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Lester does not appear at breakfast. I imagine he has a horrible hangover.

I sit at a table with Mrs Brown, who is as cheerful as ever.

‘I couldn’t resist, I’ve gone for the baked apples and scones again,’ she tells me with relish.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to try something else.

’ She picks up her coffee cup and puts it to her lips.

I want to tell her that tomorrow there will be no breakfast, at least not on the Titanic .

She’ll have something hot to drink on the Carpathia , the ship which will rescue her and the other fortunate people who will manage to escape in the lifeboats.

But tomorrow, everything we see and touch will be at the bottom of the ocean.

I still can’t get my head around it. A part of me hopes I’m wrong and that it won’t happen.

That, somehow, the ship won’t hit the iceberg.

A tiny part of me is tempted to change history and prevent the disaster, but that part has no courage to power it.

It’s nothing but a fantasy without substance.

I’m never going to do it. I know I won’t.

I can’t hop about time and change things as if it’s a game.

What if I were to change something that had a chain reaction that altered my own existence?

What if my actions caused me to cease to be? I hadn’t thought of that!

Lester doesn’t appear for the church service that takes place at eleven in the dining saloon.

He doesn’t appear after, either, so I decide to walk out on deck.

It’s a strange, unsettling feeling to know that something terrible is about to happen and that you can’t do anything to stop it.

Or warn anyone about it. Or, indeed, avoid it.

I can feel every second passing, drawing every single person closer to the terrible night ahead, and no one on this boat but me knows what is coming.

I pace the promenade deck in agitation and as I round the stern of the ship, I’m pleasantly surprised to find Josephine on a deckchair, reading a book in the sunshine.

The sky is as blue as lapis, the ocean as calm as a lake.

There’s nothing but water as far as the eye can see. Water, deep, cold and deathly.

Josephine invites me to join her. I put my feet up on the deckchair beside her and cover myself, as she has, with a blanket. Few people are on deck at this time. Everything feels still and expectant, as if the world is holding its breath. I know I am.

‘Have you noticed there are no birds?’ says Josephine pensively. I’m reminded at once about her father’s love of sketching. When I was Hermione, he gave me his sketchbook when we parted. In it he had drawn all sorts of birds – gulls, cormorants, puffins. He loved ducks best of all.

‘We’re very far from land,’ I reply. ‘I suppose only migrating birds cross the Atlantic.’

‘How do they sleep, do you think?’

‘On the wing.’

She laughs incredulously. ‘Really?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just guessing. Your father loves birds, doesn’t he?’ I can’t help but speak of him. The next best thing after being with him, is talking about him. I hope she doesn’t ask me how I know.

‘Yes. He used to sketch them,’ she replies wistfully, as if remembering something that happened long ago.

‘He doesn’t any more?’ I ask, curious as to why not.

She sighs and shakes her head, bemused. ‘I think his life got too busy.’

‘How can one be too busy to do something one loves?’

‘Life got serious. At least, that’s what he tells me. I sketch,’ she announces with childish enthusiasm. ‘Papa gave me his crayons and I draw sometimes. I’m not sure I’m as accomplished as he is, but I enjoy doing it.’

‘I think the important thing is to do things one enjoys and not worry about what other people think.’

‘You’re so right, Miss Fleet. One is constantly comparing oneself to others and it can, at times, be disheartening.’ She pulls her blanket up to her chin. ‘Have you noticed how cold it is suddenly?’

‘I have. The very air is glittering with ice.’

‘Pretty, isn’t it? Like fairy dust.’ She laughs. ‘You know it gets bitterly cold in New York in the winter.’

‘Have you been to New York before?’ I ask.

She looks surprised. ‘We live in New York,’ she says slowly. Then she laughs. ‘Are you teasing me, Miss Fleet? For you already know we live there.’

I turn my face to the sea and try to cover my mistake. ‘Of course, I know you live in New York. What I meant was, have you been to New England ? It gets bitterly cold there, too. Sometimes the sea even freezes. Imagine that!’ I’m gabbling, but I think I’ve recovered the situation.

She shakes her head. ‘No, we have not been there, but I would like to. We usually spend the winters in Europe.’

I want to ask a dozen questions now – how long have they lived in New York? Why did they leave St Sidwell? How did Hermione die …? but I’m afraid I’ll put my foot in it again. I have no idea what Constance knows already.

I have no choice but to change the subject to one that is safe. ‘What have you enjoyed most about this voyage?’

She narrows her eyes and considers the question. ‘Oh, there are so many things …’

I turn my eyes once more to the sea. The smooth, benign sea. And the ship sails on, full steam ahead, in a direct line to devastation.

I’m relieved when Lester finally appears for lunch.

I’m at the table with Mrs Brown, Mrs Norris and Isabella, when he strides up in his usual confident manner.

He smiles politely and greets us with a bow.

I notice he does not look at me directly.

He’s trying to act natural, but beneath his insouciance is a tacit nervousness.

Isabella’s face flushes and even the humourless Mrs Norris becomes animated.

Only Mrs Brown is herself, teasing Lester in her habitual way and tossing her head as she laughs.

Mrs Brown is not concerned about being indelicate.

I suppose that’s one reason why Constance likes her.

From her diaries she seems to be a woman who doesn’t much care for convention.

Lester takes the seat beside mine and then accompanies Mrs Brown to the buffet.

I choose mutton chops and mashed potato from the menu.

They return with plates of roast beef. The food is exceptional.

As we eat, the energy between Lester and me relaxes a little.

I presume that he’s relieved I’m not cold with him, or cross.

I act as if nothing untoward has happened.

I hope he doesn’t ever bring it up. I really don’t want to leave Constance in an awkward predicament.

‘I have enjoyed a close game of squash with Pengower,’ Lester says and there is not a hint in his voice of the mocking tone he adopted with me the evening before. ‘For an old man, he’s surprisingly quick about the court.’

‘Isn’t it splendid to have a squash court on board a ship!’ Mrs Brown exclaims.

‘Good Lord, they have truly thought of everything,’ says Mrs Norris, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

‘There’s barely enough time to enjoy it all,’ Lester adds.

‘Well, I would rather we arrived as scheduled on Wednesday,’ says Mrs Brown. ‘I haven’t worked my way through even a tenth of the breakfast menu. I am yet to try the Yarmouth bloaters, whatever they are.’ She laughs cheerfully.

‘They are smoked herrings, Mrs Brown,’ says Lester.

‘They’re delicious,’ I add, because I feel I should say something. I wish I didn’t know what I know.

‘I don’t ever want to leave,’ Isabella gushes, and she turns her doe eyes to Lester, who smiles at her. The colour burns in her cheeks and she drops her gaze towards her plate.

‘I don’t either,’ he says. ‘Why would anyone want to leave? We have everything we need right here. I think I might use the gymnasium and have a Turkish bath this afternoon. Make the most of the facilities while we’re on board. How about you, Aunt Constance?’

We lock eyes for the first time since last night.

An understanding passes between us. He’s not going to mention it, and neither am I.

The corners of his mouth twitch. He holds my gaze.

Challenging me to look away first, but I don’t.

I hold his gaze right back. ‘I think I will do exactly what I have done every afternoon since we left Southampton,’ I tell him coolly.

‘I will promenade the deck and enjoy the sunshine.’

He nods, satisfied with my response. There is no change. I want to reassure him of that. I don’t know how Constance would react, so turning a blind eye is the only option open to me.

That afternoon, I continue to play the part of Constance Fleet while I wait for night to fall and the iceberg to loom out of the dark.

I feel as if I’m waiting for the executioner’s axe.

The sun shines, the ship steams on through a flat, benign sea, and life continues as it has for the last four days.

No one can anticipate or imagine what is about to happen.

Only me, alone with the dreadful knowledge. Face to face with fate.

The gong sounds and I go and change for dinner with a rising sense of dread. Ruby has put out my best dress, for tonight is a special night. ‘You look pale, ma’am,’ she says, the skin pinching between her eyebrows. ‘Are you quite well?’

‘I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘I’m not sure the ship agrees with me, even though I can barely feel it moving.’

She smiles, relieved. ‘A nice warm bath will make you feel better,’ she says, going into the bathroom.

I hear the gush of water as she turns on the taps.

The scent of lily of the valley wafts out with the steam.

I stand there, wondering what to do with myself.

I feel almost paralysed with fear. The sense of impotence is overwhelming. Then I’m struck with an idea.

‘Ruby,’ I say as she comes out of the bathroom.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Will you wait for me in my room from around eleven thirty, please?’

‘Of course.’