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In three days, they reached New York. The Carpathia steamed into the harbour under a foggy, weeping sky.

As they docked, Lizzy heard the bells tolling from everywhere in the city, marking how she and the survivors had arrived spectres from a ghost ship.

Photographers came in close, flash powder igniting in their faces as they disembarked.

On the dock, they were instructed to enter partitions alphabetically arranged according to their last names.

Of course, no one was there to meet them, but Elizabeth insisted on standing about in the D partition, hoping against hope that somehow they had neglected to find Mr Darcy on the crowded Carpathia, but he would be there, waiting for her.

She sent her sister and Wickham to the B partition in case Mr Darcy would look for her there.

The reasonable part of her mind told her that he was dead at the bottom of the sea, but like so many of the wailing widows around her, she hoped against hope that he still walked among the living.

After nearly all of the crowd had dispersed, most in despair, Lydia persuaded Elizabeth to abandon her vigil.

Lydia no longer clung to her once Wickham was found.

Why he was alive was cruelty to Elizabeth.

If Mr Darcy had arranged for him to “do right” by Lydia, no doubt he would see none of the money he was promised if he abandoned her.

Even if Mr Darcy himself wasn’t there to oversee the arrangement, he likely had solicitors who would.

To those like Lizzy who’d washed up on their shore in the midst of the horror, the citizens of the great City of New York took care of them and ushered them into a waiting room on the dock.

The Red Cross sorted through the survivors who had lost everything and had no one to meet them on friendly shore, mostly the ones who had no means of housing or feeding themselves for the foreseeable future.

Wickham pushed through the crowd; his brow furrowed.

“ We are being sent back tomorrow,” he said out of breath, “Lydia and me.”

“ What do you mean, George?” Lydia glanced at Lizzy. “Just you and me? What about Lizzy?”

“ The shipping line will house the crew for the night and are sending us home on the Lapland tomorrow.” He looked at Lizzy with more concern than she had ever seen in his face. “I can see if I can find a place for you too, Elizabeth.”

Lizzy couldn’t think. What would she do in New York alone?

What if Mr Darcy was still alive, perhaps in another boat and was rescued by another ship?

She couldn’t just go back to England not knowing.

She knew it was illogical, even hopelessly ridiculous.

Here she was in a strange land, with only the clothes on her back and in the care of strangers, but she couldn’t go.

“ No, it’s all right. You two go. Go back. I will follow shortly.”

“ I don’t think it’s wise, Elizabeth. Let me see what can be done.”

“ All right, George. See what you can do.”

Lydia gazed wide-eyed at Wickham, and he patted her arm. After walking briskly to the area where the Red Cross was processing passengers, he disappeared into the crowd.

“ You can’t stay here alone, Lizzy,” Lydia said quietly. “You can’t. Come with us.”

“ It may not be possible. You know that. I will sort something out.”

“ But why? Why stay? There is nothing for you here.”

What could she tell her ? That she was nursing a fantasy in which she waited for a lover who would never return? That was the truth of it, although something created out of the pure stubbornness of denial made her resist running back home.

Wickham came back over and had in tow a middle-aged woman, her face creased with kindness. She wore a long white dress and a rather oddly shaped head covering that looked somewhat like a nun’s veil. Wickham sighed. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but there’s no room on the Lapland for you.”

The woman came over and patted her hand. “I’m Sister Mary Harris. We can find lodgings for you and provisions while you book your return voyage, if that is what you want. Come along. We’ll make arrangements.”

Lizzy rose from her seat, and embracing Lydia, she held her for longer than she intended. “Go on. Your place is with your husband. Tell everyone I will see them soon.”

After a moment, Wickham took Lydia’s arm and led her away, and as she looked back at Lizzy, tears streaked her face. They disappeared into the evening shadows.

Within the hour, Elizabeth was introduced to a Red Cross volunteer, a woman called Marjorie, who, with carpetbag in hand and a business-like manner, took her on the streetcar through the streets of New York. Lizzy stared out the window, seeing but not seeing, as images flashed by.

Lizzy received temporary shelter near a place called Columbus Circle.

The streets were numbered instead of having names, and she and her companion made their way to 58th Street.

For a moment, she stood on a pathway in front of a group of row houses her companion called brownstones.

A large stone stairway with six steps led to the house proper, but Marjorie took her to a stairway that dipped downward from the street.

“ Here you are, my dear, and here’s the key.

” She pressed five dollars into Lizzy’s hand and set down a carpetbag that held clothing and some toiletries.

Another bag held groceries. A single streetlight glowed by the sidewalk, but shadows shrouded the doorway.

After fumbling with the key, she turned the lock.

Her companion reached for a light, and a yellow glow lit up the place.

The apartment was small: a sitting room, a bedroom, and a kitchen.

Elizabeth was impressed that here in America, a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and bathtub were here for her exclusive use.

“ I know it’s not much, but…” Marjorie began. She was a well-dressed woman, near her age, who surveyed each room they entered with a sceptical cock of her brow. She had the oddest regional accent, not at all like Mr Selfridge’s, that Elizabeth found charming.

“ It is lovely. It will do nicely until I can…” She wanted to say more, but her throat closed, and her eyes began to water. Marjorie laid her hand on Elizabeth’s arm. Her tone softened.

“ Would you like me to stay a while?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am rather tired, if you don’t mind. I’d like to just take a bath and go to bed.”

“ I’ll look in on you tomorrow.” With that, she left, closing the door behind her. Elizabeth sat on the tufted red velvet sofa and gave way to tears. After hiccupping from sobbing, she shook her head, wiped her eyes and stood up.

“ Enough of this. Time for a cup of tea.” With a determined air, she grasped the bag of groceries and headed into the kitchen. Unpacking bread, eggs, and a bit of butter, she found not tea—but coffee. “Well, old girl. You are really in America now.”

***

Lizzy spent two days walking between the telegraph office and the bank, trying to arrange for funds to be sent from home.

Her new friend from the Red Cross arrived the next day to help familiarise her with the shops and neighbourhood.

The New York subway was easy for her to navigate, as she had taken the Tube so many times whilst living in London.

The constant errands between the White Star Line offices, the Western Union, the bank, the shops to buy necessities, and the exploration of her new, albeit temporary, neighbourhood gave her little time to think of the horrors of the last few days.

Her second day in New York she’d seen Wickham and Lydia off at the dock on the Lapland .

She hoped that Lydia would be all right.

Just thinking about getting on another ship so soon after the tragedy made her blood run cold.

But, for good or ill, she had her passage booked for the following week and retreated to her garden apartment in the brownstone she now called home.

A massive park stood a short walk from her house, and she spent her second afternoon exploring there.

Elizabeth resolved to spend every afternoon here before her ship left for home.

It gave her comfort to be out amongst the grass and trees.

The first of the spring flowers were also in bloom.

Towards evening, she returned to her dark little apartment, grateful to have shelter and food, but alone in the great city.

She sat in solitude there at night, a single bulb illuminating the kitchen table as she pored over the New York Times , reading every word about the Titanic ’s colossal loss of life.

Every day the numbers of the dead were revised and grew larger until she could read no more, and tumbling the papers into the rubbish bin, she gave up every hope that Mr Darcy was still amongst the living.