peach dessert! Never was a ship so grand—even in steerage! Why, it’s as posh as second class!” a Yorkshire woman broadly proclaimed.
Michael wondered how she knew, doubted if she’d ever made a voyage besides this one. He closed his eyes. His stomach groaned again as he listened to the satisfied moans of diners who, willing at last to leave their tables, straggled to the deck in groups of common language.
Despite the rising breeze, a mix of families, young men playing cards in the sunshine, two pretty girls—arms linked—out for a stroll, and couples, clearly courting, took up posts along the deck and up and down the promenade.
Michael eyed the families with envy and watched the girls with shy appreciation. What it would be to attach himself to such a group—to be smiled upon and wanted and cared for. Then he turned away. Such a fancy did not belong to him.
As Titanic neared Cherbourg, the sun splayed its late-afternoon rays—amber, orange, and copper—across the water. It might be his only chance to see the coast of France. But he’d have to watch from someplace Owen would not.
Michael climbed the stairwell to the deck above. Keeping his cap pulled low and eyes upon his shoes, he made his way toward the new deck.
“A moment, young man!”
Michael started, nearly colliding with a young woman in uniform—a woman who looked for all the world to Michael like a flame-haired sergeant major, backlit and haloed by the late-day sun. He turned to bolt, but she grabbed him by the nape of his neck.
“Let me go!” Michael squealed. Nimble and quick, he yanked away. But the sergeant major, fully his match, reeled him in.
“And have you pilfering from the café the moment my back is turned?” The woman lowered her voice to something less than a howl. “Just what do you think you’re doing here, anyway, and how did you get up here? These are first-class quarters! Where are your parents?”
Michael felt as much as saw the dozens of pairs of eyes riveted on the commotion, peering at him with curiosity, amusement, and finally disgust. He jerked away. “I haven’t any.”
“No parents?” The woman momentarily relaxed her hold. “Who are you traveling with, lad?” She twisted Michael round to face her.
And Michael’s eyes locked on Owen’s, his jaw agape, on the deck below.
“Answer me!” the woman demanded.
Owen turned away, and Michael saw him flee toward the stairwell. He must hate me—be ashamed to know me. Michael could feel the heat begin in his toes, race up his legs and torso to the tip of his head. Why, why didn’t I go back to the hold?
“Answer me, I said!” The woman, every bit a White Star Line stewardess, shook Michael until he thought his teeth might rattle right out of his head.
Michael could not think up a lie quick enough but stared helplessly at the deck between his shoes.
“A stowaway, then,” she pronounced.
“No!” he fairly shrieked, the fear of God rising within. We’re not really to sea—not to Cherbourg, let alone Queenstown! Will they dump me—send me ashore?
A gentleman, just exiting the Palm Court, turned raised eyebrows toward the scene.
The stewardess, with a firm hold on Michael’s elbow, led him nearer the railing. “Calm down, lad! I’ll not eat you. What is your name?”
“Lucy!” Owen called, and Michael’s heart sank lower yet at the sound of his friend’s voice. Owen crossed the deck in long strides, bound directly for them.
The sergeant major stewardess straightened, tugging the hem of her jacket. “Your name!” she insisted.
Michael felt his features crumple, every light within him dimmed. “Michael. Michael Dunnagan,” he whispered as Owen reached his shoulder.
“There you are, Tim! Where have you been, Cousin? I’ve been searching the decks high and low for you! Look at you! Filthy!” he charged. “You’ve not been larking about the stoker hole, have you? How many times have I told you it’s dangerous down there?”
And
Michael wondered how she knew, doubted if she’d ever made a voyage besides this one. He closed his eyes. His stomach groaned again as he listened to the satisfied moans of diners who, willing at last to leave their tables, straggled to the deck in groups of common language.
Despite the rising breeze, a mix of families, young men playing cards in the sunshine, two pretty girls—arms linked—out for a stroll, and couples, clearly courting, took up posts along the deck and up and down the promenade.
Michael eyed the families with envy and watched the girls with shy appreciation. What it would be to attach himself to such a group—to be smiled upon and wanted and cared for. Then he turned away. Such a fancy did not belong to him.
As Titanic neared Cherbourg, the sun splayed its late-afternoon rays—amber, orange, and copper—across the water. It might be his only chance to see the coast of France. But he’d have to watch from someplace Owen would not.
Michael climbed the stairwell to the deck above. Keeping his cap pulled low and eyes upon his shoes, he made his way toward the new deck.
“A moment, young man!”
Michael started, nearly colliding with a young woman in uniform—a woman who looked for all the world to Michael like a flame-haired sergeant major, backlit and haloed by the late-day sun. He turned to bolt, but she grabbed him by the nape of his neck.
“Let me go!” Michael squealed. Nimble and quick, he yanked away. But the sergeant major, fully his match, reeled him in.
“And have you pilfering from the café the moment my back is turned?” The woman lowered her voice to something less than a howl. “Just what do you think you’re doing here, anyway, and how did you get up here? These are first-class quarters! Where are your parents?”
Michael felt as much as saw the dozens of pairs of eyes riveted on the commotion, peering at him with curiosity, amusement, and finally disgust. He jerked away. “I haven’t any.”
“No parents?” The woman momentarily relaxed her hold. “Who are you traveling with, lad?” She twisted Michael round to face her.
And Michael’s eyes locked on Owen’s, his jaw agape, on the deck below.
“Answer me!” the woman demanded.
Owen turned away, and Michael saw him flee toward the stairwell. He must hate me—be ashamed to know me. Michael could feel the heat begin in his toes, race up his legs and torso to the tip of his head. Why, why didn’t I go back to the hold?
“Answer me, I said!” The woman, every bit a White Star Line stewardess, shook Michael until he thought his teeth might rattle right out of his head.
Michael could not think up a lie quick enough but stared helplessly at the deck between his shoes.
“A stowaway, then,” she pronounced.
“No!” he fairly shrieked, the fear of God rising within. We’re not really to sea—not to Cherbourg, let alone Queenstown! Will they dump me—send me ashore?
A gentleman, just exiting the Palm Court, turned raised eyebrows toward the scene.
The stewardess, with a firm hold on Michael’s elbow, led him nearer the railing. “Calm down, lad! I’ll not eat you. What is your name?”
“Lucy!” Owen called, and Michael’s heart sank lower yet at the sound of his friend’s voice. Owen crossed the deck in long strides, bound directly for them.
The sergeant major stewardess straightened, tugging the hem of her jacket. “Your name!” she insisted.
Michael felt his features crumple, every light within him dimmed. “Michael. Michael Dunnagan,” he whispered as Owen reached his shoulder.
“There you are, Tim! Where have you been, Cousin? I’ve been searching the decks high and low for you! Look at you! Filthy!” he charged. “You’ve not been larking about the stoker hole, have you? How many times have I told you it’s dangerous down there?”
And
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