On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  “They were together when I saw them last,” Charlotte said carefully. “I don’t think Reg would have left Georgie alone.” She wasn’t sure if Lady Upton would be consoled by that or not.

  “Yet only Mr. Evers survived.”

  There was nothing accusatory in Lady Upton’s tone; it was stated as simple fact. All Charlotte could think of was Reg’s face when she’d refused to help Georgie dress in her clothes. The way Reg’s expression had shifted from anguish to understanding. How he’d shouted when the lifeboat jerked past the windows, forcing it to stop so Charlotte could be saved. She remembered her last glance at Georgie—cowering and confused, like an abused kitten—and was shocked to remember how much she’d hated him. It felt like the savagery of a more primitive self.

  “Do you think Mr. Evers might pay me a visit, if I asked?”

  Charlotte tried to keep as close as she could to the truth. “He stayed in America. I don’t think he’s been back to England since.”

  “I could send a letter, if you have his address.”

  “We don’t correspond,” Charlotte said bluntly. Then, almost against her will, she offered, “I’m traveling to New York in a few days. I might be able to find him. I could try.”

  Lady Upton gave Charlotte a twisted smile, an expression of such determined appreciation that Charlotte felt sick. “I would be so grateful. You’ve been very kind to indulge an old woman like me. Hearing your stories, talking about George—it’s been such a help.”

  Charlotte had her doubts about that. She suspected that dredging up Lady Upton’s questions about Georgie’s death might have made things worse. But Charlotte could no longer shield herself from Lady Upton’s grief. Even the way she looked at Charlotte—with hopeful longing—was an echo of her son, and a stinging reminder of Charlotte’s own selfishness and jealousy. Lady Upton wasn’t at all what she expected; what if Georgie wasn’t, either? Had Charlotte given him a chance to prove otherwise?

  Charlotte had never shied away from lying, when it suited her purposes. But now she felt the burden of her deceit. The arrangement she’d made on the Carpathia’s deck had consequences she’d never foreseen. She would carry Lady Upton’s pain, deservedly so, until she could set things right. And if she couldn’t, she would console herself with the knowledge that she’d tried her best. Charlotte knew, all too well, that some mistakes could never be mended.

  ESME

  Esme Van Hausen took her first steps carefully, making sure each heel was steady before shifting her weight to the opposite foot. She’d been so wobbly lately. The previous day, she’d nearly taken a tumble in the hall, right in front of Mrs. Gerstner. She’d managed to laugh it off, but it had been a close call. Esme couldn’t afford to have the staff gossip about her more than they already did, not when her reputation was as shaky as her nerves.

  Her mysterious visitor really should have known better than to show up at ten o’clock in the morning. It was much too early for social calls. When Mrs. Gerstner barged into Esme’s bedroom, saying she had an unexpected guest, Esme had kept her face sheltered in the sheets when she asked who it was. She hadn’t yet felt ready to face the daylight. The housekeeper told Esme the woman hadn’t presented a calling card.

  “Said she was an old friend and wanted to surprise you. She has an accent—English, I think.”

  The lack of information was irritating, but also effective. It was two weeks since Charlie had died, one week since his funeral. Esme had avoided seeing anyone by playing the grieving widow, which was close to the truth. She was grieving, for so much more than Charlie. Curiosity, however, was enough to overpower her lethargy, and Esme managed to pull herself up and out of bed.

  She washed up in the bathroom, her head throbbing each time she leaned over the basin. Then she took her time deciding what to wear. Esme’s vanity was a form of self-preservation, and she couldn’t abandon her fastidiousness simply because Charlie was gone. She had turned forty a few months before the accident, and though it wasn’t a milestone she wanted to acknowledge openly, Charlie had brought her flowers and taken her out to dinner. If she wanted, Esme could choose to remember the evening as a happy one. She had tried very hard to have fun, and Charlie seemed grateful for the effort, even if he spent half the meal hopping to other tables to say hello. When Esme caught a glimpse of herself in the powder-room mirror, she’d been pleasantly surprised. Thanks to the fortune she’d spent on face cream and hair dye, she still looked attractive. For a woman of her age—the inevitable modifier.

  Esme decided on a dress of dark-green silk, appropriate for a widow but not too gloomy. She could remember, vaguely, the mourning dresses she’d been forced to wear when her mother died. Thank God that tradition had gone out with the Victorians, because black wasn’t at all flattering to Esme’s complexion. She settled at her dressing table, her fingers moving confidently among the cosmetic bottles and brushes. Her lack of sleep was soon concealed with powder and eye pencil, and a swab of lipstick brought her mouth to life. Her cheek bore almost no trace of the gash she’d suffered in the lifeboat, though she’d feared it would be disfiguring at the time. There was only so much she could do with her hair, but she smoothed it as best she could. Her hairdresser, Mrs. Volensky, usually came every other day, but Esme had given her the week off.

  Esme knew the alligator shoes might not be the wisest choice. They were higher and tighter than her other pairs, and she had had a close call when she turned out of her dressing room and nearly fell. But they were the best match for her dress, and Esme refused to cut corners when it came to fashion. She’d just have to be careful. She had an anxious moment at the top of the stairs, when her head went all dizzy and she swayed against the banister. But she managed to stay upright, despite the stabs of pain skittering inside her skull. Esme wrapped her fingers around the wood and stiffened her arm. A confident inner version of herself guided the struggling outer one: Shoulders up, back straight, left foot, right foot. With determined concentration, she made it to the bottom of the stairs and walked with smooth, even steps to the front parlor. It was only when she saw the woman standing by the fireplace that Esme’s composure faltered. Despite the angled hat that covered half the visitor’s face, Esme knew instantly who it was.

  “Charlotte Evers,” the woman said, holding out her hand.

  “I remember,” Esme said, not taking it.

  Charlotte dipped her face toward the floor. At least she had the decency to be embarrassed. Esme’s first impulse was to call for Mrs. Gerstner and have Charlotte escorted out. How dare she show up like this, with no warning? But that initial flash of anger quickly gave way to the disheartening realization that Charlotte’s visit was the most interesting thing that was likely to happen today, or any other day in the foreseeable future. If Charlotte left now, Esme would always wonder why she’d come.

  “Please sit,” Esme said, curt but not quite rude. “I’ll send for coffee.”

  Mrs. Gerstner wasn’t hovering in the hallway, as she was supposed to when the Van Hausens had company, so Esme excused herself. In the minute it took Esme to track her housekeeper to the kitchen, Esme debated offering pastries as well, then decided against it. No need to encourage a drawn-out visit until she found out what Charlotte had to say. Wound up with anticipation, Esme nearly collided with a doorjamb on her way back to the parlor, and she forced herself to stop and slow her breathing. Charlotte mustn’t see how close she was to losing control.

  “I hope I didn’t put you to any trouble,” Charlotte said when Esme returned.

  “No trouble,” Esme said. “We so rarely receive visitors these days—the cook is beside herself with boredom.”

  She’d meant to lighten the mood, but Charlotte didn’t look amused. Esme had to admit that Charlotte had held up well, though time had hardened her, too. There was a directness to her gaze that Esme found daunting. She seemed to see past Esme’s gracious-hostess manners to the humiliating way she’d been coping with Charlie’s loss.

  “I heard about yo
ur husband,” Charlotte said, formally polite. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Esme could never find a suitable response to such well-meant expressions of sympathy. Was she supposed to smile bravely or weep genteel tears? She’d lost her instinct for what was appropriate. “It’s very kind of you, to come in person,” she said. “I didn’t realize you lived in New York.”

  “I don’t. I went back to London soon after the sinking.”

  Then why are you here? Esme wondered. She told herself to be patient and wait for Charlotte to reveal her hand.

  “We all rather scattered, didn’t we?” Charlotte asked, as if they were discussing old school friends. “Did you see anyone from the boat, afterward?”

  “Well, Charlie, of course . . .”

  Esme saw Charlotte brace herself for a show of grief. No. She mustn’t talk about Charlie.

  “And Sabine, my maid.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “She was with me for years,” Esme said. “She turned out to be quite a good seamstress, and she began making dresses for me, and then my friends wanted her to make things for them, and it all progressed from there. She has her own boutique, now, on Madison Avenue.”

  “Well done,” Charlotte said, “though I am surprised. She seemed such a meek little thing.”

  “She still is, in some ways,” Esme said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard her raise her voice. She has a quiet kind of strength, though. I depended on her a great deal, in those months afterward, and she was so loyal. That meant a lot. I was sad to lose her as a maid, of course, but I did all I could to help her get started with the shop. I’m very proud of her.” What would Esme have been, without Sabine? Sabine was the one who had comforted Esme when she cried for Hiram, the night before she married Charlie. Sabine had always listened; she had always understood.

  “And you remember Mrs. McBride and her sisters?” Esme continued. “They used to call on me, when they were visiting New York. She passed away ten years ago or so, and Mrs. Westleigh just last year. I don’t think the youngest one is up to traveling anymore.”

  “I wonder what happened to the little Swedish girl,” Charlotte said.

  “Anna,” Esme said. She wondered, too. She remembered the young woman hunched in the middle of the boat, shivering, her face blank with shock.

  “I haven’t been able to travel by ship since then,” Esme said. “It drove Charlie crazy, because he always wanted to spend a summer in France or Italy. He said money was no fun if you weren’t spending it, and I know thousands of people make the crossing every year with no danger whatsoever, but I just can’t seem to get myself on a boat. You may be one of the only people who understands why.”

  “I do,” Charlotte said. “The White Star Line arranged for my passage home, and I was terrified the entire time. I didn’t set foot on a boat again until this week.”

  It made no sense. Charlotte was so broken up over Charlie’s death that she’d gotten over her fear of sailing, jumped on a ship, and rushed to see Esme, a woman she hadn’t spoken to in twenty years?

  “I’m honored you made such an effort on my behalf,” Esme said.

  That hit a nerve, because Charlotte looked away. She was definitely up to something. Mrs. Gerstner came in with a tray, and the conversation paused as coffee was poured and passed. When Mrs. Gerstner left, Esme kept her cup by her lips, sipping slowly. She’d force Charlotte to talk first.

  “Mr. Van Hausen’s death made all the papers in England,” Charlotte said.

  “Goodness.” Esme wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or dismayed. “I didn’t realize he was so well known there.”

  “Your marriage was one of the few happy stories to come from the whole Titanic catastrophe,” Charlotte said. “You gave people hope when there wasn’t much to be found.”

  Esme had a scrapbook in her room, filled with clippings from the week of her marriage. She could still recite the headlines: “The Triumph of Love over Loss.” “An Unlikely Titanic Romance.” “Titanic Widow Weds Her Rescuer.” It had seemed as if the whole world were rooting for her and Charlie to be happy.

  There’d been other kinds of stories, too, but those she hadn’t cut out.

  “There are many people, in England and America, who still think of you quite fondly,” Charlotte said, so kindly that Esme might have mistaken her for a friend if she hadn’t already been on guard.

  “I’ve been amazed at the number of condolence letters I’ve received, from perfect strangers,” Esme said. “It’s quite overwhelming.”

  “People feel as if they know you, even if you’ve never met. They worry how you’re coping. You must know that.”

  Charlotte was leaning forward, and her voice had softened into that of a sideshow hypnotist. She hadn’t been so cunning in the lifeboat, Esme remembered. She’d thought shouting and haranguing would bring others to her side. Which it hadn’t, of course.

  “I’m a reporter for the London Record,” Charlotte said. “I’d like to tell your story, yours and Mr. Van Hausen’s.”

  Esme shrank back, repulsed. Charlotte had swanned into her home with sympathetic murmurs and put-on concern, thinking she’d trick Esme into doing what she wanted. Esme dropped her cup in its saucer with a clatter and stood up. Insults and questions swirled in her head, but all she managed to say was, “Get out.”

  Charlotte rose cautiously, a mouse placating a territorial cat. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I’m sure you’ve been approached by all sorts of papers and magazines, and I thought you might agree to an interview with someone you knew, so as to stop all the bother.”

  “Why would I trust you?” Esme cried. She wanted to shriek loud enough to rattle the chandeliers. To launch into a rage that would hurtle her out of the onslaught of memories. She turned away, too quickly, and her knee slammed against a side table, knocking her off balance. Nauseous, swaying, she heard Charlotte apologize and say she could be reached at the Metropolitan Hotel if Esme changed her mind. Esme didn’t turn around. She didn’t look back as she teetered out of the room and up the stairs, making her faltering way to the bedroom. Back to the nightstand and the bottle that brought a sour but dependable relief.

  So much for the triumph of love over loss.

  The gin coated the back of her mouth like a medicinal penance. Now that Esme was safe in her second-story refuge, the blinds drawn against the accusing sunlight, she felt a resentful admiration for Charlotte’s nerve. There was a time when Esme would have courted such attention, a time when she saw newspapers as allies instead of enemies. She hadn’t minded playing the role of a sad-eyed young lover, one whose happiness was all the more precious for being tinged with heartbreak. Everyone, it seemed, had wanted her and Charlie to live happily ever after.

  No one would thank her for admitting they hadn’t.

  Damp-eyed, embracing her self-indulgent sorrow, Esme grabbed the silver-framed wedding photo on her bureau and lay it beside her as she burrowed under the covers. Charlie had loved her, in the beginning at least; she was sure of that. But he loved her in the carefree way he was capable of, not with the dogged devotion that weathers the boredom of daily routines. Esme had spent years wondering what she’d done wrong, then years after that shoveling the blame on Charlie. It was only recently that she’d come to believe they were doomed from the start, long before the gushing headlines. The moment she’d pulled Charlie into the lifeboat—without even thinking, simply reaching out in need—was the moment she’d lost him.

  How could they have foreseen the repercussions of that one action? Esme had been so grateful to have Charlie with her, to know he was alive. And saving him hadn’t been wholly selfish, either. They all might have drowned if Charlie hadn’t been there, keeping a cool head and rowing until his hands cramped in pain. On that night, it was impossible to imagine that each small decision might later be magnified beyond reason, or that one spontaneous gesture could be held up as evidence in the court of public opinion. Esme knew she hadn’t been as careful as sh
e should have been, but she’d been young and frightened and confused, and the only thing that made her feel better was Charlie. She could still remember how Charlie smelled when she leaned her face into his neck. So heady, so much hers. His warmth had seeped into Esme like a sedative, and she’d slipped her hand into his coat pocket, where his fingers clutched hers with forceful need. Charlie had been her anchor, holding her still.

  They’d both been more mindful of propriety in the days following their rescue. Charlie was solicitous on the Carpathia, asking after Esme’s health and joining her at meals, but they never spoke in private; Esme was taken into the care of the same Philadelphia society women she’d once regarded with bored contempt. Mrs. Thayer and Mrs. Widener were also recent widows—Mrs. Widener, appallingly, had lost her son as well—and Esme was soothed by their quiet camaraderie. In their presence, she wasn’t expected to talk or be charming. She could simply savor her relief at having survived.

  Esme grieved for Hiram in an obligated, perfunctory way. She didn’t really miss him until she was back in Philadelphia, wandering through their sprawling home, feeling like a child playing house. The chair at the head of the dining table would always be his, just as the large armchair in the sitting room was still molded to the shape of his body. She might as well have been living with a ghost. But Esme didn’t cry until his sister came to visit, her face splotchy and wan. As Esme’s sister-in-law spoke haltingly of the brother she’d lost, Esme felt the full enormity of Hiram’s absence. She’d dismissed him as plodding and dull, but he’d been a good man at heart. He’d deserved better.

  Esme’s guilt over Hiram in no way lessened her desire for Charlie. There was an inevitability to their marriage, a recognition among both their families that Charlie had taken on the role of Esme’s guardian, but mourning etiquette still had to be observed. For Esme, that meant months of condolence calls and meals eaten alone. Her correspondence with Charlie was a lifeline, for it was only in her letters that Esme was able to reveal her true self: hungry for Charlie and their future. Though she thought of Charlie’s body often, in her lonely bed, social niceties prevented her from even touching him. When Charlie called on Esme in Philadelphia, she received him with her father and the ever-obliging Mrs. Ayres as chaperones. When Esme spent a few days in Boston at the invitation of his mother, she stayed in a guest suite at the opposite side of the house from Charlie’s room and felt as if she were being constantly watched and critiqued. But Esme was Charlie’s choice, and his mother wouldn’t deny anything to her adored youngest child who’d miraculously survived the Titanic. If Charlie wanted to marry Esme, he could.