TEN In which
HARRY REVEALS HIS TRUE NAME AND ELIZABETH HER TRUE COLORS
One of the items Harry had purchased back in London was a brown tweed suit for Johnny; knowing his friend would never visit a tailor, Harry had bought a reach-me-down, or ready-made suit, and guessed at the proper measurements.
He coaxed Johnny into donning the jacket and trousers and joining the other second-class passengers for dinner, assuring him that Elizabeth would be there. She was not. Johnny, his cap jammed on his head, wordlessly wolfed down a plateful of roast mutton and potatoes, then retreated to the cabin.
The blowsy, overdressed woman opposite Harry said indignantly, “Such coarse behavior! His sort belong in steerage, not second class! I believe I shall speak to the captain.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, madam,” said Harry.
“And why not?”
“Hasn’t anyone told you?” Harry glanced around furtively, then said, in a near-whisper, “You’ve heard of Thomas Edison?”
“The American inventor? Of course.”
“Well, that was his son, Thomas Junior.”
“Oh, my. Really?”
Harry nodded earnestly. “He’s an eccentric genius. Do you know, he recently invented an electrical device that stimulates certain areas of the brain, dramatically increasing a person’s intelligence.”
“Really?” said the woman again.
“Yes. I highly recommend that you purchase one.”
Later that evening, in need of fresh air—the cabin was filled with smoke from Johnny’s foul-smelling meerschaum pipe—Harry took a stroll on the deck. As he stood at the rail, staring at the dark water, a soft voice said, “Hello, Harry.”
He jerked around in surprise. “Elizabeth!” He took a moment to collect himself before he went on. “I didn’t see you at tea or at dinner. I was wondering what had become of you.”
“I’ve just been in my cabin, reading.”
“Books are all well and good, but you can’t eat them.”
She laughed. “The steward brought a meal to my cabin.”
“I didn’t know they did that, in second class.”
“They do if you pay them enough.” She leaned on the rail next to him. “What deep thoughts were you thinking, before I interrupted them?”
“Nothing very profound. Only wishing the ship would go faster.”
“Oh? Why are you in such a hurry?” She gave him a sly glance. “Perhaps you don’t enjoy the company of the other passengers.”
“No, no, it’s not that at all. It’s just . . . Well, we have to complete our trip by a certain date, and each day at sea is one day less of driving time.”
“What happens if you don’t finish by that date?”
“I lose six thousand pounds. And I don’t have it to lose.”
“Your family would be responsible for your debt, then?”
He nodded. “I have every intention of winning. But you see why I’m so eager for the ship to make good time.”
“Yes. Yes, I do see.” She gazed intently out over the water, as if searching for land. “It’s a worrisome thing, having your whole future ride on the outcome of a wager.”
Harry had not said that his whole future was at stake, but in a way it was true. Until that moment, he had conveniently forgotten his promise to his father: If he lost, he would quit tinkering and take up some gentlemanly profession. It had been a stupid promise, rather like agreeing to spend his life in jail for a crime he had not committed. Harry pushed the thought out of his head. No point in fretting over what might happen if he lost; he was not going to lose.
“Harry,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes?”
“Is that short for Harold or for Edward?”
“Neither. It’s just Harry.” He paused, not certain he wanted to reveal his actual name. It would mean also revealing his origins. But for some reason, he wanted Elizabeth to know. Perhaps it was a sort of test, to see how she would react, whether it would matter to her. Or perhaps it was due to the sense of intimacy that occurs between shipboard acquaintances who know that, once the ship docks, they will never see each other again. “In actual fact,” he said, “it’s Hari, with an i. It’s an Indian name. According to my mother, it means ‘the sun.’ S-u-n, not s-o-n. But apparently it can also mean ‘the monkey.’”
Elizabeth snickered. “You’re making that up.”
“No, honestly. When I started school, my mother insisted that I spell and pronounce it the English way. She wanted me to appear as British as possible. Didn’t want me to go through what she went through, I suppose.”
“I’m sure it was difficult for her, trying to fit into a world so different from the one she was used to.”
Harry glanced at her, curiously. “You sound as if you know her.”
“No, of course not. I was just assuming she grew up in India.” Elizabeth shivered. “It’s turned a bit chilly. I think I’ll go back to my cabin and my book.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
“Please don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother, really—” Harry started to say, but she was already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “Good night, Monkey.”
The next day, Harry had a leisurely breakfast in the dining room, as well as a long luncheon, afternoon tea, and dinner, certain that Elizabeth would turn up for at least one meal. She did not. Harry could only assume that the book she was reading was awfully compelling—or that she was deliberately avoiding him.
But that evening, as he wandered about the deck, trying to walk off his growing impatience, she approached again, with a smile that implied she was genuinely glad to see him. For nearly an hour they talked companionably, mostly about books and motorcars. Then she returned to her cabin, again refusing to let him escort her.
They played out a similar scene the next night, and the next. Though she revealed nothing about her background or her reason for traveling to America, he did at least learn the title of the book she found so fascinating—Adam Bede, written by George Eliot, who was apparently a woman. Elizabeth promised to pass it on to him when she was done. But the truth was, Harry felt no need for a book; mulling over the mystery of this young woman was more than enough to occupy his mind.
Harry had tried hard to respect Elizabeth’s wishes and let her remain anonymous. But on the fourth day out of Liverpool, his curiosity overrode his conscience; he talked the head steward into showing him the list of all the passengers in second class. Three Elizabeths appeared on the roll; two were accompanied by their husbands, and one was a child.
Unless his Elizabeth was married or lying outrageously about her age, Harry could think of only one satisfactory explanation: She was, in fact, traveling first class and—unlike Charles Hardiman—chose to fraternize with the less exalted passengers for a brief while each day.
That evening, when they met in their usual spot at the rail, Harry lost patience with her attempts to keep the conversation in safe, neutral territory and blurted out, “Why are you pretending to be a second-class passenger?”
She blinked her blue eyes at him. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“I looked at the passenger list.”
“Oh.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why does it matter?” she countered. “To you, of all people?”
“What does that mean?”
“You know what it’s like to be looked down upon. I wouldn’t have expected you to be guilty of it yourself.”
“I’m not looking down upon anyone.”
“Yes, you are. Because I’m in steerage, you act as though—”
“Steerage? I thought you were in first class!”
Elizabeth laughed. “And how did you imagine I’d afford that?”
“When you said your family name was a familiar one, I naturally assumed—”
“You assumed they were rich and influential.”
“Yes.”
“Well, they’re not, I assure you.” There was a bitter edge to her words, as though she sorely resented the fact. For a minute or so she stood drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the wooden rail. When she spoke again, it was in that soft, melodious voice Harry had come to enjoy. “You like me, don’t you?”
For once, Harry was cautious; he wasn’t ready to admit just how much he liked her. “You said yourself, everyone likes you. Even Johnny.”
Elizabeth gave a gratified smile. “Does he?”
“I actually managed to lure him to the dining room with the promise that you’d be there.”
“I’m sorry. They don’t allow steerage passengers to dine in second class.”
“I’m surprised they let you on this deck at all. They’re not supposed to, are they?”
“No. But I’m something of a special case.”
“In what way?”
She hesitated so long that Harry wasn’t sure she would answer at all. Finally she reached into her reticule, drew out a business card, and handed it to him. Harry moved close to one of the deck lights to read it:
PRESS PASS
LONDON Daily Graphic
Annie Laurie
CORRESPONDENT
“This is . . . this is you?”
“It’s not my real name, of course. It’s a nom de plume,like Nellie Bly or Bessie Bramble. Perhaps you’ve seen my newspaper stories.”
“I don’t read the Daily Graphic.”
“Well, it’s rather a new rag. We’re working hard to increase our circulation.”
Harry nodded grimly; at last he understood what her game was. “And you thought that a personal interview with the intrepid young motorists would be just the thing.”
“Yes.”
“Or, even better, a personal conversation with the son of the famous Phileas Fogg. I expect you knew all along who my father was.”
“Yes.”
“Then why not just ask me for an interview? Why go to all the bother of pretending that we were friends?”
Elizabeth showed no sign of shame. She unflinchingly returned his gaze. “Because. I wanted more than just a single news story. I want to chronicle your entire journey.” She reached out and placed a hand on his. “I want to come with you,” she said.