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Chapter 5

THE MIDAFTERNOON SUN GILDS THE DECKS OF THE ship as if it were a golden ornament instead of anything real. I would swear that the Titanicglides above the surface of the ocean, because this is as smooth and idyllic as flying is in dreams. And the ocean now looks as I always imagined it: depthless, dark blue, crowned with foamy waves—

“Tess!” barks Lady Regina. “Don’t fall behind.”

So much for daydreams.

I walk a few steps behind Lady Regina, Layton, and Irene, carrying the ladies’ shawls should they need them. Apparently travel at sea can sometimes be cold, though this afternoon is anything but. The ship is heading toward Cherbourg to pick up the final passengers. So if the ladies will stay on deck until then, I can actually glimpse a bit of the coastline of France.

I try to think of such things: pretty metaphors about the ship, or the excitement of seeing another country for the first time in my life. If I think about those things, then I don’t have to think about Mikhail. I’m in first class now, his part of the ship. He could walk by at any instant, and then I will have to know, for certain, whether it’s just my imagination or whether—whether he’s truly hunting me.

Then maybe I could tell someone, though I’m not sure who could help me. George Greene seems a kindly man, but he’d still believe a gentleman’s word above that of a servant, I’m sure. Ned, perhaps? But what could Ned do about it?

No, I’m alone in this.

Irene’s ivory-colored dress fits her well, thanks to my sewing, and the blue ribbons that gather the neck and sleeves flutter nicely in the breeze. I do wish Lady Regina had taken my advice about her daughter’s hat, though. It is wide-brimmed and high-crowned, the latest in fashion, but it overwhelms Irene’s slight frame. As fond as I am of her, I can’t help but think that she looks a bit like a mushroom. The enormous hat wobbles on her head while she animatedly talks about some excitement on deck as the Titanicleft port, an incident I missed while Myriam and I were down below.

“They say we came within four feet of colliding with the tugboat,” Irene insists. “A man on deck declared that was a bad omen. He says he will disembark at Cherbourg.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” sniffs Lady Regina. “Ahhh, look there. The Countess of Rothes. Well worth the knowing.”

Irene’s sigh is so soft that Lady Regina can pretend to ignore it. But Layton snaps, “She’s hardly any older than you, but she’s done a fair bit better for herself, wouldn’t you say? You might want to learn from her example.”

“I hope the countess married for love, not for money,” Irene says.

“She married well,” Layton says. “She kept an eye out. You might try doing the same, Irene, instead of hiding up in your library all the time.”

Sometimes I hide in the library with her; more often I go on my own. Irene promised me at Christmastime that I might borrow what books I wished, Sherlock Holmes or anything else, and if anybody in her family ever noticed them missing, she’d swear she’d insisted that I read the volume in question. It was kind of her, though we both knew there was little chance of anybody else in her family noticing a missing book. Between the three of them, I doubt they’ve ever read anything more complex than Burke’s Peerage.

“Humph. I believe those would be the Strauses.” Lady Regina’s nose crinkles as if she’s smelled something bad. “Enormously wealthy Americans. They own some store in New York City—Macy’s, they call it. I suppose that is so nobody will realize it is owned by Jews.”

I sneak another peek at the Strauses; I’ve never seen any Jewish people before, and I’m curious. They don’t look any different from anyone else. In fact, they look like a rather nice elderly couple, walking along the deck arm in arm. Lady Regina holds her head high as they pass, refusing to acknowledge them, and Layton follows suit. Irene’s cheeks turn pink at their blatant rudeness. Happily, the Strauses don’t even notice. They are deep in conversation with each other, obviously affectionate in a way the Viscount Lisle and Lady Regina haven’t been in years, if they ever were.

Lady Regina nudges Irene. “Now there are some Americans far more worthy of our acquaintance. Howard Marlowe of Marlowe Steel—quite a large concern. One of the new titans of industry in the United States. And that must be his son, Alexander. A very eligible bachelor . . . and, it seems, extremely handsome as well.”

I stop peering over my shoulder at the Strauses so I can see this handsome man for myself—and my feet suddenly seem fixed to the deck. I can’t move, can’t breathe. Because Alexander Marlowe is Alec.

Our eyes meet. His gaze is dark and devouring. Something blazes within him as he looks at me, but I can’t tell if it’s anger or desire. My breath catches in my throat.

“Mr. Marlowe!” Lady Regina trills, stepping forward with her hand outstretched. This is remarkable behavior toward a man she’s never met, particularly one who isn’t a member of the nobility. “I am Viscount Lisle’s wife, Lady Regina. So pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine, madam.” Howard Marlowe is as tall as his son, though Alec’s thick curls must have come from his mother—the father is as bald as an egg. “This is my son, Alec. He’s been studying in Paris these past two years. It will be good to see Chicago again, won’t it, son?”

“It will.” Alec turns from me, and for the first time I see a smile on his face—small and rueful, and yet a smile all the same. Somehow when he’s smiling, he’s even more beautiful. “I’ve missed being home.”

I seize on each fact as though it were another precious coin to add to my stash. His name is Alexander Marlowe. He is from Chicago. His father is a steel magnate. Although this last fact makes it even more obvious that Alec can never, ever be mine, it is something else I can know about him. Knowledge is the only thing about Alec I can ever possess.

Mr. Marlowe, his father, is all politeness to Lady Regina—but he doesn’t humble himself the way so many people do. Obviously he doesn’t care for titles; he knows what he’s worth. “And may I have the compliment of being introduced to your children?”

“My son, the Honorable Layton Lisle. My daughter, the Honorable Irene Lisle,” Lady Regina says, stepping back as though she were presenting some sort of show pony instead of her own child. Irene is always shy with strangers, but she manages to nod and smile. That would do, but Lady Regina continues, “Irene has just completed her London season, and we are eager to show her more of the world.”

“Always a fine idea,” Mr. Marlowe says.

“And we were just talking of Chicago!” I glance down at the deck, not only to keep myself from staring openly at Alec, but to prevent myself from laughing at Lady Regina’s obvious lie. “How we would love to visit that fine city.”

“Any good shooting there, what?” Layton looks nearly pleasant for a moment as he thinks of one of the few things he enjoys doing, namely blowing the heads off some ducks to make himself feel manlier. “Chicago’s rather on the wild frontier, I take it.”

Alec doesn’t respond with any of the jokes or invitations that most upper-class young men would; instead, he looks almost grave. “I don’t go in for shooting. And Chicago is no longer the western frontier.”

Mr. Marlowe shoots his son a look, perhaps a warning against rudeness, though Alec spoke reasonably enough. “Chicago is a true world city now. Even you must have heard of the Columbian Exposition! We have museums, theater, all the refinements you could wish.”

Normally I would expect Lady Regina to snort with contempt at the idea of anything in America being refined, but she’s all sunshine and light now. “You make Chicago sound most thrilling, Mr. Marlowe. If we do travel there next month, I trust we may call on you and dear Alec to introduce us to society?”

“But of course, madam. It would be my honor.” Mr. Marlowe’s smile is more stiff now, and who can blame him? Lady Regina is essentially forcing a friendship on them—and any fool can tell why. Between this and her unsubtle mention of Irene’s already having had her debut, Lady Regina’s all but announcing that she’d like Alec to consider Irene as a bride.

It stings like a thousand cuts. It stings because Lady Regina is being rude and obvious. It stings because Irene is now so exposed, so awkward, and all she wants is some nice quiet man who would actually value her goodness more than her fortune. Above all, it stings because it reminds me that Alec will belong to some rich woman somewhere, and never, ever to me.

But I’m the one he’s looking at with those dark eyes.

And I’m the one he speaks to.

“You—had no more difficulties aboard?” Alec says.

My cheeks flush with warmth. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Lady Regina glares at me, as though she hopes her stare has the power to melt me where I stand. “Tess? Were you bothering Mr. Marlowe?”

“Not at all, ma’am.” Alec steps forward slightly, placing himself between Lady Regina and me. Is he defending me from her, or showing me how easily he can separate me from others? The thrill I feel when I’m near him is equal parts attraction and fear; I don’t know which emotion is true and which is an illusion. Maybe they’re both justified. “She was carrying a burden much too heavy for her earlier today. She required some help to reach her suite. Your suite, I mean.”

He didn’t tell them Mikhail was threatening me. Which of us is he protecting—me, or Mikhail?

“Tess often pretends to need more help than she requires. I hope you weren’t taken in.” Lady Regina laughs lightly. “It’s always the way, with servants. They shirk their tasks the moment you’re not looking.”

She’s trying to shame me, but I’m not ashamed. I know the truth—and so does Alec. He already knows so much about me . . . more, perhaps, than I care for him to know. It doesn’t make me feel any safer.

Despite her shyness, Irene pipes up, trying to change the subject. “Mr. Marlowe, have you seen John Jacob Astor? Is he really on board?”

“Indeed he is,” Mr. Marlowe says, obviously pleased with the change of subject. “With his new wife—who’s not much older than you.”

Lady Regina can’t resist gossip, and soon the entire party is walking forward again, the parents and Layton chitchatting easily, and Irene trailing in her mother’s wake. Alec remains a few steps back—not beside me, but closer to me than to anyone else. It’s as though I can feel his presence next to me, the deep, slightly uncomfortable warmth of standing too close to a fire.

As the others round the corner of the boat deck toward the stern, Alec turns to me. He’s so close to me now that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek.

His voice is rough as he says, “You told them nothing.”

“No.”

“About me or about Mikhail.”

“No. I swear.”

Alec’s eyes bore into mine as he leans even closer and whispers, “If you value your life, keep your silence. That’s the only thing that will save you. Do you hear me, Tess?”

“Yes.”

Then he walks forward again, as smoothly as though he had never spoken to me at all. Alec even smiles when his father waves him forward to stroll by his side. I don’t know what to think, but I follow behind, once again the obedient servant.

Was Alec trying to protect me, telling me that Mikhail would strike at me if I spoke to anyone about him? Or was it a threat?

Either way, he’s just confirmed what I’ve been trying to deny all afternoon. I’m in danger.

“How could you be so impertinent, Tess?” Lady Regina tosses her hat down on the sofa in the Lisles’ suite. “Putting yourself forward like that. Trying to monopolize Alexander Marlowe’s attention.”

“Mother, he spoke to Tess first,” Irene tries to point out, but Lady Regina ignores her.

The lecture goes on for some time, but I hardly notice. It’s all I can do to stand there and nod on cue; my mind is consumed by Alec’s threat. Or his warning—I still don’t know what it was. I can’t stop thinking of Mikhail’s cold eyes.

I tell myself that I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. I’ve told no one. Alec said that would protect me, and why would he lie? Keeping quiet and telling nobody my true story has kept me safe up until now. This is just one more thing to stay quiet about.

Lady Regina doesn’t stop venting her anger at me until late, and then I’ve got to prepare Irene for dinner. As I help her into her cornflower-blue evening dress, Irene can’t stop apologizing for her mother. “She’s only nervous,” Irene says, as if that cow were ever nervous about anything. “Mother’s been preoccupied with— with a lot of things lately. It makes her cross. Please don’t take it personally.”

“You’re not supposed to apologize to me for anything,” I say as I sweep her lank hair up in jeweled combs, which will at least give her some glitter. It helps that she’s finally old enough for us to put her hair up; that lets me hide how straight her hair is. “I’m your servant. I know my place.”

“Your place doesn’t have to mean being treated badly.” Irene sighs as she looks at her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, what’s the use?”

“You look nice tonight. You just have to brighten up a bit. Smile. Confidence is half the battle, miss.”

And she does look better than usual this evening—the color suits her, as do the dress’s simple lines. At any other time, I’d be proud of my handiwork. It’s my job, as ladies’ maid, to see that Irene is shown off to her best advantage. When her mother gets out of my way, and stops forcing Irene to wear ruffles that drown her slight frame and pale, “pure” colors that wash out her complexion, Irene is—well, no ravishing beauty, but at least pretty. I may have been made a ladies’ maid too young and with no experience, but I’ve learned quickly.

Tonight, though, I can’t revel vicariously in this triumph. It seems as if I can hear nothing but the blood rushing in my ears, and the memory of Alec’s whisper.

Keep your silence.

“Well, that’s not so bad,” drawls Layton as he strolls into her room. Irene frowns—she likes her privacy, but her brother respects that as little as he does anything or anyone else. “At least you won’t be an embarrassment tonight.”

Behind his shoulder, I can see Ned, whose freckled face is flushed with anger. He hates it when Layton picks on Irene. But he says only, “Will that be all, sir?”

“Quite all.” Layton is, indeed, impeccably turned out; his tuxedo is so well pressed and brushed that it seems to have been polished. “You are dismissed for the evening.”

“You too, Tess,” Irene says, with a small smile.

But then, from the next room, I hear Lady Regina call, “Tess, you stay here. Horne is busy with me. Get Beatrice to bed, would you?”

My stomach is empty with hunger and fear, but there’s nothing to be done. Whatever I’m ordered to do, I must do. “Yes, milady.”

By the time little Beatrice is washed and asleep, and Lady Regina’s finally done with me, I’m not afraid any longer. Although I still feel wobbly every time I think about Mikhail’s threat, or about Alec, hunger has taken over. It seems as though I can face up to anything if I can just eat.

But by the time I arrive back in third class, it’s well after tea time. What time is the second meal service over? I hurry down the long white corridor that I think leads toward the dining hall, and run into Myriam—who, rather interestingly, is accompanied by George.

“Haven’t you got a ship to manage?” I say before I can stop myself.

George turns out to look adorable when he’s flustered—at least to Myriam, who smiles sidelong at him. “Off duty this past hour, miss. Thought Miss Nahas and I might take a stroll on the third-class deck.”

“Of course you’re welcome to join us.” Myriam gives me a smoldering look that clearly means, Interfere with this and you die in the night.

She doesn’t need to worry; I have better plans. “Thanks for the invitation, but I need to get something to eat. Tea hasn’t ended, has it? I know I’m too late for the first shift, but—” I read the truth in their dismayed faces. “Oh, no.”

George straightens his uniform jacket. “Listen here. Go to the kitchens—the staff will still be clearing up. If you give them my name, they’ll be able to set you up with a plate. Plenty of leftovers, never fear.”

Maybe he said it just to get on Myriam’s good side, but I don’t think so. Honestly, I don’t care. “Seventh Officer George Greene,” I repeat, to make sure I’ve got it right. “Thank you!”

“Have a good night!” Myriam calls after me. She might actually mean it.

I hurry down the hallway, pushing past a few other after-dinner stragglers. But already I’m doubting myself. I don’t remember this turn at all, and the corridors feel like a maze. I’m not used to finding my way around new places, since I only just left the house I’ve worked in for the past four years and the village where I’d spent my whole life before that.

Glancing over my shoulder, I look for Myriam and George, but they’re already out of sight. Nobody else around me speaks English or looks likely to; two of the men closest to me even appear to be from China. So much for asking for directions.

So I head back the way I came, to the doorway that leads to the first-class areas of this deck. Maybe I can reorient myself and get turned back toward the dining hall.

As I reach the doorway, my stomach rumbles, and I hope I won’t be lost much longer—and the doorway opens.

Mikhail steps through.

My body seems to freeze in shock. He’s hunting me after all, I think—but that’s not right. He looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

Only for a moment. Then Mikhail’s face steels as he clamps his hand around my upper arm, hard enough to hurt. “You’d be a fool to scream.”

“Let me go.”

He pulls me back through the door—how does he have a key?—and I try to resist, but he’s stronger. Although I want to scream, I keep reminding myself of what Alec said: Keep your silence.

Now that we’re alone in the quieter first-class corridor, Mikhail leans close to me, pinning me against the corridor wall, clearly meaning to loom over me. But I’m too tall for that. It doesn’t faze him. “How interesting to see you again.”

“I’ve told no one about—about before,” I say. “I don’t plan to.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes are so cold. I can feel that shiver pass through me again; it’s hard being so close to his hunter’s stare. He frames my body with his arms. “When I first saw you, I thought you were simply a temptation. A deviation from my mission.” The box, I think through my panic. He was stalking me that first night because he was already after the Lisles. Mikhail leans even closer to me, so that I can smell the strange, animal scent of his skin. “Or perhaps a means of whiling away an hour or so before I took care of my business with the Lisles.”

I can’t tell if that hour is the one he wants me to spend in his bed or in my grave.

And then I’m so scared I’m not scared anymore. I’m furious. I shove Mikhail back, not caring whether I’ll get into trouble or whether I hurt him. “If you try to steal from me again, I’ll tell a ship’s officer. Now leave me alone.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake. Not shoving him, not even threatening to tell. Mikhail’s expression changed the moment I said steal from me. The moment I revealed that I knew whatever he really wants is inside the Lisles’ safe.

He lunges at me, gripping my arm in one hand and covering my mouth with the other. My back slams against the wall so hard it knocks the breath out of me. If I thought he was strong before, I didn’t understand the half of it; Mikhail can hold me in place, as though I were helpless. His strength is beyond anything I’ve ever known. Almost inhuman.

“That’s a very sensible plan,” he hisses as I struggle to inhale. “But I can’t have my work here disrupted by a mere woman. So why don’t I make absolutely sure you’ll never tell?”

I go crazy. I claw at him, try to push him back, wrench my neck to the side so hard it hurts. But even when I manage to scream, I know nobody will come. The first-class section of the deck is deserted except for us at this time of night; the third-class passengers probably can’t hear through the door, and if they can, they won’t have the key to get through.

Mikhail grabs my hair, which hurts so much tears spring to my eyes. He’s dragging me down the corridor, and I keep trying to clutch something, anything to hold on to, but it’s useless. We reach a doorway, and he flings it open. Just before he shoves me though, I see the sign: This is the Turkish bath.

I fall through darkness, through heat, as I tumble onto my hands and knees upon a floor of moist green and white tiles. The steam of the bath still clouds the air, as though I’d been tossed into the fog. I can’t see, can’t breathe. The main light is from the hallway, and it outlines Mikhail’s body as he walks inside after me and slams the door behind him.

I expect to be beaten, or raped, or killed.

I do not expect the wolf.