Page 47

We fall into silence as everyone fixates upon the light, which gradually grows brighter and brighter until it finally reveals itself as a ship.

I want to say ‘I told you so’ to Delia Finch, but I don’t have the energy to score points.

I’m numb with cold and fatigue, and a strange humility.

I’m an imposter, for although I’m sharing this moment with these people, I’m not truly a part of it.

I shouldn’t really be here. I’m an actor in a play and I will eventually step off the stage.

But my grief for Cavill is real and that enables me to share their loss with genuine sorrow.

The other boats have seen the light too.

Tiny fires glow as survivors burn letters, hats, newspaper – whatever they can find – and wave them in the air to attract attention.

Cheers float over the water with cries of relief as the night gives way to a purple-and-orange dawn.

Its beauty is an affront; how can there be such splendour in the wake of such tragedy?

We draw up to the precipitous side of the Carpathia .

She’s a White Star Line ship, not unlike the Titanic , only smaller and less grand.

One by one we climb the ladder to safety.

I make sure Josephine goes before me. She’s trembling and so shocked with cold and grief that she can barely hold the ropes.

As for me, my legs are numb too, and wrapped in my long skirt, it’s a challenge to make it to the top.

We’re greeted with blankets and hot drinks and disbelief; no one can believe that the great Titanic has sunk.

The rising sun shines golden onto the faces of survivors, but there’s little warmth in it, or pleasure.

I’m among those who search for their loved ones.

But as more lifeboats reach us and offload their passengers, my hope dwindles. Lester and Cavill are not among them.

Josephine is sobbing. She stays close to me as we wander about the deck, our eyes scanning the faces for those of the man we both love.

I spy Glover, huddled over a mug of something hot.

He’s still wearing his master’s hat and astrakhan-trimmed overcoat.

His face is half obscured behind the collar, which he has pulled up to hide his identity.

I don’t blame him for pretending to be a first-class passenger.

It’s appalling that second- and third-class passengers were considered less valuable and turned away from the boat decks.

People are people and should be treated equally.

Besides, the lifeboats weren’t even full to capacity.

Glover used his ingenuity and saved himself.

I applaud him. I wonder whether Constance would applaud him, or whether she would condemn him as deceitful?

Ruby finds us and throws her arms around me with a cry of joy.

‘You’re safe, ma’am. We are truly blessed.

’ I’m grateful that she made it and embrace her fiercely.

We stand at the railing and gaze out onto the ocean, which is now sparkling beneath a clear blue sky.

Icebergs glow pink and mauve, and glitter in the emerging dawn.

On the horizon, a pale crescent moon appears and starts to rise.

Hope ignites in my chest as more lifeboats row towards us from every side.

They are woefully short of passengers. Had they filled them to capacity, so many more lives would have been saved.

I strain my eyes for Cavill and Lester. But with each boat that draws up beside the Carpathia , my hope fades. There’s no sign of them.

I fear then that I have somehow changed history and that Lester might not have survived.

In which case, whatever happens in the Aldershoff house that later keeps him trapped as an earthbound spirit won’t happen.

Will I slide back and find him gone, because he was never there?

I can’t get my head around it and my anxiety mounts.

Every one of my actions, however small, will alter history.

I can’t avoid it. The question is, how big has my impact on Lester been?

Hours seem to pass. I notice that some of the survivors are now coming up soaked to the skin.

They must have swum out to the lifeboats or been picked up when one of the lifeboats returned to look for survivors.

I’m astonished they’ve made it. A few of them are surprisingly calm. Maybe they’re in shock.

Then two faces I recognise look up from one of the last lifeboats to reach the Carpathia . It’s full of men who appear as if they’ve literally been fished out of the sea. Their clothes are frozen stiff and their hair is white with frost. They’re bedraggled, grey-faced and shivering.

Cavill and Lester.

I can’t believe it. The relief is overwhelming.

My vision blurs as my heart aches with the sudden joy that overwhelms. They’re alive!

They’ve been saved! I grip the railing tightly to stop myself from sinking to the floor, for my legs have lost all feeling, and I restrain myself from crying out, for I mustn’t lose sight of the part I’m playing. Of who I am. Constance.

Josephine shouts, ‘Papa!’ and he lifts his weary eyes.

When he sees his daughter leaning over the railing, his face collapses with emotion that he cannot contain.

He smiles at her, and then laughs as she begins to wave, not like a young woman, but as a child who has just discovered her precious father is alive.

I watch this tender moment and share in their joy. After the horror of the sinking Titanic , this rare glimpse of happiness is like a precious gift.

‘Lester!’ I exclaim, and Lester sees me and nods cheerlessly. He has clearly been through a terrible ordeal. His face is ashen, his clothes clinging to his body. He’s shivering madly. He must be so cold. He looks forlorn and bedraggled.

The sound of that name reaches Glover. A moment later, Lester’s valet is leaning over the railing a short distance from us, gazing down at his master, his face aglow with elation.

I watch him in wonder. Never has a face expressed such love as his, in this rawest of moments, and I realise that not only Constance, but I too, have misjudged him.

Misjudged them both. Glover and Lester love each other.

There is no doubt and I find my heart swelling for them too.

The two men gaze at each other with an unbearable restraint. I turn my attention back to Cavill because I feel as if I’m intruding on something immensely private. And it gives me pain to witness two people for whom love is so cruelly forbidden.

The men climb up the ladder and into the Carpathia .

When Cavill appears, his daughter runs to him and throws her arms around him.

She sobs into his frozen lifejacket, then gives him her blanket, wrapping it about him gently.

I leave them alone. I don’t want to intrude and it wouldn’t be my place anyway.

I remind myself that I’m Constance Fleet and give my attention to Lester.

Lester clambers stiffly over the railing and allows me to embrace him. He feels frozen solid, as if he’s made of ice. ‘I’m glad you’re safe, Connie,’ he murmurs, and there’s genuine affection in his hollow, bloodshot eyes.

‘And you, dear Lester,’ I reply.

‘We are two of the lucky ones. Hundreds were not so lucky.’ His gaze clouds with desperation. ‘Gilsden and Rowland didn’t make it …’ He shakes his head with despair. But he can’t speak any more.

Glover appears and holds out a blanket, and a member of the crew offers him a hot drink.

He throws the blanket around his shoulders and takes the mug gratefully.

He and Glover then move away to talk somewhere quiet.

I watch them, heads together, and sense the deep affection between them.

This is a rare moment when they can simply be two young men who have survived a great tragedy.

Soon they will have to revert to master and valet, and the wretched duplicity will resume.

I’m longing to know what happened, and why Lester and Cavill are soaking wet. I wonder whether they were among those men who clung to the hull of the upturned lifeboat. Whatever took place out there on the ocean, they’re lucky to be alive.

A service is held in the main lounge. A clergyman leads it, thanking God for those who survived and praying for peace and rest for those who lost their lives.

I sit with Mrs Brown, Mrs Norris and Isabella, and Delia Finch, who has barely said anything since she boarded the Carpathia .

Lester and Glover are not among us. There are very few men.

I think of poor Mr Gilsden, and his mother who mourns him, and Mr Rowland – Constance’s Orlando.

Constance will be devastated when she learns that he didn’t survive, that he’s gone.

She had her heart set on him and I feel terrible for her, for she is yet to wake up to that dreadful reality.

As we huddle together, a bedraggled, traumatised congregation, the engines vibrate through the ship and the Carpathia sets off for New York.

After the service, I find a couple of deckchairs in the sun and sit with Ruby.

It’s mid-morning now. The shadows are gone and the world around us is brightly coloured again.

The sea is a sapphire blue, the bergs that rise out of the water a glaring white, seemingly innocuous in the daylight.

Golden rays shine onto the ripples that pucker in the wind and ignite a blazing trail all the way to the horizon. We are grateful to be warm.

‘How many people died, do you think?’ Ruby asks solemnly.

‘There were lifeboats for only a third of the passengers,’ I tell her, shaking my head at the appalling negligence. ‘And most of those boats left only half full.’

‘Why didn’t they have more lifeboats?’

‘Because they never believed the ship would sink. And they didn’t want to ruin the first-class promenade deck by blocking the view with more boats.’