Perfect Stranger

by Duncan, Alice

  Since the catastrophe, Eunice had been clinging to her mother like a limpet. She continued to be plagued by nightmares, as well. Isabel couldn’t criticize her for her newly developed night terrors any more than she could criticize Marjorie for her fear of water. She was surprised her own dreams weren’t filled with scenes from that dreadful experience. She knew she’d never forget them.

  She remembered watching through that hideous night and feeling the waves created by the sinking ship rock the lifeboat she, Loretta, Marjorie, and Eunice had occupied. She’d scarcely believed it when the ship split and its two halves sank under the black, black surface of the water. Such a gasp had gone up from those watching, and so many tears had been shed as they’d shivered there in the dark. Isabel had kept thinking she must be dreaming. But it hadn’t been a dream, more’s the pity.

  And the bodies. There had been so many bodies floating or struggling on that dark sea, their life preservers holding them up. People from her lifeboat had tried to drag others into the boat with them, but it was too small to hold many people. She recalled with horror the terrified shrieks and cries. With even greater horror she recalled the cries fading into moans and then dying out altogether. The water had been too cold for anyone to survive in it for very long. Being in that frigid water would have been akin to being buried in a snowdrift. In fact, she wished her mind would stop dwelling on it. Then she decided that was too much to expect. Perhaps, in time, the images would fade.

  “Maybe we can come back to New York City someday, Mama, and visit the museums.” Eunice sounded wistful.

  “I’m sure we shall,” Isabel said in order to cheer her daughter up. It would be a cold day in hell—August—before Isabel Golightly would be able to pay the fare back to New York City in order to visit museums, although she’d love to give her daughter the opportunity. It had become painfully clear before Eunice’s first birthday that the girl was smarter than her mother and father and all the rest of her relatives combined. It grieved Isabel that she couldn’t provide more enriching opportunities for her child.

  “Miss Linden said that San Francisco is an interesting city with quite a few museums and nice parks. I’d like to visit them.

  “We’ll do that, sweetheart,” Isabel promised. Now that was a promise she could probably keep, since museums and parks didn’t generally cost anything to visit. She still didn’t know how she was going to earn a living.

  She and Loretta had talked about it, and Loretta didn’t seem concerned—but Loretta didn’t have a six-year-old daughter to provide for. Even if she’d had a dozen children, Loretta had the money to support them.

  Isabel felt glum and wasn’t sure why. She supposed it was natural for a woman who had left her home on one continent, headed to another, encountered an iceberg along the way, been one of a very few people rescued from the catastrophic sinking of an unsinkable ship, and now faced an uncertain future, to be slightly melancholy, but Isabel wasn’t accustomed to giving in to adversity. She was accustomed to facing adversity head-on, fighting it tooth and nail, and then, bloodied or untouched, rising above it.

  Now she felt stupid for having been such an optimist all her life. Here she was in America without a penny to her name, with a daughter, without skills, and with a tremendous need to earn money, and she didn’t know what to do.

  “I think Miss Linden will help you get a job, Mama,” Eunice said. “I’m sorry I’m not old enough to help.”

  Isabel hugged her daughter to her side. She knew she should be the one offering comfort to the little girl and not the other way around, but she appreciated Eunice right then more than she could say. “I’m sure she will, sweets.” Again, Isabel’s mind boggled at the prospect of paying Loretta Linden back for all her kind offices.

  “She must have a lot of money,” Eunice mused. “She hired a whole train carriage for the four of us.”

  “I guess she does.”

  Eunice sighed. “It must be nice.”

  “Must be.” Isabel sighed too, deeply.

  # # #

  Somerset FitzRoy frowned at the stalk of panax quinquefolius L. It was an interesting specimen, and one he’d not encountered anywhere but in the eastern United States. He’d have liked to compare it to the specimen he’d found in Ireland. That option was forever lost to him, however, since all of his specimens, as well as all of his notes, drawings, and books had gone down with the Titanic.

  This specimen of panax quinquefolius L looked a good deal like the Asian variety. Somerset wondered how it had come to this continent.

  He’d read that there might once have been a land bridge connecting Asia with the continent of America. He conjured a mental image of hide-clad Asians marching along with sacks full of the stuff. He might make mention of the alleged land bridge in his book.

  He set the specimen on the table before him, turned his sketchbook to a clean sheet, and picked up a charcoal pencil. Squinting harder—he was going to need spectacles before long, he feared—he began quickly drawing the leaves of the plant. It was the root that people were primarily interested in, but Somerset intended his book to contain the whole plant, no matter which part of it was used for medicinal purposes. At least he didn’t have to do much research on the usage of this one. People had been employing it in various concoctions for different ailments for hundreds of years.

  A slight feeling of uneasiness at his back made him twitch his shoulders. He kept on sketching. He’d managed to pick some of the plant’s berries, too, and he’d draw those to the side of the picture of the whole plant, so that people who bought his book would know exactly what to look for if they ever attempted to find a specimen of their own.

  Again, his shoulder blades twitched. Irritated, thinking he was being pestered by an insect, Somerset flapped his left hand in order to scare the critter away.

  “Why are you drawing that weed?”

  The chirping voice startled him so badly, he jumped in his chair and let out a cry. Perhaps he’d not been as unaffected by the recent catastrophe as he’d believed. His charcoal pencil slid across the page, making a line through the five-leaved stem he’d just drawn. Spinning around, he was astonished to behold a little girl standing behind him, eyeing his drawing quizzically. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think of whom.

  “Who are you?” he barked. Belatedly, he realized the child hadn’t meant to alarm him. Somerset knew he could become totally lost to outside influences when he was involved in his work. It wasn’t the child’s fault she’d startled him.

  “I am Miss Eunice Marie Golightly,” the child said.

  Again a faint memory tugged at Somerset’s mind, although it vanished instantly. She was the soberest little thing he had ever seen. He took a deep breath and endeavored to be polite, knowing how sensitive children could be. He even managed a smile. “How do you do, Miss Eunice Marie Golightly?”

  “I am well, thank you. Chamomile tea might help your nerves, sir, although it tastes nasty. My mother puts a sprig of basil or mint in it, but it doesn’t help much.”

  Chamomile tea? Nerves? Basil? Mint? Was she a figment of his imagination? Somerset stared at the small girl, trying to put the words that had just sprung from her lips together with the tiny frame, tidy blond braids, and big brown eyes staring at him so earnestly.

  He, too, was serious by nature, but he enjoyed a lively sense of humor, and this little sobersides tickled it. “Thank you very much, Miss Golightly. I shall keep that in mind. However, in mitigation of my startled reaction to your question, I was deeply involved in my work when you spoke.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Somerset waited, but Eunice didn’t say anything. She was certainly composed for such a young child. She made him a bit nervous, actually.

  That being the case, he stuck out his hand. “My name is Mr. Somerset FitzRoy, Miss Golightly.” Recalling her own introduction, Somerset elaborated. “Mr. Somerset Anderson FitzRoy. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  E
unice took his hand and shook it gravely. “How do you do, Mr. FitzRoy? I’m happy to meet you, too. You have three last names.”

  Somerset uttered a short crack of laughter. “I suppose I do.”

  They stared at each other for several more seconds, and then the little girl repeated, “Why are you drawing that weed?”

  Somerset glanced at what had been a lovely drawing of panax quinquefolius L. before the advent of Miss Eunice Marie Golightly into his life. “It’s not a weed,” he said ruefully. “Its botanical name is panax quinquefolius. I’m drawing it for a book I’m writing.”

  “On weeds?”

  “On the medicinal and traditional uses of various common plants. They’re only weeds if you don’t know what they’re good for and how to use them.” He scowled at his picture. It looked great except for the black line running through it. Turning back to Eunice, he said, “Where did you come from?”

  “The village of Upper Poppleton in the county of Yorkshire, in the north of England. We came over on the R.M.S. Titanic, which sank. We were rescued.”

  “Good Lord.” Somerset stared at the girl with new respect. No wonder she was behaving a trifle oddly if she’d survived the Titanic disaster. What a terrible experience, especially for such a young one. It had been bad enough for him, an adult.

  And then it struck him. This girl, Miss Eunice Marie Golightly, was the tyke he’d handed to her mother right before the crew lowered one of the too few available lifeboats into the ocean. Good God. This girl was the one with the ravishing mother, the woman Somerset hadn’t been able to get out of his mind since the damned ship sank. Thank the good Lord they’d survived the disaster.

  Eunice’s eyes thinned and her gaze sharpened. Somerset thought she was annoyed with him for not saying anything immediately, but she surprised him.

  “Weren’t you aboard the ship, too, Mr. FitzRoy? Aren’t you the gentleman who rescued me after my mama dropped me?”

  Somerset swallowed. It was still hard for him to remember that hideous night. He’d worked so hard to save lives, only to be sucked down into the fathomless depths of the freezing Atlantic Ocean when the ship finally slipped beneath the surface of the water. He’d thought for sure he was a dead man, but he didn’t give up. Kicking like mad, and fighting through a field of debris floating down, down, down, he’d aimed for oxygen. His lungs had almost burst before he broke the surface and gasped in huge breaths of air.

  And cold? Lord, it had been like ice in that water. Somerset had managed to remain afloat, although his teeth were chattering, his fingers were numb, and he’d feared that he’d become a victim of hypothermia before help arrived. He’d been close to unconsciousness when a small boat—not one of the large lifeboats, but some kind of collapsible craft—pulled up beside him. He’d gazed hopelessly at the boat, and then received the shock of his life when four brawny arms lifted him from the water and heaved him aboard. He found himself grinning like an idiot at two muscular sailors. He tried to thank the men, but his mouth and tongue wouldn’t coordinate to form words. A lady in the boat threw a blanket over him.

  Great God, what a night. Somerset supposed his conscience would trouble him for the rest of his life because he’d been of so little help.

  After clearing his throat, he spoke to the child. “I believe I am, Miss Eunice. I’m very happy to see you again.” He attempted a genuinely friendly smile, but he was under the influence of severe emotion and feared his result was puny. “Under more pleasant circumstances.”

  Again she nodded. “Yes. The train’s much nicer than that awful ship.”

  Suddenly, the door to the sitting-room car was flung open and the woman herself erupted into the carriage. Somerset, who had been mooning about this woman for more than a month, stood, knowing he ought to have done so for the little girl, but having forgotten, undoubtedly owing to his nervous condition. Chamomile tea, indeed. His lips twitched as he suppressed a grin, then any hint of amusement faded altogether when Eunice’s mother hurried up to her daughter.

  She was still lovely, although daylight, and probably a less-heated emotional climate, indubitably colored his impression. She appeared worried at the moment.

  “Eunice!”

  Both females were small and had thick blond hair and beautiful eyes, although the daughter’s were as dark as polished mahogany and the mother’s were . . . Somerset contemplated them. They weren’t quite the color of cichorium Intybus, and they weren’t as deep a purple as lavandula officinalis or Delphinium ajacis, but . . . Somerset shook his head to clear it of irrelevancies. In his daydreams, he’d not given the woman’s eyes any particular color. Now his dreams could be more complete.

  Their complexions were fair, although the mother’s face was flushed. The daughter’s braids boasted blue ribbons and the mother’s head sported a small blue hat. Both were clad in white shirtwaists and blue calico skirts and matching jackets that looked new.

  “Hello, Mama,” Eunice said, turning to face the newcomer. Somerset was glad to see her smile. He’d begun to wonder if he might encounter a key in her back if he were to tip her upside down and look. “This is the gentleman who rescued us aboard the Titanic. He’s drawing a weed.”

  Mrs. Golightly—he assumed her name was Golightly—stopped short and stared at Somerset, her mouth slightly open and her eyes growing large and luminous under the influence of shock. She whispered, “Oh, my.” Then, with a gasp, she rushed over to him and grabbed both of his hands, which had been resting on the table.

  “Oh, my!” she cried again. “I can’t believe it’s you. But it is!”

  “Er . . . yes.” Somerset, delighted to see her again, was nevertheless a trifle uncomfortable with her raw emotions.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you survived that dreadful accident.” Tears stood in her eyes. “I’ve been praying for you every night, and was so sorry that I never asked your name.”

  “This is Mr. Somerset Anderson FitzRoy, Mama,” Eunice supplied helpfully.

  “Mr. FitzRoy.” Mr. Golightly swallowed hard. “I can never, ever thank you enough for saving us.” She bowed her head over his hands, and Somerset decided the Golightlys were an odd pair of females, although the mother appeared slightly more normal than the child. A tear splashed the back of his hand.

  Ill at ease at having her gratitude showered upon him—he’d only done what was right, after all—he said, “Please, Mrs. Golightly—your name is Golightly?”

  She nodded, almost too choked up to speak. “Isabel Golightly.”

  “Please don’t thank me. I felt it was my duty to help. Under the—well, under the circumstances and all.” He attempted another smile. “And you did spill your daughter practically at my feet, you know.”

  When she lifted her head, tears had made silvery trails down her perfect cheeks. Somerset had a mad impulse to kiss them away. Naturally, he did no such thing.

  She gave him a tremulous smile that nearly broke his heart. “I know better than that, Mr. FitzRoy. You saved our lives.”

  “Well now, I wouldn’t go that far.” This was becoming downright embarrassing.

  “You did. I’d never have climbed into that lifeboat without Eunice, and I never could have found her again in that mob.”

  Eunice nodded. Somerset felt the back of his neck get hot and wished Mrs. Golightly would let go of his hands so he could run his fingers under his collar and loosen it. “Well, it’s over now, thank God. I’m only sorry so many of our fellow passengers perished.”

  “Yes. It was such an horrible night.” She cleared her throat and seemed to pull herself together. She also let go of his hands. They felt strangely cold after she withdrew her warm essence. “I’m sorry my daughter bothered you, Mr. FitzRoy. We’ll leave you in peace now.” Snatching a hankie from a pocket, she wiped her tears away and offered him a tremulous smile.

  Somerset didn’t want her to go. He wasn’t sure how to say so without appearing to be the kind of man he wasn’t. “She didn’t bother me . . .
not much, anyway. I was drawing this plant and she asked me why.” He waved at the drawing, then blurted out, “Thank you for praying for me.” Then he felt stupid.

  “Oh, I’ll pray for you for the rest of my life, Mr. FitzRoy. You’re the reason we’re both alive today.”

  Good God. He would have waved away her effusive thanks, but he couldn’t bear to do so. He discovered within himself a severe disinclination to do anything that might in any way upset Isabel Golightly. An extraneous and irrelevant notion entered his head, and he had to bite his tongue before he could ask her if her husband had survived the disaster. What was the matter with him?

  “And thank you for putting up with Eunice. She likes to walk through the carriages, because it’s a long and tedious trip, but I’ve told her not to speak to strangers.” This time her smiled was spectacular. “I must say, though, that I’m glad she spoke to you. We’ll be going now.”

  She turned to go, and Somerset experienced a mad impulse to grab her and make her stay. As ever, he resisted the impulse, which he knew to be irrational and totally unlike him. “Any time, Mrs. Golightly.” He feared he had a sappy smile on his face. “Any time at all.”

  But Mrs. Golightly had already dragged Eunice almost as far as the end of the carriage. Somerset sighed deeply, wishing he’d paid more attention when his mother had tried to teach him how to woo women. He hadn’t been interested in women at the time. His interest and attention had always centered on the world’s flora. There was nothing he could do about it now, he guessed.

  Turning to eye his drawing, he decided it was ruined. With an abrupt and irritated jerk, he tore out the page of his sketchbook and turned over a clean sheet. This time, he sat on the other side of the table, with his back against the carriage wall, so nobody could sneak up on him.