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  There was an officers’ mess on C Deck where traditionally Carter would have eaten, but on this first morning he made his way to the first-class passengers’ dining hall instead, not because he wanted to be fed better than anyone else, but because he believed it would make a good impression to show his face to the quality and answer any questions they might have about the crossing. They’d only track him down later if he didn’t.

  A buffet had been set up along one of the walls of the room and he helped himself to large portions before looking around to see who else was present. There were not many people eating breakfast as yet, and he was about to walk towards a table where three fashionable and attractive young ladies in their mid-twenties were breakfasting together when he noticed a rather older and less striking woman attempting to catch his attention at another table. She was waving her napkin in the air, and he felt rather like a bull being tormented by a matador. He smiled at her and, unable to pretend that she had not caught his eye, walked reluctantly in her direction.

  ‘Good morning, young man,’ she said with a wide smile; a small scraping of butter from her toast clung to her chin and Billy Carter wondered whether he should draw her attention to it, but decided against. ‘Won’t you join me, I’ve been waiting for my daughter, but she is quite delayed. Heaven knows what she is doing.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ said Carter, sitting down and casting only a quick, longing glance towards the sirens at the other table, who were giggling with each other in delight. One of them gave him a brief, flirtatious glance before looking away. ‘First Officer Carter,’ he added, giving a polite nod of the head.

  ‘Oh, how delightful,’ came the reply. ‘An officer. I’m Mrs Antoinette Drake. Cabin A Seven. Travelling with my daughter Victoria.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Carter, tucking into his food hungrily. He could already sense that Mrs Drake was one of those passengers who might cling on to him for ever if he was not careful, and he did not want to give her the opportunity by staying too long in her company. ‘Enjoying the journey so far, are you?’

  ‘Oh delightful, delightful,’ she said. ‘Although I did find the motion a little rough last night. Perhaps you could have a word with one of your sailors about it?’

  Carter smiled. He wondered whether she thought the boat was crossing the ocean courtesy of a galley of Roman slaves below decks, chained together and rowing away relentlessly. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said politely.

  ‘Victoria and I are light sleepers, you understand and I . . .’ Here she gave a small, girlish giggle and looked at him coquettishly while tapping his arm. ‘Well, I do need my beauty sleep, Mr Carter.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, not realizing that she expected him to contradict her. Her smile froze for a moment, before turning into a frown. How rude, she thought, before remembering her motivation for calling him over to her in the first place.

  ‘Now you must tell me,’ she said. ‘The captain of the ship. What’s his name?’

  ‘Captain Kendall, ma’am.’

  ‘Captain Kendall, yes. Such a strong name. Fills one with confidence. And he dines here every evening, is that right?’

  ‘I expect so, ma’am,’ he said, already knowing where this was heading. ‘This is my first voyage on the Montrose. The regular first officer was taken ill.’

  ‘It’s just that my daughter Victoria, she would be so thrilled to take a meal with him one evening, and I do so want her to enjoy this voyage. I take it, he invites some of the first-class passengers to join him at the captain’s table for the evening meal?’ She raised her painted eyebrows slightly and licked her lips, practically feeding him the lines she wanted to hear. Without warning, her tongue flicked out, like a lizard’s, and drew in the dab of butter which she seemed to have been storing on her chin for later.

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ said Carter, surprised to find his own stomach churning for once. ‘Would you like me to arrange for you both to be seated at his table one evening?’

  ‘Oh, well I would never ask for such a thing myself,’ she replied quickly, shaking her head. ‘I just take my meals whenever they’re served to me, of course. I’m not at all fussy. But if you wanted to, for Victoria’s sake, that would be lovely. Very kind of you in fact.’ Her opinion of him shifted back again. ‘Very kind indeed.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, gobbling his food down quickly so that he could make an early escape.

  ‘Where is that girl, anyway?’ Mrs Drake asked after a moment, looking towards the door in frustration. ‘She knows that I don’t like her being tardy. She’ll miss her breakfast if she’s not careful. If I go back to that cabin and she’s still in bed, there’ll be trouble, Mr Carter, I can assure you of that.’

  Mrs Drake need not have worried, for Victoria was not still asleep in bed at all. In fact, she had risen a few moments after her mother had left their cabin, and she spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, washing herself, combing her hair, and applying some of the small make-up items she had acquired in Paris a few weeks earlier. Opening the porthole and feeling the warmth of the sun and the cool air pouring in upon her, she decided to dress less formally than on the previous day, and opted for a pale blouse which exposed the tops of her shoulders, along with a long navy skirt. Poking her head out of the door of the cabin, she looked up and down the corridor to ensure that she was not being watched, before skipping quickly along to the door of Cabin A4, where she put her ear to the door and squinted slightly, as if this would improve her hearing. It took a few moments, but eventually she could hear the sound of movement within and, her heart beating quickly in her chest, she ran back to her room and left the door slightly ajar while she hovered inside. She stood there, arms folded, listening intently, for a further ten minutes or so until she heard the door on the other side of the corridor open, at which she immediately opened her own and stepped outside, slamming the door loudly behind her.

  ‘Oh, good morning,’ said Edmund, turning around at the sound. ‘It’s Victoria, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said irritably, as if he was trying to be awkward by pretending that he was unsure of her name. ‘And you’re Edward, yes?’

  ‘That’s right. How are you this morning?’

  She stared at him quizzically. ‘Is it Edward or Edmund?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘Oh! Ed . . . mund,’ he said after a pause, a little colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Well, you don’t sound so sure,’ said Victoria. ‘Don’t you even know your own name? And no, I said “Edward” originally.’

  ‘Well, why did you say that if you knew it was wrong?’

  Victoria stared at him and ignored the question. ‘Are you going to breakfast?’ she asked. Edmund nodded. ‘Where’s your father, then? Still asleep?’

  ‘He got up an hour or so ago. I think he had difficulty sleeping.’

  ‘Mother too. The old,’ she said dismissively. As they stepped out on to the main deck, the sun poured down on both of them and she took the opportunity to get a proper look at Edmund in the light of day. He was not as tall as some of the beaux she had seduced in the past—he was no more than five foot seven or so—but she had rarely seen a boy with such clear skin and beautiful eyes. His hair was a little longer than fashion dictated and he wore a hat which obscured it slightly, the hair itself being jet black, fine and thick. She felt an overwhelming urge to rip his hat off and run her fingers through that lustrous thatch. And his lips! Cherry red, full. Simply begging to be kissed. When his tongue appeared momentarily between them, she felt quite weak. Even the thin scar running from his nose to his lip was attractive. Her heart fluttered slightly and she forced herself to turn away so that he would not catch her staring.

  ‘There’s Miss Hayes,’ said Edmund after a moment, pointing towards the railing where Martha Hayes was standing in much the same position as she had been in when they had chatted the night before. ‘Shall we say hello?’

  Victoria sighed irritably. Alth
ough there was no chance that Edmund could possibly be interested in a woman as old as Miss Hayes—who was almost thirty, after all—it annoyed her that he preferred to speak to her than remain alone with a beauty such as herself. Most likely a ruse to toy with me, she decided. He’s playing hard to get.

  ‘Miss Hayes,’ Edmund called as they reached her, and the older lady looked across at them and smiled.

  ‘Well, hello, children,’ she said, quickly putting her locket back inside her bag and snapping it shut. ‘How lovely to see you again.’

  Children! Victoria thought irritably. How dare she! We are both almost eighteen years old!

  ‘Surely you haven’t been here all night?’ Edmund asked, smiling. ‘You didn’t come back on deck after we all went below, did you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said with a laugh. ‘No, I retired as soon as I reached my cabin, I assure you. I just came back on deck myself a moment ago. How are the breakfasts, Victoria?’ she asked. ‘Tasty or foul?’

  ‘I haven’t had mine yet, Miss Hayes,’ Victoria replied, considering the other woman very forward by addressing her by her Christian name. ‘I’ve only just come on deck myself.’

  ‘Oh really? I could have sworn I saw you running up and down the corridors earlier.’

  ‘Me?’ Victoria asked in surprise.

  ‘I thought perhaps you were calling on Mr Robinson and his son to invite them to accompany you. Did I not see you outside their room a little earlier?’

  Victoria gasped and felt herself torn between laughing it off and punching her. She could tell that Edmund had turned to look at her with an intrigued expression on his face and she blushed quickly. ‘I really don’t think so,’ she said firmly. ‘What an odd thing to suggest.’

  ‘Outside our room?’ Edmund asked, ignoring her denial. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I was nowhere near your room,’ Victoria replied, her voice deepening slightly, eager to change the subject. ‘It must have been one of the steerage passengers, playing games in places where they have no business being. We should speak to the captain. They’re thieves, most of them, anyway. Gypsies, too.’

  ‘Yes, that must be it,’ said Miss Hayes. ‘It would be easy to mistake you for one of them. Some of you young girls have a very similar look. It’s the fashion, I suppose.’

  Victoria stared at her venomously. Who was this awful woman, she wondered. Why were they continually being bothered by her?

  ‘Will you join us for breakfast, Miss Hayes?’ Edmund asked, and Victoria sighed again.

  Captain Kendall himself opened the door to the dining room for them as they stepped inside. He had just finished his own breakfast, which he had taken in the kitchens, for he was not in the mood for early-morning conversation, and he stepped outside on to the deck, breathing the air deeply into his lungs. A fine morning. He noticed two of his best young sailors pouring water over the side of the boat, not into the sea but along the paintwork itself, and he strode across to them curiously.

  ‘What goes on here, men?’ he asked, confused. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘The new first officer,’ one of them explained. ‘He asked us to do it.’

  ‘To throw pails of water over the side? Whatever for?’

  ‘He said the passengers had been getting sick overboard and we should wash it away. Gives a bad impression, he said.’

  Kendall glared at him and looked over the side of the boat; he couldn’t see anything himself. ‘Ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Stop it immediately. The sea will wash away whatever needs washing. Attend to your other duties at once.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they replied in unison, happy to be freed of this task and rushing away with their pails.

  Kendall shook his head irritably. ‘Washing away vomit,’ he said under his breath, missing his old friend now more than ever. ‘Captain Bligh would have washed him away. Oh, Mr Sorenson,’ he added to the winds. ‘Who have they saddled me with?’

  * * *

  Eighty deckchairs lined the perimeter of the first-class deck of the SS Montrose, which was sealed off from the rest of the passengers, and about a third of them were filled later that afternoon as the sun continued to beat down on the boat. Some of the travellers had chosen to relax in their cabins, some were snoozing in the sunshine or reading books, some played cards in the games room. On the steerage deck, children ran wild, chasing and fighting with one another, looking for mischief, while their parents smoked and chatted together amiably. Both men and women wore sun hats and several ladies carried parasols as they strolled along, attempting to find diversions on board. Those who were seated were in the main keeping themselves to themselves; some early friendships were being nervously struck up between couples looking for conversation, but all were wary of being stuck with bores for the next nine days. At the far end of the deck, sitting alone, a dark-haired boy of about fourteen was leaning forward in his chair, squinting in the sunlight. His features were already tanned and his skin was the sort that took the sun easily. However, he was perspiring as he sat there and he kept brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. He wished that he had gone for a haircut before leaving Antwerp as it was beginning to irritate him. As he considered the last few months of his life, he thought it remarkable that he was on this boat at all. It was as if his entire life had been suddenly taken away from him and he was being forced to embark upon a new one.

  This was his first time at sea, and it was a trip being undertaken under unfortunate circumstances. He had never known his father, who had been killed in the Boer War when he was just six months old, and his mother, a French lady named Céline de Fredi, had died of tuberculosis a few months ago. They had lived in various cities around Europe, and Tom found himself able to communicate in a variety of languages. His only surviving relation was his late father’s uncle, to whom Céline had written shortly before her death, begging him to take care of the boy if anything should happen to her. He had agreed and had arrived in Paris a week before she passed away. Céline had taken the opportunity to let him know how troublesome his task might be: Tom was proving to be a difficult teenager, out of control on the streets of the city, and had become a source of constant worry to his mother. Inexperienced with children, she wondered whether his new guardian would be capable of looking after him, although there was no one else she could entrust with his upbringing. It was either him or the orphanage, and if she chose the latter it would only be a matter of time before her son traded in one form of imprisonment for another. After she passed away they continued to live in Paris for a month, settling Céline’s affairs, before travelling to Antwerp, where Tom’s uncle lived. Business called him to Canada, however, and he had chosen the Montrose as the vessel to take him there, booking the most expensive cabin on board, the Presidential Suite.

  There were not many boys of Tom’s age on board the ship, and he was not looking forward to another nine days of boredom with only his uncle for company. Already he missed his Parisian friends—although in truth it had been they who had been leading the lad astray for over a year, breaking into houses in the dead of night, stealing food from shops and acting as pickpockets on the streets, even though none of them was particularly in need of money. These memories added to his distemper. But that was all behind him now, and in Canada lay the future. Not to mention his new relative, whom he was still learning to trust, but who appeared to be a decent, if somewhat distant, gentleman.

  ‘There you are,’ came a voice from beside him, and he looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, squinting to see who was addressing him.

  ‘Uncle Matthieu,’ he said, acknowledging him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, my boy,’ the man said, sitting down and looking around the deck with a distracted air. ‘I was simply looking for you, that’s all. When I couldn’t find you I was afraid you’d fallen overboard. Imagine my sense of loss.’

  Tom frowned. He found his uncle’s sense of humour difficult to decipher at times. ‘I’ve been sitting here, trying to
think of something to do,’ he said after a moment. ‘This has to be the most boring trip I have ever taken. Maybe I’ll actually die of boredom. If I do, you can bury me at sea.’

  ‘Rest assured that I will,’ said Matthieu, nodding his head. ‘I myself am finding it very relaxing, however. Eleven days crossing the ocean without a worry in the world. No one to bother me with any business problems. Excellent cabins. Good food. Pleasant company. I believe I could do with several more weeks of this. It’s the only way to travel.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re old,’ Tom explained. ‘You probably need the rest. I’m young. And I’m bored senseless.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied, unimpressed. To a casual observer, Matthieu Zéla was a man approaching fifty years of age. A little over six feet in height, with thinning grey hair, he was, without realizing it, already cutting a dashing figure on board ship with several of the ladies. His trim shape and fine clothes, combined with the fact that he could afford the most expensive suite on board, made him an object of much interest to several of them, particularly the single ones. The fact that he was a widower and was travelling without a female companion made him even more attractive . . . excellent husband material. ‘Perhaps you should try reading a book?’ he suggested to his nephew. ‘Broaden your mind a little. What have you read recently anyway?’

  Tom thought about it. Although he had grown up in a home surrounded by literature, he had never much taken to it. He remembered his mother reading The Man in the Iron Mask to him when he was about eleven, and he chose this book as his reply.

  ‘Ah,’ said Matthieu happily. ‘Dumas. An excellent choice. Perfect for the youthful mind. Adventure, history, suspense. Just what you need in a novel. I’m sure there’s a library on board somewhere. Perhaps we could take a look later and see whether we can find something suitable for you along those lines. I’m sure it will make the voyage go even faster. I’m almost never without a book myself. Did I ever tell you that I once attended a reading by Mr Charles Dickens in Covent Garden?’