Chapter Eighteen

17 November 1916

Naples, Italy

HMHS Britannic

He is hers and yet not.

He has not awoken. She doesn’t know if he ever will.

Annie sits on a campstool next to Mark’s bed. She can still barely believe Mark is beside her, close enough to touch. Alive, after believing for years that he was gone. He lies in bed, his head heavily bandaged. He has changed, though not so much that she couldn’t recognize him. Annie studies him. He’s aged far more than the four years that have passed. He looks like the Mark he was to become in middle age. His hair is military short, what’s exposed beyond the bandages, very smart and crisp, but she misses the way he wore it before. Slightly longer, it gave him a bohemian appearance, like one of those British expatriate artists living in Paris whom you hear about, ruined by absinthe and syphilis.

Still, the age—the pain and suffering—etched onto his face only make him more handsome, more a man than he was before. He can only be in his early thirties, yet he has seen unthinkable things now. Has been on the front lines. Has risked his life.

Has survived.

The last time she saw him, she realizes, was before. Before any of the terrible things that followed.

The memory of that night on the Titanic comes back to her too readily: screaming and panic, crewmen grabbing at her as she ran by, exhorting her to get in one of the lifeboats. The black water rushing up the slanted promenade, clawing at her . . .

She shudders. Mark’s hands are folded on top of the blanket. They are scarred and white—and ring-free. He wore a wedding ring on the Titanic, but there’s no ring now.

Wake up, wake up, she wants to say. She wants to shake him by the shoulders, see those blue eyes pop open. She has news to tell him, news that will make him happy. And he will be so grateful: he will scoop her up in his arms and press her to his chest and maybe . . .

A flash of fantasy—another vision or memory or something else—flutters at the back of her mind. His lips against hers. His hands in her hair—her hair much longer than it is now. She can feel his hair twined in her fingers, too, his hair, his face, his body familiar to her in ways that . . . cannot be. An old hunger in her, but as sharp and precise as the edge of a knife.

She shakes her head, dispelling the image, the desire. Wishes she still had her crucifix to ground her. To anchor her.

But the brooch—it’s still on her lapel, and she strokes it now, to calm herself, tracing the heart and the arrow. To remind herself.

She has a gift for Mark. He must wake up, if only so she can tell him:

His daughter, Ondine, did not die that night.

She is still alive.

Violet had said this in her letter, assuring Annie that her plunge into the ocean that night had not been for naught. Violet had held Ondine all through the night, right up until the lifeboat drew up alongside the Carpathia. In the chaos of disembarking, however, someone had plucked the baby out of Violet’s arms. She’d assumed it was one of the Carpathia’s crew acting in an official capacity. Once they arrived in New York City, it was chaos: the press descended on the survivors and, in the swirl of fetes and speeches, Violet lost track of Ondine. The White Star Line front office assured her that all the children orphaned by the sinking had been reunited with family or placed under the care of the proper administrative offices. There was nothing more she could do.

Annie looks at Mark’s still face, flat and blank. Ghostlike. She will be the one to bring joy back into his painful, joyless life.

She reaches forward and takes his hands. “Mark, I’ve got something very important to tell you,” she says to him as though he can hear her.

Hours pass this way. They blur together as the Britannic sails from the port in Naples, and still, Annie remains by his side.

It is not until sometime very late in the night that she senses a stirring in him.

She leans closer to him.

“Mark?” she whispers so softly, so carefully.

His eyes open.

She’s so startled that she almost yelps.

“Lord in Heaven . . .” she whispers, as he blinks at her.

He stares at her. His eyes move over her like he’s seeing a ghost. He takes in her smile, her hands, even the shiny gold brooch on her lapel.

And then . . . a spasm of some kind.

He’s ill. Unwell. Something’s wrong. What’s happening? She wants to call for one of the doctors, but it’s so late; she was told not to bother them but for emergencies . . . but surely they would want to be alerted when a comatose patience awakens?

Mark is frantic, practically crawling backward, recoiling at the sight of her. His eyes roll like a spooked horse’s. For a moment, her chest feels crushed by a great weight—Why isn’t he as happy to see her as she is to see him? This reaction is normal. Is it because he’s woken up in a strange place; one minute, he’s in an army hospital in Naples and the next minute he’s listing and rolling on a ship at sea? Yes, that’s it. He’s disoriented. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.

“It’s me, Mark. It’s Annie, Miss Hebbley from the Titanic. You remember me, don’t you?” she says, trying to reassure him, rubbing his hands, patting his cheek. That only seems to make it worse. He pulls his hands away. He is trembling. Poor man.

Why hasn’t he said something? He can’t seem to speak, even around the bandages. He’s had a head injury, so that could be bad news. It could be brain damage, a stroke. She’s seen catatonic soldiers, immobile in their wheelchairs even though they’ve got perfectly good legs, staring emptily into space. Very bad news, indeed. No, please God. You’ve just reunited us. Don’t take him away from me now. I’ve been a good girl. It’s time for my reward.

“Wait here, Mark,” she says, turning to leave. “I’ll fetch a doctor.” Dawn is breaking by now anyway, and night shifts will be turning over soon. “I’ll be right back. It will be okay. You’re going to be fine. I promise. We’re together now. That’s all that matters.”