until she heard the blast from the Titanic’s funnel, announcing she was dropping anchor at Roche’s Point two miles away.
Her heart rang with joy. She found a strange contentment in hearing the ship’s whistle, as if the great liner was out there waiting for her, Ava O’Reilly.
She had in her mind to get aboard the ship by hiding in an empty mail sack. Then she heard two dock workers discussing how they dropped the big sacks into the mail storage compartment through the hatchway leading to the coal bunker.
What a sorry ending that would be. No, she had no choice but to queue up with the third-class passengers waiting in the lower receiving area of the shipping office, then make her way up the gangway to the tender.
Looking over her shoulder constantly, Ava took her place among the more than one hundred steerage passengers. She watched as each passenger showed their ticket and signed White Star Line contract to the ship’s officer before they were allowed to go to the pier.
To her surprise, they were also subjected to a look-over from the American physician examining their eyes for infectious diseases.
Ava shook her head. She had no time for that. The constable could be close by.
What was a girl to do?
The first tender, Ireland, was about to leave the dock, but only passengers waiting on the second tier of the James Scott & Company shipping office were allowed to board her.
First- and second-class passengers only. No steerage allowed.
Ava tapped her foot nervously on the wooden floor. She had to be on that boat to America.
If she wasn’t…
She pushed on, ducking down and sneaking through the chattering and anxious crowd, trying to keep her wits about her when she heard—
‘Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba?’ said a girl with a long dark braid wrapped around her head. ’Pushing and shoving us.’
‘Leave me be, lass, or the devil will take you!’ Ava cried out, anxious about being seen. She was thankful for the sunny day, its warmth overcoming the chill, knowing what was in store for her if she were caught.
‘Will you listen to her?’ the girl said loud enough for everyone to hear. ’A harlot she is, with hair that red.’
’Mind your mouth, Hannah,’ said a younger girl, poking her in the ribs and urging her to be quiet. ‘It’s not God’s work to spew such talk.’ The girl was not to be deterred.
‘She’s calling on the devil,’ Hannah continued, ’with us going to sea without a priest to say a prayer over our poor heads.’ She blessed herself.
Ava crouched down out of sight. What in the name of the holy saints had she done to rattle this girl? She’d best not cross paths with her aboard ship. She was the type to cause trouble. The younger lass was a better sort, kind and pious, though she’d be as happy as a Monday pig squealing in a pen if she never laid eyes on them again.
Her heart racing, her fingers tingling, she was aching so bad to get aboard the Titanic.
She tried to quiet her breathing, lest she give herself away to the immigration authorities checking each passenger, when she turned and recognized two men walking through the crowd.
The lawmen she’d seen earlier at the lodging house.
They hadn’t given up the chase.
Ava pulled away from the crowd, then sneaked up to the second floor of the shipping office. She was but a few feet away from the gangway leading to the tender, Ireland. Only a handful of first- and second-class passengers were aboard along with a few journalists. No one was watching her.
She could make it. She had to try.
The tender blew a whistle blast, the warning shouted loud and clear.
Ava heard footsteps behind her. She didn’t turn around. Through sheer determination and spitting against the wind, she made it to the gangway, her feet skimming over the pier, her breathing tearing at her chest.
Clutching her small traveling bag, she raced across the gangway as it was being raised and slid onto the deck of the tender with her skirts flying up around her.
She didn’t care. She’d soon be aboard the Titanic.
Then she’d be on her way to America.
How wonderful that is. How bloody wonderful.
6
Buck leaned against the open railing on the Promenade Deck and watched the tender, Ireland, draw alongside the ship, rocking back and forth from the swell of the seas. A flock of seagulls circled overhead, their loud cawing grating on his nerves. The sea was calm and would remain so, according to Mr Lightoller, the ship’s second officer. They were making excellent time, he said. Twenty knots an hour before they stopped here in Queenstown. If they continued at full speed, they’d arrive in New York earlier than expected.
Not what Buck had in mind.
He needed time to match wits with the sporting gentlemen aboard to make back what he’d lost to Mr Charters. Without a marked deck. Buck didn’t cheat at cards. He didn’t have to. His experience in intelligence work served him well when it came to reading a player’s facial expressions and body gestures. He also relied on his quick mind and skilled memory regarding cards played.
‘Captain Lord Blackthorn?’
Buck turned to find a deck steward at his elbow. ‘Yes?’
‘Message for you, milord.’ The deck steward handed him a note. Buck opened it.
See you in New York. Signed—Watts.
Buck looked up and saw the phony Mr Watts waving at him as he crossed the White Star Line gangway to board the tender. The bogus millionaire had no choice but to disembark. Word had spread quickly among the first-class gentlemen passengers about his deception and no one would play cards with him.
‘Friend of yours, Captain Lord Blackthorn?’ said the deck steward.
Buck acknowledged the boatman with a slight nod. ‘Mr Watts and I have sailed together before. Pity he was called back to London.’
‘Yes, milord. He’ll miss the grandest adventure of his life.’
Buck smiled. ‘Yes, won’t he.’
He was about to turn away when he caught sight of a hatless girl on the tender, Ireland. She looked upward at the ship with reverence, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Their eyes met, then, embarrassed, she turned away.
But he couldn’t stop looking at her.
She was the kind of woman men fought over.
A real woman, he thought, not a goddess who sprang from a man’s imagination, but a living, breathing creature who set his blood on fire.
A woman men cherished more than life itself.
Her hair blowing in the wind like rich, scarlet silk. Slim figure in a wrinkled, brown tweed skirt with a fitted jacket that belied her aristocratic lift of the chin. A girl with a natural beauty that made him ache to hold her in his arms and run his hands through that gorgeous red hair.
He saw her risk her own safety to help the Jesuit novitiate
disembarking the ship when he slipped on the wet wooden slats and dropped his bag. She returned it to him, then blessed herself.
So she was an Irish Catholic girl.
Buck smiled. The tendency of their nature was to show a man spirit and temper, like a fine thoroughbred. Such awareness ought to make him proceed with caution, but he was past that. His need to feel a woman in his arms was strong, frustrated as he was with the pomp and absurdities of several ladies in first class making it no secret their stateroom door was open to him.
Beautiful as she was, he was certain the girl was no first-class passenger. Not in that homespun tweed outfit. Steerage, mostly likely. Her long glorious hair, the color of a deep red sunset, whipped about her tight jacket and down to her small waist, blowing in the wind like a sea siren beckoning him.
Who was she? And why was she boarding with the first- and second-class passengers?
Wait. The purser was talking to her as she started up the gangway and she, with her hands on her hips, was trying to explain something to him. The man kept shaking his head. She showed him what appeared to be a ticket. A white ticket. Third class.
He was right. He’d have to admire her beauty from afar unless he dared to mingle among the steerage passengers. Something unheard of even by Trey, who wouldn’t stoop to dirty his boots with anyone below second class.
Buck held no such view and disdained the social gospel that dictated this way of living. He wouldn’t accept the rigid boundaries that shaped the upper-class world he moved in. He found such ideas old-fashioned and meritless when it came to judging the qualities that mattered most.
Honesty and courage.
A thought of a different nature crossed his mind.
It wouldn’t take much maneuvering to find his way down to Scotland Road, what the crew called the long, wide passage that ran along the port side of E deck. Tempting thought and the lady was worth the risk. He prided himself on his honor as a gentleman lord, but he had no doubt he wouldn’t be the only man on board to notice the girl’s stunning beauty. He could remain in control, not lose his head, but what if others couldn’t? She’d be at their mercy, though by the way she carried herself, she was no wilting lily flower. Yet she presented a problem that scratched away at the armor of his duty. He was bred to protect, a duty he relished, but it never involved a girl such as this.