By the Light of the Silvery Moon (6 page)

Damien stepped onto the polished wooden deck, and a chief steward hurried forward. “Welcome, sir, welcome. We are glad to have you upon the
Ship of Dreams.”

He craned his neck and brushed the man aside. The woman was gone. He let out a disappointed breath and balled his fists at his sides. If only they’d had a chance to make eye contact. Then again, they were on the same ship, with almost a week to run into each other.
Unless.

He shook his head.
Unless
the woman wasn’t a first-class passenger.

“Of course she is,” he mumbled to himself. She had to be. If she wasn’t—that would be the end of that.

As much as Damien wanted to know the beautiful woman, he also had a standard to uphold. People watched him. They had expectations. He not only represented himself, but his father, too. His brother had done enough damage to the family name. It was his job to rectify all that his brother had tarnished.

Damien remained one step behind his father. Their head butler, Arnold, strode by his father’s side, as if creating a buffer between his boss and any commoners who happened to cross his path. Damien followed as another steward led the way to their first-class stateroom, located on the promenade deck. It was almost directly below the bridge near the first smokestack—one of the finest rooms on the ship, he’d been told. Ocean air followed him, filling the corridor with a delightful breeze.

Inside the stateroom, the room’s mirrors were trimmed with gold. Real gold. He’d been around it enough to know the difference. Instead of the usual bunks, his and his father’s rooms had full bedsteads, a telephone for shipboard communication, and a washstand with hot and cold running water. Hand-carved oak, teak, and maple wood paneling decorated the room in modern style. He eyed the rich velvet drapes and luxurious bedding. There was a sofa and a desk with a lamp. The dressing table looked to be hand-carved as well. If he hadn’t known better, he would have guessed they were in a luxury hotel, not on a ship. It was the finest passenger room he’d ever seen.

“Your room has electric lights and heat, sir,” the steward said, pushing the switch on and off. “Please let me know if you have any needs.”

As his father conversed with the steward and Arnold, Damien walked to the desk. A note sat on the marble top. His name was written in perfect script on the envelope. Who could it be from? One of his father’s friends sending an invitation for supper?

He picked up the envelope. The scent of a woman’s perfume wafted up to his nose. He knew that scent, and with the whiff of it came a dozen memories of the dark-haired beauty in his arms as they twirled around the dance floors of East Coast estates. In his arms as they kissed in the gardens of English castles. His heartbeat quickened, but he told himself not to get excited. The woman who wrote this note was everything his flesh desired, and for that very reason she did not meet his father’s approval.

Swallowing down desire, Damien slipped the piece of monogrammed paper from the envelope.

He didn’t know whether to smile or to wince as he read the note. Dorothea was one of the most eligible women on this ship—of “old money,” his friends reminded him, which meant that her prestige was accompanied by social graces. His friends often forgot he was “new money,” which meant their means came from their own hard work rather than investments and inheritances. Though Damien had worked hard to ensure that they forget. So diligently he’d strived to make his manner fit with those who’d been trained to live elegantly, nobly since birth.

Yet for the first time, it didn’t bother him that his friends and his father disagreed. It didn’t bother him that he’d most likely have to fend off Dorothea’s advances. As much as the woman’s beauty and allure interested him, there had to be someone else out there who could be his companion in life.

Dorothea was beautiful, yes, but she was painfully spoiled. She expected the best and received it. She was kind … most of the time, but her favor could turn at any moment. Did a woman exist who had a pure heart and good intentions? Someone like his mother.

His father told him often that the right woman was out there, but as the years passed, he’d questioned if such a thing was true. That was why he’d found Dorothea in his arms more often than not. When one felt lonely, the companionship of another was like balm to an aching soul. His only concern was that she took their relationship more seriously than he. The note she’d left on his desk proved that fact.

Damien moved to his trunk that had been delivered to the room and pulled out the jacket he’d picked up from the tailor in London. The fit and style favored him, the tailor had exclaimed.

As he hung the jacket in the wardrobe, he again thought of the blond woman on the deck. Perhaps she was someone worth getting to know. After traveling the same circles for so long, a new face was always a welcome sight.

He removed his hat and placed it on an ornate hook on the wall, glancing at the crystal chandelier. His emotions over returning to the States were mixed. He was eager to return to their fine estate, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he carried the burden of his father’s pain. They’d traveled to London for business, but more than once Damien had overheard his father’s command to the servants. “Please, while you go about your tasks, be on the lookout for my son.”

Damien sighed and finger-combed his hair as he looked into the gilded mirror. His father hadn’t been the same since Quentin’s departure. Yet Damien was glad they were returning to America without him. Quin had been a fool. He’d demanded what he had no right to receive—and walked away from all he knew—trampling their father’s heart with each step. His father’s fortune, though they lived well, had never quite recovered from being cut in half. Quentin’s greed insured those left behind would have to watch their own accounting more closely.

Damien left their room and strode toward the first-class deck.

He found his way to the gentleman’s first-class smoking lounge, taking in the mahogany paneled walls and mother of pearl inlaid work. Painted glass windows displayed pastoral landscapes, ancient ships, and mythological figures. Potted plants offered the room color, life.

A bartender wiped down an immaculately clean bar, and two young men dressed in new suits chatted about jobs waiting for them in New York as they smoked cigars. Damien sat in the tall-backed chair, and thankfulness flooded him. They were on the
Titanic.
They would be leaving London, and hopefully when they returned to Maryland, thoughts of his brother would stay far away.

His knee bounced. He was eager for the ship to place an ocean between them. He tired of his father’s craning neck and wide-eyed pursuance of every tall, young, dark-haired man. What his father didn’t know was that Quentin wouldn’t be found in the restaurants and museums they visited. While his father had hired investigators to find his son over the years, Damien paid double to make sure their findings never met his father’s ears. The newspaper clippings after Quentin first moved to London had been bad enough. It pained his father to see how Quentin had wasted his fortune on wild living. It would kill him to know his son slept in the gutters and ate out of trash cans. What he hid was for his father’s protection. His peace.

Damien scanned the crowd, and a bit of color caught his eye from the doorway to his right. The woman in the yellow dress—as soft and delicate as a rose in the queen’s garden—peeked into the room. Another woman walked by her side. Would it be too forward for him to make an introduction? He took a step and then paused.

As they passed, he heard the woman speak to her friend. “Could you imagine crossing the ocean in first class? Maybe someday, Ethel, we’ll experience such a thing.”

Her words caused his head to jerk back as if she’d slapped him across the face with her gloves. She wasn’t first class, thus she wasn’t suitable. The two ideas, in his mind—and in the minds of those of his peers—went hand in hand. Damien considered introducing himself to the woman despite her social standing. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. All those in first class knew who he was, knew who his father was. But what about someone in second class? He doubted it.

Damien stroked a hand down his chin. What would it be like to spend time with someone who would look at him as just another man instead of an heir to a fortune? At thirty-one years of age, he’d never known such a thing.

From the moment he’d boarded the ship, all eyes had been on him—on his father. He knew over the days to come their every need would be met. He’d be introduced to beautiful, eligible women and engage in talk of politics, science, and literature. It wouldn’t be necessary to introduce himself. All would know who he was as clearly as if he’d had his name pinned to his chest.

Yet she hadn’t even glanced over to try to get his attention as she passed. If he introduced himself, she wouldn’t know who he was, and even if she did, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest.

And for the first time ever, he liked that.

T
he excitement of their launch soon lifted Amelia’s mood. Tonight, as she snuggled in her bunk, she’d think of Mother and wonder,
Why couldn’t things have turned out differently?
But today—today she was going to let the joy of the occasion push those thoughts to the side. Today she would celebrate being part of a new era of history—being a passenger on a new league of ship.

She’d decided something else, too. On this trip aboard the
Titanic,
Amelia would strive to live in the present. She wouldn’t let the anchor of her mother’s memory sink her spirits. She wouldn’t let the waves of worry over what waited on the other shore crash against her heart.

Dear God,
she prayed within her mind, her soul.
Help me live in this moment and be open to what you have for me. New friendships or new insights … new relationships and a stronger faith.
Amelia smiled. That prayer was a first step. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in God. She did. She loved Him greatly. But with the many needs that always presented themselves, Amelia often worked in the strength she could muster. While many knew her to be a caring and capable woman, she hadn’t been as bold in sharing her faith in God as she wished.

“Give me a chance to do that.” She whispered the words, only to have them swallowed up by the noises blaring all around on the deck.

The docks and gangways buzzed as the final passengers and crew members hurried on board.

The ship’s whistle caused Amelia to jump, and laughter spilled from her lips.

The man next to her pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “Precisely noon.” He nodded. “Time for the RMS
Titanic
to launch.” A smile filled his face, and he walked among the other passengers as their cheers grew.

“RMS
Titanic
,” she whispered. How many times had she heard that name? Tens, hundreds of times.

A locomotive could pass through each funnel that jutted into the sky, she’d read. A double-deck tramcar could pass through each of its twenty-nine boilers that were tucked away far under her feet.

Those who had been visiting the ship hurried back to the docks with waves and final good wishes to travelers. The gangplanks were drawn, and Amelia looked around for the first time, noticing how little room the
Titanic
had to maneuver out of the bay.

“Why are there so many ships at the dock?” she asked Ethel.

“A coal strike. I heard many passengers who were supposed to be on other ships are now on the
Titanic.
I feel bad for those other ships, but I’m sure those who were transferred here don’t mind one bit.”

Amelia waved to those on the quay.

“Do you have any friends or family wishing you off?” Ethel asked.

“No, I said all my good-byes over the last few weeks.”

She didn’t tell Ethel that most of her friends were children or those who cared for children. Either that or hardworking widowed mothers who did all they could to put food on the table. She’d gained their friendship as she’d ventured into the slums to offer a helping hand. To spend half the day at the docks, wishing her farewell, would be time those poor mothers could not afford to be away.

Over the last few weeks, she’d spent extra time with the children at the orphanage and other friends around town. She promised them all that she’d write letters about the voyage. Many of her friends were more interested in hearing about Mr. Chapman who waited on the opposite shore than they were excited about the
Titanic.
She’d read them his letters, and most had approved. All except one, her dear Marguerite.

“He seems kindly enough,” Marguerite had said with a wrinkle of her nose, “but the man works in a bank. He has his supper precisely at six o’clock and attends the orchestra each Saturday. You are a woman who knows not what her day holds until she wakes and scours the city for the most pressing needs. I’m afraid you’ll find him a bore.”

“A bore? How could you say that? He’s the type of person I’ve been looking for,” Amelia had declared. Marguerite, more than anyone, should appreciate not having to worry for one’s next meal or being an old maid without the hope of a family or children of her own.

“Jealous, that’s what she is,” Amelia muttered.

“Excuse me?” Ethel said over the noise of the crowd.

Amelia turned her attention back to the matter at hand, reminding herself that thoughts of whether Mr. Chapman was suitable could wait until she reached the distant shore. “Uh, I was simply commenting that I feel bad for all those on the docks. I am sure they are jealous they aren’t on the ship.”

“Next voyage.” Ethel pushed back the strands of dark hair that had slipped out of her pinned-up bun. “They can book a ticket on
Titanic
‘s next voyage.”