by S. G. Rogers
“Miss Oakhurst, may I ask the name of your grandfather, the baronet?” Mrs. Stilton interrupted.
“Hamish Heathcliff from Gloucester,” she replied faintly.
“Hamish Heathcliff! Imagine that!” Mrs. Stilton exclaimed. “Why, I have lunch with his wife Maude at least once a month. How is dear Mr. Heathcliff?”
This awful woman knows my grandfather? The blood left Belle’s body, and the ship shifted…or so she thought until she realized a wave of dizziness had tilted her world.
“I believe he’s in excellent health, Mrs. Stilton,” Belle said.
“It’s very strange Maude Heathcliff never happened to mention her husband is a baronet,” Mrs. Stilton continued. “In all the years I’ve known her, she also never mentioned Mr. Heathcliff had a granddaughter. Of course, Maude is his second wife, so perhaps there are some family secrets to which she’s not privy?”
Mr. Oakhurst cleared his throat. “I believe there has been some misunderstanding. Due to a family rift, I’m afraid my daughter has never had the pleasure of her grandfather’s acquaintance. Furthermore, my father-in-law is not in possession of a title, as far as I know.”
An expression of confusion passed over Mrs. Van Eyck’s face. “I’m sorry, Miss Oakhurst, but I thought Sir Hamish had arranged to have you presented you at court last year. Didn’t you tell me that, Louise?”
A cold, clammy hand reached down Belle’s throat and squeezed the breath from her lungs.
“Oh, Mama, you know how I get everything wrong,” Louise said. “I simply made a mistake.”
Into the ensuing, fragile silence, only Mrs. Stilton dared to wade.
“You see, Your Grace, how a few probing questions can serve to unearth a handful of worms?” she said with cloying sweetness. “Furthermore, in terms of royalty a baronetcy is nothing at all. If I were to tell such a falsehood, I would have chosen a viscount, at least.”
Everyone at the table stared fixedly at Belle. She felt as if she were Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter…but the scarlet letter burning on her chest was the letter L—for liar. Now I must mount the scaffold in disgrace.
“No, Louise, you didn’t get it wrong. I misled you and I apologize.” Belle couldn’t bring herself to gauge Wesley’s reaction, but the shock on Louise’s face brought tears to her eyes. She stood. “Forgive me, but I’ve developed a sudden headache. Please enjoy your evening.”
Belle left the captain’s table and walked the entire length of the saloon with her head held high. Passengers were engaged in conversation or in eating, so few took much notice of her departure. Would that my path be a gauntlet to expiate my sins! As she passed beyond the double doors, she mounted the stairs to the promenade deck. I can’t bear to be shut away in my cabin just now. Let the canopy of stars be witness to my shame.
The last lingering rays of sunlight had faded when Belle emerged on deck, and the aurora borealis was rippling and glowing, as if a cosmic fire were about to spill over the northern horizon. A kaleidoscope of luminous turquoise and lilac lights streaked and pulsed in a magical display that would ordinarily have lifted her spirits. At the moment, however, she could barely see the beautiful phenomenon through the tears filling her eyes.
Mrs. Stilton’s sweet triumph was Belle’s complete and utter humiliation. First and foremost, her lies had publicly embarrassed her father. Further, she’d likely lost the affection of her new friends, since even the remaining members of the dance club would soon hear of her exposure. Worst of all was losing Wesley’s respect in a way that would haunt her forever. She gripped the railing with both hands, as if the steel could somehow lend her its strength. I can’t bear this!
When Belle stood and took her leave, Wesley struggled to his feet in concert with the other men at the table. Mr. Oakhurst immediately folded his napkin and set it next to his plate. “Pardon me,” he said. “I must see to my daughter.”
As Mr. Oakhurst left, Wesley flagged down the waiter. “Please bring me my walking stick, right away.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve lost my appetite.” Stephen shot Mrs. Stilton a withering glance.
Mrs. Van Eyck caught Stephen’s hand. “Don’t go chasing after the girl!”
“Oh, yes, Stephen, please do,” Louise pleaded. “Tell her I don’t care if her grandfather is a baronet or a bricklayer.”
“She doesn’t deserve your sympathy!” Mrs. Van Eyck exclaimed.
“That’s so,” Mrs. Stilton said.
Stephen ignored Mrs. Stilton entirely. “Mother, Miss Oakhurst was instrumental in saving my life, or don’t you care?”
“‘Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone,’” Captain Howe quoted.
Captain Yarborough nodded his agreement. “Hear, hear.”
“Who among us hasn’t said something silly from time to time?” Lady Frederic said. “I really don’t see that Miss Oakhurst’s assertions were so very terrible.”
“Nor do I,” Louise said.
Helpless without his walking stick, Wesley nodded to Stephen. “Go find her. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”
Stephen hastened off, choosing to take a side route instead of the central aisle, now largely blocked by servers. As soon as the waiter returned with his walking stick, Wesley joined the pursuit. Unfortunately, his limp slowed his pace, and Mr. Oakhurst was delayed by the crush of servers juggling trays of food. Stephen disappeared from the saloon long before Wesley and Mr. Oakhurst managed to reach the exit. By then, Belle was nowhere to be seen, and Wesley punched the air in frustration.
“There are a thousand places she could’ve gone!”
“I’ll check her room,” Mr. Oakhurst said, darting off toward the descending staircase.
“I’ll search the promenade deck,” Wesley replied.
One painful step at a time, Wesley mounted the stairs to the uppermost level. He would look in the nearby drawing room first, and then inside the library. If he had no luck, he’d circle the promenade deck outside before heading to her cabin to consult with Mr. Oakhurst. Belle’s distress had affected him deeply. I must find her!
The lights in the nighttime sky seemingly gamboled for her amusement, but Belle was oblivious. I’m completely undone and there’s no escape. I must endure two more days on this ship, with nowhere to hide. Then I travel by train to Mansbury with my father, Wesley, and Lady Frederic. Oh, how they must despise me as a liar!
“Miss Oakhurst.”
Startled, Belle wheeled around to discover Stephen Van Eyck had followed her.
“Mrs. Stilton is a dreadful person,” he said. “Please don’t think about her any further.”
“She is dreadful, but it doesn’t change the fact that I lied to you…and everyone else.”
“Are you in the habit of lying?”
“No, not ordinarily. I just wanted so badly to impress Louise.”
“Ha! And Louise has been trying all this time to impress you,” Stephen said.
Although Belle knew Stephen was telling a joke, she didn’t see any humor in it.
He sighed. “What if I confessed I’ve grossly exaggerated my sporting abilities to garner favor with girls? Would that shock you?”
Despite herself, Belle finally laughed.
“I can see you think me quite capable of it.” Stephen chuckled, opened his arms, and pulled Belle into a comforting embrace. “Actually, the fact you aren’t perfect makes me like you all the more. We’re quite suited to one another.”
As Belle clung to him, a sense of affection and gratitude warmed her heart. Steven Van Eyck may be a little vain and shallow, but he’d saved Wesley’s life.
“You’re very kind, Mr. Van Eyck,” she said.
She lifted her face to give him a smile, and suddenly his lips captured hers in a tender kiss.
Physically sickened, Wesley stared at Belle and Stephen as they embraced. He faded into the shadows, his relief at finding Belle replaced by searing jealousy and despair. She’d misled Louise about her grandfather, and apparently she’d lied t
o him about her feelings for Stephen Van Eyck. The throbbing pain in his ankle was nothing compared to the wound in his heart. What a naïve fool I’ve been! Belle is less trustworthy than a fox!
The empty passageway between deck cabins provided a temporary refuge while Wesley tried to collect himself. I must speak with Mr. Oakhurst to let him know where Belle is…and then I believe I’ll pay a lengthy visit to the bar. He headed inside, so distracted by his own misery that he paid no attention to the two waiters coming toward him. Instead of stepping to one side, they blocked his path.
“I beg your pardon,” Wesley said, annoyed. “May I pass?”
In the next moment, he was staring at the barrel of a revolver. Although the man holding the weapon was presently clean-shaven, Wesley knew him right away. His companion had shaved off his black mustache, but Wesley recognized him too.
“Randolph and Fife,” he said.
Randolph laughed. “Smith & Wesson is all you need to know.”
Belle pulled away from Stephen. “Please don’t misunderstand, Mr. Van Eyck. That kiss was for Wesley.”
Stephen scratched his head. “I’ve the greatest of respect for the man, but don’t expect me to pass it on.”
“What I mean is, you rendered him a great service and you have my gratitude.”
“But not your affection?”
“I do feel some affection for you, but as I told you earlier, my heart is much engaged elsewhere.”
A frown passed over Stephen’s handsome visage. “Are you quite sure? You wouldn’t want to leave a window open just a crack?”
“I’m quite sure of my feelings, Mr. Van Eyck, but not of his.” Belle averted her eyes.
“Then it’s Wesley, after all.”
“It doesn’t matter. After tonight it’s a hopeless case.”
Randolph gestured toward the door with his weapon. “Get outside and keep quiet.”
Wesley quietly released the catch on his walking stick. “I’m afraid I can’t walk very well,” he said, to play for time.
Fife produced a Derringer and trained it at Wesley’s chest. “I could shoot you where you stand, if you like.”
Cavendish lurched into view just then, disheveled and unsteady. Randolph and Fife quickly pocketed their weapons. The valet’s normally perfect hair was mussed, his shirt had been pulled free from his trousers, and even his waxed mustache drooped on one side. When he caught sight of Wesley, he planted his blue glass knobbed walking stick in the carpet and struggled to stand upright.
“If it isn’t His Grace.” Cavendish’s words were slurred. “I thought you’d be at dinner.” He swayed too far to one side, and staggered into Randolph. “Oops, sorry my good man.”
Cavendish is feigning drunkenness! Wesley thought. He was stone cold sober less than an hour ago. Nevertheless, Wesley narrowed his eyes as if he were angry. “Cavendish, you’ve been drinking.”
“Just a little tipple to go along with the baseball game.” Cavendish giggled and gave Wesley an exaggerated wink.
“A double header?” Wesley asked.
“Batter up,” Cavendish replied. “And you’d best look sharp.”
Before Randolph and Fife realized what was happening, Wesley slid his blade free from its sheath and held the tip to Fife’s throat. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
At the same time, Cavendish whipped his own sword out and brought the sharp edge down across Randolph’s forearm. The man screamed as he went down on one knee, clutching his wound.
His hands up, Fife backed away from the point of Wesley’s blade.
“Stay where you are!” Wesley ordered.
Wesley moved to follow, but his ankle caused him to lose his balance. Fife grabbed his Derringer and got a shot off before Cavendish bounded over to run him through. Wesley flinched as the small caliber bullet embedded itself in an oil painting inches away from his head. Randolph, bleeding from a slashed arm, managed to pull the revolver from his pocket with his left hand. As he trained the weapon on Wesley, Mr. Oakhurst appeared.
“Watch out, lad!”
Mr. Oakhurst pushed Wesley to the ground just as a gunshot echoed throughout the corridor. When Wesley looked back, Cavendish had stabbed Randolph with his sword, and the man had crumpled to the ground.
“Are you hit, Cavendish?” Wesley exclaimed.
The valet, grim-faced, shook his head. “No.” He wiped his blade on Randolph’s jacket. “And you?”
“I think I’m fine,” Wesley said. “Mr. Oakhurst, you just saved my life again.”
“I’m glad,” Mr. Oakhurst murmured. “But I’m afraid—”
He leaned against the wall and then slid down into a sitting position. Cavendish’s eyebrows drew together as he jumped over Randolph’s dead body and went to Mr. Oakhurst’s aid. Wesley scrambled to his feet…and stared with horror at the rapidly spreading red stain on Mr. Oakhurst’s pristine white vest.
“Get Mr. Vane,” Cavendish said.
Panic rooted Wesley’s feet to the ground.
“Move, Wesley!” Cavendish commanded. “There’s no time to spare!”
Despite his sprained ankle, Wesley began to run.
Chapter Twenty-One
Polka
WESLEY KEPT A TENSE VIGIL with Belle, Stephen, and Cavendish outside the surgeon’s office, which was converted into an emergency operating room. In the wee hours of the morning, Mr. Vane finally shooed them away.
“Mr. Oakhurst is stable. I’ll send word, Miss Oakhurst, if there’s any change for the worse.”
A bleary-eyed Cavendish headed to the deck cabin while Wesley and Stephen escorted Belle to her room.
“I shan’t sleep a wink,” she said.
“Please try,” Wesley said.
“It won’t do your father any good if you make yourself ill,” Stephen added.
Although she nodded in agreement, Wesley knew Belle was in for a difficult night. After her door closed, Wesley and Stephen doubled back toward Stephen’s cabin.
“I feel responsible for Mr. Oakhurst’s injuries,” Wesley murmured.
“Nobody could possibly blame you, Wesley. Miss Oakhurst doesn’t, does she?”
“She’s too distressed at the moment to be assigning blame, but she may yet come to that conclusion.”
“I doubt it. I hate to admit this, but her regard for you is insurmountable. I gave it my best shot, but so far she finds me resistible.”
“You needn’t spare my feelings. I saw the two of you kissing earlier.”
“You saw that, did you? Don’t take this the wrong way, but Miss Oakhurst said that kiss was for you. Seems she was grateful I saved your neck. Gave me second thoughts about having done so, I must admit.”
A ray of hope shot through Wesley, warming him more thoroughly than a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch. Stephen laughed at the grin of delight on Wesley’s face.
“Cheer up, Wesley. She may yet change her mind. You’ve made headway, true enough, but you’ve her pesky fiancé to contend with.”
“They’ve not been engaged very long. When Sir Errol is presented with the situation, surely he will step aside.”
They reached Stephen’s cabin then. As he reached for the doorknob, Stephen paused. “It may be callous of me to say it, but I’m not sorry Fife and Randolph are dead.”
“Neither am I. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.”
Every creak Wesley heard that night woke him from a fitful sleep. In the morning, the dark smudges underneath his eyes revealed his exhaustion. He dressed quietly, so as not to disturb Cavendish, and slipped out to his mother’s cabin. She was not quite ready to go to breakfast, so Wesley sank into a chair in the sitting room to wait. The next thing he knew, Lady Frederic was shaking him awake.
When they entered the saloon several minutes later, heads swiveled in their direction, and there was an audible pause in the general conversation.
“Obviously, everyone has heard about the events last night,” he whispered to his mother.
“I’m beginning to dislike being the center of attention,” Lady Frederic replied.
“Believe me, so am I.”
Although Wesley had anticipated Belle wouldn’t be at breakfast, he was surprised how keenly he felt her absence. Furthermore, so frequently did passersby interrupt with questions and inquiries about the attack, Wesley couldn’t enjoy his food. He appreciated their concern, but he would’ve liked to finish his eggs before they went cold. He finally glanced down at the congealed mess on his plate and tossed his napkin on the table.
“I’m done.”
“Oh, dear. Perhaps we should’ve taken breakfast in your cabin.”
“I would have, but I didn’t want to bother Cavendish. After what he did for me last night, I thought he should be able to sleep in.”
“The man deserves a raise.”
The Stengers and Egermanns arrived just then, and clustered around his table with yet more questions. Lady Frederic intervened. “Wesley, why don’t you go check on Mr. Oakhurst? I’ll fill your friends in for you.”
Wesley gave his mother a grateful look, excused himself, and limped from the saloon. He made his way to Mr. Vane’s office, and was pleasantly surprised to discover Mr. Oakhurst was awake and propped up in bed. His right arm was in a sling, and his chest was heavily bandaged.
“Good morning, Mr. Oakhurst!” Wesley exclaimed. “How are you feeling?”
“As if I’ve been stomped on the chest by a bull elephant, thanks,” he replied. “Mr. Vane informs me, however, I was lucky. Since the bullet missed my lungs and vital organs, it could’ve been far worse.”
“I’m so relieved. Mr. Oakhurst, you pushed me out of harm’s way last night, and I can’t help but feel responsible for your injuries. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I’d say I was just doing my job, but that wouldn’t be the entire truth. Annabelle and I have both grown quite fond of you.”