On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  When the engagement was announced, six months after the sinking, Charlie and Esme had already settled the terms of their married life. They would start fresh in New York, where Charlie’s Harvard connections had already found him a job in banking, and his parents would buy them a suitably distinguished house. Esme took care to be circumspect with Hiram’s family and friends, describing the upcoming union in practical rather than emotional terms, but she saw how much the news wounded Hiram’s sister. It couldn’t be easy to see her brother so quickly replaced. But Hiram’s sister was gracious and gave Esme her blessing.

  “Hiram wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone,” she said. “You’re so young. You have a whole life ahead of you.”

  Queasy with guilt, Esme remembered her last glimpse of Hiram on deck, as he stoically watched her leave. Had he thought her a loyal wife, in those final moments? The thought that he’d gone to his death knowing about Charlie felt suddenly like a greater betrayal than her unfaithfulness, for it was a wrong she could never set right. In the bleak early morning hours before her wedding, as Esme paced and fretted over her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, she even blurted out her regrets to Sabine, who shook her head when Esme asked if Hiram had ever questioned Esme’s nighttime absences. Sabine was too naïve to lie, but Esme wasn’t comforted by her assurances. If Hiram had doubted Esme’s fidelity, he wouldn’t have confided his fears to a maid.

  It was lack of sleep, Esme told herself, that made her so lackluster at the moment she should have been happiest. The wedding was appropriate to their circumstances: a simple ceremony performed at Charlie’s family home, with only immediate family in attendance. When Esme said her vows, it felt as if she were acting out an elaborate fantasy: This is what it would be like to marry Charlie Van Hausen. And if their wedding night was a disappointment, with none of the passion of their shipboard couplings, Esme wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on it. They needed time to rediscover each other, that was all.

  It wasn’t until the following day, when Charlie and Esme left for the train station, that they learned how much their lives had changed. A gauntlet of reporters and photographers extended along the sidewalk in front of the house, and Charlie and Esme had to jostle through them to get to the car. There were more newspapermen waiting for them in New York. Esme pretended to find it a bother, but secretly she was pleased. She’d always known that she and Charlie belonged together; now, it seemed as if the world agreed.

  But true love only sells papers for so long. Within a few days, there were other stories, raising questions about Charlie and how he’d managed to live, when so many other first-class gentlemen had died. The old rumor that a man had snuck into a lifeboat dressed as a woman—which Esme thought had been put to rest at the Senate hearings—was exhumed and reexamined. Charlie’s payment to the crewmen was once again questioned, his generosity twisted into something shameful. What made it worse was Charlie’s unwillingness to fight back. The more Esme defended him, the more he retreated.

  And now here was Charlotte, popping up like a ghost from Esme’s haunted past. Older, of course, less histrionic, but still unmistakably herself. Charlotte was one of those lucky women whose allure wasn’t solely dependent on youth. It was amazing, really, that Esme had remembered her so quickly, when they’d been together only a few hours, such a long time ago. Then again, those hours had dragged like years. Thinking of the lifeboat made Esme physically ache for the Charlie he’d once been, the man who’d grabbed her hand when she pulled. During all the rituals of loss she’d endured since Charlie’s death, Esme had struggled to talk about her husband without hinting at her disappointment or their unhappiness. Now, she felt a shuddering longing for the Charlie who’d died long before. She still loved that man—she always would—and that realization released the tears she hadn’t even known were there.

  Esme and Charlie had never talked about the boat; she’d followed his example and tried to forget. But in an echo of her younger, lovestruck self, Esme wanted to talk about the object of her adoration, to relive every touch and feeling. Charlotte had been there. She might understand.

  Esme wiped her face with her sleeve and dragged herself up from the bed. From the hallway telephone, she called the Metropolitan Hotel and left a message for Mrs. Evers, asking if they could meet. Then she took a bath and a nap. When she woke up, refreshed and nearly sober, a note in Mrs. Gerstner’s neat handwriting was waiting on the bedside table: Mrs. Evers invites you to dinner as her guest at the Metropolitan Hotel. 8:00 p.m. It was the first time, Esme realized, that she’d be leaving the house since Charlie’s funeral.

  The Metropolitan was one of those genteelly shabby hotels that stays in business thanks to below-market prices and word of mouth. Just the sort of place that appealed to penny-pinching English travelers, Esme thought as she stepped out of the taxi. The doorman was slow-moving and seemingly mute, but Esme was relieved to be spared the fawning that would have awaited her at the Ritz or the Waldorf. How heavenly it was to be anonymous.

  Charlotte was waiting in the cramped, ill-lit lobby, and she led the way into the equally glum dining room. The maître d’ escorted them to a table by the front window, well away from the few other diners. Esme ordered soup, as per usual; in her efforts to remain slim, she’d grown accustomed to picking at meals rather than eating them. Saving her conversational strength for what was to come, she agreed with Charlotte that the weather had been lovely, and it was a shame to see all those hobos camped out in Central Park. Charlotte asked about Esme’s children, and Esme felt a nourishing flush of pride. She’d made a success of that part of her life, at least.

  “Robbie’s at Harvard. We’re so proud of him . . .” Esme stumbled and paused. “That is—I’m so proud. He’s smart and he’s kind, and you should see him on the football field! No one can keep up with him.”

  Charlotte smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure, but she couldn’t know how extraordinary Robbie really was. He’d inherited Charlie’s exuberance and Esme’s bubbly laugh, but his good nature was underpinned by a wary protectiveness of those he loved. Esme never could have gotten through the funeral without Robbie beside her, slipping his hand in the crook of her elbow so she wouldn’t stumble. Even as a child, he’d been the one to coax her out of her room when all she wanted to do was sob her way through a bottle. He’d had a way of calling out “Mother?” with a catch in his voice that she couldn’t resist.

  “Rosie—Rosalind—is thirteen. She’s staying with Charlie’s mother right now, in Boston. Mrs. Van Hausen was quite cut up, as you can imagine.”

  Mrs. Van Hausen had always been dour, and Charlie’s death had sunk her into full-blown despair. Esme couldn’t bear to be around her. Mrs. Van Hausen openly blamed Esme for Charlie’s unhappiness, forgetting that a failed marriage was a joint accomplishment, and Charlie hadn’t exactly held up his side of the bargain.

  “Do you have children?” Esme asked.

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, I never married.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, “After Mr. Evers.”

  Esme was about to be polite and ask how long they’d been married, but Charlotte seemed intent on moving the conversation away from herself.

  “I’m awfully glad you agreed to see me,” Charlotte said. She reached into the handbag that sat on the floor by her chair. “I’ll take a few notes now, if you don’t mind, then we can do the official interview afterward.”

  Esme shook her head. “I came to tell you I won’t do an interview. You can put that away.”

  She looked pointedly at the pen in Charlotte’s hand. There was a pause while Charlotte seemed to consider whether it was worth arguing. Then she put the pen back.

  “All right.”

  There was no reason for Esme to linger in a room where spilled sauce streaked the shabby carpets and the half-hearted lighting made everyone look sick. Esme could summon enough superficial conversation to get through the meal and leave before she said things she’d later regret. But what did she have to go back t
o? An empty house. Her bed. The bottle. It wouldn’t be long before the last of the liquor was gone, and Esme didn’t have the faintest idea how to find a bootlegger; Charlie had taken care of those arrangements. Dragging out this meeting would help her to ration what she had left.

  But that wasn’t the main reason Esme chose to stay. Charlotte was the last person she should confide in—a journalist, of all people!—yet Esme trusted her all the same. She realized, with a jolt, that Charlotte was watching her the way Charlie used to, back in England, before they’d ever kissed. It was the kind of look that draws one person to another: I want to know you. Tell me who you are.

  And so Esme took a chance, just as she had with Charlie.

  “Would you like to hear the real story of my marriage?” she asked Charlotte.

  Charlotte looked wary.

  “You can’t write anything down, and you can’t print anything I say. I have some very good lawyers at my disposal if you choose to break those terms.”

  “There’s no need for lawyers,” Charlotte said. “I’ll keep whatever you tell me in confidence.”

  Perhaps she’d be content to simply listen, after all. There were so many things Esme wanted to say, confessions she could never make to her children or the lunch companions she referred to as friends. The truth was bubbling up, after decades of suppression, and Esme no longer felt sturdy enough to contain it. Charlotte suddenly seemed the only person who mattered. The only person who might give absolution.

  “My grand Titanic romance,” Esme intoned dramatically. “I believed in it as much as anyone. I was desperately in love with Charlie. Even before the lifeboat. We’d met in England, you see, and I thought he was the most handsome, perfect man I’d ever met. I was married, and I know it was wrong, but I simply couldn’t resist him. You had to have suspected . . .” Esme shot Charlotte a glance, but Charlotte’s face remained perfectly composed. Either she genuinely didn’t know, or she was a masterful liar. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very discreet,” Esme said. “You must have noticed how I clung on to him.”

  “I didn’t notice much about you or Mr. Van Hausen,” Charlotte said. “I was more concerned with other matters.”

  His death is on your hands! Charlotte had screamed. She’d sounded deranged, which made it easier to brush off. Esme wondered if Charlotte still believed it. She was afraid to ask.

  “I felt very bad about Mr. Harper,” Esme said. “My husband was a good man. But I was never in love with him, not like I was with Charlie. I hadn’t been very happy with Hiram—I guess that’s obvious, given my behavior—but I thought things would be different with Charlie. We were starting out wildly in love, so of course we’d have a successful marriage. That’s how it’s supposed to work, isn’t it?”

  “I’d like to believe so.”

  “Were you very much in love when you married Mr. Evers?” Esme asked.

  The question obviously took Charlotte by surprise. Her eyes roamed the restaurant, as if she’d find the right words in a far-off corner. In the end, all she said was, “Yes.”

  “You must think I’m a terrible person.”

  “No.” Charlotte’s hand reached impulsively across the table in a gesture of reassurance. “Reginald and I were hardly a perfect match. There were times I hated him, too.”

  Esme was unexpectedly touched by the confession. She might have even asked a few questions about Reginald Evers if the waiter hadn’t returned with their food. Esme swirled the dollop of cream that bulged from the center of her soup and watched the tendrils of white expand. The smell made her queasy. Charlotte dug into her roast, leaving Esme to talk.

  “It’s awful to admit, but I saw the sinking as a sign that Charlie and I were meant to be together. If everything had gone as planned, we would have said goodbye in New York, and I’d have gone back to my boring life with Hiram, and Charlie would have been matched up with some heiress or another. We’d never have seen each other again. When Charlie appeared at that window—when he helped you into the boat—it felt like fate. Hiram wasn’t even dead yet, but I felt like my true husband had been saved.”

  Esme was startled to feel her eyes tingle with tears. Whatever her private heartaches, Mrs. Esme Van Hausen never made a spectacle of herself in public. She forced down a spoonful of soup, steadying her breathing.

  “And then we were rescued, and you can guess the rest. Charlie and I corresponded, and it wasn’t long before we were talking about marriage, and I know some people said we moved too fast, but I didn’t care.” Esme tried to block out an image of Hiram’s sister, her face rigid with a forced smile. “The sinking made both of us determined to follow our hearts. If you could die tomorrow, why not live today?”

  It was one of Charlie’s favorite sayings, one Esme had been happy to live by in the early years. It hadn’t been quite so inspiring later, when Esme was pregnant and exhausted and Charlie announced he was taking flying lessons or going on a weeklong hunting expedition with friends. As if he’d had a premonition of early death, Charlie had packed more than his share of adventure into his forty-three years.

  “All the papers in England ran stories about your wedding,” Charlotte said. “Seemed your picture was everywhere.”

  “Did you write about it?”

  “‘My Night with the Titanic Sweethearts’?” Charlotte said scornfully. “No, I didn’t tell anyone I’d met you. Hardly anyone I work with knows I was on the Titanic, to this day.”

  “It was sort of fun to be famous.” Until the gossip started and Charlie began ripping up the papers whenever a new story appeared. Charlotte didn’t need to hear about all that. “I enjoyed setting up house, talking to Charlie over dinner each night—we were always laughing, not quite believing it was true. It seemed like I’d finally gotten everything I ever wanted.”

  That first year had been magical, every day beginning and ending with kisses. The excitement of throwing their first parties, Charlie’s delighted surprise when Esme told him she was expecting. It felt like a very long time ago, so long that all the emotion had seeped out from her memories. Esme could see their faces, their gestures, their affectionate looks. But they were frozen images, nothing more.

  “I couldn’t expect things to stay magical forever, of course. Charlie was so impulsive—it was one of the things I loved about him—but it was hard on me, sometimes. He hated his job, so he was grumpy when he came home, and he’d want a distraction, but I’d be tired after a day with the children . . .”

  Having felt the loss of her own mother so keenly, Esme was determined to be an active, visible presence in Robbie and Rosie’s lives. They had a nanny, as did every other family they knew, but Esme was the one who woke up with the children and fed them breakfast. She was the one who sang them to sleep. She’d never have dreamed, back then, of locking herself away from them, as had become an all-too-frequent habit. Off Charlie would go to Long Island for the weekend, or his cousin’s house in Boston, leaving Esme on her own, a young mother for whom the 1920s never roared. She wasn’t sure when Charlie started cheating on her, only that he grew less inclined to hide it. Maybe he thought she wouldn’t care, after what she’d done to Hiram. But it hurt, far more than he knew.

  “I got to feeling pretty sorry for myself,” Esme told Charlotte. “I’d wonder where we’d gone wrong, and I started to think I was being punished, for how I’d treated my first husband. That made me think about Hiram, and I realized I’d never really given him a fair shake. We were so different, and I thought he was such an old fogey, but he never would have treated me the way Charlie did. He’d never have gone off to Florida on a whim and forgotten to tell me for three days. He wouldn’t have left me alone when Rosie had a fever and I was scared sick. He had a steadiness I used to find boring, until I was living with the opposite. It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? There I was, finally married to the man I thought was the love of my life. And I’d never been so unhappy.”

  Charlotte’s sympathetic silence encouraged Esme to go on.

  “Once
I accepted my misery, things got easier.” Esme attempted a laugh, but it came out wrong. More like a cough. “I put my energy into the children and charity work. Entire days would pass when Charlie and I were both at home but didn’t speak. And it wasn’t entirely his fault. I’d known what he was like from the very beginning—the kind of man who makes a pass at another man’s wife. Why should I have been surprised that marriage bored him?”

  In a perverse twist of their earlier romance, Esme found the best way to capture Charlie’s attention was by hurling insults and wine glasses across the dining room. Dramatic scenes were the only way they ever ended up together in bed. As the children grew older and Esme grew wearier, she began sleeping in one of the guest rooms. It was potently satisfying to slam the door and shout “I hate you!” without having to look at Charlie’s face. Wouldn’t that make a swell story for the papers?

  “It’s natural to have regrets,” Charlotte said. “Especially when you’re still grieving.”

  “I failed him, in the end.” Esme nearly whispered the words, not sure she was going to say them until they were out. “He had a tough time, recently. Wall Street bankers aren’t very popular these days.”

  There’d been angry letters and threats of a lawsuit. A furious woman pounding on the front door, accusing Charlie of stealing her life savings. Esme hadn’t known how to get rid of her without calling the police, which only brought more attention to the whole sordid matter. She’d ignored the late-night phone calls, the headlines that said Charlie’s bank was on the brink of collapse. Charlie had laughed it all off, seemingly as indestructible as ever. Esme hadn’t realized how much the years had weakened him, too.