She stopped suddenly, ignoring the furious whispers and glares, dropping to her knees in her beautiful white dress – the type of dress angels would wear, Henry thought, his eyes drinking in every inch of her; the way she smiled, the way her white glove touched a hand to her rosy, almost chubby, cheek – to help a child who’d fumbled playing with his spinning toy. She was smiling at the child brightly, whispering something to him. Whatever she said caused him to laugh, and the boy who’d been looking shyly at his small brown shoes, hugged her before running off to his father, crying, “Papa! Papa!”
When she stood, he noticed her blue-grey eyes that appeared to have specks of green in them, making them vibrant, illuminating; a face that could sell a million silent movies, or launch a thousand ships. Her face was fresh, free of makeup, her cheeks naturally rosy, unlike the painted ladies that had been gracing the covers of the magazines lately, many of which he’d photographed or even shot in motion picture format. Though, even Henry had to admit many of the women had to do so out of necessity. Fair make up did not always transition well to film; though he found the career of making motion pictures inspired women who enjoyed thick layers of makeup and dark eyeliner and shadow.
He turned to her, dipping his black bowling hat gently, and said, “Afternoon, My Lady.”
She stopped, her large mouth forming that brilliant white smile again, revealing almost pearly-white and reasonably straight teeth – her bottom teeth were crooked, but barely – as well as dimples in both cheeks. Her face was tiny, almost heart-shaped, and she had a very small neck. Her smile tugged at his heart, and for the first time in his long life, he found himself thinking of a companion he could spend his life with, something he had once deemed impossible.
More importantly, one with whom he would want to spend the rest of his life.
It wasn’t that Henry didn’t care for women. He did. But his childhood had been turbulent; his mother had died of consumption shortly after they’d been evicted from their home, when they were living in a camp with scraps and little heat. She had succumbed to the disease quickly, her lungs no match for England’s winter.
His father had died not so long after, and after that, his sister, too, had been taken by the disease.
Henry was all that remained of his once full family, and his heart had turned to stone. He did not think he could bear to ever fall in love, to have the family he’d once lost.
And yet, here he was, acting like a love-sick child who had seen a small puppy. Henry had not believed romantic feelings belonged to him, because they had never stirred before; but he had never before seen such a beautiful woman, and he was a man that photographed people for a living. Plenty of men could say that, but Henry was one of the few that could truly prove it.
She bowed her head slightly, and he could tell from the gesture alone that she was English, even before she opened her mouth in reply. It was the way she held herself: As if the ship was hers, and not a facility to be shared. That was something Henry had noticed about British’s elite; they seemed to genuinely believe they were God’s specific creation to be wealthy. “Good afternoon, Mister –?”
“I’m – my name is Henry,” he responded hurriedly, his words a mess. She frowned, and he wasn’t sure he’d even spoken a real sentence. “I’m terribly sorry, my lady. Good afternoon, my lady. I am Mr Henry Hamilton, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” God, did you have to sound so much like a servant boy? How many times did you need to say, ‘my lady’, you tosh?
She smiled more brilliantly, and Henry’s heart swelled when she didn’t mock him for it. “My name is Cecilia, and I would be pleased if you would call me just that. I detest formalities, don’t you?” When Henry did not respond, she continued, “What is that machine you have there?”
While Henry had hoped that his cine machine would be a way to potentially extend a conversation with the beautiful woman that appeared like a siren before him, he had not imagined that she might be intrigued by such an apparatus. Her accent, spoken with flawless Queen’s English, as well as the way she held herself, suggested that she was of high status in England. If she didn’t have a title to her name, her family certainly had the finances to afford to procure one. Perhaps she is already engaged to a man with a title; he found himself worrying desperately.
“It’s a Pathé cine machine,” he replied, moving over so she could get a better look at the large wooden camera mounted on a tripod that was almost the size of him. She moved closer; even standing on her tiptoes, revealing the white socks she wore beneath her dress – Henry’s heart raced – she could not hope to see through the wooden black camera box. He’d adjusted it for his height, not hers; the tripod alone towered over her. She was a tiny, precious thing. “Here, allow me,” he said, as he fiddled with the adjustable screws on the tripod, so that he could lower the camera to Cecilia’s height.
“And what does this machine do? Take portraits?”
“Yes, but it also takes short celluloid.”
“Really?” she looked at him, her grey-blue eyes meeting his dark blue ones.
“Really,” he replied. “I can … I could film you, if you would like. If that is not too bold to ask?”
It’s way too bold to ask. Why would I ask such a thing?
“It is not,” she replied, flashing him her brilliant smile once more. “I would love to be a model for your film. What should I do?”
That was a question Henry wasn’t yet prepared for; he hadn’t expected her to agree. If he were honest, he could not yet believe he’d dared asked. Perhaps it was his age – Henry was nearing twenty-five – but he had felt that his request of a young lady he knew so little of was too forward, and he was surprised she had not rebuffed him. Instead, he found himself bustling again with the tripod’s screws more than necessary, almost losing the camera box as a result.
Once he had checked the camera’s height against Cecilia, he replied, “Whatever you would like. Perhaps you could walk over to the boat deck, glance out at the water?” Henry had directed hundreds of women before, but now he found himself without speech. He did not know what he was meant to tell her, or what he should say to her. He knew he was the photographer, designed with the sole purpose to lead and teach, and yet all he wanted to do was sit down and watch her.
She grinned. “That sounds absolutely splendid! But how will I know when to move? How will I know when you are taking my likeness?”
He pointed to the hand crank on the back of the box, near where the eyehole was. “It’s a hand crank contraption. It’s a rather unwieldy device, but do you know the song Daisy Do?”
Cecilia wrinkled her nose. “The nursery rhyme? I would have you know that I am a horrible aunt to two of my beautiful niblings, and have never, ever sung them a nursery rhyme. Especially not Daisy Do.” He could tell by Cecilia’s light, airy tone that she was teasing him, even though he’d never heard quite so much sarcasm from a woman before. His heart panged; Cecilia reminded him of his sister. Annalise had never cared for Henry’s woes, always scolding him for being caught up in a different world. She wasn’t wrong, and Henry missed her sorely.
“Um, well,” he said, trying not to feel too flustered. Despite the coolness provided by the ship’s oceanic voyage, he was beginning to feel hot under his collar. “Well, when I turn this crank, then – then I’ll sing Daisy Do. Or you can, as well, if you’d like – the Pathé doesn’t pick up external noises. It’ll simply look like you are conversing, or perhaps even singing, with the right movements.”
Cecilia nodded in compliance, and then rested her hand on her hip, as if she wanted to accentuate her narrow waist further, leaving Henry almost breathless. He felt his hands tingling as a rush of arousal surged through him. Small tendrils of her hair, clasped tightly back, layered in dark curls, were already spilling out, and while there were a few onlookers who seemed to look at her with distaste, many were also looking at her with fascination. Henry wondered if those that were pointing recognised who Cecilia was – even
if she wasn’t recognisable to him – or if it was because she was unchaperoned, standing near a sign that stated that “unsupervised ladies” could requisition a matron to “assist them on walks”. Henry was unsure what the White Star Line believed might transpire if a young maiden walked the decks alone, but it appeared at least some of the passengers concurred with the rule.
Ignoring the gathering onlookers, Henry slowly began cranking the machine, singing – in an even more out-of-tune voice than usual that broke every third syllable, which he suspected had a lot more to do with a nervous disposition than he’d care to admit – before Cecilia’s angelic voice broke through.
“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,
I’m half crazy all
For the love of you.
It won’t be a stylish marriage,
I can’t afford a carriage.
But you’ll look sweet,
Upon the seat,
Of a bicycle made for two.”
Cecilia made light, sweeping dances as she moved onto the second verse, and while his hand-cranked to the gentle rhythm of her tune, he found himself gazing openly at her, instead of looking through the box’s eye socket. He watched in awe as she walked sweetly to the ship’s deck, leaning out, over the ocean, as she finished the lullaby’s final verse, her face appearing to be interlocked with the camera’s before he realised her focus was entirely on him.
Chapter Twelve
Wednesday, 10th April, 1912
Cecilia
Cecilia couldn’t help but stare into Henry’s intense blue eyes: They seemed to entrance her, and unlike her actual beau, he looked older, confident and self-assured, without promoting the arrogant, grandiose behaviour of many of the men Cecilia found herself in the company of. He was clean-shaven, and not supporting the hideous American moustache so many men seemed to be donning aboard the ship, though Cecilia could not fathom why men found large curls of hair across their faces attractive. To her, it was grotesque, a thought she’d kept wisely to herself when she’d met the King before his death at her debut the year prior.
In the distance, she could hear the ship’s bugler singling luncheon, but she found herself immobilised, transfixed, as if she’d known this man her entire life, and not the sum total of a few minutes, mere seconds of a lifetime.
Cecilia had never fallen in love before – though, in all her romance novels, she had desperately yearned for it, the way Anne pined for Wentworth. Cecilia longed for it when Eliana was married; and more so, when she’d learnt of Georgiana’s secret tryst with William. Unlike her elder sisters, she had never had a secret crush or a love affair with a stableboy; she had never even kissed a boy in her youth.
Each time her sisters fell victim to love (first Eliana with the stableboy, though not even Georgiana knew of it; then Georgiana with William), Cecilia had sat there wondering, what must it feel like to lose all sense of reason, of sensibility? What possessed Georgiana to declare that there wasn’t a darn thing her parents could do to prevent her from marrying William, and that she would marry him at the town hall if necessary? And why hadn’t Eliana declared the same, for the young stableboy she’d once been infatuated with?
Staring into Henry’s eyes, though he was but a stranger even if the term now seemed strange to her, she suddenly understood why Juliet was willing to die for Romeo; why Marianne lost all reason in the presence of Willoughby; why Jane Eyre would never have been happy with anyone but Mr Rochester. Though it made no sense at all to her, Cecilia felt as if she’d known Henry all her life, and perhaps, if such a fantastical thing existed, lives she’d lived before, in different times and different worlds.
Cecilia wondered, was that how it was for Georgiana? Feeling as though fate had forced everything to come together, creating an entirely serendipitous moment, as if God himself had come down from the heavens to wish it so?
Cecilia could not explain her feelings other than it was as if she suddenly met someone, and a calmness surrounded her, as she thought, Oh, so this is what all the fuss is about.
Cecilia chided herself: She hadn’t been looking for a romantic interest of any kind, not even to temporarily displease her parents – how could she be, as a respectable woman from an esteemed family, on her way to America to prepare to marry the son of a railroad tycoon? The very thing was unimaginable; the wrong look given by her and her family’s name would end up in the British newspapers, where every person from the Gresham family’s past would be addressed, no matter how faint the lineage. Every scandal would be outed, every skeleton uncovered. The Gresham family had successfully avoided scandal with Georgiana, by hosting and freely accepting (albeit grudgingly, several months later) their daughter’s wedding; only those in the Gresham family inner circle were aware of how dire the situation had once been. Had her parents disowned Georgiana, the scandal would have hit the tabloids, with them reading about how an Earl’s daughter had ‘run away’. They would not likely print that it was a marriage of love, not convenience; nor were they likely to note William’s position as viscount. It wasn’t what the masses wanted; they loved the destruction of those stationed above them.
Yet, before her stood a man she didn’t realise she’d been waiting for; he was like coming home, after a long summer’s day, and the thought of scandal immediately abandoned her. She had already put everything in jeopardy by associating with a man she didn’t know, strolling the promenade without an escort. Some of the passengers smiled, presuming they were likely another honeymoon couple; many more frowned, aware of who Cecilia was, or at the very least, who she wasn’t. Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown was a phrase the Gresham sisters had become all too well accustomed with; they knew, better than most, how quickly a woman could rise and fall. More than that, they knew how the people watched and waited for them to do so – while simultaneously wishing they could be the very people they wished destroyed.
“I must go,” she said, tentatively breaking her blue-grey eyes away from his dark blue ones. She could not help but wonder if he felt it too, the burning feeling igniting between them. She pondered if she stirred emotions inside of him, if her presence made his spine tingle, if his stomach elicited flip-flops and butterflies, the way hers currently was.
She wondered if he felt it too, as if they were destined to be together. Star-crossed lovers, like Romeo and Juliet, with Cecilia’s engagement being the obstacle, not a mutual hatred of warring families.
“I’m meeting my family for luncheon. They’ll wonder where I am.”
“I could escort you,” he said, and Cecilia wondered if he sounded pleased by the prospect, or if he disapproved of her behaviour. Perhaps, she thought disheartened, he saw her as a child, and not as a young woman. Had he considered her immature, and had decided to humour her? She was young in a way her sisters were not; while sophisticated, she sometimes lost her place, forgetting social etiquettes when something excited seized her attention. It wasn’t that she didn’t try, it was that everything around her was often dull. All Eliana ever did was whine while palming her children off to the Nanny or servants, all her parents ever seemed to do lately was bicker, and Georgiana had been on honeymoon for three months. Being the only unmarried daughter of the Earl and Countess of Gresham, she had been forced into dinner parties, balls, high teas, shopping adventures, and other tedious activities like sewing, where she had briefly thought stabbing herself in the eye with the needle tip would have been preferable to knitting another poorly made, mismatched scarf that not even her dogs cared for.
She tried to ignore the sentiment of her ire, as she’d previously claimed to her parents that she was, indeed, a child, and should not be married off as such. It wasn’t that she didn’t agree with the conviction she’d so passionately argued against; it was that she wasn’t a child, not in that sense. Regardless, all she wanted was independence and free will to make the choices that would make her happy.
Men had that right. Why couldn’t women be afforded the same? Why was everything for women based o
n the illusion of choice, when in reality, women had little opportunity at all?
“That would be lovely,” she replied, trying to keep her voice soft and calm, in an attempt to match his stoic demeanour. “I’m meeting my family in the A La Carte Restaurant, on B Deck. Is that where you will be dining, as well?”
He chuckled, though Cecilia wasn’t sure at what. “No, no, I’ll be eating in the Dining Saloon.” He didn’t elaborate, and instead opened one of the thick, wooden doors that entered from the A Deck aft promenade, revealing the vast dome of the aft grand staircase, the dazzling white light blinding Cecilia for a moment, as she fought to regain her blackened vision. He extended an arm to her, to help her as they cascaded down the curved staircase; though not as intricate as the forward Grand Staircase design, more beautiful than anything she had seen aboard any ship, and at least half the hotels she had visited.
Henry brought her to a stop outside the gilded entrance of the restaurant; Cecilia could already hear the string quartet playing a song through the doors.
“I guess this is where I must leave you.”
“I guess,” Cecilia replied, wondering if he, too, wished they were having a luncheon together. However, even Cecilia felt that lunch with a stranger was a step too far forward, even for her, no matter how much the idea seemed positively appealing to her.
“If you aren’t otherwise engaged, I would like to call on you, though.” He did not seem shy; his eyes were boring into hers.
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