“Stop it,” Mrs. Trelawny snaps. Tommy’s crying has settled into a steady whine.
“He was half dead already.” Nurse Braxton speaks with the authority of a woman who is rarely contradicted. “Even if we’d been able to lift him into the boat, it’s unlikely he would have survived.”
“She did!” Charlotte gestures toward Anna. “She was in the water, and she survived!”
Anna wishes they would all stop looking at her. She is so tired. Tired of feeling helpless, tired of being overwhelmed by words she doesn’t understand. All she wants is to go home. More than anything, she wants to hug Papa. He is the only one who could help lift the weight of her grief.
“Every one of you has that man’s death on your conscience.” The words spill out from Charlotte in a torrent of disgust. “We would have reached him in time, if you hadn’t dithered about.”
Mr. Healy tries to stop her. “Don’t, please . . .”
“One man.” A man who might have been Reg. Forgive me, Reg. Forgive me for not saying goodbye. “He was someone’s son or brother or father. He meant nothing to you, but he may have meant the world to someone else.”
Esme begins to weep. It wasn’t Hiram in the water; she’s almost completely sure. But she can’t help thinking of him standing on the deck, ready to meet his fate without a word of complaint. Poor old loyal Hiram. She never loved him, not like she loves Charlie, but it seemed a sorry end for such a decent man. It’s wrong to be thinking of the future already, when Hiram might possibly still be alive, but if he is dead, and she does end up marrying Charlie, Esme believes Hiram would understand. He always wanted her to be happy, didn’t he? She likes to think of him watching over her, like a guardian angel.
“We’ll be all right, won’t we?” Esme whispers to Charlie.
He doesn’t answer. At first, Esme feels slighted by his inattentiveness, until she realizes he is searching for signs of the other lifeboats. How like Charlie, to keep up hope when everyone else is sulking! Of course they’ll be all right; she doesn’t need to hear him say it. They’re together, aren’t they? Only a few hours ago, Esme was mourning their inevitable parting, convinced she was about to lose the love of her life. Yet here they are, side by side. Charlie followed her into the boat, and he has held her hand and kept her safe, just as she knew he would.
Charlotte stamps her feet. The water is up to her ankles, and she sees that Mr. Healy has noticed, too. How much time do we have left? she nearly asks, but she doesn’t want to frighten the others. Neither does he, from the beseeching look he gives her. Their earlier rapport has been replaced by wary tension. Mr. Healy is watching her, afraid of what she might do or say. Charlotte has always been quick to act and speak her mind, qualities she used to think of as virtues. But her impulsiveness has pushed away the one person in this boat she has any respect for, and she doesn’t know how to set it right.
“What provisions do we have?” Charlie asks.
The question is addressed to Mr. Healy, but Mr. Wells responds. “A barrel of water and a tin of hardtack.”
“How long will that last us?”
“A day or two. No more.”
With Mrs. McBride shocked into silence—for once—Mrs. Westleigh speaks on behalf of her sisters. “We’ll be rescued before then, won’t we?”
Mr. Wells shrugs. To Esme’s irritation, he appears to be enjoying himself, frightening the passengers for his own amusement. She looks pointedly at Charlie, hoping to nudge him into speaking up. When he ignores her, she whispers, “You must make him stop.”
“Why, if he’s telling the truth?”
Charlie’s curtness cuts into Esme, and her feigned bravery withers. So this is how it ends. Days and nights drifting in the north Atlantic, more than a dozen people without enough to eat. Or will the lifeboat sink before the food runs out? She looks around at the others: slumped-over Mrs. Dunning, sleepy Tommy Trelawny, glowering Mrs. McBride—and wonders what will happen when they’re forced to start rationing. Esme trusts Charlie and Mr. Healy to be fair, but not Mr. Wells, and she wouldn’t put it past those Armstrong sisters to cheat their way into an extra serving. Mrs. Trelawny will fight on behalf of her children, and Nurse Braxton on behalf of Mrs. Dunning, and before you know it, they’ll be at each other’s throats. Even the Swedish girl must be stronger than she looks if she swam through that deadly water. She’s already proven that she doesn’t give up easily.
If only Charlie didn’t look so disheartened. Charlie’s life force has always burned hotter and brighter than anyone else’s—Esme has fed off it, craved it for herself—but the events of this night have extinguished it, leaving a glassy-eyed shell. In a moment of insight that upends her, Esme understands that this is Charlie, too. The part of him she was never allowed to see. Charlie will never be a true hero, because he always follows, never leads. In the boat, his eyes caught in the moonlight, he is a statue: beautiful but helpless.
Well, if it comes to it, Esme will fight for both of them. No one in this boat will dare go up against a Van Hausen and a Harper.
Charlotte can feel the miasma of despair move over and through her fellow passengers. The darkness is receding, but the approach of a new day offers none of the hoped-for consolations. They are still lost, still alone. Freed from the terror of the sinking and no longer distracted by the shrieks of the dying, they must face the sobering reality that there is no promise of salvation.
Mr. Healy is rummaging in the bottom of the boat, his hands splashing in the water. He hasn’t given up, but the others watch him listlessly.
“Mr. Wells, have we any glasses?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Did they give any thought to provisions?” Mr. Healy mutters, his voice strained, as he continues to search the flooded hull. Charlotte wonders if he’s already planning to ration out the drinking water—they should wait a while longer, surely? Then she realizes he is looking for a spyglass, to spot another boat. Charlotte is moved by Mr. Healy’s dogged persistence, and the last remnants of her determination urge her to help him. She should be searching alongside him, or seeing what can be done to make the plug more secure, or rallying the others to row—to warm up, if nothing more. But Charlotte is too exhausted, and she can no longer bear to be the object of angry stares. All she can do is drift, like the boat itself, and watch as Mr. Healy makes his lone and possibly futile attempt to save them.
And then Charlotte is aware of a gradual shift, as if everyone has taken a simultaneous breath. Faces turn; skirts and coats rustle. In the gray haze of sunrise, Charlotte sees a cavalcade of icy boulders jutting out from the sea. They are white and deep blue and all the shades in between, each angle distinct, a display of serene strength.
“What’s that?” Tommy asks, his high-pitched voice breaking the silence.
“Icebergs,” Mr. Healy says.
He looks so tired, Charlotte thinks, a wan facsimile of the efficient sailor who’d thrown out a line to a dying man. She hasn’t thought until now that he must have lost friends, too. Loyal crewmen who did their duty and went down with the Titanic.
“There’s a ship!” Charlie shouts out, and they all jostle to look, bodies twisting up and around. Esme can’t be sure at first; it’s impossible to see anything other than those glacial outcroppings. Then a distant shape resolves itself in her mind—the bow, a smokestack; Charlie was right!—and Esme lets out a yelp of joy. Elation floods her so completely that her body moves without thought. She reaches for Charlie and presses her forehead against his chest, and she feels the flutter of his fingers in the hair at the back of her neck. It’s flagrant and reckless, and Esme doesn’t care.
Mr. Healy barks out orders. “We must row for her. Row for our lives. Mr. Van Hausen, Mr. Wells . . .”
Charlie has already picked up his oar. Mr. Wells’s mouth is half open, like a dog panting for his supper. He presses an oar into the lock and gives Mr. Healy a spritely salute.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!”
Nurse Braxton scrambles b
ack to the tiller as the men position their oars. Mrs. McBride reaches for an oar bobbing in the water at her feet.
“I will join you, gentlemen,” she announces.
Mrs. Westleigh and Miss Armstrong look gleefully impressed by their older sister’s pluck. It is impossible to tell what Mrs. Trelawny is feeling; her head is bent downward, and she is either crying or praying.
Charlotte picks up an oar and gives Anna an encouraging smile.
“A ship,” she says. Does the girl understand? “We’re saved.”
She grabs hold of Anna’s hand and squeezes; her skin is still so cold. Charlotte feels a fleeting pity for this poor, lost little thing, who doesn’t look nearly old enough to be on her own. Then Charlotte’s thoughts turn back to herself, and she wonders where this ship will take them. London? New York? She doesn’t care, as long as Reg is on deck, waiting for her.
Anna looks at the ship in the distance and thinks only of blankets and soup and coffee. Her body is assaulted by shivers; she shakes and shakes and can’t stop.
Mrs. McBride gloats about her prowess with the oar; her sisters offer delighted encouragement as Mr. Wells laughs. The boat barrels forward, propelled by rowers working in union, locked in the same rhythm.
Charlie is grinning, and his cheeks are flushed, and Esme thinks he has never looked so handsome.
“Mr. Healy and Mr. Wells, I’ve got ten dollars for each of you when we board,” Charlie says, his breaths labored but steady. “I hope that’s enough to replace what you’ve lost.”
“Much obliged,” Mr. Healy mutters, his eyes on their target, while Mr. Wells lets out a more delighted, “Thank you, sir!”
Relentlessly, Lifeboat 21 glides across the glassy sea, as its passengers move into their futures.
PART FOUR: AFTERMATH
ANNA
March 1933
To Mrs. Van Hausen, with most sincere greetings . . .
Anna tipped the pen sideways, tapping it with her thumb. Did that set the proper tone? She was still so uncertain of her written English. A woman like Mrs. Van Hausen would have all sorts of impressive correspondents, and Anna didn’t want to come across as a country rube. She heard Josef stomping his boots outside the kitchen door and slid the letter under a stack of seed catalogs on the corner of the desk.
“Easier than I thought!” Josef called out.
He’d been working on the car, trying to discover the source of a rattling noise that had been irritating him for days. In a few hours, he would be driving to the Lake Crossing train station to pick up Sarah for her usual weekend visit. During the past few months of Saturday suppers and Sunday lunches, Anna had watched her children marvel at the change in their parents. She saw Sarah and John glance at each other when Josef reached for Anna’s hand, perhaps wondering whether age had made them more sentimental. Susan simply beamed.
Anna heard water splashing in the kitchen sink, then Josef leaned around the doorframe of the front room. His cheerful, questioning expression made Anna ashamed of her secrecy. She ought to have told him what she was thinking weeks ago. After all, it would have to be a joint decision.
Anna waved Josef into the room and pulled out the letter she’d started. Her fingertips rubbed absently along the paper as she talked.
“You remember when I told you about Charlotte? From the lifeboat?”
Josef nodded.
“I’ve always felt bad about keeping her money.”
Josef leaned against the doorjamb, bracing himself for more than a quick exchange.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “You couldn’t find her.”
“I didn’t try very hard. There was another woman in our boat, Mrs. Van Hausen, as she’s now known. I saw an obituary for her husband, in a magazine, and it said she lives in New York. She’s very rich—I’m sure I could find her address without much trouble. They have directories for all the big cities at the telephone company offices. Mrs. Van Hausen might know Charlotte’s surname and where she lives—it’s worth a try, at least. I could write to the White Star Line offices, too.”
“Sounds like you’ve already put some thought into this,” Josef observed.
“You know how many people are suffering since the stock market crash. Losing their jobs and their homes. I could tell by Charlotte’s clothes that she wasn’t rich, and I can’t help wondering if that money might make a difference in her life. After all, we have been so blessed.”
Josef folded his arms tight across his chest, his face impassive.
“If I can find her, I want to give the money back,” Anna said. “Can we afford it?”
The Depression hadn’t spared Andersson Construction. There were fewer houses being built and less money coming in. But people still needed roofs repaired and windows replaced. Josef kept busy, and Anna never had to worry about putting food on the table or buying new shoes for her children. The debt she owed Charlotte went so much deeper than money, but this would be the easiest way to show her gratitude.
Josef considered the consequences of Anna’s request, in his usual thoughtful way. No one else would have noticed the flicker in his eyes when he made his decision, for no one else had spent as much time looking into them as Anna.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Josef said.
ESME
April 1933
“Hard to imagine, isn’t it? That soaked little girl as the mother of three children?”
Sabine nodded, the pins in her mouth bobbing along with the movement of her head. Esme tried to keep still. With any other customer, the assistant seamstress would be doing the hemming, but Sabine always saw to Esme’s clothes herself.
“She saw an article about Charlie in a magazine,” Esme continued. “Imagine that! Even out there on the prairie, people know who he is.”
Sabine deftly slid a pin through a length of shimmering silk. Navy blue, appropriate for a widow but not depressingly somber. Sabine had a talent for translating each woman’s personal preferences into a tasteful public image.
“It’s very nice she should write,” Sabine said, pulling herself up from a crouched position. She surveyed the hem, which fell to mid-calf. Just right.
“Oh, I haven’t gotten to the best part,” Esme said. “Anna asked if I knew how to reach Charlotte.”
Esme smiled, pleased by Sabine’s surprised expression.
“The English woman?” Sabine asked. “The one who came to your house?”
“Can you believe it? Apparently, Anna has been wanting to write Charlotte for years, but she didn’t remember Charlotte’s last name. And now it turns out I not only know Charlotte’s name, I have her calling card and can tell Anna exactly where she lives!”
“It is a sign from God,” Sabine said.
Was it? Both Charlotte and Anna had sought out Esme after hearing about Charlie. How strange, that his death should bring them together again.
“Anyway, I wrote Anna back this morning. My good deed for the day.” Esme twisted her hips from side to side, admiring herself in the mirror. “Oh, this is lovely.”
Sabine smiled, in her typically modest way. How many times had Esme seen her look downward, deflecting praise with a twist of her chin? It struck Esme that she knew Sabine’s expressions and gestures as well as those of her own children. Yet Sabine’s thoughts—her soul—were as much a mystery as they’d ever been. Though they were both past forty and had spent half their lives together, Sabine was in many ways still a stranger.
Esme felt unusually clearheaded that morning; she’d been out late at a concert with Rosie the night before and hadn’t taken her usual dose of medicine before bed. Yet she’d slept well, with no dreams. She’d forgotten how good it felt to sink into oblivion. To have her mind go blank, for eight blessed hours.
Sabine stretched out her hands as Esme slid the dress off her body. It was a natural reflex; Sabine was always ready to catch whatever Esme cast off. Only today, it felt different. Today, Esme looked over her shoulder as she shrugged away the silk and watched Sabine�
��s hands flutter amid the fabric. She noticed a streak of gray colonizing Sabine’s dark hair. It felt like Sabine had always been there, hovering behind Esme, picking up and carrying away and fetching whatever was needed. Her silent, self-effacing protector.
Esme pulled on her wool skirt and buttoned her blouse, waving away Sabine’s offers of help. With modern fashions, even the most spoiled woman could dress herself. Who needed a ladies’ maid? Then, with a clarity that caught her off balance, Esme remembered a moment from her wedding night with Hiram. How self-conscious she’d felt in her elaborate dress, until Hiram stepped up to unfasten the buttons, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No fuss, no suggestive leer—just Hiram doing his best to put her at ease. She’d been so grateful, so relieved . . .
“Madame?”
Sabine was watching Esme, concerned, and Esme was surprised to feel her eyes sting with tears.
“I’m all right,” Esme rushed to say, as she’d done a hundred times since Charlie’s death. Then, looking at Sabine’s dear, familiar face, “I was thinking of Mr. Harper.”
Sabine looked sad, but also grateful, her pain mingled with relief. Esme never talked about Hiram, but she saw that Sabine still thought of him, too, and she realized their shared loss would forever knit them together. Whether Sabine felt the normal affection of an employee for a generous employer or something more intimate didn’t matter. Sabine wouldn’t mind Esme wallowing in the past. She might even welcome it.
“He was a good man,” Esme said. “A kind man. I wish I’d been a better wife.”
Sabine nodded, briefly and decisively. She’d never chide her former mistress, but her acknowledgment of Esme’s sins marked a rare moment of honesty between them.
The bell over the shop’s front door chimed, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Esme spoke quickly, knowing she hadn’t much time.
“I’ve been talking to the children about our summer plans. Rosie’s always going on that she’s the only one of her friends who’s never been to Europe, and I thought to myself, why not? It would be good to get away, after all that’s happened. I never thought I’d get on a boat again, but Rosie begged and begged, and Robbie said an adventure would do us good . . .”
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