Fateful - Claudia Gray

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who has finally had the chance to be alone with an attractive man. The household doesn’t allow any of us girls much chance to be with men of our own class—we’re not meant to fall in love and get married, only to drudge on and on in service until we dry up and go gray and our teeth fall out. And here I am acting like an idiot over a man who’s shown no interest in me, save keeping me from harm like any decent human being would.

      Especially given that he protected me today, but threatened me last night. He may not be as serious a danger to me as Mikhail, but that doesn’t mean Alec doesn’t present dangers of his own.

      The feather mattress is soft—so much softer than the lumpy flock pallet I’ve slept on for the past four years. And this cream-colored coverlet: The fabric isn’t silk, but it’s so sleek to the touch it might as well be. This bedroom is as grand and elegant as any of the Lisle family rooms back at Moorcliffe. More even than that.

      For a moment I imagine myself a fine lady, traveling in style aboard the Titanic. I imagine that I am wearing a beautiful negligee of Viennese lace instead of my drab black servant’s dress. I lie back on the soft, soft mattress and wish that I could close my eyes and give in to sleep.

      Then I wish I could open my eyes and see Alec lying next to me.

      Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. You don’t know his last name. You don’t know if he’s good or bad or in the fathomless distance between the two. You don’t know anything about him, except that he keeps bad company, is brusque and strange, and is rich enough to sail first class—which means he’d be after only one thing with a maidservant.

      But as I lie on the soft bed, feeling the silky fabric next to my skin, giving in to that one thing seems tempting enough—

      Abruptly I sit upright and push myself off the bed. There’s already some cool water in the china jug on the nightstand; I use a bit to splash my face and shock me back to my senses. Enough time for daydreams and romance and whatever else might follow after I reach New York City. For now, it’s best if I stick to the hard reality of the tasks ahead.

      First class was almost silent; third class is anything but.

      “Permesso, permesso,” says a swarthy man I think must be Italian, as he pushes his way through the crowd, followed by his wife and no fewer than five children, all of whom are chattering at once. Men and women of every age and size and shape and nationality are shoving into one another in an eager search for their cabins. It doesn’t smell like wood polish and cedar down here on F deck; it smells like honest sweat and mothballs.

      I’d expected to be repulsed by this bedlam, but instead, it energizes me. Though this is a strange crowd, it’s a happy one. I realize that, for the first time in my life, I’m surrounded by people who share my goal of starting over in America. Because the big trunks they’re hefting, the bundles of clothes the women hold close—those aren’t supplies for a sea voyage. They’re the foundation of a new life.

      Besides, even the third-class accommodations are impressive on this ship. While it’s not as sumptuous as first class by any means, the floors here are polished wood, and the walls freshly painted bright white. The brass fittings gleam, and a poster informs us that our tea will include vegetable soup, meat, bread, cheese, and a sweet. As much as that! I bet tonight I won’t feel hungry even once. This is far better than the damp, chilly attic room I left behind at Moorcliffe, or the bread and butter we had to make do with most nights.

      At last I see the number of my room. The steward said I wasn’t rooming with Mrs. Horne, which is a small mercy. I dare to hope that I’ve got the room to myself; they say maiden voyages of ships never sell every ticket, because most people want to wait until the kinks have been worked out on a journey or two. After years of sharing my bed with one or two other servant girls, having a bedroom to myself seems like the height of luxury.

      I open the door. No such luck.

      White, cast-iron bunk beds stand on either side of the room. On one of the lower bunks sits a girl, perhaps a year or two older than I am. Although I’m not actually surprised to see someone, I am surprised to see that they’ve put me in the same room as a foreigner.

      I don’t even have to ask if she’s a foreigner. I just know. Her skin is a deep tan, her thick hair such a perfect black that it almost has a bluish gleam, and her brilliantly embroidered skirt and shawl aren’t the kind of thing I’ve ever seen anyone in England wear.

      But I’ve always heard that foreigners were dirty, and this girl isn’t. As strange as her clothes are, they’re clean, and actually rather pretty. And I’ve always heard the “English rose” described as the ultimate standard of beauty: delicate frame, pale skin, pink cheeks, and fair curls. I’ve always rather liked that description, because it applies to me—at least it would, if I ever got to wash up properly and wear something nice. And yet this girl, dark and statuesque as she is, is far lovelier than I am.

      Even more surprising: She’s not hopping up to greet me, begging my pardon, or welcoming me to the room. In fact, she seems more displeased to be sharing a room than I was. Even though I’m English—as though all the world didn’t look up to England!

      “Who are you, then?” she demands. Her accent is thick, but her English is good.

      I put my hands on my hips. “I’m Tess. And who are you?”

      “Myriam Nahas. Why are you on this ship?” It sounds almost like she’s asking how I dare to be here.

      “I’m ladies’ maid to the Honorable Irene Lisle, daughter of the Viscount Lisle, who is traveling with her mother and brother to do the season in New York.” I say it as grandly as I can. Their titles ought to give me some credit here, at least. They don’t. Myriam couldn’t look less impressed. So I snap back, “Why are youon this ship?”

      “I’ve left Lebanon to join my brother and his wife in New York City.” Pride shines from her, and yet I can also see how tired she is; she has already traveled all the way from Lebanon, and she still has an ocean to cross. “He has a garment business there that is doing well. I can help sew for him. Perhaps that doesn’t sound very fine to the likes of you, but it suits me.”

      It sounds fine enough. I’m jealous, in fact. Myriam is aboard this ship for the same reason I am—to emigrate to the United States—but unlike me, she has family and a job waiting for her.

      Maybe that’s what annoys me about her. Or maybe it’s that she isn’t being deferential and obedient, like I would have expected from a foreign girl. Most likely it’s just that she seems to be annoyed by me first, for whatever reason. But our eyes are narrowed as we stare at each other, and I sense a power struggle in the making.

      “I have taken one of the bottom bunks,” Myriam adds. “They shift around less with the moving of the ship.”

      “Then I’ll take one as well.”

      “Others will be in this room with us. They, too, will want bottom bunks.”

      “They’ll be out of luck, won’t they?”

      Her eyes narrow. “They will attempt to persuade one of us to move, and it will not be me.”

      I sit down deliberately on the other lower bunk. “I don’t intend to settle for less just to make you more comfortable.”

      “Nor I.”

      “Listen here. I’m an Englishwoman, and this is an English ship.” That ought to settle her.

      Instead, Myriam folds her arms and lifts her chin, and despite my annoyance with her, I can’t help but notice the perfection of her profile. “You are a servant,” she sneers. “I answer to no one but myself.”

      Anger flushes my cheeks, and I open my mouth to tell her what I think of impudent foreigners—but then the door to our cabin opens again, revealing our other two roommates. The first lady is ancient, seventy-five if she’s a day; the second is older. They totter in, carrying little more than carpetbags, with their snowy-white hair atop their heads in braids. I don’t recognize the language they’re speaking,

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