by Julia Hughes
It was a telegram. Carrie recognised that much. Addressed to the White Star Line Head Office.
Codeword Overlord
Expect nephew Harry Fitzwilliam arrive Queenstown. Stop. Prepare Imperial Stateroom. Stop. J P Morgan. Stop.
She read it again but it still made no sense. She turned it over. The pencilled scribble was darker in places, as though someone had licked the lead of a blunt point hastily rather than use a sharpener.
“Rhyllann.
I know you’re going to be angry with me, please try to understand.
This isn’t a play or a film. It’s going to get nasty, innocent people are going to lose their lives. It’s my mess. I made it. I don’t want you or Carrie to get hurt.
I’m going to mend what I broke. Time should repair itself, our world should return to its rightful course with us in our rightful place and time. But there is the slightest chance that I’m wrong, and we live our lives out of time.
I’m frightened Annie. Scared. But knowing you and Carrie are safe helps.
Do this one thing for me. Look after Carrie. She’s very special.
Wren.
PS. If the world doesn’t change after April 15 get Carrie to show you where she found Caliburn.”
Her first thought was “What scruffy writing.” Her eyes were drawn back to the last line above Wren’s signature and her hackles rose.
She crumpled the note in her fist and glared up at Rhyllann’s back. With his forehead pressed to the window he stared down into the street motionless, apart from a hand curling and uncurling against the side of his belt, where Caliburn normally lived.
His voice came from the pit of his stomach.
‘I don’t know about you but I won’t be put in a box, and told how to live my life.’
Carrie gaped at his back, her feelings exactly!
He turned to face her. ‘And next time you extract a promise from that lying conniving little geek; check under the table. Make sure his legs aren’t crossed.’
With that he turned and stormed from her room.
‘Rhyllann – Rhyllann – Where are you going? Come back!’
Tugging the worn pumps over her feet she rushed after him, catching up with him on the street, jogging to keep pace.
‘Where are you going?’
He couldn’t leave, not after Wren’s betrayal.
‘Look, look!’ She waved the crumpled paper in his face. ‘Look after Carrie, he tells you to look after me. Don’t leave me!’ She wailed, oblivious to the scene she was creating.
Rhyllann snatched the note from her. ‘Gimme that!’
‘Where are you going?’
He grasped her elbow, her feet scrabbled against the pavement as he hauled her along without breaking stride.
‘We’re going to catch a train. I swear if I have to beg steal or borrow we’re getting a boat. If I have to chase that little shit to the ends of this earth, I’ll find him and stuff this bloody note down his throat – then I’m taking my sword back to cut out his lying tongue.’
Carrie wanted to cheer. The mood Rhyllann was in he could probably lead the Charge of the Light Brigade to victory.
Chapter Thirty-Six
One problem with being human is the instinctive desire to make sense of the world, to make tangible the intangible. Time’s elastic, slowing down to enable a heartbeat last for eternities, speeding up until you could swear Christmas had only been a couple of months ago, yet here you are testing the fairy lights again. Waiting for a bus in freezing weather minutes drag like hours. The same goes for measurements. An inch around a person’s waist is huge compared to an inch on a football field. Yet that same inch makes the difference between the ball slipping between goal posts, or soaring harmlessly over the net. And of course some measurements defy imagination.
So it was with the Titanic. Over eight hundred and fifty feet long. Ninety two feet wide. From the water line to its top deck it rose over sixty feet. It didn’t matter how many black and white photos you studied of Lilliputian people standing in front of the massive hull, no matter how many hundreds of double decker buses you imagined packed inside its prow, nothing prepared you for the immensity of the real thing. Descriptions of a floating palace were apt except viewed from the outside looking up at the sleek metal hull it appeared more like an ancient fortress.
Harry Fitzwilliam, favoured nephew of the American millionaire J.P. Morgan, reclined in his armchair and congratulated himself on remembering that Uncle had pulled out of the Titanic’s maiden voyage at the last moment. Officially he was ill. Unofficially he was on vacation in France with a mistress. And it would be a great shame to allow these magnificent staterooms to go empty.
A knock rapped at the door and a steward slipped into the room.
‘Sorry to disturb you sir, your cousin, and your, ahem, wife have just arrived.’ His tone was respectful. Young Harry Fitzwilliam had shown up two hours ago claiming a relationship with one J.P. Morgan. The man who put up the funding for the Titanic. The Chief Purser expressed disbelief but owner John Astor stood by his side and confirmed that the young gentleman should be treated with all courtesy, he was bona fide. If Mr Astor’s eyes seemed at little cloudy and unfocused he was probably just over emotional with the launch of his magnificent ship.
The white suit was shouldered aside by an athletic young man in workman’s clothing, who seemed furious with something. Or someone.
A young ragamuffin, dress torn and filthy pushed in front of him to stand hands on hips and glare at Harry. Before catching sight of the table laden with high tea and rushing over to stuff sandwiches in her mouth. The steward relaxed. They were obviously who they claimed to be. No-one but close friends and family could act with such rudeness and get away with it.
The young sir was smiling. ‘Cuz. Darling. I was beginning to think I’d lost you.’
The steward backed out, closing the door on the family reunion.
One moment he was rising from his armchair, excuses on his tongue, the next the floor rose up to crack against his head. He groaned. A towering figure blocked out half his vision, before stooping to snarl into his face.
He moaned outloud. ‘What are you doing here? Why did you follow me?’
Maroon lights flashed behind eyes of deepest brown.
‘Because you little geek I’m your best friend. I’m also your only friend. And this is the biggest adventure of all. And I don’t see why you should always have the last word.’
Through a mouthful of cheese and cucumber the girl agreed.
‘You tell him Rhyllann.’ She gulped down her mouthful of food without chewing. ‘And tell him he swore an oath to me. I own him now body and soul.’
Wren forgot his aching jaw and stopped exploring his teeth with his tongue. He forgot the need to breathe as a feeling he’d never experienced engulfed him head to toe. He belonged to her; body and soul.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rumour swept the first class dining hall faster than an outbreak of measles. Young Harry Fitzwilliam, nephew of J.P. Morgan, the very same man who’d funded the building of the Titanic, had eloped with his child bride whereupon she’d been disowned by her family, leading lights in the Catholic Church. Harry’s handsome cousin had accompanied her as the newly weds made their separate ways to the Titanic; Young Fitzwilliam had purchased almost every bolt of material on board, for his new bride had fled in only the clothes she stood up in and even now seamstresses worked feverishly to create the latest designs from Paris. She was a beauty, with flaming hair and ivory skin and a swan like neck. Fitzwilliam had a courtesy title dating back to Norman times, belonging to a small swath of land on the upper reaches of Brittany. His cousin was a Knight of the Realm, returning to America. It was whispered Sir Rhyllann had Native American blood, recently inheriting his title on the demise of an ancient Uncle.
Matrons preened their daughters, the Western Marches might be some boggy land on the Welsh borders but a title was a title, and it was rumoured he held deeds to thr
ee silver mines. Pity about the Baron’s marriage, but he seemed a quiet sort and certain to need advice on how best to invest his annual income of twenty thousand pounds. In any case, they sniffed, a Baron was only minor nobility.
Cutlery clattered, pearls ratted as dowagers nodded their cauliflower heads and topped each new snippet of gossip with an even more outrageous tit-bit of their own.
Before the first course of oysters had been devoured the dining room buzzed with anticipation, necks strained and discrete glances were cast towards the glass double entrance doors every time they flapped open.
Rhyllann bounded into the room and was almost bowled over by the wave of expectation that greeted him as he entered the palatial dinning room. Every face turned to him like sunflowers towards the sun. Pince-nez quizzing glasses held to aristocratic noses glinted, reflecting the chandelier lights, almost blinding him. He tugged at his sleeves, straightening the gold cufflinks, and self consciously reached behind to make certain his borrowed coat tails weren’t tucked into his waistband or something. The waistcoat was a little tight around the chest and the trousers flapped round his ankles, but most eyes were drawn to his hair before resting on his face. Realising he was the centre of attention a tingle of pleasure ran through him. Shooting down his cuffs again he strode over to take his rightful place at the Captain’s Table.
Really he had to hand it to the little geek. He should have suspected something, the flash behind the blue eyes quickly screened as Carrie explained the Titanic’s itinerary. He’d known about Titanic’s stop overs in France and Ireland all along. Of course he had. Careless of him to use that telegram as notepaper. Rhyllann promptly dispatched a second telegram using the same code word to announce the arrival of another nephew and Harry Fitzwilliam’s wife.
‘Wife!’ Carrie wrinkled her nose.
‘Carrie use your head. That plonker might get away with playing a Baron, and I’m definitely at least a Knight – but d’you really think anyone’s gonna believe you were born a lady?’ Rhyllann asked.
‘I mean – look at those hands for a start!’ They were the hands of a woman twice her age, small, coarse and roughened with work. Feeling a smidgeon of sympathy at Carrie’s crestfallen face he added: ‘They’ll probably confine you to spinsters’ quarters or something if you tell ‘em you’re single. Wren won’t mind pretending to be married, you’ll see.’ He had no intention of playing nursemaid to Carrie, she’d cramp his style.
Seating himself between the Misses Bradley-Harringtons Rhyllann smiled brightly as they vied for his attention. The geek was worrying over nothing, everything would work out perfectly. Even the vast array of solid silverware laid out in military precision on snowy linen tablecloths didn’t faze. Start outwards, work inwards. No problems. He nodded sagely while the fat fool opposite spoke of bonds and shares, wondering if the Bradley-Harrington twins really were identical. Start outwards, work inwards he reminded himself and didn’t give a second thought to his cousin.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Carrie still hadn’t made her mind when to speak to Wren. If ever. The problem was he didn’t appear to notice he’d been sent to Coventry.
The occasional table they’d dined from was now covered in papers. Wren scrutinised the ship’s plans as though trying to impress them onto his brain; as his eyes darted here and there his hands followed, stroking. There was something very familiar about his posture. Then it came to her. He’d studied the Altar Stone back at Stonehenge with the same intensity. The magnificent walnut panelled room hung with works of art, ablaze with light magnified by crystal chandeliers, might as well be a desolate piece of scrubland in the middle of nowhere. Wren studied the information before him like a student preparing for a life changing exam in the morning.
Carrie glanced across the living area, where two dark green leather chaise lounges stood at right angles in front of an ornate fireplace, towards the four poster bed, swathed with brocade curtains for privacy. She stretched. She’d already bathed, and sat wrapped in a dressing gown borrowed by their steward from somewhere. The dining chair grew uncomfortable under her, despite its upholstered seat. She’d spent nearly all day sitting in one conveyance or another, ruining the pretty little print dress. Even though she felt bone tired and her head swum trying to take in the grandeur of her surroundings an unaccustomed excitement seared her veins.
Carrie longed to explore the ship, its many decks and walkways. She wanted to parade nonchalantly making light witty conversation like the glamorous young women glimpsed as she and Rhyllann were being led to the Staterooms. Wren appeared resigned to them being on board, and made arrangements for their voyage, even calling on tailors and seamstresses. But it would take a couple of days at least for Carrie’s dresses to be ready. Rhyllann simply badgered Wren into loaning him some clothes, which more or less fitted, so long as he didn’t make any sudden movements. But Carrie would have to be patient, a prisoner once more. At least this room had a view. An ever changing view at that. She walked over to the double doors, pulled them open and stepped out onto the balcony inhaling the ozone laden air. Apart from lights reflected in the sea below her and the occasional white foam as a wave crested, it was easy to forget she was on an ocean going liner. The engine rooms were nine decks below; the Titanic ploughed forwards with barely a shudder. This room was one of only six with a private balcony, all other rooms opened directly onto the deck promenade. She could hear the tinkle of glasses, cutlery cluttering and voices rising and falling in conversation from the dining hall.
She felt a presence behind her. Wren. She still felt a lingering sense of betrayal, but not to appear childish she spoke at last.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
His voice sounded at her shoulder, closer than she’d realised.
‘Yes. Yes I did.’
Carrie stepped away, leaning over the balcony, disturbed when Wren moved with her. The voices were clearer now, she thought she heard Rhyllann’s engaging laugh followed by giggling.
Wren leaned over the balcony, mirroring her pose. ‘I think Annie’s on a losing wicket.’ He turned to smile at her. Carrie looked away, unsettled by his closeness. Long moments passed before she found her voice.
‘What do you mean?’
Tipping his head back Wren gazed skywards ‘Look – there – see? That’s the Orgone Comet. There was a comet in the sky when William the Conquer defeated Harold at Battle.’
Carrie’s shoulder brushed against his as she strained upwards. ‘Yes! I see it!’ She marvelled at the sight, as though someone had stuck the brightest star in the sky then smeared it with their finger.
‘What do you mean Rhyllann’s on a losing wicket?’
Wren grimaced as though wishing he hadn’t spoken. ‘Erm. I meant he won’t get very far tonight.’ He cocked his head sideways.
‘Those young ladies aren’t as … what I’m trying to say is …’
‘They intend hanging onto what’s theirs?’ Carrie teased amused and embarrassed for him at the same time. He examined the sky again.
‘There’s Orion, just on the horizon. You won’t see him again until next winter.’ He wasn’t trying to change the subject. He really was fascinated by the display above them. The stars seemed bigger and closer, and she’d never seen so many of them clustered together. Like a child’s painting of the night sky, there didn’t seem room to squeeze another bright speck into the picture. Beneath their feet, the ship moved at a rate of 22 knots, a floating castle carrying over two thousand souls. A chill ran down Carrie’s spine and she shivered involuntary. Anyone of her fellow passengers might look up at the stars, glorying in being so far from land yet so invincible.
She heard Rhyllann’s laughter again as the band struck up a waltz, and imagined him leading first one then another of a string of healthy young women full of life onto the dance floor.
‘I hope you dance.’ She whispered, feeling tears prickling behind her eyes.
Wren bent his head closer. ‘Sorry. What wa
s that? I didn’t hear you.’
He touched her cheek then tilted her chin up towards him.
‘Oh Carrie, don’t. Please don’t.’ He stroked her jaw line as though trying to life her lips into a smile. ‘I wanted to spare you this. I hate to see you hurting.’
But we could stop it, she wanted to scream at him. You could lift your little finger and those girls, those silly giggling girls flocking around Rhyllann could dance on. And those men, the men and women below our feet would have the chance to raise their children and see them have children of their own.
But she never spoke those words. Misery etched Wren’s face; his eyes looked haunted.
‘It isn’t fair.’ She wanted to stamp her foot.
‘It isn’t fair.’ She repeated, straightening from the balcony, feeling his breath against her cheek.
‘No one should die a virgin.’ She blurted out the words, surprising herself. Why had she said that? Maybe exhaustion caused her to lower her guard, maybe the romance of this great ship was working, or perhaps she grown tired of Rhyllann’s teasing. Carrie was honest enough to dismiss all these excuses. She wanted this man. She’d spent all day travelling with Rhyllann, probably one of God’s most perfect creations, and the only thought in her mind was the fear she might never see Wren’s intense blue eyes soften as they turned in her direction.
Wren looked puzzled, then grinned self consciously though the troubled look didn’t leave his eyes.
‘We can’t all be like Annie. Anyway, I haven’t met the right girl.’
Fool. ‘I wasn’t talking about him, or you. I was talking about me.’
‘Carrie.’ His hands caressed on her shoulders, dropping his head he searched her face. ‘You’ve got such a wonderful future ahead of you. And you’ll meet lots of men. Men who’ll want to be with you.’ He stroked her hair, fingers lingering as though he couldn’t bear to let go.
‘I don’t want other men.’ She stepped even closer, hooking her arms around his neck, locking them into an embrace.