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It is busy with passengers. The ladies are clothed in elegant dresses and hats, the gentlemen in suits.

There’s an atmosphere of delight. The very air quivers with it.

No one can imagine what’s going to happen.

The windows are frosted, but one is open and I glimpse through it blue sky and sunshine, and the flat navy sea that stretches uninterrupted all the way to the horizon.

I feel a terrible sense of dread. It all looks so benign and beautiful.

But in two days’ time, this magnificent ship will be at the bottom of the ocean.

I sweep my eyes around the room. I cannot believe the beauty of it.

The white walls embellished with pretty mouldings are more stunning than could ever be captured on film.

It’s unbearable to think of it disintegrating on the seabed.

Unbearable to think of the vast quantity of people who will go down with it.

My gaze passes over the faces of the passengers and crew, and I wonder how many of them will die.

I suffer a moment’s dizziness. I’m looking at a room full of ghosts.

Mrs Brown is waving at me from a long table by the window and I decide to focus on my mission and not on the inevitable sinking of the ship.

If I’m to do my job well, I must remain firmly in the present.

I wave back and we make our way towards her.

I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing an incredibly extravagant hat for breakfast; it makes me think of the hat of Edward Lear’s Quangle Wangle Quee.

I try not to laugh, turning my grin into what I hope is a serene smile.

She’s seated with other passengers and I panic, for I don’t recognise any of them.

Am I supposed to be acquainted with them?

Cavill and I part, and I watch him walk to the other end of the table where a young blonde woman of about sixteen is turning to him expectantly.

He takes the chair beside her. I look at them both.

The likeness is remarkable – the same angular jaw and cheekbones, the same sensitive blue eyes.

She must be his daughter. Hermione’s daughter.

I glance quickly at the other faces in search of her, but she’s not here.

My heart starts up again at a terrific pace, pounding hard against my ribs.

Surely Hermione will join her husband and daughter, and then I will have to meet her. I feel sick.

I’m about to sit down when I catch Cavill’s daughter’s eye and she gives me a gentle smile. It’s a smile of collusion. I wonder what the nature of her relationship is with Constance. Surprised, I return her smile and then greet the men who have politely got to their feet.

‘Are you feeling better, Connie?’ I turn to the vivacious Mrs Brown. If she calls me Connie, do I call her Maggie? I know not to call her Molly now.

‘Much better, thank you,’ I reply, taking the chair beside her and sitting down.

‘Mr Gilsden was just telling us that they are hoping to reach New York a day early, weren’t you, Mr Gilsden?’

The man sitting opposite me has a moustache like a pair of raven’s wings.

His watery grey eyes are enlarged behind his spectacles.

‘I spoke to the captain at dinner last night and he says we’re sailing at twenty knots,’ Mr Gilsden replies, lifting his chin importantly and looking at me with his steady, watery gaze.

It’s as if the colour has been washed out of his irises.

‘He said they’ll get it up to twenty-two knots.

I dare say he wants to beat all expectations. ’

Mrs Brown whistles. ‘That’s mighty fast,’ she says.

I notice one of the ladies opposite grimacing at the unladylike whistling.

The English must think the American woman coarse.

I think she’s fabulous. She pops a grape into her mouth and chews it cheerfully.

‘Oh, no. Here comes trouble,’ she adds under her breath.

I follow the line of her gaze and see an elderly woman making her way towards us.

She’s as stout as a teapot in a mauve dress and matching hat.

Her face is pinched with anxiety. ‘It’s Mr Gilsden’s mother, Connie,’ whispers Mrs Brown in my ear.

‘Don’t listen to a word she says – she’ll put you off your breakfast.’

‘I apologise in advance,’ Mr Gilsden says in a low voice. ‘I’m rather wishing I had left her in Winchester.’

I’m curious to hear what this woman is going to say. She looks harmless enough. There is a spare seat beside Mr Gilsden. A waiter pulls it out for her, and she sits down stiffly opposite me and Mrs Brown.

‘Well, Mrs Gilsden, you kept us safe last night.’ Mrs Brown is teasing her, but I don’t know what about.

The American chuckles and her large breasts rise and fall, and the feathers on her hat wave up and down.

Everything about her is lively. Her bright eyes dance with mischief, but not meanness.

Not at all. Mrs Brown’s smile is full of warmth and affection.

‘I’d say it’s time for bed for you,’ she adds, lifting her teacup to her curling lips.

Mrs Gilsden sniffs. She does not find anything amusing in Mrs Brown’s playfulness. ‘I should never have come,’ she says and her thin voice quivers. ‘I told you, Archie. You should have left me in England.’

‘Mother, let’s not go through this again,’ Mr Gilsden replies tersely. ‘It’s day three of our voyage and, if the captain is right, we will arrive in New York in just three days’ time. We’re jolly nearly there.’

‘Imagine naming a ship Titanic !’ she exclaims. ‘It’s an affront to the Almighty.’ Her eyes, as watery and colourless as her son’s, widen with fear. ‘It’s like a red flag to a bull. This ship will never make it to New York. I just know it.’

I go cold. She’s absolutely right, of course. But how can she know?

‘Then why did you come?’ I ask.

Mrs Brown laughs and puts a plump hand on mine. ‘Mr Gilsden is heading to Canada to start a new life, Connie. He couldn’t very well leave his mother behind, now, could he?’

Mr Gilsden looks sorely tried. ‘Why don’t you stop this silly nightly vigil and join in with the rest of us? There’s plenty to do on this ship. We could go for a nice walk along the deck. The weather is fine today.’

Mrs Gilsden purses her lips. Her face is very white. ‘I will go to bed after breakfast and join you for dinner. I will not stop my nightly vigil until we arrive in New York. Who is going to wake you up when the ship starts sinking?’

I gasp so loudly that Mrs Brown pats my hand. ‘Don’t panic, my dear. This ship is unsinkable, everyone knows that.’

I pick at a bowl of baked apples, but I don’t have the stomach to eat.

The menu is impressive. There’s stewed fruit, Quaker oats, all sort of eggs, mutton, lamb, bacon, sausages and kidneys, scones and buckwheat cakes.

It’s as abundant as the menu in the Aldershoff Hotel.

I peek at Cavill. He’s in conversation with his daughter.

I’m struck by the tender way he looks at her.

His face is full of affection and he listens attentively to everything she says.

I remember him looking at me like that – or rather at Hermione , only I was behind her eyes, looking out.

I’m a mere acquaintance to him now, another passenger on the boat.

Then why am I here? Why is he here with me?

Nothing happens by chance. If I just needed to find out about Lester, surely I would have been pulled back to Broadmere.

The law of attraction brought me to this time and place.

To Cavill. There has to be a purpose behind it, or it would not be.

What is the connection between Lester and Cavill?

Cavill looks up then and we catch each other’s eye. I hold his gaze for what feels like a long moment. I sense bewilderment in the uncertain way he is looking at me.

Lester appears then and I tear my gaze away.

He stands behind me and places a hand on my shoulder.

‘Good morning, ladies, gentlemen,’ he says cheerfully.

‘Aunt Constance.’ He moves to take the empty chair beside Cavill.

The two men greet each other as friends.

I wonder whether they have perhaps enjoyed an evening at the card table, too.

He then engages in conversation with both Cavill and Cavill’s daughter, and I notice the young girl’s cheeks burning as he directs a question at her.

Lester doesn’t look at all hungover. His face is aglow with delight, as bright as the dawn. But then he’s young. I meet his eye and he grins. ‘Ravenglass looks like the cat that’s got the cream,’ says Mrs Brown under her breath.

‘I wonder what the cream is,’ I reply, feeling completely out of place and out of rhythm with everyone else. Constance is a spirited, independent and outspoken woman. I’m not doing her justice. ‘But knowing my nephew, he will lap it all up,’ I add, not knowing what the hell I’m talking about.

Mrs Brown laughs. ‘Even young Miss Pengower is putty in his hands. Is no one immune to his charm?’ she asks.

I recall the diary and suspect that Lester is heading out to New York to court Esme Aldershoff, whom he later marries, and Constance is accompanying him in the hope of bumping into Orlando. I imagine Lester, being a ladies’ man, flirts with anything in a dress!

‘Where is the girl’s mother?’ I blurt this out before realising that Constance would likely know – after all, they’ve already been on the Titanic for two days. I hold my breath for the answer, hoping I haven’t put my foot in it.

Mrs Brown’s face turns solemn and she frowns. ‘Why, don’t you know, Connie? Pengower’s wife died some years ago. He’s a widower.’