“Like being ripped apart.” Alec is so matter-of-fact as he says this. It makes me shiver. “But I can’t think about it much after I’m changed. So it’s blurry.”
“What do you mean, you can’t think about it?”
“When I’m a wolf, my mind—it’s not the same. As a human, I can’t remember it very well.” Of course; he was even surprised to see me yesterday morning in the Turkish bath. “I’m not sure how much humanity is in me then. If there’s any humanity left.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t deny what I am.” His voice is sharper, edged with what I think is anger—but that’s not it. The sun is near setting. The wolf is closer to the surface.
It frightens me to see the change in him. Yet it thrills me too.
Alec continues, more quietly, “Changing back hurts less—it feels like going back to the way things should be, at least—but that, I have to remember. Every second of it.”
He stretches his back, rolls his shoulders. His movements grow freer, less confined. He’s even walking faster, and I have to hurry to keep up. I don’t mind it. Something in me wants to break into a run so that he will run with me. I want this mad energy between us released.
With my key, we slip through the door to first class and go toward the Turkish baths. Once again, they are closed for the evening, but Alec can let himself in. “How did you get the key to the bath?” I ask.
He shrugs. “My father requested it. They don’t deny the first-class passengers many privileges. All you have to do is ask.”
That’s how I got my key too, thanks to the Lisles’ eminent name. “Must be nice.”
“It is in this case, anyway.”
I glance around, remembering how we were brought together here the first time. “Mikhail wouldn’t—”
“He left me alone here last night,” Alec says. The hall lighting reddens his hair, deepens the shadows on his face. His breathing is more shallow now. Almost ragged. “He hasn’t bothered you again, has he?”
“Just to scare me.” I should have told Alec about the note, perhaps, but in the light of day, I feel sure it was meant to scare me, to haunt me. It couldn’t be a real threat. “As long as he believes I’m too scared to betray him to the Lisles, I think—I think I’m all right.”
“But you won’t be alone.” Alec’s hands close around my arms, bringing me closer to him. His voice is rough, his eyes intense. “Promise me, Tess.”
“I promise.”
We are only inches apart. He whispers, “With you—with you I feel almost human again.” Slowly Alec leans toward me, and I close my eyes.
When his mouth closes over mine, the kiss isn’t gentle. He’s almost desperate, the way he clutches me to him, the way he devours me. The wolf, I think. The wolf in him is close to the surface, so close.
But then why am I kissing him back just as desperately?
When our lips part, I’m trembling all over, and his breath is shaky. “You have to go,” he says.
“I know.” But we don’t let go of each other at first.
“Please, Tess.” Alec pleads with me to have the strength of will that is failing him. “I won’t be myself much longer.”
I remember the red wolf—the terror I felt two nights ago—and while I cannot recapture that fear, just bringing it to mind gets me to step back. His grip on my arms breaks, and he makes a small, frustrated sound. We both want so much more.
“I’m going.”
“All right.” Alec pushes open the door, releasing soft clouds of steam. “I know that—for your own good—I shouldn’t see you again. But I can’t stand the thought of not seeing you again.”
“I’ll be with the Lisles the rest of the trip.” My voice sounds very small.
He closes his eyes, struggling against something. “Damn it, damn it, give me another five minutes.” He’s talking to the wolf, which will not listen.
Alec’s hand is sinew-tense against my cheek as he pulls me close and kisses me again, this time only for a single hungry instant. Then he walks into the bath, letting the door swing shut behind him. His only farewell is the clicking of the lock.
Half in a daze, I wander back into third class. I don’t know whether to feel elated or devastated. All I can think about is the taste of Alec’s kiss on my lips.
As I hug myself, I realize that his jacket is still draped over my shoulders. I could just give it to a steward to deliver to the Marlowe family suite. Maybe that’s what I should do. But it’s an excuse to see Alec again, if I want an excuse.
And I do.
I slip the jacket on over my dress. He is so broad-shouldered and muscular that his coat drapes easily around me, tall though I am. It feels like a trophy. Proud, still giddy from his kiss, I lift the collar so that I can breathe in the scent of Alec’s skin. Then I tuck my hands into the pockets, so I can feel the warmth of his hands and remember them touching me.
In one pocket, I feel a crumpling of paper.
I pull it out to see a collector’s tourist card with a bit of newsprint wrapped around it. Curiosity makes me look at the card, to see what Alec finds interesting—but when I see, my heart drops.
There, in silvery tones, is a picture postcard of a beautiful woman, clearly costumed for some sort of ballet or opera in Oriental-style dress. Her figure is perfect; her profile is as delicately sculpted as one of the Greek marbles in Moorcliffe’s garden temple. The white lettering at the bottom proclaims this to be Gabrielle Dumont.
The actress from Paris. The same one Lady Regina gossiped about as being Alec’s possible lover.
Lady Regina claimed that their romance had “ended badly,” but he still carries her picture with him every day. Does that mean he’s still in love with her? But if Alec is in love with this woman, how could he kiss me like that?
And he acted so guilty about breaking her heart.
The crumpled newsprint falls from my fingers, swaying slowly downward; I catch it before it hits the ground. I don’t know what I expect it to say, but I know I don’t expect this.
It’s from the Times. It reports on the shocking death of the celebrated actress Gabrielle Dumont two weeks ago in Paris.
The most shocking detail is how she died. She was “torn to death by a pack of dogs,” on the street outside her home, though she lived in the heart of Paris. Nobody saw the attack, but nobody could mistake the signs of what had happened to her.
Torn to death by a pack of dogs.
Or by a wolf.
Alec said he had to leave Paris in a hurry. He said he has to live in the woods, far away from any human contact, from now on. He carries a burden of guilt inside him that can well up and take him over at any moment. Only now do I realize why.
He murdered Gabrielle.
Chapter 14
“YOU SURE YOU’RE ALL RIGHT?” NED SAYS THROUGH a mouthful of chicken.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. You sound like a dead woman walking.”
“And what would that sound like?” Myriam demands. “You wouldn’t know.”
“All right, all right, don’t bite my head off.”
The hubbub of the third-class dining hall almost drowns her out. Or is it just me? The world beyond my own skin seems so far away.
The newspaper clipping and tourist card are still in the coat pocket; Alec’s coat remains on my back. It still feels like his arms around me, but it doesn’t feel like an embrace any longer. It feels imprisoning.
Torn apart by wild dogs.
The red wolf and the black, ripping each other apart in their eagerness to get at me.
As a group in the back begins singing “Shine On, Harvest Moon,” for their amusement more than for ours, Ned frowns and tries again. He means well but simply does not know when to stop. “Worrying about Lady Regina? She’ll be a bear in the morning, but honestly, how much worse can she actually get? You’ll hold up fine. Always do.”
“I’m not worried about Lady Regina.” I’d never have imagi
ned what would have to happen for her to be the least of my problems.
Ned asks, “You seasick, maybe?”
“Maybe that’s it.” I would agree to anything if it will make Ned stop asking me questions. I know he means well, but I want to wall myself up in my own mind and try to come to terms with what I’ve just learned.
Myriam begins asking Ned about life in service, and I laugh on cue at his best anecdotes about Layton’s drunken exploits, but I’m not paying attention. She isn’t either, really; she’s just distracting Ned for me. I can feel her watchful eyes on me throughout the meal.
Afterward, we decline to attend the evening’s dance. While we walk back to our cabin, Myriam says only, “Did Alec say something to hurt you? He seemed nice to me, but—your face this evening—”
“No. I don’t want to talk about it.” I grab her hand, not wanting her to think that I’m shutting her out. “Just—don’t leave me alone. All right?”
She nods slowly. “As you wish.”
So we spend the evening in our cabin, and she tells me about her life in Lebanon. Some of it sounds deliciously exotic—olive trees and the seashore—yet most of it is familiar. Everywhere people shear sheep and spin wool. Everywhere mothers prepare big bowls of soup for dinner before calling the children indoors. Everywhere children hate to leave home and yet know that they must.
The elderly Norwegian women—whom we think are named Inga and Ilsa, though we’re not sure which is which—stay at the dance until late and arrive home rather giggly. I suspect they’ve sampled the beer. Their earrings are exchanged for my felt purse with grateful smiles, but mostly I want to tuck the purse under my pillow. I feel the coins in my palm, as a lump beneath my head, the promise that I will be able to start over someday soon.
I try not to look at the door and wonder if Mikhail is on the other side. Mostly I succeed. I try not to think of what Alec is going through, or what Alec has done. That’s harder. But this night, for the first time since I have been aboard the Titanic, I am able to fall into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
April 13, 1912
The next morning, I put on my uniform feeling as though my gut is heavy as lead. I tell myself that Ned was right, that it can’t get any worse—the Lisles have already docked my pay, and beyond that, little else matters. I intend to quit in just a few days. So what if Lady Regina is so angry about my adventures with Alec yesterday? Why should I care if she fires me?
But she’s already said she won’t fire me. I’ve already decided to work through the end of the voyage, because I don’t want my pay docked any further. This means I’ll just have to put up with her nastiness, and right now—while my heart still aches from learning that Alec is a killer—I don’t know that I can bear it.
I’ll bear it, I tell myself. I have to.
Lady Regina won’t be the worst of it, though.
I practically tiptoe into the Lisles’ cabin that morning, but most of the family isn’t up. Beatrice is wailing, though, and I can hear Horne trying to comfort her. With the pink dress folded under one arm, I step into Irene’s room.
Irene is awake. As usual, she’s still wearing her nightgown, her straw-colored hair hanging lank around her face. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and for the first time ever, she doesn’t smile the moment I walk in.
“Good morning, Tess,” she says, as politely as usual, though she looks likely to burst into tears.
This is the worst of it—knowing I’ve hurt the only member of the Lisle family who’s always been kind to me.
“Miss Irene, I’m so sorry,” I say. “It wasn’t meant to show you up. You know that, don’t you?”
“Mr. Marlowe and I had no interest in each other.” Her mouth quirks in something that’s supposed to be a smile, but isn’t quite. “I couldn’t convince Mother of that, so I suppose it was up to you.”
“There’s nothing between me and Mr. Marlowe. You know that’s not even possible. For me it was only a chance to be up on the boat deck for a day, and wear something pretty for a change. For him—I suppose it was a bit of fun for a rich man. Nothing more than that.”
It was so much more than that, but I want to deny it, both to her and to myself.
Irene lays one hand on my arm. Her hands are truly beautiful—slim and long-fingered, as pearly white and soft-skinned as any noblewoman could hope for. “Don’t let him take advantage of you, Tess. You deserve better than that.”
I could cry. “You don’t have to be nice to me! Not when I’ve made your mother angry with you.”
“Mother’s always angry with me, and she always will be.” Irene leans her head against the wall, as though it were too heavy. She’s more trapped than I’ve ever been, I realize; at least I can quit being a servant. Irene couldn’t even walk out of her house and get a job if she wanted to, because they’ve made good and sure she’s utterly useless. She’s never washed a dish or mended a seam. I bet she’s never even brushed her own hair. She plays the piano, and paints blurry watercolors, and speaks a little French, which even she says is very bad. There’s nothing she’s fit for but marrying someone, and she doesn’t even get to pick the someone.
I hand her the pink dress. She sets it in her lap. “I’ll keep this, because I suspect Mother will ask about it. But when we reach New York—Tess, I’m going to give the dress back to you.”
“No, miss. You mustn’t risk it.”
“It’s yours,” she insists. “You shouldn’t lose it because Mother’s mean, and because you wanted to spend one day on deck.” We look at each other, and the distance between gentlewoman and servant seems narrower than ever. I could almost believe we’re friends. “I know what it’s like to want just one day of freedom.”
I nod, telling her that I understand. Irene’s hand pats my arm again, and for a moment I think she might hug me. I wouldn’t mind.
But that’s when Lady Regina walks in.
“You,” she says. “Get to work. What can you mean, the morning after such an outrageous performance, coming in here to loaf around?”
I scramble for the silver-backed hairbrush on Irene’s dressing table, so I can get started on Miss Irene.
Lady Regina’s words feel like lashes across my back: “You’re just like your sister, aren’t you? A tramp with no morals, no decency. Watch you don’t end up in the same trap, my dear. Or is it already too late for you, as it is for so many others?”
My sister, the mother of her grandchild. Hot anger boils up inside me, and I think I won’t be able to keep from screaming.
But it’s Irene who screams.
“Irene?” Lady Regina stares at her. It must be as much noise as Irene’s made since she squalled after being born. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Leave Tess alone! Leave me alone! Get out of my room! I can’t stand the sight of you!” Irene looks positively mad. She picks up a small mug of water near her bedside and actually throws it at Lady Regina. It bounces off the wall, but it splashes her mother thoroughly, deflating her poufy hair. If I were less astonished, I’d never stop applauding.
Lady Regina doesn’t budge. “Tess, leave us,” she commands. “Go help Horne. She’s useless with Beatrice this morning.” I do as she says, though I wish I could stay for every word.
After the door to Irene’s room slams behind me, I start toward Beatrice’s nursery, but someone stands in my way—Layton.
He looks worse than ever. His fair hair is slicked back, but in such a way that it fully reveals how much thinner it’s become lately. Ned must have done that on purpose. But what really strikes me is the pallor of Layton’s face, the faintly swollen look of him. He’s always been a heavy drinker, but he must have spent virtually all of the past two days intoxicated. Thanks to Mikhail, I realize.
I’m not the only pawn in rich men’s games.
Layton stares past me at the shut door to Irene’s room. The argument between mother and daughter is audible, but muffled—but when they were screaming, he would have heard every word. I realize that he’s
upset by something, and I think I know what it is. I’ve got him at a weak moment, and in a few days I’ll walk away and never see Layton Lisle again. If I’m ever going to say something to him about this, I must act now.
“It’s too late for my sister, isn’t it?” I say. “Sir.”
This is his cue to sneer at me, or tell me I’m imagining things, or maybe go ahead and sack me. Right now I’m so angry I don’t care if he does.
He leans toward me, and he still smells faintly of alcohol. Either last night’s indulgence hasn’t yet lifted, or he began drinking at breakfast. I’m guessing the latter. “It wasn’t my intention to—to have, ah, matters turn out that way.”
Wasn’t his intention? He damned sure intended to do what got my sister pregnant in the first place. “You could’ve stood up for her.”
“What, and taken her to wed? Have a big ceremony at Salisbury Cathedral with the bishop present?” Layton’s sneering now, but his pale eyes are hollow. There’s no pleasure in these taunts. “What kind of simpleton are you, that you think something like that would ever be possible?”
“I know the way of the world, sir. But you could’ve taken better care of her. You could have done right by her instead of leaving her to starve.”
He goes white so suddenly that I put out my hands, sure he’s about to topple over. “Daisy—she—she can’t have starved.”
Good Lord. In some way, he actually cares. Just not enough. “No, she didn’t, no thanks to you. She’s married now to a good man, one who can look after her.”
Layton breathes out in relief. Whatever measure of concern he feels doesn’t extend as far as jealousy about her new love; the fact that Daisy’s now married means he doesn’t have to let guilt trouble him any longer. “That’s all right then, isn’t it?”
“She was hungry. She was cold and alone and afraid. People in the village laughed at her and called her names. My father will never speak to her again. You did that to her, with your selfishness.”