We reached the squash court and saw that it was currently occupied.
“Well, we can’t search the court now,” I observed. “Surely if the bag has been found it’s been turned in to an officer or some sort of Lost and Found department.”
“Oh, I don’t care about the blasted bag.…” Emily sighed with disappointment. Clearly she had hoped for a replay of our little intimacy. I started back toward the main flight of stairs. She followed reluctantly and then, spying a sort of closet area underneath the steps, yanked me in that direction. She grasped my lapels and tried to pull me in for a kiss.
I gently took her wrists. “Miss Moore…I’m very sorry I let myself get carried away by…well, your charm and youth the other day. But, you see, the sad fact of the matter is that I am truly and most desperately in love with Celia.”
I had hoped my unadorned honesty would earn me some points, but tears sprang immediately to her eyes. “Oh, you’re awful! You’re just as much of a cad as everyone says you are!”
I accepted the accusation with a resigned nod. She stamped her foot and, reaching up, loudly slapped me.
The sound echoed down the quiet corridor then mingled with the sounds of steps moving down the staircase. At the base, there arrived absolutely the two last people I would have hoped to see at that particular moment: Emily’s father, Mr. Langston Moore, and—inevitably, given my luck this day—Mr. Randolph Davies.
Chapter 15
Celia Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 12:30 PM
How much would she expect? I asked myself, over and over. How would I get it before we docked? And how on earth would I be able to hide it from Nigel?
I had left Mrs. Sedgwick’s cabin at least an hour earlier and had been standing at the ship’s railing ever since. I stared out at the Atlantic as it slowly seemed to grow as dark and turbulent as my mood. A breeze blew in, so I moved closer to a bulkhead that separated one part of the deck from another. I hadn’t meant to hide, but apparently I couldn’t be seen, as several moments later I heard some ladies’ voices approach and immediately recognized the nasal twang of Mrs. Minahan.
“She puts on a good act, I’ll give her that,” she was saying. “But she gives herself away every time Mr. Colley is around. She practically threw herself in his arms this morning the moment her husband showed up. She seems to enjoy goading him.”
“Mr. Bowen is so handsome!” another woman gushed. “I suppose she’s pretty enough in a cheap sort of way, but I think he could do much better.”
“Setting your sights, Ethel?” Mrs. Minahan sarcastically asked. The other ladies laughed. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they divorce.”
“You don’t mean it!” another woman exclaimed. “Think of the scandal!”
“Oh, I doubt scandal matters much to them. They don’t seem to have any social connections,” Mrs. Minahan droned on. “The fact is that while Mr. Bowen can be charming, he’s a terrible drunk. For all we know, she is too. She wears lipstick, you know. I’m dead certain she’s a gold digger. I suggest for the duration of the voyage we keep as far away from them as possible.”
At that, I took two steps forward, which put me directly in the middle of the deck. Several of the ladies audibly gasped at my sudden appearance. I looked Mrs. Minahan directly in the face.
“Mrs. Bowen!” she exclaimed with an embarrassed bark. She quickly cleared her throat. “We didn’t realize you were there, obviously. I’m afraid you caught us doing the one thing ladies always seem to do when we’re away from the men!”
She gave a nervous little laugh, which one or two of the others joined in halfhearted support.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I’ve often wondered if idle gossip was the reason the men are always so eager to separate themselves from the women after dinner. You’ve rather settled my mind on the matter.”
The ladies gaped at one another in astonished outrage. I took the moment to dig into my bag and pulled out a cigarette. I stared at them as I slowly lit it.
“You seem to want to keep clear of me. Let me help you on your way,” I said, and then exhaled a strong stream of smoke directly at their faces. Hands and handkerchiefs flew to delicate nostrils.
Mrs. Minahan stared at the cigarette in shocked horror. “And you, Mrs. Bowen, have rather proven my point!”
She quickly gathered her cronies and hurriedly led them away toward the first class grand staircase. I watched them go for a moment, then turned and flicked the cigarette overboard. I realized that alienating possible allies was a silly thing to do, but I had to admit to myself that it had felt good—very good.
Having no other option, I followed down the deck after them. Sooner or later, I’d have to return to the cabin and have it out with Nigel. I supposed I might as well get it over with.
But only two or three steps farther, the prospect of another argument was too much for me and, spying a snug-looking deck chair half hidden under a lifeboat, I flung myself down on it. I closed my eyes and let my body rise and fall with the steady roll of the ship. I almost wished I could spend the rest of the voyage floating out alone in the chilly sea—away from Mrs. Sedgwick and her demands, away from people and their prying, away from pretending and lying and stealing. I was feeling very tired of it all.
I thought about digging out another cigarette—one I could really enjoy this time instead of wasting it as a prop—and was just about to do so, when I heard something stir behind me. I started to turn around, but suddenly a rough hand clapped over my mouth and another reached under my chest. Before I could react or register in any way to what was happening, I was lifted and dragged into a darkened corridor.
Chapter 16
Nigel Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 1:00 PM
I most definitely needed a drink.
But was I still bound to my vow of sobriety? Old man Davies had given me a very pointed disappointed stare at the bottom of the stairs but had said nothing. He had simply walked away as Mr. Moore dressed down Emily for being alone with a married man. How could Davies now see me as anything but a violence-prone bully who seduced chaste young ladies? What was the point of pretending I wasn’t drinking if I’d again proven myself unworthy of my wife?
I decisively headed in the direction of the smoking lounge. But as I came up the Grand Staircase, Fate seemed to caution me—by throwing a large rubber ball directly into my crotch. I gasped and, automatically grabbing the ball, looked up to see little Arthur Vogel running toward me. Life on the ship seemed to agree with the boy. He no longer had the worried, serious look of the first day out. His cheeks were now flushed, and his mop of yellow hair flopped as he happily jumped up and down and indicated for me to toss the ball back to him.
I obliged and then looked up to see Mr. and Mrs. Vogel at the top of the landing; they exchanged a worried frown between them. Association with me was clearly not something they wanted for their child.
I nodded politely to the couple and, patting Arthur good-naturedly on the head, I passed him on the stairs and went out onto the deck.
But the boy wanted to play. I soon heard him tottering after me, calling, “Mister! Mister!” I turned and he again tossed the ball to me. I had no choice but to catch it and throw it back. This time Mrs. Vogel trotted out onto the deck after her son and, brusquely taking his arm, deliberately turned him away from me. They joined Mr. Vogel, who had stopped to join a small clutch of young couples that were pointing to something out at sea.
I continued along and, sure enough, the ball came bouncing past me. I pretended not to notice it until I heard the patter of feet coming up behind me. I turned to see Arthur bounding after his ball—which was headed toward a narrow stairway down to the next deck. Arthur heedlessly ran directly into it.
Without thinking, I threw myself in front of the child. I was able to stop his flight, but in doing so, I had to slam my shoulder into an iron railing. Arthur’s added weight increased the impa
ct, and I completely lost my balance. Together, we both tumbled down the opening onto the deck below.
We landed with a loud thud—me on my back with Arthur gripped to my chest. The wind was almost completely knocked out of me, but in my concern for the child I sprang up and turned him around to face me.
“Again! Again!” the boy ecstatically cried. “Let’s do it again!”
A distraught Mr. Vogel appeared at the top of the deck.
“Mr. Bowen! Is he all right?” he cried.
Arthur turned to look up at his father and excitedly waved. A young crew member hurried over and helped me up as Mr. Vogel came down the stairs and then guided his wife down. She pulled Arthur into her arms, squeezed him tightly, then took him by the shoulders. “That was very naughty, Arthur! You could have been most seriously hurt!”
Mrs. Vogel sprang to her feet and looked at me with nearly hysterical wide eyes. “Mr. Bowen—I can’t—I don’t even know how to—”
She burst into sobs. Her husband put his arm around her shoulders and held out his hand to me. “Mr. Bowen, we cannot thank you enough for your brave, selfless act. And all for the sake of a couple who have shown you little friendliness.”
I shook my head and took Mr. Vogel’s hand. “I haven’t given you much reason to. And I can’t accept compliments of bravery, as anyone in my position would have done the same. It was an almost completely automatic response.”
“Which says much about your character,” Mr. Vogel said gravely. “More than I had guessed. Please let us repay you in some way. At the very least, we would be delighted for you and Mrs. Bowen to be our guests for dinner. If I may say so, I think it is a gesture that your wife might appreciate, considering…recent difficulties.”
He gave me a sharp look but one full of genuine compassion.
“Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” I replied. “It would be an honor for us to join you.”
We made plans for Sunday evening amid Mrs. Vogel repeatedly interrupting to ask if I needed to see the ship’s doctor.
Once they left, I decided I’d earned if not a stiff drink then at least a good cigar. I took one out of my coat pocket and, lighting it, stared out at the vast ocean. It seemed a strangely lonely sight this particular afternoon—miles and miles of a dark blue broken only by the occasional white crest of a far-off wave.
As I inhaled the fine, rich smoke, the serene stillness was broken by a ghastly, blood-curdling scream.
I immediately recognized it as Celia’s.
Chapter 17
Nigel Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 1:30 PM
In the short time I’d known her, I had seen Celia display many moods and emotions: anger, humor, disdain, passion. But I’d never seen her afraid.
Until now.
I had followed where I believed the scream to originate—somewhere behind the Bridge. The area was shadowy and strangely deserted. I paused for a moment—uncertain of which way to turn—and then heard a violent scuffling. I ran down a short, dark corridor and saw Celia pressed up against an exterior wall. Her expression was one of white shock. A dark, hulking figure was clutching both sides of her face. He roughly kissed her, but then, just as I started toward them, he viciously struck her.
I lunged at his back and momentarily locked eyes with Celia. If anything, my appearance seemed to strangely increase her distress. She shook her head at me but it was too late—I had already grasped the man’s shirt cuff, and I hurled him to the floor. Within the space of a few seconds I was able to register that he was a swarthy, rough-looking man with curly hair. He was the type with a savage sexual quality that I knew some women found exciting. Absurdly—considering the circumstances—I thought of Emily Moore. This brute would appeal to her romantic notions of danger—and to her obvious desire to spit on the respectability her father demanded.
The enraged man jumped up from the floor and dove into me. Celia shrieked as her attacker and I punched, kicked, and tore at each other. Almost immediately, I heard the sound of pounding feet. Two officers in crisp white uniforms shoved their way into the scuffle and broke it apart. Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered that this was, incredibly, the second fistfight I’d been involved in that day!
Exhausted, I fell back against the wall and watched as the officers wrangled the muscular assailant to the ground. He was clad in a worker’s soiled garments and had clearly not bathed or shaved in days. As he was subdued, he furiously flashed a glance at me with almost disturbingly bright hazel-green eyes.
“This man attacked my wife!” I choked out. “It’s a miracle I came upon the scene in time to stop him.”
The officers shook the wretch. “How’d you get from steerage up to first class?”
The man scowled and spat out, “Va au diable!”
I don’t speak French but his meaning was clear to all.
“Throw him into whatever confinement you have!” I all but shouted. “Or better yet, toss him overboard!”
“No! Please—let him go! It was all a terrible misunderstanding!”
All heads turned in amazement to Celia. Though she still looked shaken to the core, she made a heroic effort to tamp down her true feelings and plastered on a blasé smile.
“It’s all so—well—so very silly!” she exclaimed. “A simple language barrier. I don’t want the poor man prosecuted because I couldn’t understand what he was asking. I believe that he—well, he was lost and wanted only to return to the steerage area.”
I gaped at Celia. “Darling, that’s absolutely ridiculous. Why, I saw this man deliberately strike you! Why on earth are you defending him? You have nothing to fear—the officers will see that he is confined for the rest of the voyage.”
Celia stepped forward without taking her eyes off mine. She put her hand on my arm and applied a pressure—unseen by the others—that was almost painful.
“Nigel, dear, it truly was all my fault,” she said urgently. “I foolishly screamed when he—he accidentally startled me. He did not strike me—I simply lost my balance for a moment when the ship rolled. I insist that this man be let go. Immediately.”
I looked into Celia’s eyes with searching confusion; I couldn’t make her out for the life of me. The officers exchanged glances. They obviously regarded this as a very queer affair—and one they were reluctant to dismiss.
“Well, there’s still the matter of his trespassing in first class, ma’am,” one officer remarked. “We can’t turn a blind eye to that. Order on the Titanic or any liner this size depends upon passengers’ strict observance of class distinctions—in terms of the decks, of course.”
Celia turned to the officer. I noticed that she had completely avoided looking at the Frenchman during the conversation. “But this gentlemen doesn’t seem to speak English and, well, it is a huge and often confusing ship; I’ve gotten lost several times myself!”
“But, Celia, he had to climb six or seven decks up to get here!” I protested.
The officers had clearly had enough of this discussion.
“We’ll have to detain him, ma’am,” the officer insisted. “I’m sorry you were disturbed. If you change your mind about filing a complaint, do let us know.”
With each holding one of the thug’s arms, the officers began leading the assailant away. He didn’t resist—in fact, he looked over and gave me a triumphant kind of smile.
But that wasn’t even the strangest thing he did. He then turned to Celia and with an arched eyebrow muttered, “Au revoir pour le moment…Molly.”
Chapter 18
Nigel Bowen
Atlantic Ocean
Friday, April 12, 1912, 2:00PM
On the way back to our cabin, neither of us said a word. But I watched Celia out of the corner of my eye, and I could all but see the wheels turning in her mind, faster than a locomotive. Whatever she was hiding, she was furiously working out how she could continue to do so.
Inside the room, Celia walked over to my bureau and poure
d a drink—the first I’d ever seen her take. She took a large sip then glanced over at me.
“Nigel, I think…” she said slowly, carefully. “I think we should separate. Everyone is talking about our argument and the fight you had with Phil. If you were to take another room, we might still be able to convince Mr. Davies that by a friendly separation we are striving to save our marriage.”
I sat on the couch and contemplated her. She slowly paced back and forth across the room, her mind obviously still abuzz.
“You might even go to him and ask him to help you conquer your need for liquor,” she said. “It would make him feel important. And it would seem as though you were really trying.”
“And then what?” I asked tartly. “We dock, you decide that I truly am incorrigible and throw yourself into Davies’s protective arms? Then you cash the check and disappear forever?”
Celia’s eyes flashed with anger, but she made yet another effort to control herself. She walked over and sat next to me on the sofa.
“I haven’t always been honest with you, Nigel,” she said intently. “But I ask that you trust me this last time. You can have the money—all of it. It doesn’t matter to me. Just please, please do as I say and take another room.”
I laughed bitterly. “Not three hours ago you said the money was all that mattered to you. Come, my dear, you might start this new era of honesty by telling me who that Frenchman is. And who you are…Molly.”
Celia sprang up from the sofa and went to her vanity. She stood with her back to me for several moments. She then suddenly dug into a drawer and, riffling through some papers, pulled something out. She walked up to me and held out Davies’s check. “If I tell you about that man, will you promise—swear—to take this check and book another room?”
“Celia, darling, you’re not very good at this kind of bargaining.” I sighed in exasperation. “You must know that check is worthless if we part. I have no doubt that Davies will honor his word about helping you divorce me—until he finds out that there can be no divorce because there never was a marriage. You won’t get a dime. You might even land in jail.”