‘Ah. You noticed,’ he said teasingly.
She smiled. ‘Yes. I did.’
He laughed. ‘You’re right. My beginnings were very different to this.’
He glanced round the opulent dining-room, with its flower-laden tables, its sparkling glasses, its gleaming silver, its glittering lights and its immaculate guests. Then his expression changed, and just for a moment she caught sight of something that lurked beneath the surface, a boy driven by need and want, clawing his way out of difficulties to be in a position where he could sail on the finest ship in the world, on terms of equality with some of its wealthiest and most well-connected people.
‘Yes?’ she prompted him.
He gave a wry smile.
‘It isn’t fit for a lady’s ears.’
‘I’m not a lady,’ she returned.
‘I beg to differ,’ he said, suddenly serious. Just for a moment he stopped whirling her round the floor. In the midst of the other dancers they were still. ‘I’ve met females of every type and rank, and you are definitely a lady.’
‘I was born that way, and perhaps you are right, in all the ways that matter, I am one still, but I am not a hot house flower. I have seen my share of hardship and I would like to know what drove you.’
‘Very well,’ he said. His hand pressed more firmly into the small of her back and, holding her in his arms, he resumed the dance. ‘My family lived in a poor neighbourhood in Southampton, struggling to survive. My mother took in washing and went scrubbing floors for a few coppers to help feed us - there were eleven of us, all told. My father worked on the docks. When I was twelve he was crippled in an accident and couldn’t work. I did what I could, making myself useful, running errands, making coppers. And then one day I found a bicycle. It was bent and rusty, and had been abandoned in an alleyway.’
He broke off as he whirled her expertly past two other couples.
‘I mended it,’ he continued, ‘and used it to help me ply my trade. I delivered parcels quickly and I could go further afield than the boys on foot. By attaching a cart to my bicycle I could carry more parcels. Bit by bit, I built up a business. As soon as I could afford it I bought an old motor van. It was broken down but I repaired it. I was just starting to make some headway when my father died. He had been ill for years, but it hit my mother hard. She was still taking in washing; still scrubbing floors. She took to her bed for a few days after my father died, knocked down by grief. The ladies she cleaned for gave her notice. They said she was unreliable.’ His hand gripped her own more tightly. ‘She’d been working for them for ten years.’
She heard the hard edge in his voice, and knew how much it had affected him, that his mother should have been so badly treated.
‘It doesn’t seem to have made you bitter,’ she said. Although his voice had been hard, there had been no bitterness in it. ‘You could have started to hate those with wealth, resenting them for everything they had, but you didn’t.’
‘I can’t see the point in bitterness. It’s destructive. I channelled my disgust, using it to make me work harder than ever. I bought more vans. Eventually I had a whole fleet of them. Once the business was doing well I put it in the charge of my brother and travelled to America. I had heard great things about it; that it was a land of opportunity. I quickly saw it was somewhere I could achieve even greater things. I set up a similar business, and once it was established I moved my family over there with me. I sold the English business and used the profits to help my brothers and sisters. Of course, I made sure my mother never had to go back to scrubbing floors again. I hired someone to scrub her floor; then someone to do the heavy housework for her. Then the light housework. Then someone to fetch and carry. It’s a strange thing,’ he said. ‘First, my money saved her from drudgery, but then it stopped her having to do anything at all.’
‘And that is why she became ill?’ ventured Emilia.
‘I didn’t realize it at the time, but yes, I think it is.’
‘Not having enough to do is as bad as having too much to do,’ she said.
He nodded.
Tightening his grip on her hand a little, he guided her round the edge of the dance floor. The effect of his slight change in his grasp was to make her aware of him all over again. She had waltzed before, on rare occasions when her parents had entertained. She had only been eighteen at the time, but her parents had thought it would be good for her to gain some social experience and develop some poise. They had hosted a number of social evenings, and she had danced with the young men from round about. But they had never made her feel alive in their arms; expectant; as though she were waiting for something. Their grips had been firm, their dancing assured. But with them, a waltz had been a dance. With Carl it was something more. Much more.
He was speaking again. She recalled her thoughts from the paths down which they had been wandering down and focused on what he was saying.
‘I made the mistake of trying to shelter my mother from everything,’ he said, ‘and ended up sheltering her from life itself. Until you came along, standing up to me.’ He looked down into her eyes as the music came to an end. ‘You’re a very remarkable person, Emilia.’
‘I don’t think you should call me that,’ she said, suddenly self-conscious. It made her afraid. If once she let Carl Latimer close to her, she did not think she would have the strength to push him away again.
‘No. I know I shouldn’t,’ he said huskily. ‘But I want to. And I would like you to call me Carl.’
She must not contemplate it, even for a moment. It was true, she already thought of him as Carl, but to call him by his first name, to say it out loud, would be unthinkable. It would produce an intimacy that would be threatening to her peace of mind.
‘It’s out of the question,’ she said, pulling away from him.
He held on to her hand, so that she was forced to turn back towards him.
‘You wondered what had turned me into the person I am today,’ he said, ‘and I have told you. But I have wondered the same about you. What gave you the courage to stand up to me the way you did? What made you interfere when you heard my mother’s wistful voice? I’ve made a journey from poverty to wealth, but I have a feeling you’ve made a journey the other way. Yet, like me, it has not made you bitter.’
‘Carl,’ came a voice at their elbows.
Emilia saw his face darken.
Nevertheless, he turned round politely.
‘Adlington,’ he said.
Emilia saw a distinguished-looking gentleman with grey hair who was dressed in immaculate evening clothes. On his arm was an equally distinguished, grey-haired lady, who was wearing a dress by Paul Poiret, and who was dripping with diamonds.
‘I didn’t know you were on board,’ said Mr Adlington to Carl. ‘What a pleasant surprise. We haven’t seen enough of you lately. Have we, Victoria?’
‘No, indeed we haven’t,’ said his wife.
‘Will we be seeing you and Isabelle at the Jannson’s party when we get to New York?’ asked Mr Adlington.
Isabelle? thought Emilia. Who is Isabelle?
She had no time to worry about it, however, because a voice at her own elbow claimed her attention.
‘Miss Cavendish?’
She turned to see a beautifully-dressed woman in early middle age, whom she knew to be Mrs Gisborne, as she had heard the waiter addressing the lady by that name.
‘I hope you will forgive me taking such a liberty, but I felt I ought to give you a word of warning,’ said Mrs Gisborne, taking Emilia’s arm and leading her from the dance floor. Emilia would have resisted, but Mrs Gisborne’s next word arrested her attention. ‘Carl is such an attractive man, and I can see you are not immune to his charm, so I feel I must put you on your guard.’
She allowed herself to be led from the dance floor, feeling apprehensive.
‘It is as well to know the truth, before anyone comes to harm,’ said Mrs Gisborne, slipping a magazine into her hand. Then, bowing, she moved away.
> Emilia glanced down at the magazine. It was open at the society pages. There, staring back at her, was a photograph of Carl. He was looking relaxed and happy, in the midst of a group of young people.
Beneath the photograph was a caption.
A happy alliance.
A rumour has reached this magazine that an interesting announcement is shortly to take place concerning Mr Carl Latimer, lately of England, and Miss Isabelle Stott, the dazzling adornment of one of the oldest families in Boston. They will unite their two countries, as well as their persons, with a formal engagement, which will be announced as soon as Mr Latimer returns from Europe …
Emilia’s limbs went weak, and she sank down in a chair, her eyes tracing and retracing the photograph of Carl and Isabelle. They would be announcing their engagement when he returned from a business trip to Europe. Even now, he was as good as engaged.
Feeling suddenly sick, she was about to slip out of the dining room, when she realized how rude it would be of her to leave without saying goodnight. Unable to face Carl she returned to the table, making her excuses to his mother.
‘Sea sickness?’ Mrs Latimer asked sympathetically. ‘Well isn’t that a shame? You look a bit pale, dear, but I’m sure you’ll feel better when you can lie down. Would you like Miss Epson to go with you?’
‘No, thank you, I will be all right.’
‘You go on then, dear. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Carl you’ve had to leave us.’
Relieved that her sudden absence did not seem rude, Emilia left the dining-room once again. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes as she hurried through the public rooms and down the narrow corridors until she finally reached her stateroom. She opened the door with trembling fingers, and gratefully closed it behind her.
She stood leaning back against the door. She had been having such a marvellous evening, and then suddenly, everything had collapsed.
She had thought …
What? she asked herself angrily, as she pushed herself away from door and went into the bedroom, throwing the magazine down before sitting at the dressing-table and unpinning her hair. What had she thought? That he was attracted to her? That he liked her? That he more than liked her … ? Yes. And why?
Because of her feelings for him.
She had been aware of a growing connection with him throughout the evening as he had revealed details of his past, and she had thought that connection was mutual. She now realized she had been wrong. Carl had no feelings for her. He had told her about his past because she had asked him to, and as for taking her in his arms, he had done it because it was a requirement of the waltz.
Thank goodness she had discovered the truth in time. Now that she knew, she could fight her attraction.
She began to brush her loosened hair.
He might be the most interesting man she had ever met, and he might be the most attractive. He might make her tremble from head to foot when he took her into his arm. But he was beyond her reach.
Her course was clear, she thought, as her hands stilled. She must be at pains to avoid him. It was only for a few days. It should not be too difficult. Now that he had thanked her for helping his mother he would have no reason to seek her out, in which case it was unlikely their paths would cross. Though they were on a ship, it was large, and it should not be impossible to avoid him. It would only be for a few days, and then she would be landing in New York.
She would send a telegraph to Charles, she decided, remembering that Freddy had told her of their friend’s removal to America. As she had been compelled to visit New York she would make the most of it, and she hoped she would be able to see him before setting sail for Ireland. She would like to know how he was getting on in the antiques trade, and perhaps she would also be able to meet Julia. And Charles, she hoped, would be able to advise her on cheap but respectable lodgings, so that she would have somewhere comfortable to stay until she could book her return passage.
Once in Ireland with her godmother, it would be easy to forget Carl Latimer, she told herself. She would have a new life opening out in front of her, and she would soon put him out of her mind.
That, at least was the theory. But she was uncomfortably aware that it might not be so simple.
Chapter Five
Carl sat in the smoking-room with a glass of brandy in his hand.
It was now two hours since Emilia had made her excuses to his mother and returned to her stateroom. He had seen her leaving across the dining-room but, being tied up in conversation, he had been unable to stop her. By the time he had disentangled himself, she had gone. He had wanted to follow her, but on his mother telling him that she had been feeling sea sick he had reluctantly let her go. He had seen his mother back to her state room and then he had retired to the smoking room. But whilst the conversations about politics and business swirled all around him, he did not hear a word of what was being said.
Forty-eight hours ago it would have been a different story. He would have been leading the conversation, not ignoring it. But since then much had changed. So much so, that he was no longer the same man who had boarded the ship in Southampton. And all because of Emilia Cavendish. She had challenged his most deeply held beliefs and shown him they were nothing more than paper blowing in the wind.
How had she done it? he wondered, as he took a drink of brandy and lit a cigar. How had one slight slip of a girl managed to change his opinion so radically on such a number of important subjects?
He thought back to their first encounter, when he had offered to buy her stateroom.
“Money can’t buy everything”, she had told him, and he had not believed her. But she had been right. It had not been able to buy everything - or indeed anything, as far as Emilia was concerned. It had been unable to buy her stateroom for his mother. And it had been unable to buy her good opinion. It was then he had realized that money was not the magic wand he had long believed it to be.
It wasn’t that he now underestimated its power. Far from it. He knew what money could do. It had saved him and his family from a life of grinding poverty, and it had provided food for his mother, his father and his nine brothers and sisters.
Sadly, their number had now dwindled to seven.
Infant mortality was the darkest side of poverty, children dying for lack of hygienic living conditions and medical care. Both Will and Ellen had died of pneumonia: his rise to fortune had come too late for them. But not too late for Sarah, Harry, Vicky, Martha, Ted, Gus and John. They were all now leading comfortable lives. Sarah and Vicky were married and, thanks to his fortune, had pleasant houses in a leafy suburb, with clean air for the children to breathe and servants to help them around the house. Harry, Ted and Gus had set up their own businesses, and were doing very well. John, with his help, had trained to be a doctor, and Martha was training to be a nurse.
No, he wasn’t in any danger of underestimating money and the power it wielded. But, until he had met Emilia, he had overestimated it. It had taken her to remind him of its true worth.
‘What do you think of this feud between Roosevelt and Taft, Latimer?’ asked one of the other gentlemen.
The question broke in on his thoughts.
He took a sip of brandy, mentally reviewing the portions of conversation he had overheard and realizing the political situation was under discussion. There was a long-standing feud between ex-President Theodore Roosevelt and President William Taft. Both were able and gifted men, but both had strong opinions and conflict was inevitable.
‘I think it’s been going on for far too long,’ he said. ‘They need to bury their differences. Roosevelt still has a lot of supporters, and if the party splits then it’s going to suffer.’
‘Hear, hear. They ought to start working together instead of calling each other names,’ the gentleman agreed.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said another gentleman lazily. ‘I think Taft got it about right when he called Roosevelt a dangerous egotist.’
‘About as right as Roosevelt got it when he called
Taft a fathead and a puzzlewit!’ laughed another gentleman.
A range of opinions broke out amongst the gentlemen, and Carl was free to return to his silence and his thoughts. A few days ago it would have been unthinkable to him that a woman would matter more to him than politics or business, but now those things seemed stale and uninteresting. Whereas he found Emilia fascinating, because it was not only in his view of money that she had changed him, she had made him see other aspects of his life in a different light. When he had boarded the ship a few short days before, he had been contemplating marriage to one of the well-connected but impoverished young ladies to whom he was constantly being introduced.
Miss Miranda Pargeter was one of them. Miss Pargeter came from a powerful family with political connections, and would have made him an elegant and intelligent wife. She was good looking and immaculately dressed, and a marriage to her would have given him influential contacts if he had had a mind run for election at some future date.
Then there had been Miss Isabelle Stott. Miss Stott’s family were old and well-connected, with entrées into every level of society. Ordinarily, they would have considered him beneath them, but their fortunes had suffer a reverse in recent times and they were actively looking for a wealthy husband for Isabelle. Not that they had admitted their poverty, of course. They had at all times kept up appearances. But he had looked into their circumstances and discovered that they were almost bankrupt. That, he assumed, was the reason for them leaking news of a “forthcoming engagement” with Isabelle to one of the society magazines, in an effort to force his hand. It hadn’t worked. But he had still considered Isabelle as a possible wife.
And then there had been Miss Olive Theakston. Miss Theakston’s family had had a different reason for wishing for an alliance. Miss Theakston’s father was, like him, a self-made man, and a marriage between the two families would have smoothed the way for a business merger between the two businesses. It would have been very lucrative for all concerned.