Promise Me This (12 page)

Captain Smith conducted Sunday morning’s divine services from the White Star Line’s own prayer book, with all classes invited to attend in the first-class dining saloon.

It was the first church service Michael had been to in a long, long time.

He and Owen exchanged a grin over the urgent whispers and awed nudges of the third-class passengers close about them.

“The room’s a grand sight, ain’t it, Owen?” Michael jabbed Owen and pointed to the palms they’d helped place the night before sailing day. Owen smiled and nodded, then pointed again to the hymnbook from which they sang.

O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home!

Could there truly be an “eternal home”? Michael sang the words true and clear, but he wondered.

“You ought to sing more often. You’ve a fine instrument in your chest and a voice made for praise, Michael Dunnagan.” Owen spoke as they left the services.

Michael remembered his mam saying much the same to him as a child when they stood together, all as a family, in church. It seemed everywhere he turned, Owen opened old memories for him. So many all at once were both a treasure and an ache in his heart. How could he contain such joy and pain all mingled together? Would the dam burst inside him?

“I see you are training your young cousin in the ways of the Lord, Owen Allen.”

Michael had been so lost in his thoughts that he’d not seen Lucy Snape match their pace.

Owen, clearly caught off guard, stumbled before he bowed. “Mrs. Snape.”

Michael felt the helpless quickening in Owen’s manner. He owned that Lucy Snape was a beautiful woman.

Lucy lowered her voice. “There is no Tim or Michael Dunnagan listed among the passengers.”

Owen paled and blinked.

“I do not know what you are about, but I have seen how you care for the boy, and certainly he looks as if he needs it.”

“It’s my fault, Mrs. Snape. I—” Michael began, but Owen cut him off with a hand on his arm.

“I take full responsibility for the boy, Mrs. Snape. I—”

“Hush, the two of you!” She turned aside and walked with them. “I do not know what you will do in New York. I assume you’ve figured that out. But I have watched you these days past, and I know that whatever the boy is to you, you are good to him.” She toyed with her purse strings. “It is the sort of kindness I want for my daughter, Margaret.”

Michael brightened. “You’ll not turn us in, then?”

“No.” She laughed nervously. “Though I should! If they realize I’ve known what you’re about and did not report you, I shall lose my position, surely.”

“You are a good woman, Lucy Snape.” Owen spoke softly and reached for her hand. And then, boldly, “May . . . may I write you once we’ve settled in New Jersey?”

“I hope you will, Owen Allen. I hope our paths will cross again.” She blushed, withdrawing her hand, and placed small papers, folded, into Owen’s.

“Your address?”

“No.” She blushed, prettier than before. “I imagined the two of you could use some extra meal tickets. This boy needs fattening up.”

“How did you—?”

“There are advantages to being a White Star Line stewardess, at least if you are friendly with the right staff.” She smiled. “I must go. If I do not see you again to speak, I wish you well in your ventures, Mr. Allen.”

“Owen.”

“Owen, then,” she replied.

Their eyes caught, and Michael wondered at the current that passed between the two. He fancied he could wave his hand between their faces and they would never notice.

Lucy made as if to go, then turned to Owen again. “RMS
Titanic
—write me there,” she whispered and was gone.

Owen stood, staring after her.

“We’re a knot in the aisle, Owen,” Michael whispered as passengers worked their way around them. But Owen was clearly lost in the wonder of Lucy Snape. Michael took him by the coat sleeve and guided him back to third class.

Mr. Fletcher, the bugler, played the call for dinner. Michael pried the crunched tickets from Owen’s hand. “Here, wake up now, Owen. We can go into dinner together, thanks to your ladylove.”

At that Owen smiled all the broader till he chuckled and laughed out loud.

Michael would have been content with the vegetable soup served. But the roast pork with sage and onions, the boiled potatoes and green peas, the fresh bread and butter and cabin biscuits filled every corner of his frame. When the waiter brought in plum pudding with sauces and topped the dinner with bright oranges, Michael decided there really must be a heaven after all and that he and Owen had just feasted at its banquet.

Though they sat side by side eating their fill, Michael wagered Owen could not have told him half of what he had stuffed in his mouth.
It’s a shame not to notice a fine dinner like this. Love might be grand, but it seems a mite hard on the digestion.

After dinner they strolled the deck in the cold sunshine, took turns sleeping, then walked again.

Owen’s plans seemed to have taken on a new urgency since their encounter with Lucy Snape. He seemed wound like one of the tops Michael had seen a child from second class spinning on their way back from morning services.

“Our gardens will be for Lucy and little Margaret, as well, by and by. Our family is growing by leaps and bounds!”

Michael was glad for Owen’s happiness and hoped that all of his grand dreams would come true. If anybody deserved them, Owen did. But Michael knew that happiness and dreams could be swept away in a moment, and he feared to believe before they’d begun, before there was something he could hang on to. “Do you truly think we can do all of it?”

“We’ve each two hands, Michael,” Owen chided. “As long as a man has two hands and a strong back, he can make things happen. It’s no good being fearful. Worry won’t change the future a whit, and it misses the joy of this glad day.”

Michael wanted to believe it.

By late afternoon they could feel the temperature drop. They enjoyed the best tea they’d had aboard ship and relished how it warmed them through. Michael devoured his favorite currant buns, which Owen, too, favored, washed down with cup after cup of sweet and steaming tea.

They raised their voices that chilly evening—Owen a strong baritone and Michael a clear tenor—in a hymn sing organized by one of the passengers, a pastor.

They’d planned a late, brisk walk along the deck. The brightened stars spread thick above and the sea below lay still, calm as plate glass. But the biting cold drove them indoors to blow on their numbed hands, to stamp and shiver in their coats and boots.

Because they had both pocketed meal tickets, they agreed to alternate sleep, four hours on and four hours off, then meet for Monday-morning breakfast. Michael, worn from the sea air and barely able to prop his eyes open, took the early sleeping shift.

When he entered the cabin, the Swede was not there, but Owen’s bunk was rumpled. His bag was not properly stowed. Michael thought that odd and set to putting things to rights. But he saw that the latch was broken, and inside he found all of Owen’s belongings torn helter-skelter. He knew Owen would not have left them so.

Michael buttoned his jacket—Owen’s jacket—securely and adjusted the packets of seeds before he lay down, pulling the coverlet to his throat. He hefted himself on elbows and leaned against the wall, determined to wait for the Swede.
I’ll throw that rascal over for the thief that he is, the thievery he intended. Then I’ll get Owen and we’ll call for the master-at-arms. We’ll . . .
But the thought was not formed before Michael’s eyes drooped and he fell fast asleep.

“Did you hear that, Michael?” Owen’s plea raked the remnants of Michael’s dream. “Wake up, then. Wake up!”

Michael fought the stifling weight in his chest, tried to push back the fog that plagued his mind.

“Are you all right, lad?”

The beam of Owen’s torch blinded Michael’s eyes until he pushed the light away.

“A dream—I think,” Michael stammered.

“Well, it was enough to rock
Titanic
,” Owen jested. “It sounds as though the engines have stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“For the night, I’d wager. There’s a great deal of ice about.” Owen loosened his tie. “But there was some odd grinding noise a bit ago. I heard a steward say that one of the propellers likely dropped. I don’t like the sound of that, but he seemed to think it would make no difference to our getting into New York on time.” Owen waited. “Sure you’re all right, then? You look a bit gray.”

Michael tried to sit up. “I get so tired.”

“The sea air, that’s all. Everyone sleeps at sea.”

Michael pushed away the coverlet and pulled his feet over the bunk’s side.

“Here, lad.” Owen poured some water in the bowl. “Wash your face and clear your head.”

Michael dutifully splashed the cold water on his face and up his neck but dallied at the washbowl.

“Are you up to sitting in the general room?”

“It’s my turn.”

Owen rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. “No matter. Are you under the weather, feeling feverish?”

“No,” Michael said. “No, I’m all right. Just foggy in my head.”

“A walk on deck will bring you round. The air is bracing, right enough.” Owen pulled off his boots and stowed them in the corner. “I’m hoping for spring in New York. It certainly isn’t here.” The Swede’s snoring nearly drowned Owen’s last words.

“That Swede.” Michael remembered. “I think he rooted through your bag. The latch was broken—everything helter-skelter when I came in.”

Owen stared at the gape-mouthed man. “Never mind. I expected as much. He’s drunk enough to sleep through the day and be no bother to us now. We’re wearing everything important.” He pulled his coat around him and lay carefully on his back. “The main thing is that I do not crush these roots. Call me before the bugler comes round. I shall be ready for a hot meal.”

“Right.” Still Michael lingered. He brushed his jacket—Owen’s jacket—and buffed his shoes. He dug the dirt from his nails with Owen’s penknife and combed his hair with Owen’s comb.

When he could think of no reason to stay longer in the warm cabin, Michael forced himself to open the door, only to find a steward ready to pound it with his fist.

“Life belts. Life belts, everyone. A precaution; captain’s orders.”

“Life belts?” Michael stared after the man as he made his way from one cabin to another, banging on doors, delivering his short speech but offering no explanation.

“Did he say life belts?” Owen was beside him now.

“H-he did,” Michael stuttered. “Why do we want life belts?”

“I don’t know.” Owen frowned. “Wonder if it’s anything to do with that grinding noise I heard just before the engines stopped, just before I woke you.”

Michael remembered the woman on the deck in Southampton. “God Himself can’t sink this ship,” he mumbled.

Owen did not respond, but Michael was certain the bare electric bulb from the hallway could not account for the color of his friend’s face.

Owen turned up the lamp in the cabin, quickly pulling on his boots. “Probably a drill of some sort. I’ll find out. We’ll be wanting to do as we’re told.” On the way out, he paused without looking back. “Wake our snoring friend.” He closed the door behind him.