The Deep Page 5

  The enormity of the pile of luggage took Annie aback. “Will you stay long in America?” she asked, as the nanny hustled the baby into the bedroom, likely to address a soiled diaper. “Or is it home for you?”

  The woman followed Annie’s eyes and laughed. “All this, you mean? The demands of traveling with an infant.” The woman pulled the pins from her hat and laid it on the table, fluffing her effortless waves of amber-brown hair. “And what about you, my dear? Is this your first trip to America?”

  “It is, ma’am.” As soon as Annie said it, she regretted it. Did this count as personal information?

  “And are you planning to stay? I’ve heard a lot of the people signed on to work as a way to get to America.”

  Annie supposed this was true. She’d heard talk along those lines late nights in the crew quarters, once the stout and gin started flowing. She worried about saying too much, however, the chief steward’s admonishment ringing in her ears. No undue familiarity. “Me? No, ma’am. I mean, I haven’t yet decided.” The truth was she hadn’t thought of a single moment beyond right here and right now.

  “But you’re not against having a little adventure, are you?” The question was innocent enough, but it made Annie a touch uneasy, so she thought it best to say nothing. At that moment, Mark Fletcher began to move about the cabin as he unpacked. She was keenly aware of him behind her, going to and fro, his presence hot against her back, like the sun.

  The woman smiled, warm and genuine, though there was a flicker of something behind her eyes that made Annie feel unease. “My name is Caroline Fletcher.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher.” Annie curtsied, and the woman laughed.

  “Don’t call me that. We’re nearly the same age, aren’t we?” Annie knew it wasn’t meant to be a jab—it was simply more of that American friendliness—but she couldn’t help but feel the sudden poverty of her situation compared to Mrs. Fletcher’s. Alone, a stewardess, with only as much as would likely fit in one of Mrs. Fletcher’s hatboxes. “And what may I call you?” the woman asked, already milling about, unpacking her dazzling array of personal items with a comfort that made Annie almost dizzy.

  “Just Annie is fine,” Annie said. She watched Mrs. Fletcher open one of the largest trunks and begin to hang up more colorful dresses than she could possibly wear in a month, let alone a week’s journey aboard a ship. Annie tried to make herself useful, taking up some of their books and stacking them on a side table, as Caroline then began to lay out jewelry boxes, opening the lids to display silver and gold pendants and rings—almost as if the suite were her personal shop. Who had need of such jewels? Not to mention the confidence to just set them out where anyone might ogle and covet them? Necklaces, bracelets, a shiny brooch nearly the size of Annie’s fist.

  Before Annie could comment, however, someone knocked at the open door. An older man peered into the cabin as though staring through the bars of the local zoo.

  Mark, who had been laying out his hairbrushes and toiletries, straightened up. “May I help you? As you can see, this cabin is occupied. . . .”

  The man seemed amused by Mark’s question. “Thank you, my good man, but my cabin is right next door.” There was something unsettling about the stranger. What the old women in Annie’s village might call uncanny. Annie decided it was his beard, which was full and white, with straggly, unkempt ends, in odd contrast to his expensive clothing. His eyes, too, were constantly searching, lifting off and alighting again. “I heard your voices and thought I would see if there might be a steward about.” His voice trailed off, but his eyes finally fixed on Annie.

  The cabin next door was indeed her responsibility. She curtsied, a little relieved to be freed from Caroline’s well-meant prying. “You are correct, sir, that would be my cabin. And if these passengers have no further need of me . . .”

  The older man acknowledged this with a nod. “Indeed, indeed. I mean no inconvenience. I did not mean to steal you away. . . .”

  “There is no inconvenience, sir,” Caroline said brightly. Annie noticed the twitch of her hand as she waved it in the air. “We have no further need of Miss Hebbley, do we, Mark? She is free to go.”

  Annie repressed the urge to ask to see the baby one more time. She dropped into a curtsy, avoiding Mark Fletcher’s eyes—not sure she could trust herself to meet them—and then followed the old man into the tumult of passengers flowing through the narrow alleyway, shutting the door to the cabin behind her.

  “Am I really to have a female attendant?” He gave her a sideways glance. “It seems irregular for a man traveling alone.”

  Annie started, then folded her hands together to keep from fidgeting. “We are assigned blocks of cabins,” she explained. “But I can ask the chief steward about getting a male steward to attend to you, if you’d prefer, sir.” It would make for extra bother, running to different parts of the deck, but it could be done.

  He canted his head, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. “Oh, never mind. I’m sure it will make no difference.” Then, by way of introduction: “W. T. Stead. Do you know who I am?”

  She didn’t, of course, but she didn’t want him to think so. She hesitated. “Should I, sir?”

  He drew back, and she feared she’d hurt his feelings. “No, I suppose not, I suppose not. . . . It’s just that people like to talk about me. They all have their opinions.”

  “And what opinion ought I to have, sir?” She’d meant it sincerely, but he smiled as though she’d told a joke.

  “Well, I am a newspaperman, first and foremost.” Then his face clouded over—again, as if some unheard voice had gripped him. He held open the door to his cabin and, as she entered, gave her a sideways glance she pretended not to see.

  The cabin was a large one for a single person, Annie noted. Even larger than the Fletchers’, its anteroom included table and chairs, and a door separating it from the bedroom.

  Stead had a long list of things requiring her attention: additional blankets and ship’s stationery, heavier drapes for the porthole, candles (electric lights being detrimental to health, he insisted), a pillow of duck and not chicken feathers. He gave her his preferences for breakfast (oats cooked in cream, two duck eggs—quail if duck was unavailable, chicken eggs as only the last resort—soft-boiled, all to be delivered to his door no later than 5:30 a.m.), and left strict orders not to be disturbed between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m. (whom did he think would disturb him at such an hour? she wondered, but did not ask). He used this time to work on his speeches and opinion pieces for the newspapers, he explained, and could not be disturbed. Once she promised to track down some misplaced luggage, she was dismissed.

  Annie stepped into the alleyway to catch her breath. She had seen the eggs stored in one of the cool, dark pantries—forty thousand, a cook had said as he showed her the stack of trays reaching the ceiling—but she was pretty certain none were duck or quail. She wasn’t sure what she would tell this man, who would likely run her off her feet every day. She hoped the rest of her passengers were not so peculiarly demanding.

  So much bustle in the alleyway. Passengers a-dither and excited, rushing about in an attempt to see everything at once. Stewards running this way and that like rabbits flushed out of a hedgerow.

  Violet stepped up to her. “Are you all right, Annie? Something the matter?”

  “Just a bit overwhelmed.”

  Violet grimaced. “I don’t blame you. Have you ever seen such crowds? It’s like the entire city of London crammed aboard this one ship. Have you heard: there’s a couple of prizefighters on board. I’ve seen them—a big, brown-haired one, and a smaller blond fellow. You’ve never seen a man with so many muscles!”

  She was about to speak when Thomas Whiteley, one of the chief steward’s assistants, walked up to them.

  “Any problems, ladies? No? Then I suggest you get back to work. Now is not the time for dillydallying.�
� He held up a finger as the women began to disperse. “A minute, Annie. Mr. Latimer asked me to tell you that the couple in C-85 has requested your help. They asked for you specifically. Said their nanny is overwhelmed and will require your assistance. On request only—it’s not to interfere with your normal duties.” He must have mistaken her face, because he added quickly, “They promised to pay extra for the service. If you think this will be a problem . . .”

  She thought of the baby’s downy hair, her sweet smell. Skin as delicate as a rose petal. She thought, too, of Mark’s eyes, the coming storm inside them. “Oh no, not at all. It would be a pleasure.”

  “That’s a good girl. That’s what Mr. Latimer likes to hear.”

  But after Whiteley left, Annie felt a kind of dread seize her. She knew this feeling. The longing. The shame. I will not be alone with Mark Fletcher, ever, she promised herself. I swear it, she thought, reaching under the collar of her uniform to find the crucifix that had hung around her neck since she was a little girl. Swear it on the cross, to all that is good and holy.

  The Lord favors good girls, Annie.

  But she could not find the necklace. In the excitement of the day, the chain must have broken, and it had disappeared.

  Chapter Five

  David John Bowen twisted the ring off the pinkie finger of his sweaty right hand and placed it in his vest pocket before hanging his clothes on a peg in the gymnasium dressing room. It was a plain brass ring with a small engraved B, not worth very much, and he shouldn’t even have bothered hiding it.

  But habits die hard. And common as it was, the ring had a personal value to him. It had belonged to his father. He didn’t know where his pop had come by it—he very well could’ve stolen it—but it was Dai’s now, and he wasn’t going to lose it. Not that he had reason to believe that any of the fine ladies and gentlemen in the first-class passengers’ gymnasium would stoop to stealing a brass signet ring. Down below, it was a different story. There were some desperate characters in third class—he’d seen enough petty thieves in his lifetime to know.

  Leslie Williams grinned as he stripped off his jacket and waistcoat. Les, the fearless one. The impetuous one. It had been Les’s idea to buy tickets in the first place. America was where the money was. A man with Dai’s talents would be a fool not to go, he’d said. He’d heard, for example, of a prizefighter who’d made fifteen thousand, just for a title bout.

  When they bought their tickets, they’d paid extra to use the gymnasium. It was fine, but not at all like the one in Pontypridd where he and Leslie trained. That one was strictly for boxers. It had a proper ring. Punching bags. Medicine balls. It had smelled of sweat and cigar smoke and blood. This gym was for rich Londoners with its pommel horse, Indian clubs, and tumbling mats.

  Word that two professional boxers were going to spar had obviously got out, and a small crowd had formed to watch. It wasn’t unexpected. Les tended to draw crowds wherever he went. It was his smile, his bravado, his love of a good time—and something else, something that people couldn’t name but wanted from him without ever knowing they wanted it. Women had a way of losing their underclothing and men their wallets or dignity when it came to Leslie Williams. There were few women gathered this afternoon; perhaps the rest were still focused on unpacking in their cabins, each the size of four third-class bunkrooms, or napping off a long lunch. Dai was disappointed. He liked the way these rich women eyed him. He was a different breed of man from their husbands and lovers. They liked his muscles, wanted to see how he would put them to use. There’s money in those eyes, that’s what Les would say.

  Well, maybe there were few women, but there were plenty of men in the crowd; and Dai thought he recognized a few, swells who had been pointed out to him in passing: John Jacob Astor, said to be the richest man in America, and Benjamin Guggenheim, not quite Astor’s equal in funds but twice the man in airs. Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon, husband to a rich society dressmaker.

  He and Leslie easily cleared a spot on the floor, the few others who’d already made it here for a workout in their gymnasium outfits vanishing sheepishly. The space became theirs. Dai flexed his hands; they were pugilists, bare-handed boxers. They were in their undershirts and their everyday trousers because it made for better theater. Loose buttons would fly. Sweat would soak through tight cotton.

  Dai squared off opposite Leslie and raised his fists as he’d done a thousand times, framing Leslie’s boyish face. Leslie made his living with that face, not his hands. Leslie winked, flashed a grin. Let’s give ’em a show.

  Dai threw controlled jabs that looked more impressive than they actually were. Leslie positioned himself so the punches seemed to come within an inch of his face. He knew how to dance back at the last moment. Leslie was incredibly light on his feet; years of escaping, is how he explained it. As a bantamweight, he was nearly two stone lighter than Dai, and had nowhere near the same hands. Leslie may have had the moves, but Dai had the skill and the weight. If they were to really fight, Dai would have Leslie beat inside of two rounds; sometimes he longed to show everyone the truth. The real truth.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dai saw the rich swells with their clean white hands huddled together, following his every move, already placing bets.

  “I’ll give two-to-one odds on the dark one. . . . Any takers?”

  “Give me three to one.”

  “I’ll take a piece of that.”

  After just a few minutes, they had worked up a good heat. Sweat plastered Leslie’s blond curls to his face, made his undershirt transparent, made the muscles of his upper arms gleam like they were oiled. Dai liked Les best like this, his blue eyes burning and all his muscles raging hard, his breathing rough and rhythmic. Sparring like this, it was like having Les to himself. They’d been surrounded by strangers since boarding: in third class, they were cheek by jowl with people no matter where you turned, four passengers to a cabin. Still, better their crowded cabin than the dormitory taking up the middle of one deck, two hundred bodies crammed in double-decker beds.

  He tossed off a jab and then left himself wide open, practically daring Leslie to step in and pop him on the jaw. But Leslie didn’t take it. Dai tried again, hesitating for nearly a full second—something he would never do in the ring, where seconds were like lifetimes. It was as good as begging Leslie to hit him. To take the shot.

  Leslie took the hint this time. He managed a swift uppercut to Dai’s chin, knocking him back two steps. Dai felt his teeth grind together as a roar went up from the crowd behind them. Snuffing out the urge to hit back, Dai staggered forward and fell into Leslie’s arms. Their damp chests pressed together. His bruised chin rested on Leslie’s shoulder. Leslie’s breath roared in his ear. Then Leslie pushed him away.

  It was over. Behind them: cursing, the slap of paper and flesh. The sound of money changing hands. Dai picked up a towel. Damn, it was plush. Rich people’s towels, and brand-new, too. The towels in steerage were like burlap sacks.

  “That was a mistake, you know.” Leslie poked a finger to Dai’s chest. “You should’ve won. That’s what they were expecting. We should’ve let them get complacent. Then we do the flip after.” Leslie looked over Dai’s shoulder at the men settling up. “We woulda got better odds. This way, them are the only ones who benefit, and they don’t hardly need it. . . .” He gave a sour look at the money changing hands but then—maybe sensing Dai’s disapproval—broke away. He slapped Dai’s midsection. “Never mind. . . . What’s done is done. We’ll get our turn again. When are we going to have access to this many stiff collars at once?”

  Dai’s stomach lurched. “No, Les. It’s too risky.”

  Their audience started to disperse, making their way back to the lounges and their private rooms. Even as he toweled down, Leslie watched them: the women in their gymnasium suits with voluminous pantaloons gathered at the knee, looking vaguely childish, only to turn back into women, feathered and powdered, like exotic
birds.

  “What do you think,” Les said, ignoring him. “The three-card molly?”

  “We don’t have Soapy,” Dai said, stalling.

  To run that trick, they normally worked with a confidence man named Soapy Marvin. Soapy was the one with the nimble hand. No boxer, with his busted knuckles and swollen fingers, had the dexterity to run a hand con. Dai and Leslie were the outside men, working the crowd. Leslie, with his natural charm, was usually the one who won the first round, good at crowing about his good fortune and making the game seem easy. Dai would be the capper, jumping in to outbid the mark if the mark happened to pick the right card, so they wouldn’t lose a bundle. And he could be the muscle, too, if things got testy; but he didn’t like to play that role, picking on men who were right to question them.

  Growing up in the rough end of Pontypridd, nearly everyone they knew had been on the con at one time or another. Dai could understand the need for a trick. But Dai hated a lie.

  “These are men of the world. They won’t be fooled that easy.”

  “We won’t try it on the whole. We’ll pick our mark. A closed molly. Just between friends.”

  That jaw. That smile.

  “No. Too dangerous.” They’d be stuck with this group at least a week.

  Leslie turned. It was like the sun had gone behind a cloud. “All right. I’ll think of something else.” Still, Dai knew how this would play out. He couldn’t deny Leslie for long. No one could. Les was already walking away. Over his shoulder, he said, “Let’s go up and try on our dinner clothes. If we’re going to eat with the royals we might try and shape up a bit first—”

  “Les, no.”

  “Tonight’s the time to strike,” Les went on. “These gentlemen just seen us. They’ll be eager to talk with us professionals. Clean up and meet me on the deck.”

  It was Leslie, of course, who had talked him into having suits made special for the trip. They’d even missed the earlier sailing, the ship they were originally booked to take to America, because the damn suits hadn’t been ready.