Fateful (18 page)

The only protection I had was Alec, and now I might need to be kept safe from him, too.

Where can I possibly turn? If only there were someone on the ship who knew the truth but was no danger to me—

Wait. There’s someone. Exactly one person who knows about all of this.

I have no idea if he’ll hear me out, but I must try. And at least I have an excuse for going to his rooms.

The ship’s steward announces me. “Sir, the Lisles’ ladies’ maid is here to see you. Something about a coat left behind by your son?”

“Show her in,” says Howard Marlowe.

As I walk in, I see him, seated in front of their fireplace. Mr. Marlowe wears pinstripes and a blue cravat, more like he’s about to stride into a boardroom than enjoying himself at sea. He’s as large a man as his son, less handsome but only because of his years. His eyes remain brilliantly green, and his jaw remains firm; he’s not dulled with drink or fat the way so many older men are. Were it not for his gleaming bald head, he could almost be taken for Alec’s elder brother rather than his father.

I say nothing to reveal my true purpose at first—not until I’ve gauged his temper. Instead I set Alec’s jacket on the nearest table. “Alec left this with me yesterday evening, sir. I thought I ought to return it promptly.”

“Thank you.” He isn’t friendly or unfriendly. I would call his mood . . . cautious. “Alec is unable to thank you himself. He’s still sleeping.”

Just after breakfast—I’d guessed as much. Alec must have dragged himself up from the Turkish baths, weak and ragged as I saw him before, to get what rest he could. Pitching my voice to be steady, I say, “This must be his best chance to sleep.”

Mr. Marlowe doesn’t take it as an insult or threat as I had feared he would. The expression on his face reveals only relief. “My son said you knew the truth.”

“I’ll tell no one.” Whatever else Alec may be, I made him that promise and I intend to keep it. “You can count on that.”

“Thank you for your discretion. It means a great deal to him, and to me.”

“I need to talk to someone about this,” I say. “Mikhail—Count Kalashnikov, I mean—he’s causing trouble for me, and I don’t know who to trust or what’s true. You’re the only one I can turn to.”

He rises swiftly, and I think I must have overstepped my bounds. But instead of showing me the door, Mr. Marlowe guides me toward their private promenade deck. “We mustn’t be overheard in the corridor,” he murmurs as we sit in the woven wicker chairs. “And I don’t want to waken Alec if we can help it. He needs what rest he can get. Do you want some coffee? Ah, but you’re English. You’ll want tea.”

“I’m fine, sir.” Mr. Marlowe is as unpretentious as his son. Though I can’t say I feel at ease with him, given what I’ve come to speak about, I like him. It helps.

Mr. Marlowe says, “You must be cautious of Count Kalashnikov. The Brotherhood has no use for women.”

“Alec told me, sir. And I already knew the count was a dangerous man. He’s trying to make friends with my employers, and he’s got them fooled.”

“He’ll kill you if he can.” Mr. Marlowe says this as easily as if he were commenting on the weather. He’s not making light of it; the facts are that obvious. “You should leave their employ if at all possible. Do you need a reference in the United States? I could provide one.”

A reference from one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country would no doubt get me a job in the best households available. I sag back in my chair, relieved. “That would be so good of you, sir. Thank you.”

He studies my face, not unkindly, and yet I see for the first time that he isn’t merely a friendly, down-to-earth American, but a businessman with the ability to size up the person across the table. “You might have blackmailed us. Demanded money to keep Alec’s secret.”

“It never occurred to me, sir.” What a nasty thing to do. Sounds like something Mikhail would try.

“You’re a good girl, Tess. I know my son had no choice but to trust you, but—he could have found no one better to keep the secret.”

Mr. Marlowe speaks of his son with such love. Can he maybe tell me that my worst fears about Alec aren’t true?

“Please, sir, forgive me for mentioning it, but—I found this in Alec’s pocket.” I pull out the newspaper clipping and the tourist card of Gabrielle Dumont. “This isn’t—tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

Mr. Marlowe’s shoulders sag, and something inside me tears apart.

“You’re asking me if my son is a killer. I wish I had an answer for you.”

“What happened to Miss Dumont?”

He doesn’t reply immediately. Instead he stares out at the ocean, squinting against the brightening morning sun. I recognize his hesitation, because I’ve seen it sometimes in Irene—the last person in the world I would have expected Howard Marlowe to have anything in common with. He wants to talk, but he’s afraid to.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he finally says. “What discovering the supernatural does to your mind. You question everything. Even your own memories.”

“It does make things look strange all of a sudden, sir.”

Mr. Marlowe nods as he pulls a cigar from his jacket and rolls it between his fingers. “So far as I knew, Alec and Gabrielle were only friends. My boy and I have always been close, but I was a young man once, and I certainly didn’t tell my pop about every girl I—” He catches himself. “Every young lady I met. But I got the impression that she wanted more from Alec than he had to give.”

I refuse to feel triumphant about this. The woman is dead, maybe at Alec’s hand. What he felt or didn’t feel for her is no prize for me to claim.

“A werewolf made a good friend for an actress. They were each busy every night, and therefore happy to meet during the day. Both of them adored the bohemian scene.” Mr. Marlowe doesn’t sound as though
he
adored it. “Going about with painters and composers, visiting those strange clubs with the posters of monstrous-looking women gone all green. Never could see the appeal myself. But I wanted him to enjoy himself as much as he could. So much of his life has been stolen from him. At least Alec could have this much of his youth.”

Bohemian Paris sounds glamorous. I imagine women wearing the sort of sexy costumes Gabrielle Dumont wore in the photo, though that’s ridiculous; I’m sure it’s nothing that outlandish. Alec’s long curls are now explained.

“I ought to have warned him not to spend so much time with her,” Mr. Marlowe says. He withdraws a small pair of silver clippers and snips the end of his cigar. The sweet scent of tobacco lingers in the air. “For her sake, if not for his. I have no doubt their connection killed her.”

My mouth is dry, and I grip the arms of the chair to anchor myself. “You mean—you think he did it. Alec murdered Gabrielle.”

“A werewolf murdered her. Sometimes I tell myself it could have been anyone in the Brotherhood—they were pressuring both me and my son by then, and they would have resented any other sources of friendship he had. And as I said before, they have no use for women. They delight in killing them. Had they no mothers? No sisters, no sweethearts? I don’t understand that. But then, I’ve never understood the Brotherhood.” He sighs heavily. “I kept a basement cell in Paris. That was where Alec transformed each night, and I could keep him locked away for his safety, not to mention everyone else’s. But the night of Gabrielle’s death, the lock broke. I returned at dawn to find the door open and Alec missing. He awakened halfway across Paris with little memory of the night before. So he was free that night. He knew where Gabrielle lived. Alec could well have been the werewolf that killed her.”

“But—it wouldn’t have to have been him.”

“Oh, I’ve tried to convince myself of that. I think I could, if it were not for one thing: Alec believes it himself.”

It’s true; even knowing him only a few days, I can’t deny it. All the things he said to me yesterday afternoon—about the mistakes he made in Paris—the guilt that hangs on him as heavy and dark as a shroud—it’s about Gabrielle. About Gabrielle’s death.

Mr. Marlowe says, “Alec carries around the tourist card to remind himself of the danger he represents to anyone he cares about.”

I look down at the image of Gabrielle Dumont. If Alec was her friend, then probably she was somebody I would have liked. She went down the same path I’m on—the one leading to the shadow world of the werewolves. And now she’s dead.

“My advice is to stay as far away from this as you can,” Mr. Marlowe says. “I hate to deprive my son of such a loyal friend. But for your own safety, walk away while you still can.” He strikes a match to light his cigar. It flares blue, then orange, and I smell the smoke. “Take my calling card. I shall have a letter of recommendation sent to your cabin before we make dock, so that you can find employment as soon as you arrive in New York City.”

“Thank you, sir. You’ve been very kind.” I hesitate. “Alec’s lucky to have you.”

“Lucky. If only he were.”

Mr. Marlowe’s expression grows more distant; remembering this painful past has depressed him. Quickly I rise and excuse myself. The sooner I leave, the better.

But I don’t move fast enough.

I’m halfway through the sitting room to the door when Alec steps out of his bedroom, still knotting the belt of his dark silk robe. His unruly chestnut hair is rumpled from sleep, and his face has the hard, ragged look of a man who has been through pain. When he sees me, his eyes widen and a weary smile appears. “Tess?”

“I was just going.” Was it only last night that we kissed so passionately he made me weak? My heart beats faster when I look at him, but I no longer know whether it’s from desire or fear. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s all right. I’m glad you’re here.” Alec’s so
happy
. Why has he become so sure of me in the same moment that I’ve become more afraid of him? Energized again, he walks toward his father on the promenade deck. “Dad, have you and Tess gotten to know—”

His voice trails off, and I realize what Alec has seen on the table: the tourist card picture of Gabrielle Dumont.

When Alec turns back to me, the expression on his face rips through me: pure betrayal. Pure shame. He hates that I know what he’s done. His hands clench, and his eyes narrow, and I can’t tell if what I see there is pain or anger. I know only that I see the wolf within.

“Tess, go now,” Mr. Marlowe says. “Go quickly.”

Is he protecting his son or me? Either way, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I turn and dash into the hallway. The door slams shut behind me. I don’t know who slammed it, and I won’t look back.

After wandering through the ship for nearly an hour, uncertain of what to do or where to turn, I walk out on the boat deck. Fresh air tugs at my golden curls beneath my white linen cap. With my hands on the railing, I look over at the water so far below. The
Titanic
’s vast size means that I am peering down from the height of a church steeple. Around me, in each direction, the ocean stretches out to every horizon. Even aboard this enormous ship, I am one small speck in infinity—so entirely alone.

I glance behind one shoulder, thinking of Mikhail, but he isn’t here. And murdering me on deck, when John Jacob Astor—the richest man in the whole world—might walk by at any moment, seems beyond even Mikhail’s audacity.

But he will come after me. The Lisles must be dealt with. And Alec . . . I don’t know what will happen between us from this point on, but I know we will meet again.

I’ve been looking for someone to rescue me since I first felt the hunter’s stare on my back when I boarded this ship. Before that, I thought I was so strong and so smart, with my little felt purse of money to save me. Now I feel like I understood nothing about the world then—nothing about the true horrors it holds—except for one thing, one that I realize is more true than ever: Nobody else will ever be able to save me if I’m not fighting as hard as I can to save myself.

To do that, I have to decide who to trust. I have to decide what I believe.

I look toward the east, squinting my eyes toward the morning sun.

First things first: I have to return to the Lisles’ cabin one last time.

Probably I’m already fired after I simply walked off duty without permission this morning. But I need to know for sure what terms I’m leaving on. If I’m not even going to have a penny to start with in New York City, I have to come up with another plan. Maybe I could ask to stay with Myriam’s family just for a day or two; with Mr. Marlowe’s recommendation, it shouldn’t take me any longer than that to find work.

They wouldn’t try to make me pay for my cabin, would they? I could never have enough money to buy even a third-class ticket on a ship such as this. But that would require the Lisles to air some of their dirty family laundry before the officials of the White Star Line—so I’m guessing not. Hoping not, in any case.

Lady Regina will demand the uniforms back, of course. I’ll have to mend the pocket Layton tore, or else she’ll make me pay for the damages. Well, she’s welcome to this stupid cap.

Despite my resolve, I have to bite back my dread as I step into the Lisles’ suite. Yet the explosion of scolding from Lady Regina I’m expecting doesn’t happen. The only person in the front room is Horne, who snaps, “Took you long enough. Miss Irene’s waiting.” Which is what she says every day I’m not there at dawn.

I can only stand there and blink. I ran out on the job and the only punishment is . . . nothing?

Finally I return to Miss Irene’s room. She’s sitting exactly where I left her, cheeks still flushed, breath still fast. Although she doesn’t look up from the floor when I come in, she recognizes me. “I told Mother I’d given you some errands to run. I didn’t explain what. If she asks, make something up.”

“Thank you, miss.” I’m less relieved than dismayed. I’ll do the work, in the hopes of getting the money, but I’m still in the center of this mess—and too close to Mikhail. The world’s largest ocean liner suddenly seems far too small.

To set aside my own fears, I study Irene for a few moments, taking in how distressed she looks. She’s always been thin, but I’ve had to take in the waistlines of her gowns two inches during the past month, and I have to tug her stays hard to get them tight enough for her corset not to hang loose on her body. For her to shout at Lady Regina as she did, something extraordinary must be wrong. As well as we get along, though, it’s beyond the bounds of the servant-employer relationship for me to ask Irene about it directly.