Esme’s voice trailed off. She wasn’t sure how to explain the next part. How to ask with the requisite nonchalance.
“Where will you go?” Sabine asked politely.
“Rosie wants to see London, and she says Nice has become quite fashionable.”
Sabine had turned away, busy with Esme’s dress. She pulled it onto a hanger while simultaneously craning her neck to see who’d come into the shop.
“Would you like to come?”
Esme knew she’d rushed the invitation; she should have built up to the offer before blurting it out. Sabine looked taken aback, and no wonder. It wasn’t as if she and Esme were friends. They never met for lunch or gossiped over tea. Yet Esme felt herself straining against the constraints of their relationship.
“You could see your family,” Esme said.
At first, she was hurt by Sabine’s impassive silence. Then Esme realized Sabine had locked her face into that blank, stiff expression because she was trying not to cry. For the first time, Esme wondered what it had been like for Sabine to leave her parents, her friends, her country—everything she’d ever known. During all the years Sabine had served her so faithfully, it had never occurred to Esme that her maid might be homesick. She’d never thought of giving Sabine the time and money for a visit back to Paris.
“I’ll pay for everything,” Esme insisted. “I’m selling the house—I hardly need it since I never entertain. It will be a relief, actually, not having to manage that monstrosity.” And the words Esme had said half-heartedly to her lawyer and Charlie’s business associates when they discussed her finances suddenly felt true. Letting go of the house would lighten her spirits. She would be free.
“You are sure, madame?”
The fact that Sabine hadn’t even bothered to protest was a sign of how much she wanted to go. Esme wanted to hug her as she would have hugged Rosie or Robbie. For years, she’d thought of Sabine as one of her children—someone she was responsible for, even though they were practically the same age. The passing of time had subtly reversed their roles: Esme remained childlike and dependent on others as Sabine matured into self-sufficiency. Sabine had never married, never been distracted by the demands of motherhood. She’d carved out her own destiny.
“Of course I’m sure,” Esme said. “My French is atrocious. We’ll be in dire straits without you.”
Sabine shook her head, but she was smiling, and Esme smiled back and reached out. Their fingers intertwined and squeezed. We used to laugh all the time, Esme remembered. We’d laugh and laugh, and Hiram would roll his eyes, pretending to disapprove.
How had Esme never realized that Sabine was the truest friend she had? Sabine had known Esme as both Mrs. Harper and Mrs. Van Hausen; she’d seen Esme at her worst and never faltered in her allegiance. Esme had thought she’d never cross the Atlantic again. Worn down by Rosie’s pleading, she’d tentatively agreed to make the journey, knowing she’d have to drug herself half senseless in order to board the ship.
Or maybe not, if Sabine was along. Sabine would understand why Esme was nervous about sailing; she might even share the same fear. They could confide in each other, take strength from each other. Esme might even be brave enough to leave her bottles at home.
CHARLOTTE
May 1933
Mr. Healy lived in a modest terraced house, indistinguishable from its neighbors on the quiet Southampton street. One large picture window downstairs, two smaller windows on top, the sort of stolidly respectable dwelling the poor aspire to and the rich dismiss. A house that didn’t reveal anything about the people who lived inside.
Finding Mr. Healy had been easy enough. The White Star Line office had been very helpful, especially after Charlotte told them where she worked and said she might mention White Star’s newest ship in her next column. A secretary told Charlotte that Mr. Healy had served on the Olympic in the years after the war and was now a captain with a commercial shipping line. She even gave Charlotte his address.
Ever since Charlotte had returned from America, the memories that had been stirred up by her conversations with Esme and Georgie had become clearer and more persistent. The past, at times, seemed more vibrant than the present. And every time Charlotte pictured the Titanic and what came after, her thoughts circled back to Mr. Healy. His steadfastness in the boat. His determination to save whomever he could. She still thought of him as one of the most decent men she’d ever met. Yet the last time she’d seen him, at the hearings, his entire body sagged with the burden of that poor man’s death. Had his guilt eased with time? She hoped so; she liked to think he’d gone on to live a full, happy life.
It would take only a few minutes to dash off a note in a suitably breezy tone; Charlotte was an expert at fitting words together to achieve a desired effect. The difficulty was in explaining why she wanted to see him. Every reason that occurred to her sounded appallingly sentimental. Or half mad.
Do you still think about the lifeboat?
You’ll never believe what happened to Charles Van Hausen!
I’ve never forgotten you.
Georgie had been urging her to do it for months. Georgie, who’d reconciled with his mother and become one of Charlotte’s favorite correspondents, liked to tease her: Have you tracked down the dreamy sailor you told me about? Does he have three chins and twelve children? Georgie was coming to visit Lady Upton in a few weeks, and he threatened to confront Mr. Healy himself if Charlotte hadn’t spoken to him by then. Charlotte didn’t think he’d do it, but Georgie’s pestering added a twist of guilt to her inaction.
Then came another letter from America, postmarked in Minneapolis. The news it contained was startling enough to jolt Charlotte into action. Mr. Healy had been there; he’d seen Anna wrapped in Reg’s coat. She remembered the relief she’d felt when Mr. Healy passed out the oars: He knows what he’s about; we’re in good hands.
He’d know what to do.
Charlotte knocked on the door, two quick raps. She’d prepared herself for an aged version of the face that stalked her memories, so she wasn’t taken aback by Mr. Healy’s receding hairline or the crinkles around his eyes. What surprised Charlotte was how genuinely pleased she was to see this middle-aged man she barely knew.
Mr. Healy shook Charlotte’s hand, polite but restrained, and invited her in. He looked much calmer than Charlotte felt, as if the potential awkwardness of this reunion had never crossed his mind, and Charlotte tried to mimic his composure. Her usual technique when meeting someone new was to unleash a barrage of cheery conversation, but she could tell he’d be put off by too much chatter.
“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Healy said, taking Charlotte’s hat. “I thought, at first, of suggesting a café—it would have been more proper, I suppose?”
Charlotte shook her head, as if it didn’t matter to her one way or the other, though she had been surprised when he’d responded to her letter with an invitation to his home.
“My concern was that the conversation might turn to matters best discussed in private. I’m sure you understand.” Mr. Healy showed Charlotte into the front parlor. “Please sit down; I’ll fetch the tea.”
The house had a somber aura of solitude. Charlotte glanced around for clues to his living arrangements. The parlor was cramped but pristine, with a dark-green sofa and matching armchair. Prints of nautical scenes hung in simple wood frames on the walls. There were no toys or photographs or any other evidence of family life, and Charlotte had seen only a single coat on the rack in the hall. But perhaps the parlor was kept neat for visitors, and the children’s things were banished upstairs.
Mr. Healy returned with a tray and set it down on the side table next to Charlotte. A silver tea service was set crookedly in the center, with floral china cups on either side. An array of store-bought biscuits had been spread across a matching floral plate. Charlotte was rather touched by the haphazard arrangement. Mr. Healy had clearly prepared it all himself.
Charlotte nodded yes for both milk and sugar, then took an intro
ductory sip. The tea was hotter than expected, making her wince before she set down her cup. Mr. Healy sat in the armchair opposite Charlotte, unruffled, waiting for her to speak first. It was rather exasperating to have no indication what he was thinking.
“I imagine my letter came as a surprise,” Charlotte began.
“Indeed,” Mr. Healy said. “But a pleasant one.”
“Was it? I’m so glad.”
Charlotte’s nerves began to settle. Mr. Healy was too well mannered to ask directly why she’d come, but she caught a flicker of apprehension in his placid gaze.
“Do you ever talk about the Titanic?” she asked, hoping to catch him off guard.
Mr. Healy shook his head. “Best not to,” he said.
“That’s what I believed, for a very long time,” Charlotte said. “I came back to London not long after. I started a new job, I made new friends, and I told no one. There didn’t seem any point in reliving it or being part of all that gossip or recrimination. I thought I’d put it behind me, but it’s the strangest thing . . .” Charlotte wondered if Mr. Healy would understand, but there was no point to coming if she wasn’t going to be honest. “The more time has passed, the more I find myself thinking about what happened.”
“Are you planning to write about it?” Mr. Healy asked.
“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, surprised.
Mr. Healy looked momentarily abashed. “I know you work for one of the papers. I’m sorry, I can’t remember which one.”
“The Record,” Charlotte said.
“That’s it. My wife used to buy it from time to time.”
So there was a Mrs. Healy. Charlotte wondered where she was and if she knew her husband had a visitor today. Perhaps Edmund had purposely asked Charlotte to come at a time when he knew his wife would be out.
“I remember seeing your name on a story,” Mr. Healy said. “Something about a fox loose in a manor house.”
“Oh yes! The indoor fox hunt Lady Darlington arranged for her husband’s birthday.” Charlotte was surprised he remembered; it had to be more than ten years ago. “Hounds careening up the stairs and knocking over the family china. It was utter madness.”
“I was chuffed to think of you swanning around with all those peers,” Mr. Healy said.
“I was only half a step up from the help,” Charlotte said. “Lady Darlington always invites society columnists to her house parties. She’s desperate to cultivate a reputation for outrageousness.”
“Sounds entertaining.”
Everyone thought it was. They saw Charlotte’s life as a series of amusing escapades, not knowing the drudgery that each daily column required. For what felt like eons, Charlotte had faked friendliness and pretended to find insipid bores fascinating. She’d wasted years of her life—and much of her talent—chronicling the childish antics of the upper classes. Yet that work would be her legacy.
“I used to enjoy it,” Charlotte said. Mr. Healy’s curious look encouraged her to go on, to acknowledge the doubts she hadn’t allowed herself to examine. “I like meeting new people, and I like telling stories. I’m good at it. But it feels as if I’ve been running toward a prize that was always just out of reach, and it’s only recently I’ve realized there isn’t one. There’s no mountaintop to conquer. Simply more of the same.”
The despondency of her admission struck Charlotte only once she’d said it aloud. It was certainly more than she’d meant to share.
“Your turn,” she said brightly. “I ought to address you as Captain Healy, oughtn’t I?”
Mr. Healy nodded, but with none of the roosterish pride Charlotte was accustomed to in military men.
“It was very brave of you to go back to sea afterward. I avoided sailing for years.”
“My father was a sailor, and my grandfather before him,” Mr. Healy said. “I had no choice.”
Of course he didn’t. Charlotte’s social circle was filled with people who’d struck out on their own, reinventing themselves as poets or actors or aristocratic daredevils. She’d forgotten, momentarily, that most people didn’t have the will or funds to defy family expectations.
“I was there for your testimony, at the American hearings,” she said.
“Were you?” Mr. Healy’s eyes crinkled in surprise. He hadn’t seen her, then. She’d never been sure.
“It must have been difficult,” Charlotte said.
“It was, rather.” Mr. Healy’s hands cradled his teacup, the fingers interlacing. “I hadn’t a penny to my name, and there I was, in front of that crowd, in a charity suit from the Seamen’s Friend Society.”
Charlotte remembered how the too-large jacket made him look like a schoolboy playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. How his voice shook when he tried to put the unexplainable into words.
“Seeing what they ran in the papers was worse,” Mr. Healy said. “One minute I was the hero who’d pulled a drowning girl from the water, and the next I was the villain who’d left others to die.”
Charlotte immediately understood what his eyes were asking. “I never wrote about you. Or anything to do with the lifeboat.”
“The attention wore me down,” Mr. Healy said. “I was sick for a time—needed a bit of rest, more than anything else. I stayed with my parents for a few months. Kept to myself. Then, when my pa was down to his last shillings—God bless him—I went back to the White Star Line. I was on the Atlantic crossing two days later.”
“Oh my,” Charlotte murmured sympathetically.
“There’s no time for moping, if you’re doing your job. I put my name in for extra watches or whatever needed doing. Then the war came, and I joined the navy and made supply runs to the Mediterranean. Thought I was missing out on all the glory, but it worked out for the best. And I was second officer on the Olympic afterward.”
The Titanic’s sister ship. How could he have borne it?
“Now you’re a captain,” Charlotte said, with a nod of respect.
“The Meridian. She sails twice a month to the Caribbean.”
Mr. Healy leaned forward and offered more tea. He poured with deft confidence, but unease lingered in their shared silence. Charlotte found it odd that he’d said nothing about his marriage. He could be widowed, but he hadn’t seemed particularly sad when he mentioned his wife in that offhand way.
“Do you remember Esme Harper, from the boat?” Charlotte asked. “I should say Esme Van Hausen. You did know she married Charles, not long after?”
“Oh yes.”
How could he not? The “Titanic sweethearts” had been inescapable.
“I was in New York last year, and I paid her a visit,” Charlotte said.
Mr. Healy’s eyes widened, just a bit.
“Mr. Van Hausen died last autumn, in an automobile crash. I went to pay my respects. She was rather a mess, which was understandable given the circumstances. The rotten thing is, she’d been unhappy for quite some time, long before he died. They were very much in love when they married—you could see she adored him in the boat, couldn’t you? But they were never able to stop those rumors that he’d snuck onto the boat dressed as a woman or paid off the crew, even though it was complete nonsense. From the way Esme spoke, she and Charles never really escaped the sinking.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Here’s the curious part,” Charlotte said. “I left my card with Esme, to be polite, not because I expected to ever hear from her again. And then, months later, she received a letter from that Swedish girl, Anna. The one you pulled from the water.”
“You don’t say?”
“She lives in Minnesota. Up north somewhere.” Charlotte had meant to look it up on a map, but she’d never gotten around to it. “She’s married, with three children. Apparently, she’s been trying to find me for years, but she didn’t know my surname, only that I was called Charlotte. When she saw a notice of Charles’s death, she thought Esme might know where I was. She wrote to Esme, Esme sent Anna my address, and Anna wrote to me.”
“That’s quite a story.” Mr. Healy looked interested, which was encouraging.
“I gave Anna a coat, on the lifeboat,” Charlotte explained. “You remember how drenched she was—I wanted to warm her up. She tried to give the coat back, on the Carpathia, but you could see just from looking at her that she was desperately poor and needed it far more than me. I told her to keep it and didn’t give it another thought from then on. What I didn’t know was that Reg, my husband . . .” Charlotte stumbled over the word. Should she tell him? Would it make any difference? “He’d hidden fifty pounds in the lining.”
“Goodness.” It was a considerable sum, even today, but it would have been a fortune to a young sailor in 1912.
“Anna intended to return it, but she didn’t know how to find me. Eventually, she gave the money to her husband, and he used it to start his own building firm. Apparently, he’s been very successful. She said it’s all due to me, which of course it isn’t, but I suppose it’s true that the money helped him on his way.”
“Your husband never told you?” Mr. Healy asked.
Charlotte pictured Reg on the day they’d met, showing off the hidden compartment in his jacket where pickpockets couldn’t get to his banknotes. Not long before he had flagged down the lifeboat, Reg had muttered in her ear as he draped his coat around her shoulders. She’d been too angry to pay attention. Was that what he’d been trying to tell her? If so, her stubbornness had denied her the knowledge of his final gift.
“He tried to, I think,” Charlotte said. “But I didn’t hear him. Anna said it would be a weight off her soul if she gave the money back. The only difficulty is, I don’t feel right keeping it.”
“If the money was your husband’s . . .”
“I was never married.”
Four simple words, dissolving the lie Charlotte had lived with for two decades. She wasn’t sure why she’d admitted it.
On a Cold Dark Sea Page 25