“Nigel, no!” I cried as my hand flew up to my mouth. “What will we do?”
He sat up and, tossing the gun across the bed, buried his face in his hands. Davies stared at him, then quietly walked over to the door and closed it.
“You must let me help you, my dear,” he said gravely.
I stifled a sob. “There’s nothing you or anyone can do, Mr. Davies. Our reputations are as ruined as our fortunes. If only there were some way we could get off this wretched ship!”
I burst into tears and turned away from him. I heard him approach Nigel.
“Listen here, Bowen,” he commanded. I looked back and Nigel slowly lifted his head. His eyes were bleary and unfocused.
“We’ve both of us acted disgracefully toward your wife,” he said in the stern tones of a politician. “But we both can and will make amends.”
Davies sat down at the writing desk and pulled out his checkbook.
“I am writing an amount here that should cover your losses and provide comfortably for you and your wife for some time to come,” Davies said as he briskly wrote. “That is what I am going to do.”
He held the check out. Nigel looked at it as if it were dead vermin.
“What you are going to do,” Davies barked, “is accept this amount with the promise that you will never gamble again or in any way threaten your wife—or anyone else, for that matter. If you do, I care nothing of the scandal, I will do everything in my power to help her divorce you.”
Nigel looked guiltily over at me, then squared his shoulders and stood up—though he wavered with the roll of the ship.
“That was quite a speech, sir,” Nigel hissed. “You asked me if I have any decency. Well, what decent, self-respecting man would accept such a handout—especially from the man he caught making love to his wife?”
“Nigel, please,” I beseeched him. “Accept Mr. Davies’s extraordinary offer. It’s our only hope! Please, for me!”
Nigel paused, then slowly reached out and took the check from Davies’s hand. He didn’t look at it, just walked over to me and placed it in my hand.
“I don’t see how I will ever be able look you in eye again.” He sighed miserably and, turning away, lay down again on the bed.
Davies cleared his throat and put his hand on the doorknob. “I will say goodnight now. I trust this evening will look different to all of us in the morning.”
He gave me a reassuring nod and closed the door after him. I looked down at the check. It was for a fortune. I slowly walked over to Nigel, who had an arm thrown over his face.
“It’s a great deal of money,” I said. “But…it’s still not enough to buy you access to my bed. So shove off.”
Nigel peeked out from under his arm and we both burst out laughing. He leapt up and took my arms.
“We did it!” he cried, though I tried to shush him. He swung me around the room and I was so giddy with the success of our venture that I let him.
“The beautiful thing is that Davies doesn’t even know he was just extorted!” I laughed. “In fact, in handing over an enormous sum of money, he thinks he’s taken the high ground!”
“Well, of course! He’s single-handedly saved our marriage!” Nigel exclaimed. He continued to whirl me around until we were both quite out of breath. We laughingly slumped together down on the bed. I lifted a warning finger.
“There is a cost, though, Nigel. A steep one for you,” I said. “You can’t gamble the rest of the voyage.”
“Good god! What will I do with myself?” he gasped. “It also occurs to me that everyone hates me now! I’m not used to being unpopular.”
“Then you can spend the rest of the passage working to redeem your rotten character,” I said as I got up and began undressing for the night. “Nothing delights ladies more than being in the position of granting forgiveness.”
Nigel reached out a hand. “We make quite a team—don’t we, old girl?”
“Success doesn’t alter our terms,” I reminded him. “But I will admit it’s rather fun pretending to be married to you, Mr. Bowen.”
I gave his hand a warm little squeeze. He tried to hold on but I pulled away with a gentle slap.
“It’s just too bad that the rest of the voyage is going to be so dull.”
Chapter 12
Nigel Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 9:00 AM
Celia stirred in my arms as I gently stroked her fleecy golden hair. She pulled away slightly so I softly drew her nearer. She then pushed her pelvis against mine but not in a sensual way; she did it to move away from me. I firmly turned her over on her back, and her eyes flew open, startled. As I went in to kiss her, she began laughing—a harsh, awful, enraging laugh. And the laughter somehow got stronger…even as my hands went around her throat.
I woke surprisingly slowly—so slowly that I was aware that I was dreaming before Celia’s face began to fade. But her laughter—and that knowing smile—lingered as I opened my eyes and found myself alone in the empty cabin.
Good God, Nigel! I gasped to myself as I sat up. I found myself yet again on the cramped couch—sheets, blankets, and clothes strewn all around me. Across the room, the bed was neatly made and Celia’s possessions were tidily in place on the nightstand. Phil’s watch told me it was after nine in the morning.
My disturbing dream made me uneasy about not knowing where Celia was. As I hurriedly dressed, I tried to reassure myself that all was well: Celia had proved a most resourceful accomplice, and our Davies scheme had been wildly successful. All we had to do now was protect our cover and wait out the rest of the trip.
I guessed our group would be gathered after breakfast on the covered Promenade Deck and, indeed, as I entered the warm enclosure I immediately spotted Mrs. Sedgwick, Mrs. Minahan, and the Vogels. At the far end, Celia and Phil were tossing a ball with little Arthur. I breezed in with my usual cheery smile but quickly recalled that I was a social outcast and adjusted my expression.
“Good morning,” I said to the group as solemnly as possible. “I’m utterly ashamed of my behavior last night. I’ve sworn to Celia that I won’t take another drink nor lift another card. And I hope for the chance to make amends to each and every one of you.”
Everyone looked uneasily to Mrs. Sedgwick for the “official” group response. She peered at me down her long nose. “Your words are commendable, Mr. Bowen, but it will be your actions over the duration of the voyage and beyond that will prove your worthiness.”
I nodded my head abashedly—biting back the impulse to tell the old busybody to stuff it up her bloody rear. With a tip of my hat I made my way down the deck to where Celia and Phil were romping with Arthur. Celia’s back was to me, and Phil was too enraptured with her presence to note my own. Celia suddenly threw her head back and rocked with laughter at something the child had done—and placed her hand on Phil’s chest to steady herself. Phil covered her hand with his—and left it there.
I felt my face go hot with a blood rush of anger.
My anger was partially with Celia for continuing her flirtatious ways and partially with Phil for treating me like a chump. But mostly my anger was with myself. For in that terrible instant, I realized I had fallen in love with Celia.
Unable to stop myself, I lunged forward and confronted the two.
“Kindly take your hands off of my wife, Mr. Colley,” I said through gritted teeth.
Celia’s eyes flashed toward mine with a look of both alarm and caution.
“Oh, Nigel!” She a forced little laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve already fallen back on your word and started the day with spirits!”
Celia’s eyes implored me to play along, to use her cue to make it all a joke, to not blow the cover we desperately needed to keep. I knew what I should do, yet I couldn’t help myself.
“I don’t need to be drunk to defend my wife’s honor—or my own!” I said indignantly. Phil jutted his chin out and clenched his fists but Celia intervened and, grabbing my a
rm, pulled me away to the promenade window.
“What on earth are you doing?” she hissed.
“You’ve already taken that boy for all that he had,” I said testily. “Why continue to throw yourself at him?”
“Have you gone mad? You’re risking everything we’ve gained!” she cried. “Davies could wire his bank and cancel that check at any time!”
“That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it—the money?” I demanded, then tried to soften my tone. “Celia—darling—”
“Of course the money is all that matters!” she fumed. “Nigel, I risked everything on this scheme, and now that I’ve gotten what I wanted I refuse to lose it because of your childish, possessive whims. Why, you make a boy like Phil seem ten times the man you are!”
I went to reach for her, but it must have looked as if I were going to strike, as Phil suddenly stepped up and twisted my arm around so that I faced him. Being part of Yale’s rowing crew had given him the advantage of strength, but I had fury on my side so we tussled equally for a moment. Each of us got in one good hit—me to Phil’s gut, him to my jaw—before Vogel stepped between us.
“Gentlemen! Stop this at once!” he barked with surprising force for such a bookish-looking man. Celia backed away up against the deck window, her eyes shut and her hand clasped over her mouth. Seeing her distress, old Sedgwick sailed forward and took her gently by the arm.
“Come, my dear,” she said quietly but with iron firmness. “Come to my cabin and collect yourself. There you can shield yourself from not only Mr. Bowen’s latest display of boorishness but also the gossip it will inspire. Though I am afraid it will only be a temporary refuge from both.…”
Chapter 13
Celia Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 10:30 AM
Mrs. Sedgwick’s first class suite made my cabin look like servants’ quarters. The carved-wood furniture and wainscoting were much the same, but everything seemed on a larger scale and her accommodations featured a cozy sitting room. Mrs. Sedgwick graciously welcomed me in and curtly instructed her maid, Kitty—a fresh-faced but terrified-looking young Irish lass—to serve tea.
As Kitty nervously poured, I looked around the room and noted the array of framed photographs that Mrs. Sedgwick had propped up around the place—clearly all members of her eminent family. Fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, nieces—it seemed her entire family tree was represented. However, the dress and manner of the pictures indicated times well gone by, and I couldn’t help but notice how scuffed some of the glass panes were. Looking closer, I saw that many of the ornate frames were chipped and scratched.
“You must go on a great many voyages, Mrs. Sedgwick,” I observed.
She looked up from her teacup. “Why do you say that, my dear?”
“Oh! It’s just that your photographs…they look so—so well traveled!” I stumbled, hoping to make it sound like a lark instead of implied criticism.
“Until this passage I have not sailed or traveled in any capacity in nearly twenty years,” Mrs. Sedgwick said heavily. “Business took me to London. Unfortunate financial dealings related to my family. Our situation is, in fact, well illustrated by those photographs: once quite grand but now…rather shabby.”
She looked sadly down into her teacup. I wasn’t quite sure what she was telling me. I again looked around the room with its silken curtains and plush sofas and loveseats. Mrs. Sedgwick saw my glance and gave a wan smile.
“Yes, the Sedgwick name ensures that I am able to reside in one of the finest suites on the ship.” She nodded. “But it’s all on credit. To be quite frank, dear Celia, though we have properties and holdings all over Manhattan, I’m afraid we are what is termed ‘cash poor.’”
I made a sympathetic murmur, then took refuge in my teacup. I was at a complete loss as to how I was to react to such a bold and intimate disclosure.
“How unforgivable of me!” Mrs. Sedgwick suddenly gasped. “I asked you here to cheer you and all I’ve done is bore you with my own troubles. But I shall redeem myself!”
She excitedly put down her tea and busily made her way across the room. Shifting through some books and papers on a sideboard, she pulled out a sheaf of cheap-looking magazines. Grinning like a bold schoolgirl about to smoke her first cigarette, the older woman sat down next to me on the settee and placed the publications on her knees. I recognized them immediately as police gazettes, tabloids that reported all the salacious details of the most sensational crimes of the day. They often included crime scene drawings and photographs.
“I’m afraid I became quite a fan of your British magazines while in London. I confess that I hide them from Kitty, as it’s quite unseemly for a woman of my station to take interest in such low material!” She giggled. “But I do find them an effective distraction from my woes.”
She gleefully flipped through a few issues and pointed out several reports of especially lurid and gruesome crimes, evidently her favorites. I didn’t know if I was expected to gasp in horror or pretend to share her delight, so I said nothing.
Finally, she picked up the last issue from the stack and flipped to an article that had been flagged with a bookmark. She shifted in her seat so that she was even closer to me and turned the magazine fully to my view.
“Here’s what I really wanted to show you!” she said. I looked down at the yellowy, cheaply printed page and read the headline PRETTY PICKPOCKET PREYS ON PICCADILLY! I ran my eyes over the article detailing the exploits of an “exceptionally beautiful blond lass” who was currently being sought as the prime suspect in a string of robberies, all involving male members of the upper class.
I slowly turned to look at Mrs. Sedgwick. She was staring at me expectantly.
“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean…,” I said evenly.
Sedgwick snorted with amusement, then pointed at the mug shot at the bottom of the page.
“The likeness, my dear!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “Why you’re the spitting image of this naughty ‘Molly Mitchell’!”
I looked down at the stark photograph of the wide-eyed, defiant-looking woman. I stared at it for some time, wordlessly. When I finally looked up, Mrs. Sedgwick had that same expectant look on her face—but this time her meaning was quite clear.
I slowly picked up my bag. I reached in and pulled out several bills—large ones. I silently placed them on the table, where they sat between us for several seconds. Mrs. Sedgwick then scooped them up in one effortless quick movement, and they vanished into the folds of her dress.
“That will do quite nicely, my dear,” she said with a bright smile. “For now. Another cup of tea?”
Chapter 14
Nigel Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 11:00 AM
My mind was spinning as I walked at top speed around the deck; I lost track of how many laps I did. I was vaguely aware of curious stares from the other passengers, but I didn’t care. They probably thought me mad or—more likely—drunk, but walking was the only way I could focus on the problems I’d created earlier.
If he hadn’t heard already, it was only a matter of time before Davies learned that I’d publicly fought with Celia and come to blows with Phil. The most likely scenario was that since I clearly had not turned over a new leaf after all, he’d cancel the check and offer to help Celia divorce me—only to eventually learn that we weren’t even married. Yes, I’d mucked this one up good.
Despite my preoccupied thoughts, I eventually became aware of that feeling again—the certainty that I was being followed. I whipped around and tried to spot my bald friend through the throngs of people on the deck. Aware that he was probably wearing a hat for the deck, I slowed my pace and, at the last minute, dove into the small alcove next to the Marconi wireless office. Several passengers and officers passed me without notice until one person came hurrying along, whipping her head back in forth as though franticall
y searching for something.
Emily Moore.
When I sighed loudly she turned my way and badly feigned surprise at seeing me.
“Oh! Fancy running into you, Nigel!” she exclaimed, hand on chest.
“Astonishing, Miss Moore,” I said with a slight bow.
She gave a little pout and playfully pushed my arm. “Why so formal and distant? And furthermore, why haven’t you made any effort to see me since…well, you know!”
She giggled girlishly as I walked her back onto the open deck.
“Darling,” she said excitedly, “can you take me back to that tennis court or whatever it was? I seem to have dropped an awfully expensive bag somewhere near there. Father will have a stroke if he finds out I lost it. It belonged to mother.”
Seeing no way out, I absently nodded and escorted her down a flight of stairs that would eventually lead us to G Deck, just above the ship’s waterline.
“Did you really strike your wife this morning?” she inquired excitedly. “The whole ship seems to be talking about it. I hope the row wasn’t about me!”
“Good lord, don’t be daft,” I said rather irritably.
“Daft about me being the cause or about you striking Mrs. Bowen?”
I halted our walk. “I did not strike my wife this morning or any other morning, Miss Moore. We simply had an argument—the kind married people have all the time. Mr. Colley misinterpreted what he saw, and that, well, that led to the talk that is apparently flying about this damned ship.”
Emily frowned. “You’re in a mood. I daresay I believe all this talk about your violent nature. I half expect you to fling me to the court floor and savagely thrash me.”
“You probably deserve it,” I said, sensing the idea thrilled her.
Taking the Titanic Page 4