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One

(1912)

 

A teasing breeze played with Annabelle’s dark curls as she stood on the sun-splashed deck of the eleven-story ocean liner and watched the activity all around her.

She didn’t look over the white balustrade down toward the bustling English town below. Nor did she watch the pale-skinned, rosy-cheeked children, as they gazed up in awe at the huge ship readying to depart from port. And she didn’t pay attention to the few photographers and reporters on the wharf, snapping their black box cameras or writing furiously in their small notepads.

Annabelle Mooreland had had enough of the town of Southampton--all of England, for that matter--and was anxious to leave. She had especially had enough of a certain Englishman, who’d pulled the wool over her eyes.

Feeling terribly naïve and stupid, Annabelle grimaced.  A hint of pink tinged her creamy skin when she thought of Roger Fieldhall. Best not to think about his kind or she might cry or scream or do something else embarrassing; she certainly didn’t want that.

She tilted her head and, shielding her eyes from the brilliant sunshine with one hand, watched as a huge wooden crate was hoisted upward with ropes and pulleys; it swung past one of the towering smokestacks and was stowed in the hold of the ship.  All around her, hundreds of well-dressed people stood and waved to those on land, many of them oblivious to the preparations taking place behind them.

Ladies wearing linen and silk day dresses and enormous wide-brimmed hats and men dressed just as extravagantly in silk and serge suits and wearing bowlers on their heads stood along the railing, strolled the decks, and investigated their home for the next week. Still others went below seeking out their rooms.

One family had one of those new cameras that took moving pictures. It sat on a rickety-looking tripod, the man behind it winding the crank at the side and filming the day’s events.

Annabelle noticed a distinguished-looking, silver-haired gentleman wearing leather gloves and carrying a gold-topped walking stick. Briefly, she wondered how her father was faring.  Totally unaffected by this milestone event in ocean travel, in which he was playing a small part simply by being a passenger, he had retired to the men’s smoking lounge to smoke his pipe and talk politics with anyone who would listen.

Annabelle sighed. She loved her father, but hated the rank smell of his pipe--even though the tobacco was imported and some of the most expensive to be found, as her father had told her countless times. In deference to his daughter’s “delicate smelling apparatus,” as he teasingly called her nose, he had agreed to remove his “smelly, old pipe” from her company.  But his twinkling eyes had shown her he wasn’t one bit angry.

Annabelle knew that in his blustering, awkward way, her father was simply giving her time to come to terms with her broken engagement. He’d never before demonstrated the slightest concern about smoking in her presence, but the reserved Englishman obviously recognized his daughter’s need to spend time alone now.

Skirting knots of excited passengers, Annabelle escaped the noisy crowd and pulled her short, fitted jacket closer around her waist. She walked past the wooden lifeboats to the other, less-populated side of the ship that faced the sparkling ocean.

Actually, she would have appreciated a hug before her father left. But he’d never been the demonstrative type. As a child, Annabelle used to wonder why her American-born mother--a spirited, fiery woman--had married the staid Englishman.  However, as she grew older, Annabelle learned to appreciate her father’s hidden qualities. Although he hadn’t mentioned the fight she’d had with Roger, her father had been sensitive enough to realize Annabelle was hurting.

Again, Annabelle flushed with humiliation.

She should have known the dashing, young, yet penniless Roger Fieldhall--famous polo player--had only been interested in her for her father’s money. Though Annabelle assumed she was pretty from what her reflection in the mirror revealed, she knew her looks weren’t anything spectacular. And while her personality was agreeable, she wasn’t charming and flirtatious--not like the blonde, delicate, Mary Flossman, in whose arms Annabelle had found Roger upon her surprise visit to the stables a week ago.

She clenched her teeth, trying to maintain her composure, and again berated herself for her folly. Her friend, Patricia, had often told her she would be a fool to marry someone who didn’t share her faith. At least Annabelle had discovered the truth of that statement before it was too late. She knew she’d been wrong to get closely involved with a non-Christian; but for the most part, hers had been a lonely life, and the possibility of spending her future as an old maid had no appeal. When Roger had proposed a year ago and offered Annabelle a part in his exciting life of fame, she quickly agreed--though she didn’t love him. Only one man had ever held the key to her heart.

Annabelle impatiently flicked a tear away. No. She mustn’t think about him, either. It had been four long years since she’d last seen him, and now he was promised to another.

Sighing, Annabelle tightly clasped her hands, forcing herself to concentrate on something else as she watched a gull soar and dive over the sparkling water.

When he’d seen how upset she was, her father had decided to leave for the States months sooner than originally planned and take Annabelle with him. He’d made the last-minute arrangements quickly and easily. Indeed, it seemed that when one had money, all manner of things were possible--even obtaining first-class cabins aboard a luxury ocean liner a day before departure and another in second class for Annabelle’s maid, Sadie.

Annabelle knew she should be looking forward to this voyage, as Patricia had so enviously told her. But she wasn’t.

Lord, is it my lot in life to be alone? Is there nothing else for me? She stepped back from the rail, intent on seeking out her stateroom.

A small blue and gold object suddenly came hurtling toward Annabelle, striking her and almost knocking her down.

“Oh, my!” Annabelle teetered backward, grabbed the rail, and regained her balance. She reached up and straightened her broad-brimmed, gaily beribboned hat, which had been knocked slightly askew. A small pink and white face, with two of the bluest eyes--like cornflowers--turned upward.

“I’m sorry,” murmured the little girl, who looked no more than five, as she backed a step away. “I have to fin’ my dolly.”

Annabelle knelt down to the child’s level. “What’s your name, sweetheart? And where’s your mommy?”

From under the soft round hat a cascade of blonde curls swished over the navy-blue wool coat as the child shook her head back and forth. “Not s’posed to talk to strangers.”

Annabelle bit the inside of her lower lip and looked around the deck, hoping to find an anxious face searching for a child.  An olive-skinned, black-haired woman with fearful dark eyes caught sight of Annabelle and the little girl from about twenty yards away. Her face relaxed as she walked quickly toward them.  Annabelle studied the woman curiously and then the fair child. The stranger certainly couldn’t be the little girl’s mother. They weren’t a bit alike.

“Missy! You must never run off like that again,” the woman said breathlessly with a Spanish accent. “If your mother knew what you did, she would be worried. Si?”

Chastened, Missy nodded. “But what about Helena?”

“She was probably packed with the luggage by mistake. I am certain when we reach our cabin, she will be there.”

The woman seemed to notice Annabelle for the first time. Though her manner wasn’t unfriendly, it became very reserved. “I wish to thank you for your help. If you had not stopped her when you did, Missy may have left the boat. Gracias.”

Annabelle smiled and glanced at the little girl. “Well, I can’t take all the credit. Actually . . ..” Missy’s big blue eyes cut quickly to hers, silently begging her not to tell of the near mishap. “I was glad to help,” Annabelle quickly ended.

The woman nodded, though her expression was curious.

After a grateful smile to Annabelle, Missy turned to her companion. “Maria, do you really think Helena’s in my trunk?”

Instantly a gentle look touched the dark eyes. “Si, little Señorita. Perhaps we should go look now--yes?”

Missy nodded then looked at Annabelle. “What’s your name?”

“Annabelle.”

“Ooooh. I like that,” Missy trilled. “I want to name my next dolly that.” Her fine brows raised. “Are you a stranger?”

Annabelle quickly glanced at the reserved Maria, who looked on silently, then back to Missy. “Yes, Missy. I suppose I am.”

The little girl looked puzzled. “But how can you be a stranger if we know each other’s names?”

Annabelle was flustered. She didn’t know how to deal with children. She’d never had any brothers or sisters--none that she remembered anyway. Her older sister had died in a sledding accident when Annabelle had been only four, and her baby brother--born much too early--had died a few hours after his birth.

Maria took over and reached for the child’s hand. “Come, Missy. Perhaps, we will see Miss Annabelle again during the voyage, and you can talk to her then, hmmm? We must go now.”

Annabelle watched them walk away. Missy looked over her shoulder and smiled. Annabelle smiled back. What a delightful little girl! Though Annabelle had little experience conversing with children, she looked forward to talking to Missy again.  That is, if her nanny, or nursemaid, or whatever the exotic-looking Spanish woman was to the child, would let her.

Maria was a mystery. Her fine clothes spoke of wealth--definitely not something a domestic would wear--and her voice had been well modulated. As Annabelle looked back at the silver-tipped water, she wondered about her two new acquaintances . . 

***

On the pretext of studying the ocean, Lawrence casually leaned against the rail and looked instead at the pretty young woman standing several yards away. She was modestly outfitted in a long, pinstriped traveling dress and matching jacket. There was something familiar about her face--what he could see of it.

He searched his mind trying to place her, but came up empty.  Perhaps she’d been one of the many guests at his mother’s soirees and balls in past years. He’d attended such functions only because it was required of a viscount, but had always made excuses to leave at the first opportunity, wishing to evade the simpering young ladies who always sought him out. But this woman didn’t look like one of their kind. There was a sweet innocence about her that enchanted him.

His eyes narrowed when he saw her flick away another tear. She’d been silently crying before the little girl had run into her, too, so he knew the collision hadn’t caused the tears.

Was she married? Lawrence wished he could see her hand, but she was wringing both of them, her forearms lightly resting on the rail in front of her. He watched as she hastily lifted an arm and clutched the top of her straw hat when a sudden gust of April wind mussed her dark curls.

His heart lightened. No band of gold shimmered on her left hand, which he could now see clearly.

Lawrence wished he had the courage to approach her; but that kind of thing simply wasn’t done, as far as he was concerned. Though in this day and age, he noted, many of his peers didn’t have the gracious manners that had been instilled in Lawrence by two very proper English parents. Some men might not consider it too forward to talk to the pretty woman without benefit of an introduction--especially since she seemed so familiar . . .. But no, he couldn’t do it.

Sometimes Lawrence felt as if he should have been born in an earlier time--a time when honor and chivalry abounded and the young maidens were pure and innocent and sweet. Not money-hungry flirts like Frances.

His dark brows pulled down in a scowl, and he shifted his gaze to the rippling water. Frances had been more than willing for a marriage to take place between them, but Lawrence had always disliked her wild, uninhibited ways. Good thing, too, when he discovered the real reason for her interest.

Surprisingly, his father had agreed with his decision, although Lawrence hadn’t told him everything concerning the fight he’d had with Frances the last time he’d seen her. Her father also was wealthy, and a marriage between her and Lawrence would join their lands in Fairhaven--a fact that Lord and Lady Caldwell had often pointed out to their son. But when Lawrence firmly told them he couldn’t marry her, his father had offered little objection.

Even more astounding to Lawrence was the fact that his father hadn’t been against his taking this voyage. He had told Lawrence that perhaps once he saw some of the world, he would be ready to settle down and live the life of a nobleman in the Caldwells’ sprawling Tudor manor.

Though Lawrence liked his homeland and knew he must return one day, he doubted it would be any time soon. The thirst for adventure was strong in his blood. He wondered if one of his ancestors could have been a daring adventurer, such as a captain on the high seas or perhaps a buccaneer or a swashbuckler accomplished with the sword and always at the ready to rescue fair maidens. Lawrence often likened himself to the fictitious Sir Lancelot because he shared the famous knight’s name--Lancelot being Lawrence’s middle name. But where was his Guinevere? Had she found and wed her Arthur?

With a deep sigh, he pushed away from the rail and whisked slender fingers through his dark hair. He was becoming entirely too fanciful. No . . .more like ridiculous. Ever since this past winter when he turned twenty-five, he’d given more thought to the idea of marriage. But if he were honest with himself, he’d have to admit he probably never would have married Frances, despite his parents’ wishes. She wasn’t his type. And her unscrupulous behavior had given him the reason he needed to terminate the relationship.

He turned toward the woman and hesitated, watching as the salty wet wind played against her, molding her linen dress to her slender figure and whipping tendrils of black curls about her rosy face. Why does she seem so familiar?

The question bothered him to no end and, almost as though his foot had taken on a life of its own, Lawrence took a step in her direction, then stopped, suddenly realizing what he was doing. Forcing himself to turn away, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, dodged several fellow passengers, and walked to the first-class companionway in search of his room.

***

Once the tall gentleman moved away from the rail, Annabelle relaxed, letting a soft sigh of relief escape her lips. She’d been more than a little aware of the frequent glances he’d cast in her direction and was glad to see him go. She hadn’t taken a good look at him while he’d been watching her, for to turn and stare back would have been considered much too bold, not to mention highly embarrassing. But now it was her turn to watch.

Annabelle easily picked out his tall, slender form in the charcoal-gray overcoat as he wove his way among the people strolling along the boat deck. Suddenly he stopped and picked up a reticule a middle-aged woman had dropped, turning sideways and doffing his bowler hat courteously as he returned it to her.

Annabelle’s eyes widened and her heart gave a little flip as the years rolled back and she was a young girl in her uncle’s house once again.  No--it couldn’t be!

Clutching the rail for support, she studied him in disbelief, noting his handsome profile, his gracious smile to the woman--who was now all a-dither, her face beaming. Though his shoulders weren’t broad, his carriage was commanding, erect. He looked strong, capable, and dependable, much like . . .but that was impossible! He was a Caldwell--heir to the family title and a vast fortune. What would he be doing embarking on this voyage?

It had to be someone who strongly resembled him. Yes, of course--that was it. Her brief thoughts of him earlier must have caused her to see his face in that of a stranger.

Annabelle’s frantic pulse rate slowed to normal, and she relaxed her tight grip on the rail. Idly studying the retreating figure a moment longer, she almost jumped when an ear-splitting blast from the ship’s whistle signaled it was time to depart.

Not wanting to join in the festivities, Annabelle hurried to the deck below, escaping the excited shouts and cheers of other passengers, who stood at the rail and watched as the S.S. Titanic slipped away from the dock, ready to embark on her maiden voyage.