A Darkness Strange and Lovely

I’d had too much drink and resumed his work. I used my distracted moment to regain my wits. To gather up my skirts and dash onward to the second-class gangplank.

But by the time I got there, the young man was gone—presumably on board the ship. It wasn’t until after I had waited in the long queue and finally handed the porter my ticket that I realized something.

Both times my right wrist had ignited with pain and I had heard the hounds howling. And both times it had all ended when I turned my concentration elsewhere.

But what the devil that meant, I didn’t know.

Chapter Four

At the top of the gangplank, a middle-aged man took my bag and guided me inside. I promptly scoured every nook and shadow for yellow eyes, but the world-famous electric lamps (molded into fish, I might add) clearly illuminated everything—and I quickly realized there was nowhere a person could hide. The bloodred carpet, the wood-paneled walls, and the velvet-padded handrails were constantly trod on or grasped at by servants in black uniforms scurrying past.

By the time we reached a wide staircase at the ship’s center, where a large mermaid balustrade stood guard, my pulse had slowed to its normal speed.

I’d had to steal a ticket to get on this boat, so unless Marcus had bought that final, expensive ticket, he couldn’t get on board. Except rules like that don’t apply to Marcus . I ignored that thought. If he got on the steamer, if that raging wind and those baying hounds followed me here, then I would deal with them.

We finally reached my stateroom, and after I tipped the porter, he left me with a key and scooted off into the flow of server traffic. Just as I was about to unlock the door, it swung back on its own.

My heart leaped into my throat, but it was only a pretty young woman in black. “C’est votre chambre?”

“Uh . . .” I was too busy trying to calm my pulse to follow her French. “What?”

“This is your room?” She dipped her head and peered at me from the tops of her eyes.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Then we are roommates.”

“Roommates?” I repeated stupidly. I hadn’t even considered the possibility, but of course second class would mean sharing a cabin.

“Mais oui.” She stepped aside so I could trudge in, and with a wave to a set of bunks in one corner, she said, “I took the top bed.”

“Oh . . . all right.” I crossed to the bunk and heaved my carpetbag on it. Then I shifted around to inspect the stateroom.

My eyes instantly lit on two more bunks and two elegant black trunks stacked beside them. So, not roommate but roommates.

I turned my attention to the rest of the room. White enamel walls with walnut fittings surrounded portholes and large electric lights. The beds were made up with crisp, white linens, and a navy curtain hung elegantly over them. Squeezed into the center of the room were two navy satin armchairs.

At that moment, the young woman stepped in front of me. “I am Mademoiselle Laure Primeau,” she drawled, holding out a dainty hand. “And you are?”

“I’m Eleanor Fitt.” I gulped, suddenly hot with embarrassment. “I-I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I lifted my bandaged wrist.

Her eyes widened. “Mon Dieu. ” She hastily withdrew her hand. “I am sorry. That looks . . . painful.”

“Yes, it was.” I twisted around to my carpetbag, not wishing to dwell on my injury. “Where can I put my things?”

She sighed. “I fear the other ladies ’ave already claimed most of the space.” Skirts rustled behind me, and when I glanced back, she was draped over one of the chairs. “If you do not ’ave much, then you should use the drawer beneath the bed.”

I nodded and set to placing my few items—extra underclothes, a hatbox, a nightgown—in the drawer. At the bottom of the bag, I found the stack of Elijah’s letters.

Gnawing the inside of my mouth, I eyed them warily. Then, as quickly as possible, I withdrew them and stuffed them beneath my spare petticoat before finally crawling onto my bed.

Laure eyed me from her chair, and I eyed her right back. She looked to be a bit older than Jie—

twenty-five years at the most.

“You are traveling alone?” she asked.

“Yes. And you?”

“Oui. But I am an old maid—you are so young. How can you travel alone? You ’ave no family?”

My stomach twisted. My daughter is now dead to me. I dropped my gaze. “No . . . I have no family.”

“Ah. But that is sad, non? I ’ave a family, but—”

The cabin door flew open, cutting her off. I shot to my feet, ready to fight . . . but it was only an angular, gray-haired woman shuffling in. An auburn-haired girl of eight or nine skipped happily behind her.

Laure’s expression soured, and with clear displeasure, she stood. “Bonjour, Madame Brown. We

’ave our final roommate.” She motioned to me. “This is Mademoiselle Fitt.”

The older woman curtsied primly, all the while openly examining me. “You are traveling alone?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, not bothering to hide my own return-examination. She was long faced and unfortunately hairy around the chin.

“This is my granddaughter, Lizzie.” Mrs. Brown motioned to the girl, who gave me a bright grin—

revealing her own unfortunate feature: exceptionally large front teeth. “Lizzie, get your parasol. We are going to the promenade deck to watch the ship depart. Would you care to join us?”

Nothing about her expression suggested she wanted me, so I forced a polite smile. “No thank you, Ma’am.”

Her gaze shifted to Laure. “Mademoiselle?”

“Non merci.” Laure bared her teeth in a terrifying grin.

“Found it!” Lizzie trilled, whipping up a lacy parasol. She skipped back to Mrs. Brown’s side and, after giving Laure and me a little curtsy, trotted from the room. Mrs. Brown followed.

Once the door was firmly shut, Laure’s lips twitched up mischievously, and she rubbed her hands together. “Mademoiselle, you ’ave scandalized her.”

“You mean by traveling alone?”

“Oui. C’est magnifique.” She snickered. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I will go to the promenade deck and watch us depart— without the Browns for company.” Then, with a wink, she left.

I fell back onto my bed and draped a hand over my eyes. As much as I also wanted to see our departure, it was safer to stay locked away until the Philadelphia wharf—and I hoped Marcus too—

were long gone. Once we had sailed the hundred miles of Delaware River to reach the ocean, then I would allow myself to roam the ship.

An image of the chestnut-haired young man flashed in my mind. If he could hear those dogs and feel that wind, then perhaps he would know what was happening. Perhaps he could explain. Or—if he was as lost as I—we could try to muddle through it together.

And since he was somewhere on this ship and we were stuck here for well over a week, I had every intention of finding him—and finding out what he knew.