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  “You can’t force me to marry anyone. And no one except Alastair has asked.”

  “Then make it happen. At least you like him. Perhaps you even care for him.”

  “Mother I have a headache. I’m going to lie down.”

  She didn’t, but she also didn’t want to continue this conversation. She swept out of the Palm Room and went back to her own cabin, thinking as she went that she wanted to plan her own life.

  ******

  Beckett sat in a crimson leather chair in the writing room and worked on his book. The words weren’t coming easily because he felt as if he were manipulating his characters in order to manipulate his life. But still he wrote, he wrote the story the way he hoped that he and Carrington would end up. Dare he tempt fate? Did he allow his characters to fall deeply in love, explore their passions, and admit their physical attraction? He hesitated, his pen hovering over the page. He had dated a number of girls while he had been at the university. No one had made him feel quite like Carrington had. None of them had captured his attention and his heart long enough for him to consider making them his wife. And yet, with Carrington, that is how he felt. He began writing again, willing himself not to stop, writing the story the way he wanted it to be, whether he should or not and knowing even as he did that there would most certainly be consequences.

  *******

  Despite her mother’s meddling, Carrington found herself searching the dining room for Beckett as she took her seat and read over the luncheon menu. As always, a string quartet played softly as she tried to decide what she wanted to eat and not be obviously searching for Beckett. What is he had changed the story and they were destined to part? What if he changed his mind? It bothered her that she was worried so just because he was a few minutes late. Molly joined her, and asked how her mummy search was going.

  She was just starting to share the morning’s foray through the cargo hold when her mother sat down beside Molly.

  “Carrington, where is Beckett?”

  “I expect he’ll be along when he gets hungry, Mother,”

  “But he is meeting you?”

  “He said he would.”

  Molly sensed the tension between them and came to Carrington’s rescue. “So you went on a treasure hunt. What did you find?”

  “All of your boxes. Goodness Molly, what do you have in there?”

  Molly laughed. “Everything except that mummy you went lookin’ for.”

  Carrington leaned closer to Molly as the soup was set in front of them. “And just by your boxes was a long, narrow box with a warning written on it in hieroglyphics.”

  Molly looked surprised. “I’m pretty darn sure that nobody packed up a mummy to bring back. The Egyptians are strict about what you can take. I had a time getting clearance for the things I brought.”

  Carrington glanced at her mother who was deep in conversation with Beckett’s mother and Madeleine

  Astor. She whispered. “I know. Beckett’s book- the actual book he’s writing in- is…special. It seems that whatever he writes in it comes true.”

  “And he wrote about a mummy being in the ship’s cargo hold?”

  Carrington nodded. “And about seeing me the day we sailed, before I’d be reacquainted with him. Before I came down to dinner he described the dress I’d be wearing, a dress he’d never seen, in perfect detail.”

  Molly took that in. “Now that’s book I’d be interested in reading,” she said. “Oh look, here comes the author himself.”

  Beckett came in, windblown, with Warren. He took his seat next to Carrington. Was she imagining that he looked slightly uncomfortable? When he smiled at her, she dismissed that thought.

  “So, Beckett, how’s that book coming along?” Molly asked.

  “I’ve written quite a lot the last two days, Molly.”

  “Beckett,” his mother frowned. “Don’t call Mrs.

  Brown by her first name.”

  “Oh please, Alice,” Molly laughed. “I don’t mind at all. Everyone calls me by my first name.”

  “You know,” Rose St. Clair said. “it is lovely up on the deck this time of day. Carrington, you should invite Beckett to go for a stroll.”

  Beckett smiled at Carrington, who was clearly embarrassed by her mother’s open attempt to match make. “You should, Carrington.”

  Carrington said through clenched teeth. “Why Beckett, I don’t suppose that you would like to walk on deck?”

  “Carrington, I would simply love to.”

  Warren rolled his eyes. “Are we eating first?”

  “See, Carri, his manners are still dreadful,” Beckett said. “And we can eat, but I don’t believe that you were invited.”

  Even Carrington’s mother laughed at that and

  Carrington relaxed a little. She wondered what he had written in the time that he had been away from her.

  Beckett wasted no time in eating his lunch and then took her hand and led her out onto the deck.

  *******

  The air had taken on a bit of a chill as they were moving toward the area of the ocean that had icebergs. Beckett walked to the front of the ship, where fewer people were gathered and found a bench.

  “I think we need to spend some time filling in the years since we last saw each other.” He brushed her cheek with one hand.

  “Does all that matter?”

  “It does,” he said, “because I am feeling far too attracted to you in a physical sense and I want to be attracted to you for other reasons as well.”

  Beckett was certainly not the first man to tell Carrington that she was beautiful, but he was the only one she had ever wanted to tell her. It moved her deeply, however, that he cared about something more than her beauty. He wanted to know what she thought as well. Her life experiences, what she wanted for the future.

  “We lived in England for three years after we left. I learned how to ride a horse and the finer points of having a proper British tea party. We lived in an old manor house that Father had rented and it had the most incredible library. I read all the time.”

  “What kind of books?” What someone read said so much about them, at least to Beckett’s way of thinking.

  “All the classics. The odd contemporary romance. Then one day I happened on a book about Egypt. I read everything I could find on the subject after that. I was so intrigued by the antiquity, the history. Even the mysteries that surround the pyramids and the whole Valley of the Kings.”

  She had become so animated as she talked and he realized again that her desire to go and see it for herself was something which had to be addressed. Her parents clearly had dismissed it as a romantic notion, an idea she had no need to act on. Beckett knew that it would always be her big regret if she never followed that dream.

  “You should go there. I’m not sure you will ever be happy with whatever life throws you unless you have satisfied that dream.” Beckett took her hand.

  “I think you’re right. But then you would know. You’re following your dream.”

  Beckett sighed. “Right now I am trying to write a book and I’m still amazed at what’s happening with that. I still don’t quite know what to think of that.”

  Carrington said, “This conversation, Beckett, is it in the book?”

  “No.”

  “It’s nice to know everything about us isn’t pre-ordained.”

  “Maybe it is and it has nothing to do with that leather book or me.” He leaned close to kiss her.

  “And you. What did you do since last we met?”

  “I learned to sail, played golf, went to boarding school and Harvard and wrote a good deal of nothing.”

  “Did you and Warren go to the same schools?”

  “We did.”

  “I really don’t dislike him.”

  Beckett laughed. “Of course not. He just has his moments.”

  “And probably always will.”

  “We’ve only just touched on the very surface of what we’ve been doing since we were together. We don’t
have time to share a lifetime on this voyage.”

  A cool breeze made her shiver and he put his arms around her. “Maybe our time together doesn’t end on this voyage. Maybe we have a lifetime to share a lifetime.”

  She looked up at him. “Maybe you are the most romantic man who ever lived.”

  He smiled and kissed her again.

  ********

  Molly Brown tried to participate in the ladies’ conversation, but it seemed so trivial. She had gotten used to the art of small talk since she had suddenly become rich, as rich as all these women who had been rich all their lives

  Didn’t they want to talk about things that really mattered instead of gossip about the other passengers? If JJ Astor loved his nineteen year old wife, and by witnessing them together, she knew he did, did it matter that years separated them? Was it really important that the woman traveling with Benjamin Guggenheim was his mistress instead of his wife? Surely it mattered to his wife, if she knew about the mistress, but what business was it of anyone else? She was certain they were all talking behind her back about her humble beginnings and the now famous often told story about how her husband had hidden a stack of money in the stove for safe keeping and she had burned it up.

  No one in the Palm Room seemed to want to talk about women’s rights or helping the poor, and Molly understood that. She didn’t mind but her thoughts did wander. She recalled what Carrington had told her about the mummy sized box in the cargo hold. Was it possible that someone in their group had managed to smuggle a mummy on board? She didn’t consider herself particularly superstitious but she had listened to the tales of what happened to those who desecrated tombs of the pharaohs and the long list of ‘true’ stories. It was enough to make even someone who considered themselves rational reconsider stuffing something sacred in their suitcase or trunk. But a full sized mummy? That was beyond thinking about.

  Carrington believed that Beckett put the box there simply by writing it in the leather bound book. Molly would realistically chalk that up to pure coincidence, yet something about Carrington’s revelation bothered her a bit. What if the book really was special?

  Molly’s thoughts turned to the reasons that had led to her being on board Titanic. True, word of her grandson’s illness had prompted her to leave early, weeks before she was scheduled to return to the states. She had started traveling because she and JJ wanted different things. She wanted to see the world and be an advocate for change and he hadn’t ever really shared that with her. Nor had he stopped her, but the truth was, they had been estranged for some time. And honestly, she missed him. She missed the way they used to be before they had any money. They had been young and in love then and shared a common goal.

  She looked at the women in the salon with her, and wondered if they too had sacrificed love and romance to have money.

  Maybe there was a chance for her and JJ to change things once she got back home. Huh, she thought. Maybe I should get Beckett to write that in his book. She got up and went out on the Promenade Deck. She needed some fresh air.

  ********

  Beckett and Carrington had spent most of the day just talking. They had changed their location several times, but once they had started talking, they found a wealth of things about which to converse. He knew her favorite color, lavender, and what foods she liked to eat. He knew her choice in reading material, what she thought about leaders in Washington, what stores she preferred to shop in, what restaurants she preferred, her favorite spot in Central Park, which was also his favorite spot. He laughed at her stories of their mutual friends and the people she had met in England and that she absolutely hated spiders. That she wanted to see the entire United States and learn to snow ski. That she wanted to take a ride in a hot air balloon, even though she was scared of heights and that she had always wanted to take painting lessons. She despised needlepoint and polite conversation and preferred coffee with sugar and cream to tea.

  Beckett was falling more and more in love with her by the minute, amazed that this beautiful person who had been his childhood playmate was here at this moment, sharing her heart and soul on a beautiful day at sea on the world’s most decadent ocean liner.

  He told her about his travels and she hung on every word as he talked about Europe and the Mediterranean and the sights and sounds of Morocco. He wanted to take her there himself, to be able to witness her response to the beauty of the rest of the world. He shared that he dreamed of a safari in Africa and she agreed that she would love that as long as they didn’t actually kill the animals. They talked about his college days and his frustration with his father and his writing, the many failed attempts at starting a novel. It was easy to admit his failures as well as his successes.

  As she talked, he listened and couldn’t help but think about the last chapter he had written before lunch.

  *******

  Rose St. Clair talked to her husband. “I believe this might be an even more advantageous union that the one with Alastair.”

  “He is certainly well connected,” Wilson agreed. “And his father was, at one time, one of my closest friends. I shouldn’t think that he would have any objections.”

  Rose said, “We have to be careful this time. Carrington has these romantic notions. She wants to fall in love with the man she marries. She refuses to consider any kind of arrangement.”

  “They seem to be getting on well. Perhaps the best course of action is just to show our approval of the match and let things progress on their own.”

  Rose sighed. “All I ever wanted for her was to find a proper husband, one with a fortune, so that she would never have to worry about financial matters.”

  Wilson said, “She is far too smart for her own good, that one. If she had been a son, she might have had a brilliant career.”

  “As she isn’t a son, the least she can do for us is make a brilliant match.”

  Wilson was thoughtful. His wife was a good society wife; she had perfect business dinners and threw small soirees that introduced them to the right people. She had certainly helped his career in many ways by making sure he had opportunities to meet the right people. A bit of a social climber, to be true, but it had worked in their favor. Did he love her? Perhaps he had been ‘in love’ with her once. That had been replaced with a grateful kind of respect and a solid friendship, both of which he found more beneficial than romantic notions.

  “You’ve been spending time with Mrs. Astor, I noticed.”

  “Yes, the poor thing needs a friend, someone who knows what it’s like to be a wife in this environment. Everyone else just wants to talk behind her back.”

  “John Jacob Astor would be a worthwhile contact.”

  Rose smiled. “I have already asked them to dinner once we return.”

  “I knew I could count on you my dear,” Wilson said. “In the meantime. At least while we are still at sea, let Carrington do as she pleases. There’s plenty of time once we dock to steer her in the right direction.”

  *******

  Beckett dressed for dinner. As he buttoned his starched formal shirt, he tried to make himself not think about the words he had written earlier. As he reached for his cufflinks, his eyes fell on the little leather book which he had put on the dresser. If he could resist doing what he had written, if he could pretend he didn’t remember those words, he might be able to break whatever spell the book had. The day with Carrington had been beautiful, filled with expressive and inspiring and heartfelt conversation and many kisses. He had watched her red-golden hair blowing in the sea breezes and it had been as if they were the only passengers aboard the so called ship of dreams.

  He pulled on his black tailcoat and fixed his tie. He went to the door, and then turned back. He tucked the book inside his pocket, seemingly unable to leave it behind. He wasn’t sure if having it in his presence had anything to do with its powers, but for some reason he was hesitant to leave it in his cabin.

  *******

  Bruce Ismay, head of The White Star Line, the company that
owned Titanic, spoke with Mr. Andrews and Captain E.J. Smith.

  “Are we still going to break record speeds?”

  Captain Smith replied, “I see no reason why not. We are getting some indications of ice ahead, and we may have to use some caution.”

  “How much caution?”

  Smith said, “There have been times when it was advisable to wait perhaps a day before continuing, particularly if we should find an iceberg area in the dark.”

  “We can’t waste a whole twelve hours, E.J. We won’t make the news that way. Besides, this ship is immune to the dangers of icebergs, isn’t it, Andrews?”