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The time-consuming task of collecting the luncheon trays from half of the upper deck’s thirty-six luxurious staterooms had been allocated to Esme, and by mid-afternoon, she still had the last few rooms to clear. She felt sure the horrible ogre, Miss Wilson, had singled her out for this task as punishment for her earlier insolence. Her mother always said she had a tendency to be overconfident, a trait she apparently inherited from her father, and this would one day lead her headlong into trouble. Esme was sure that day had come. She’d had plenty of time to reflect upon her earlier outburst and realized how stupid she had been. Esme pondered the thought she would never get hired for the return voyage, let alone future crossings, because of her earlier outburst. This job had been her dream since she and her father watched the cruise liners sail out of port bound for exotic locations when she was still a little girl. It was going to be her and Charlotte’s way of escaping the life of poverty and prostitution, which so often ensnared young women living in the Victorian slums that surrounded the port.
Feeling a little despondent, Esme surmised she had screwed that up on the first day, simply because she couldn’t keep her big mouth shut. She knew the frustration and anger she felt came from her own stupidity, but she still focused her hatred towards Miss Wilson and her haughty, holier-than-thou attitude. She fought back tears every time she replayed the incident in her head, wishing she could go back and do things differently, like groveling apologetically as was expected of her and toeing the line like any other young girl desperate to keep her job.
As she stood outside the door of the next stateroom, Esme took a deep breath and forced her anger into a tight ball before burying it deep inside herself. She quickly ran her hands down her new uniform and smoothed out her starched pinafore before darting a finger around the inside of her collar trying to relieve the irritation where the material’s newness rubbed at her soft skin. Then she knocked firmly on the door.
There was no reply.
Esme waited a respectful ten seconds then knocked again, only harder this time. A woman’s voice, muffled by the thickness of the door, answered inviting her in. Turning the cold brass doorknob, Esme gently pushed the door open and stepped inside to find the suite’s lavishly decorated reception room unoccupied, the luncheon tray sat on the table, its food untouched. As she hurried to gather the tray, she heard movement from the bedroom.
“Hello?” she called out. “Maid service. I’ve come to collect the luncheon tray.”
There was no answer. As she listened for a response, Esme craned her neck trying to peer through the half-open bedroom door. Her hearing picked up a feint rustling sound, like something dragging across the room’s deep carpet followed by a brief moment of silence, broken only by a low moan and a gentle sigh.
“Hello?” Esme called out again, her annoyance returning. Surely, whoever was in the other room must have heard her call the first time? This time there was a definite response to her call. It started as a low groan then grew into barely coherent speech punctuated by loud gulping sobs. Esme took a few tentative steps towards the door before asking in a loud voice, “Are you alright in there? Do you need any help?” As her palm touched the smooth surface of the door, her confidence drained away, and she fought the urge to turn and run back to the safety of the corridor. Summoning all her resolve, she gently pushed the door inwards.
She was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted her.
A young woman sprawled face down across the bed, the back of her expensive dress torn open to reveal not only her pale skin but several painful-looking wounds. A few of these thin, dark lesions had split open, soaking the dress’ bodice and forming little dark rivulets of blood on the dazzling whiteness of the new sheets. The young woman’s tousled hair, clumsily pulled from its style and left hanging like a lopsided bird’s nest, obscured the woman’s face, preventing Esme from identifying her.
Esme gasped involuntarily, momentarily backing away, unsure whether the woman was alive or dead, the ghastly image of the dead body from the previous evening still hauntingly fresh in her mind.
The young woman on the bed let out another low moan and tried unsuccessfully to lift her head. Esme remained rooted to the spot, unable to run away and unwilling to advance. She tried to speak, but like her feet, her throat was paralysed with fear. She opened her mouth, but the simple words she formed so easily in her head failed to rise past the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath, forcing the air deep into her lungs, holding it there for a second, before allowing it to escape slowly through pursed lips as she concentrated on her disobedient legs, urging them into action.
Esme knew this was not the time for feint hearts, the woman obviously needed her help. After a fleeting moment of hesitation, she pushed her fear aside and ran to the bed. Crouching next to the prostrate figure’s head, she carefully moved the mass of dark hair away from the stranger’s face. Esme immediately recognised the tear-stained face of Mrs. Grafton. Offering soothing words of comfort, she gently stroked Bridget’s dishevelled hair.
Esme had only shown the young woman and her handsome new husband to the suite a few hours ago. How could someone get into the room and attack a woman without discovery? Locked iron gates protected the first class section of the ship, preventing the steerage passengers from being able to mingle with the upper class. Even if someone from first class entered the cabin intent on attacking Mrs. Grafton, which Esme thought unlikely, then surely her screams would have alerted someone.
Esme had spent the last couple of hours clearing trays from nearby cabins and the corridors had been a constant hive of activity with servants attending to their employer’s needs and people returning, having witnessed the ship navigate around the Isle of Wight, from one of the cafés or restaurants on the upper decks.
“Who did this?” Esme asked as she glanced fearfully around the room, suddenly aware the attacker may still be in the suite.
“I cannot say.” Bridget’s voice was barely a whisper. “But you are quite safe; he left some time ago.” She winced as she tried lifting her head from the tear-stained pillow, but the effort was too much, and she slumped forward with a frustrated cry.
“But you must!” Esme said, “You need to be seeing a doctor, and reporting the attack to the proper people, the beast that done this, he must be caught.”
“If I speak up he will only punish me more, and I fear there is not a living soul who would believe me.” As she listened to Bridget’s voice, Esme thought her words were more for her own benefit than Esme’s, convincing herself silence was the safest course of action.
“Any man capable of such a despicable act against a lady such as yourself is too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely about the boat. If you know his name you must speak up. You are not without considerable influence, and your husband wields immense power. Who’d dare dismiss you as a liar, and the wounds ... well, they speak for themselves?” Esme was trying to keep her voice calm and reassuring, aware of both Mrs. Grafton’s lofty status and the obvious fragility of her mind.
Bridget attempted to sit up again, gratefully accepting Esme’s help with a half-smile that transformed into a grimace of pain. She swung her legs off the bed with a stoical moan then wiped her eyes with a silk handkerchief before replying. “I barely have influence over my own household, and as to my husband, well there lies the problem.” As Mrs. Grafton spoke, Esme moved around the large bed to take a better look at her injuries. She gently peeled away the edges of Mrs. Grafton’s garments to reveal three distinct red welts; each had torn the flesh sufficiently to cause considerable bleeding.
Bridget Grafton paused, flinching while Esme inspected her back, and then added in a soft voice, “It was his hand wielding the riding crop.” She fell silent again allowing Esme to grasp the significance of her words, then after a lengthy pause added, “So you see my dilemma?”
Stunned, Esme stopped her inspection of the wealthy socialite’s wounds. She had witnessed firsthand the injuries caused by a drunken sailor’s fists, returning from the pub to find his supper not ready. Esme was aware of the violence a man could use on a woman he claimed to love, but for an officer and a gentleman to use a riding crop on a lady of breeding was beyond her understanding. Esme took a moment to gather her thoughts before replying, unsure whether Mrs. Grafton had asked her a direct question or had simply made a statement. “Yes, I do, Ma’am.” Then with more conviction, she added, “I still think you should see the ship’s doctor. These wounds need cleaning and a dressing.”
“It would only raise awkward questions, and I’m sure the physician will be duty bound to report such injuries, especially with them happening to the wife of one of the ship’s wealthier passengers.” Bridget unbuttoned the front of her dress but struggled to pull the sleeves from her shoulders, her face contorting in pain. Seeing her distress, Esme hurried around the bed to help. She gently eased the dress off one arm at a time then carefully peeled away Bridget’s torn and blood-soaked undergarments.
“Well, if you’ll not speak with the doctor then I must insist you allow me to treat you. I have some experience tending injuries obtained in accidents and drunken fights. I could use spare laundry as temporary bandages.” Esme, realising she may have spoken out of turn, added in a more deferential tone, “I mean, if that would be agreeable to you, Ma’am.”
Bridget allowed a small smile of relief to brighten her face for a moment, “That would be very agreeable ... I’m sorry, you must think me rude, but I have forgotten your name?”
Giving a brief, self-conscious curtsey to the half-naked patron, an act that obviously amused Mrs. Grafton, she answered, “Esme, Ma’am. And I do not think you the slightest bit rude.”
“I think we are beyond social niceties, Esme,” Bridget hunched forward, her arms folded across her exposed breasts. “I suspect you know who I am, as it was you who escorted us to our cabin, but please call me Bridget.” Then, seeing Esme’s look of discomfort, added, “Or Mistress Bridget, if you are happier with that.” She gave another half-smile, half grimace as Esme nodded her acceptance. “I suggest then, we continue with some haste as I am due to dine with the Captain this evening, and I do not want you to get in trouble for not completing your tasks.”
