Page 40

I know I can’t change or influence the past, but I can’t let Ruby drown.

The ship hits the iceberg sometime around midnight, if I remember rightly.

I convince myself that Ruby would very likely have been in her mistress’s bedroom, turning down her bed and waiting to help her out of her clothes anyway, so I’m probably not changing anything.

I’ll make sure that I’m dressed warmly, and that Ruby is with me when I go out onto the deck.

Tonight, everyone is dressed in their very finest. I wear a crimson-coloured dress with black satin gloves to my elbow.

Rubies shine at my neck and in my ears, and diamonds and black feathers adorn my hair.

I refuse to wear the mink stole, even though Ruby puts it out for me.

There are more jewels on display tonight than in the Burlington Arcade.

So much lace and silk and pearls and fur.

It’s a dizzying sight. The men are in white tie and tails, with diamond studs in their waistcoats and cuffs.

Pocket watches hang on gold chains and shoes are polished to a high shine.

The air is thick with perfume and the atmosphere quivers with excitement.

We sip champagne and mingle in the reception room before dinner is served in the restaurant.

I smile and converse while my stomach churns with dread.

We are only hours away from tragedy. What am I going to do about Cavill?

I have changed the future for him once already. Would it hurt to change it again?

To my pleasant surprise, Mrs Brown has taken control of the table and invited Cavill and Josephine to join us.

She has placed Cavill at the end between his daughter and Mrs Norris.

Lester is opposite me beside the now innocuous Delia Finch, in spite of Mrs Brown asking Delia to sit between Isabella and Mr Gilsden.

Mrs Brown complains to me in a loud voice, ‘Some people really are the limit!’

I am placed between Mr Rowland and Mr Gilsden. Mrs Gilsden is on her son’s other side. We are a large table of eleven.

I have no appetite, but I know I must eat.

There are many courses and copious amounts of wine.

Tonight, I decide to allow myself more than one drink.

Dutch courage. I’m going to need it. I’m going to have to witness this ship sinking and hundreds of people drowning.

I know that most of the men on board perish.

Will Cavill be among them? I don’t know that I can face the horror.

My sips turn to gulps, and I feel my head swim and my body relax.

I feel more confident and less afraid. I watch the waiter top up my glass as I bring it time and again to my lips.

My head tells me I need to be focused, my heart tells me I need courage.

I have one eye on Cavill and little by little I lose concentration.

I am taken over by a liberating sense of reckless abandon.

It is over dessert that the conversation turns to literature and then to poetry.

Everyone names their favourite authors. When it comes to me, I wave my half-empty glass in front of me and announce that I want to recite a poem.

Mrs Brown smiles with delight. In her eyes, I see respect.

Now I am the Constance Fleet she first met – bold, unconventional and witty.

In this moment I feel every bit her. Perhaps I’m being more me.

Perhaps, deep down, Constance and I are more alike than I realised.

‘I’m going to recite The King’s Breakfast .’ I turn to Cavill. He’s staring at me with a puzzled look on his face. Does he remember when, as Hermione Swift, I recited this poem by A. A. Milne and claimed it as my own composition? Does he remember?

Of course he does. He remembers every moment of those precious days, before I left and Hermione became herself. Before she changed.

I begin to recite the poem, knowing how reckless I’m being. But these final hours might be the last I ever spend with Cavill, and this poem is the only thing I can think of that only he and I will recognise.

I put on the voices, just as I did when I was Hermione in the drawing room at St Sidwell Manor.

I mimic the deep, gravelly voice of the King, the high-pitched tones of the Queen, and the west country accent of the Dairymaid.

I even do an impression of the Alderney cow.

My cheeks burn, my heart races and I feel a wonderful swell of triumph because reciting poems is, besides racing demon, one of the only things I do well.

Everyone is enthralled. They are watching me with wonder and delight, as if I’m the most talented woman in the room.

I ride on the wave of their admiration. I ride on the wave of Cavill’s confusion.

He believes his wife wrote it. He can’t fathom how I know it.

And for a blissful moment I am her again.

I look different, but I’m reciting it just as I did back then when I was Hermione, with the same voices, the same accents, and the same intonation.

Cavill stares at me dumbfounded, his face drains of colour, his lips part.

When I finish, he’s the only person who doesn’t clap.

He barely blinks, so complete is his horror.

I realise then that I’ve gone too far. That’s not the effect I was hoping for.

Mr Rowland, who clapped the loudest, volunteers to recite a poem too, and soon everyone is joining in as he recites something they’re all familiar with, except me.

I’ve never heard it before. Cavill doesn’t take his eyes off me.

I allow mine to be swallowed into his gaze.

I wonder then whether he sees me. Whether he really sees me , Pixie Tate.

And after two glasses of that golden, delicious wine, I dare to believe. Can it be that he recognises my soul?

At ten thirty, some of the guests retire to bed, while others make their way to the men’s smoking room for port and cigars, or to the lounge to play cards.

In around one hour, the ship will hit the iceberg.

I remember Hermione’s words the afternoon Constance and Josephine used the Ouija board and decide to keep Josephine close.

Cavill detains me as I make my way through to the lounge.

‘That poem,’ he says. By the strange look on his face, I can tell he’s really rattled.

‘Yes?’ I reply, now wishing I hadn’t recited it. I didn’t intend to upset him.

‘How do you know it?’

‘Someone very close to me used to recite it,’ I answer quietly.

‘Indeed.’ He swallows and when he speaks, his voice is husky. ‘I’ve only ever heard it once before.’ He shakes his head, as if trying to rid it of an unsettling thought. ‘It was as if … when you were reciting it, you were just like ….’ He hesitates, his face tormented.

‘I was just like …?’

His blue stare penetrates mine searchingly, but he doesn’t complete the sentence.

I put a hand on his arm, sorry suddenly that I’ve hurt him.

I can never explain the truth. All I’ve done is given him pain.

Seeing him so distressed causes me pain too.

I want to tell him that I love him, that I might look different on the outside, but inside I’m the same woman who lost her heart to him in 1895. But I can’t. He would think me mad.

Instead, I try to repair the harm I have done. ‘I’m a good mimic,’ I say, smiling at him kindly.

I leave him because I don’t know what else to say. I know he recognises something in me, but can’t put his finger on what it is. He can’t imagine the truth. But his soul recognises my soul, I’m sure of it.

I’d recognise your soul if it was a ray of light among a thousand rays.

Do you, Cavill?