The Dressmaker (34 page)

“Try an orange. They look better.”

A familiar voice, a shockingly familiar voice. She looked up into the face of a man standing on the other side of the heaping baskets of fruit. A half-healed scar had left a thin slash of red that ran from his forehead to the tip of his ear, but it had done nothing to diminish his smile. His gray hair was neatly combed, his suit polished and smooth, and he looked much as he had that last night on the
Titanic
. In his hand he held out an orange.

“Mr. Bremerton.” She could barely say his name.

“Hello, Miss Collins.” He glanced down at the mutton in her bag, the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Looks tasty.”

“What are you doing here? How—”

“I found ways to look you up. Are you doing well?”

Was he really standing opposite her, talking in that relaxed, confident manner? “I can’t believe I’m seeing you,” she said, still somewhat breathless. “I heard you had survived.”

“Well, I can only hope you’re as pleased as I am at seeing you.”

“I am. I am, yes.” She could almost smell the salt air of that last night when the two of them had stood together on deck. Hearing his voice again brought it all back to pulsating life. “But why are you here? You don’t live down here, surely.” She imagined him in a grand home farther up Fifth Avenue—not here, not in this modest neighborhood of business lofts and small flats like hers.

“I have an office in the Flatiron Building. But now that I’ve found you, I have a proposal. As good as this mutton looks, would you consider doing me the honor of sharing dinner with me?”

“I would enjoy that very much,” she managed.

“On one condition,” he said gently. “You must call me Jack.”

“Well—”

“Not yet? I understand.”

What a gentleman he was. She put down the mutton and potatoes, leaving them on top of the apples, and together they walked out, past the startled grocer. Or perhaps she was sleepwalking. Later, Tess was not sure which it was.

The restaurant was called Sherry’s, at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-fourth Street, and, to Tess’s eye, it was grander than the Waldorf. High, ornate ceilings, sparkling crystal sconces and chandeliers; tables covered with pristine linen cloths; the murmurs of waiters bowing deferentially to diners who looked like full-dressed chandeliers themselves. She made no pretense of not being impressed, and stared about with unconcealed delight.

“We love excess in America, Tess,” Jack said gently. “And we love copying the British.”

“I can’t imagine why. We all want to copy you.” She cradled a delicately bowled glass and then let the first martini of her life slip softly down her throat. It felt strangely dry, leaving a faint taste of herbs that vanished almost immediately on her tongue.

He laughed. “You do say what you’re thinking, don’t you?”

“Not always, but I am now.”

“You have much to talk about, I wager. Ah, here are our lobsters.”

The plate set smoothly in front of her held a brilliantly red crustacean, claws arched forward, tiny beaded eyes frozen in mid-boil. She stared at it, wondering what came next.

“Let me show you,” he said gently. Deftly, with a nutcracker, he twisted off the claws, exposing the meat. With a long, slender utensil she did not recognize, he pulled forth an offering and held it up to her. Unhesitatingly, Tess took it. It was delicious. Another sip of the martini and she was telling him about her trials with the mercurial Lucile. She, who tried to weigh every word in this new country, realized that she felt not a qualm about talking to Jack.

“You keep asking about me, but say nothing about yourself,” she said finally.

“I’m your standard American self-made man,” he said with a shrug. “I sit through my share of operas, but if you want to hear all about Ford’s Model T, I’m the man. Brilliant automobile, soon to boast a speedometer and a horn.”

“That sounds interesting,” she said shyly.

“Progress is wonderful,” he said. “The world is changing, and if you don’t change with it you’re gone.”

The evening slipped by—thrilling, dazzling. She took tiny sips from her second drink, wary of the dizziness that seemed to make the room glow. She was on a glittery, floating stage, but the best thing was that the man next to her was actually listening, truly listening, when she talked.

And yet not once, not even glancingly, did they talk about the sinking of the
Titanic
and Jack’s experience on the
Carpathia
. Only as they rose to go did that strike Tess as strange.

“I would like to see you again,” he said outside her building.

“I would like that, too,” she said.

They stood close, both silent.

“I kept hoping to find you on the
Carpathia
,” she said.

“That matters greatly, that you cared.”

“I couldn’t believe you had died. I didn’t want to.” She felt a catch in her throat.

“Some might have felt it a convenient development.”

Tess’s thoughts flew to Jack’s wife. How could that woman not have mourned this man?

“I can’t say I remember the time I was out of my head on the
Carpathia
. But if I had known, that last night on the
Titanic
, what I know now, I wouldn’t have been so polite. I would have kissed you, Tess. I would have taken you in my arms and kissed you.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their mingled breathing.

“May I do that now?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

He pulled her close, searching for her lips with his. There was no need for Tess to say anything, just to go on tiptoe and kiss him back.

Late into the night, Tess lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, remembering the sound of him murmuring her name. Husky, intimate—she
could not sleep. She sat up in bed and stared out the window. How could it be that a gentleman like Jack Bremerton was interested in her? He was much older than she was, probably in his forties. So calm and assured. She had never met anyone like him, and he had held her and kissed her. No demands, no fumbling, no skittery fingers. And he wanted to see her again. What could she dare dream about now? Who was he, and who was
she
, given the thoughts she was having?

And there was Jim. She buried her head in the pillow, trying, just for the moment, to block him out of her thoughts, but it wasn’t working. He was there; she could sense him by her side. She pushed off the thought angrily; there was no reason to feel torn. She wasn’t betrothed, for heaven’s sake. There was no reason to feel guilty. Two men, so very different. Jim was more than a village boy, much more, but Jack was a man of the world. Exciting, in a new way. And yet—oh Lord, why hadn’t Jim contacted her? Where was he—had he forgotten her? Her thoughts flashed back to the shared moment of offering their halting prayers over the dead mother and baby; of his kindness as with swift, deft fingers he carved toys for the children. She felt again the taste of delight as they skipped together through Central Park. Was she just dazzled by the glamour of Jack’s life? If so, where was Jim?

Enough. She pounded the pillow angrily. There would be no sleep tonight.

NEW YORK CITY
FRIDAY MORNING, APRIL 26

The newsboy outside the grocery store ran back and forth, hollering out the news that was bringing him an abundance of nickels and dimes from passersby to stuff into his pocket this sunny morning. Read all about it, the latest bombshell about the Millionaires’ Boat from the
Titanic
hearings in Washington. Sailors face off against each other, battling over the truth! Extra, extra!

Tess fumbled for change, taking copies of the
Tribune
and the
Times
to the back of the store. “
WERE DROWNING PEOPLE PUSHED OFF LIFEBOAT ONE? SAILORS EXCHANGE CHARGES,
” screamed the
Tribune
headline. Two photographs, one of Jim and the other of the man named Sullivan. And then a subhead: “
WHO IS THE LIAR?
” The headline of Pinky’s story was quieter: “
CONFLICTING ACCOUNTS BY LIFEBOAT ONE SEAMEN, BACKUP WITNESS STUMBLES.
”

She read quickly, hands shaking as she turned pages still sticky with ink. Jim, Jim, are you sure—what did you see? Who are you accusing? She lifted up her head, the sidewalk looking washed with rain, but it was viewed through tears. Not going back could be cold, cowardly, sensible, fearful. All those things. Pushing people away? Cruelty, panic? But it was so dark that night, hard to see anybody, even in her boat, which was jammed with survivors. He hadn’t tried to accuse the Duff Gordons. It was so like the man she already instinctively knew. He told what he saw when asked; there was no vilification. And in all of this, who was most vulnerable? He was.

She threw the paper in a bin outside the store and headed for work, trying to remember the sound of Jim’s voice. But it had slipped from her somehow. Gone into the air.

Lucile was in the loft, calmly pinning new layers of tulle under the wedding gown, replacing the ones Tess had cut away.

“Good morning,” she said evenly. “Have you seen the papers?”

“Yes.”

“I was right about your sailor friend. Obviously he
was
the source for the first story, so now he thinks he has us, I suppose. Well, we’re not through fighting. Mr. Sullivan’s support was helpful. And the other one did his best—not too intelligent a man, perhaps.”

She couldn’t stay silent. “Sullivan was the source for the first bribery story, not Jim. Pinky Wade told me. And I don’t believe anything he says.”

“Oh, don’t you? Then whom do you believe—this sailor of yours? That there was bribery? An actual murder? What? Are you blaming me for all that?”

“I don’t know what happened in your boat.”

Lucile shook out a bolt of tulle, slamming it on the table, cutting
through it with a pair of very sharp scissors. “I’d advise you to figure it out fast. This Bonney creature is trying to destroy us, and don’t you dare deny it.”

There was no stopping now. “He had to testify—he had no choice but to answer their questions.”

“Oh come, Tess.” Lucile stopped, shears in midair. “His
intent
was obvious. Your sailor comes off as somewhat intense and bitter, wouldn’t you say? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he turned down our little gift because he planned to angle for more. Blackmail, very obviously. Think what the newspapers would do with that.”