By the Light of the Silvery Moon

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By the Light of the Silvery Moon Page 28

by Tricia Goyer


  Amelia watched in horror as a pilot ship neared and more reporters attempted to climb Carpathia‘s side, but Carpathia didn’t slow. C.J. stood at the deck rails, also looking at the lights of the city. He glanced at her and then glanced away. She could tell from his eyes he didn’t want to engage her with words. His eyes said he wanted space to mourn. She didn’t blame him. She imagined that seeing her brought him too many memories.

  The wind picked up, and rain started to fall. Thunder rolled through the sky, and Amelia moved back inside to where Aunt Neda waited. C.J. remained outside, the rain washing away his tears.

  They continued on through the bay, and with each minute that passed, weariness overtook her. The loss she carried was great. The worry of what waited pressed. The memories. Oh, the memories.

  The cries and tears of fellow passengers over the ocean miles had sapped her energy and tired her soul. She wanted to be alone—to have a quiet place to think and pray, but if the reporters in the boats were any indication of what was to come, that wouldn’t be the case.

  As the ship continued on, they outdistanced the newspaper boats till only open harbor stretched ahead.

  Aunt Neda pointed. “Look.”

  Amelia watched a flash of lightning illuminate the Statue of Liberty. Soon the statue, too, was behind them, and they parked at the White Star Line pier. She watched as the lifeboats from the Titanic were lowered into the water to be towed away by another ship. She thought she and the other passengers would disembark there, but instead they continued on farther. It was then Amelia noticed the crowds.

  A mass of men and women stood behind portable wood fences as misty rain fell on their heads. All those people had come for them. Was Mr. Chapman among them? Did he know she was alive? He would be relieved to know she was, but what filled her wasn’t relief.

  Suddenly the idea of trying to make conversation with a stranger seemed overwhelming. Surely he’d understand that it would take time before she would be ready to open up. Tears filled her eyes. What she couldn’t tell him, what she was sure she’d never tell anyone, was how quickly she’d fallen in love with another. And no matter what she did, she could not change things. That love would be forever lost.

  Finally, the gangway was lowered, and Aunt Neda took her hand. Without a word, they descended, Amelia wearing the thin dress she’d been given by a kind passenger with her coat over the top. Quentin’s letter was in her pocket. Her aunt wore the same dress and coat she’d been wearing since she’d climbed into the lifeboat. Tears flowed from the faces of those who waited.

  Cries of joy gave evidence of many happy reunions. Amelia was pulled into numerous hugs as strangers welcomed her, welcomed them.

  Amelia searched the faces, looking for Elizabeth. She had yet to see a photograph of Mr. Chapman, but still she searched men’s faces for any sign of recognition. At the street, a line of cars waited.

  As they reached the pier’s front entrance, spotlights lit their walk down the gangway, and the clamor of dozens of reporters filled the air. Explosions of photographers’ magnesium flares caused her to wince, and Amelia continued to search the crowds for a familiar face.

  As they waited, Bruce Ismay parted through the crowd and climbed into a waiting automobile. Mrs. John Jacob Astor crumpled into the arms of a young man who led her to another waiting automobile.

  “Her husband went down with the ship. He helped women and children into the lifeboats,” she heard one passenger telling the press. “John Jacob Astor is a hero.”

  She smiled slightly, remembering the man’s conversation with C.J. Walpole.

  “Today is a new day, a day to make a difference, to do what’s right,” Mr. Walpole had told him. Perhaps that declaration had been on John Jacob’s mind as he chose not to save his own life, but to put others first. No one would ever know for sure, but at least in the man’s death he’d have more honor than when he still lived.

  Other families were reunited, and most of the reunions were met with tears as mothers climbed into waiting cars with their children, their fathers nowhere in sight.

  When Amelia scanned the line of cars again, a door opened and a tall, thin woman jumped out.

  “Mother! Amelia!” Elizabeth approached with hurried steps. She pushed past the wooden fencing and pulled them both into a tight hug.

  “Is Len here?” Aunt Neda peered over Elizabeth’s shoulders.

  “There wasn’t room in the auto, so Len is waiting at the hotel. Mr. Chapman’s cook, Betsie, is waiting there, too. And, Amelia …” Elizabeth offered a soft smile, “Mr. Chapman is here. It was his auto we drove up from New Haven.”

  Elizabeth ushered them toward the car. A man stepped out of the vehicle. His face was a mix of sadness and excitement. He was a giant of a man with broad shoulders and thick blond hair with hints of gray at the temples. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to. His gaze was filled with compassion, and she noted tears in the corners of his eyes.

  Her tongue felt thick and her throat tight. She assumed on any other occasion she would appreciate meeting Mr. Chapman, but at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn and hurry back to the waters of the bay. To look into the darkness that lapped against the dock and peer into the depths. She wanted to speak into the water and remind Quentin of her love, but it was too late. It would forever be too late.

  “Amelia?” Mr. Chapman said, a hint of German accent highlighting her name.

  “Yes.” She extended her hand. “I am Amelia.”

  He smiled. “And I am Earl. Earl Chapman.”

  Behind Earl’s shoulder an ambulance pulled up and two men in uniforms hurried out of it. The medical bag that one of the men carried read, ST. VINCENT’S HOSPITAL.

  She moved toward the open door of the car, and just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw two stewards from Carpathia carrying a man on a stretcher into the ambulance. His face was turned away from her, but his dark, rumpled hair, his ear, and even his neck looked familiar. Her heart pounded, and she took a step in that direction.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and Amelia turned to face her aunt.

  “Sweet Amelia,” Aunt Neda’s words came out heavy with emotion. “It’s not him, my dear, although we both wish it was so.”

  She turned back to Earl and took in his thick eyebrows and the way his light hair curled at the base of his neck. Tiny beads of perspiration formed on his brow, and he studied her, a pleasant smile touching his lips. “We should get you back to the hotel. You need rest. It’s—” He paused. “It’s been a hard journey.”

  She looked back to the ambulance once more, just in time to see them closing the back doors with their patient tucked inside. Her aunt was right. She had searched the decks and studied each face. It wasn’t Quentin. Her heart ached at the realization of that.

  Amelia turned back, nodded, and climbed into the car. She touched her hair. She hadn’t done much to care for it in the last few days. Now, that no longer seemed to matter. She thought about the dresses her aunt had sewn for her dates with Mr. Chapman. They were lost, too. Nothing could be done about that. They rested somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe it was even better that way. Mr. Chapman knew her to be a simple woman born from questionable means. It seemed right in a way that there would be no layers to peel back to reveal her true self. All he saw was all she had to offer—a broken woman with a pained heart.

  “We bought you some things—clothes, shoes, toiletries—Mr. Chapman was so kind to make sure all your needs would be cared for,” Elizabeth said. “Full suitcases are waiting back at the hotel.”

  “I—I wrote you a letter on the ship.” Amelia managed to say to Earl. She’d actually written two, but the second one was the one she spoke of. It was one that told him they could be no more than friends. That she had grown to care for another.

  April 19,

  1912 New York

  Amelia wore all black as she stood outside the doors of a tall church, waiting for Earl Chapman t
o park the car on the streets of New York.

  Len and Elizabeth, her aunt, and Betsie stood next to her. Her eyes scanned the crowds of people who’d come to the memorial service to remember the victims of the Titanic. Amelia noticed a hand in the crowd waving. A face brightening. It was the mother she knew from the lifeboat with her son.

  “Amelia!” The woman hurried up to her. The young boy walked beside her with quickened steps. “I am so glad I found you. I was worried I wouldn’t. I have something … something that belongs to you!”

  The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a pearl necklace, pressing it into Amelia’s hands.

  “I am so sorry. When I was washing my son’s pants, I found this in his pocket. He told me he got it out of your coat pocket when he was on the lifeboat. Please forgive him. Roger is only five, and with everything that happened …” Tears filled the woman’s eyes, and her voice trailed off.

  Amelia looked down at the string of pearls, and her brow furrowed.

  “I’m sorry, but …” She shook her head, preparing to give them back when a memory flashed in her mind. It was Quentin with tears trickling down his cheeks, telling her about his mother saving his life. Telling her about her string of pearls that he’d found in his hand as he raced up to his house to find her father.

  Had he slipped them into her pocket with the letter? She remembered his last smile. His last look of love. Suddenly she realized he had.

  Amelia sunk to her knees on the ground as silent tears shook her. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Dear child. Are you all right? I don’t understand.” Aunt Neda grabbed her arm. And then Len’s strong arms helped her to her feet. “Thank you,” she said to the mother and son again, and they hurried inside the church. She didn’t follow them. Something inside told her she had another destination to go to instead.

  When Amelia saw Mr. Chapman exiting the vehicle, she rushed up to him. “Sir, I need to—want to—go someplace else. Do you happen to know how far St. Vincent’s Hospital is?”

  “Are you ill, Amelia?” Earl looked from her, to Betsie, back to her again. Amelia nodded and forced a smile. Betsie was a lovely young woman, and the more Amelia had been around her, the more Earl Chapman’s affection for the cook was clear. Because of that, Amelia was going to tell him about Quentin—about her own change of heart—but first she needed to get to the hospital. Something inside told her she could not leave the city without checking.

  Elizabeth approached with eyes full of questions. “Aren’t you going to the memorial service, Amelia? All the survivors are expected to be there.”

  Amelia shook her head. “Elizabeth, I have to go to St. Vincent’s. I know survivors were taken there. I have to go…. I have to check.”

  “I’ll take you.” Earl stepped forward.

  “Really?” Amelia reached her hand toward his and squeezed it tight. “Thank you.”

  When she got to the hospital, guards were stationed by every hall. She guessed that reporters were still trying to get in—to get a unique scoop on the tragedy that had captured the world’s attention.

  Amelia approached the nurse’s desk with Earl by her side. “Excuse me. I am looking for someone.”

  “I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to go to the White Star Line and talk to a clerk in their office.”

  “You don’t understand. I have to know. I was on the Titanic. Lifeboat 13. I’m a survivor, and I thought I saw them bring someone in—my cousin.” Amelia knew what the chart was going to say—that there was no survivor named Henry Gladstone—but she thought this would at least stall the nurse until she could think of another way to get inside.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I did not know. What is your name?” “Amelia Gladstone.”

  “And your cousin?” The woman lifted a list of names.

  “Henry Gladstone.” She watched the woman’s eyes scan the page.

  “Amelia,” Earl leaned close, whispering in her ear. “Your cousin did not make it onto the ship. Don’t you remember?” A worried expression crossed his face.

  Amelia ignored him.

  The nurse stuck out her bottom lip and shook her head. “I’m sorry. There is no one by that name.”

  A man rose from one of the chairs in the waiting room and strode toward her. She guessed from his hat, suit coat, and the intense look in his eye that he was a reporter.

  “Wait, Nurse, can you check on one more name?” The words spilled out before she was interrupted again. “Quentin Walpole. Can you look one more time, please, and tell me if his name is on the list?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Earl stiffen beside her. He cleared his throat, and she wished she could explain. But there was no time.

  Instead of answering, the nurse turned to the approaching man. Amelia turned to him, too, and noticed a small smile.

  “Ma’am, may I talk to you for a moment? I work for Mr. Walpole’s estate.”

  She nodded to him, but as she turned to follow him back to the waiting room, she noticed another man—an older man—walking out of a patient’s room just down the hall. She immediately recognized his white hair and his mustache. Her heart leaped.

  Mr. Walpole wore a fine suit, but the thing she noticed most was his smile.

  “C.J.” She rushed past the surprised guard. Mr. Walpole’s arms opened to her. As she reached him, she fell into his embrace.

  “When we disembarked, I tried to look for you. I couldn’t see you anywhere,” she said. “Where did you go?”

  “Just as I have been looking for you over the last day. New York is a big city. And to answer your question, I didn’t disembark right way from the Carpathia. I was down in the infirmary. He was conscious by then, you see. He was able to tell the doctor who he was. When he saw me, he asked about you. That was the first thing out of his lips, your name.”

  “He?”

  With her question, Mr. Walpole stepped aside. Amelia dared to look into the room.

  He appeared so thin and frail in the bed. His feet stretched to the end, and when she gazed into his face, she noticed his eyes were open, fixed on her.

  “Amelia.” He lifted a hand to her, and she saw that it took most of his strength to do so.

  “Quentin! Quentin!” She hurried toward him, wanting to wrap her arms around his neck—to hold on—but she told herself to be gentle. Instead she pulled up a chair and sat by his side. With joy coursing through her, she took his hand between hers and pressed it to her lips.

  “You’re really here,” she whispered.

  “I was just going to say the same thing. My father told me you were alive. He told me you were the one who urged him to get on the lifeboat. Thank you. He hired a dozen men to find you. I was hoping….” Quentin let his voice trail off. “I had faith that they would.” He smiled.

  She looked down and noticed one of his legs lying on top of the blankets. It was wrapped in a wide bandage.

  “Did you get hurt? How did you survive? I didn’t see you on the Carpathia.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m sorry. Those are more questions than you can answer at once.”

  “My brother …”

  “I know. He didn’t make it.”

  “I was going to say, my brother did this to me.” He motioned to his leg. “He knew I’d never get on a lifeboat on my own. I’d never take the place of a woman or child. The last thing I remember was him lunging at me with a knife. Then I woke up in the infirmary.”

  “He injured you—“

  “So he could save me.”

  Quentin’s eyes blinked slowly, and she was sure he was blinking back tears.

  “You’re alive. You’re really alive!” Unable to contain herself anymore, she leaned forward and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

  He took her right hand and pressed it hard against his chest. Quentin didn’t speak, but the message was clear in his gaze. He never wanted to let her go. His heart beat wildly beneath her palm. And she imagined wrapping up in his arms, laying her cheek on that
very spot, and soaking in the realization that he was alive.

  Quentin is alive.

  His gaze moved from her eyes to the pearl necklace she wore around her neck. With her free hand, she touched it, running her fingers over the pearls.

  “So you found it?”

  “The letter and the necklace … yes. You should be applauded for your sleight of hand. I didn’t know I had anything in my pocket until I was on the rescue ship. I’m honored, and I wanted you to know something.” Her face grew serious. “I just want you to know, Quentin, that I love you, too.”

  She would never question her feelings for Quentin again. It didn’t matter if they had to wander this earth to find a place where they could lay their heads. At least they’d be together.

  A man cleared his throat from behind her, and it was only then that Amelia remembered Earl. He’d brought her here. He’d done so much.

  She turned around and saw him there, mouth open. His eyes were wide, filled with questions.

  A deep sadness came over her then, because she understood. He was seeing her love for Quentin firsthand without any sort of preparation, any word of warning. It was like a slap to his face.

  Quentin released her hand, and she rose and moved to the door, approaching Mr. Chapman.

  “Quentin and I, we met that first day on the Titanic. We became friends and … I thought he was lost to the ocean depths, but he’s here. He’s alive.” It was all she could manage to say.

  Earl removed his hat and turned it over in his fingers. “I can see that.”

  “I am so sorry. When I left Southampton I had every intention …” She let her words trail off. “I can work to pay you back for the fare.”

  He shrugged. “There is no need. Actually you’ve given me hope.”

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “If you can find someone you care that much about on such a short voyage, then maybe I can dare to ask the woman I’ve come to care for about certain matters of the heart.”

 

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