The next train for Liverpool left at just after eight. Catching it was the easy part. A quick dip under the arm of a man carrying parcels and I managed to sneak into one of the third-class carriages. At first, the train stopped plenty. Each time the conductor asked for ‘Tickets, please’, I ducked down to tie my bootlace. Then the proper countryside began and the stops got fewer. As I sat quietly the doubts began.
No one had seen me leave the showground. I’d put on my plainest frock and wrapped some cheese and bread in a cloth for the journey. Jasper was fast asleep, so I left a note beside his teacup. Then I kissed his palm three times; that had been tough enough, but dear Pip followed me right to the door. Just the thought of him made my throat go thick.
Fields sped past the window in a blur of green and brown. My heart was sinking now. Mr Wellbeloved didn’t want me; I was fooling myself. He’d chosen Gabriel Swift, who had experience and proper training. I should go home. Forget about it. Go back to selling tickets and sewing sequins. Life would be easier if I did.
Easier maybe. But not happier. Last night my eyes had been truly opened. The crowds loved me, and so did my own mam. I was still reeling from the shock of it. To turn away now would be madness, like cutting myself in half and never being whole again.
And there was Gabriel. It just didn’t seem right that he’d agreed to go with Mr Wellbeloved. Not when last night he’d been so scared. Or maybe Mr Wellbeloved really had chosen Gabriel. If so, then he’d made a mighty mistake. I needed to tell him and offer myself instead. He’d realise and be glad. Then Gabriel would be free, and I’d go to America in his place.
The train slowed ready for the next stop. The chugging wheels seemed to echo my thoughts: Stay or go? Stay or go? Stuffed down my shift was my mam’s red taffeta heart. I’d put my faith in it. If a strong woman really was watching over me, I’d be all right.
*
Five long hours after leaving Littleton, I finally reached Liverpool docks. It was a grim place. Red brick buildings blocked out the sun, making the water look too black and the quayside feel too small. There were two types of passenger, or so it seemed: those carrying bundles on their backs, and those whose bags were carried for them. The place was heaving. How I’d ever find Mr Wellbeloved I’d no idea.
Three ships sat alongside the dock. The biggest had a great steam funnel and two masts. This, I guessed, was the ship going to America. Men ran to and fro, carrying trunks and boxes and mattresses on board. Stood near the gangplank was another man handing out cards saying ‘Visitor Pass’.
I went up to him. ‘What ship is this please, mister?’
He didn’t look up from his notes. ‘The SS Marathon. Bound for New York.’
‘Any others going to America today?’
‘Just this one.’
So it had to be the right ship.
‘Can you tell me who’s on it?’
He looked up. His eyes slid over my frock. I wasn’t one of the smart passengers and he knew it.
‘I’d like to say goodbye to a Mr Gideon Wellbeloved,’ I said, sniffing pretend tears.
‘Mr Wellbeloved?’ The man seemed suddenly impressed and scanned his list. ‘Yes, of course. Upper deck, cabin 12A.’
And just like that he gave me a visitor pass.
Once on board, I followed the signs, heading straight for cabin 12A. At first, the passageways were narrow and stank of oil. Countless times I flattened myself against the wall as more boxes and crates and goodness knows what went past. As I reached the upper deck the passageways widened. There was carpet underfoot, wood panels on the walls, and paintings and carvings making the ship look like a townhouse. I gazed about me in awe.
Little knots of people started to appear. And my word, these were rich-looking folks, especially the women, with their narrow skirts all bumped out at the back and hair curled at their necks.
‘May I assist you?’ asked a man wearing a badge that said ‘Steward’. When I showed him my visitor pass, he insisted on escorting me right to the cabin itself.
‘Cabin 12A,’ he said, as if I couldn’t read the brass sign on the door. He knocked once then pushed the door open.
The cabin was empty.
The steward looked at his watch. ‘You’ve ten minutes. The ship sails at half past one.’
Someone called him then, so he left me. My fingers went to the front of my shift. Mam’s taffeta heart was still there. It felt cool to the touch. Think sharp, Louie. Ten minutes wasn’t long. Once I’d found Mr Wellbeloved, I still had to convince him to take me instead of Gabriel.
The cabin floor was heaped with luggage labelled ‘Wellbeloved’. In among it, I recognised Gabriel’s kitbag. Which meant this was definitely their cabin. And they must be here on board. But where?
Back out in the passage, another sign said ‘Dining Saloon’ and it had a picture of a finger pointing ahead. I followed the hum of many voices, praying Mr Wellbeloved’s was one of them.
The dining saloon was another grand affair, with carved pillars and vases full of flowers. White-clothed tables were set for lunch, yet no one was sat down. Women, men, children with their nannies, all stood around chatting. More men in waistcoats moved among them with trays of champagne. There were plenty of top hats; though none were especially tall. By now I was hot and very bothered. Where the devil was Mr Wellbeloved?
In a far corner a boy had his back to me. There was something familiar about the way he ran a hand through his hair. My heart leaped: Gabriel!
Rushing over, I almost collided with a steward.
‘Steady miss!’ he cried, his drinks tray lurching.
I didn’t stop, elbowing past all the satins and silks until the boy was right before me.
Already grinning, I tugged his sleeve. ‘Gabriel?’
The boy turned round.
He wasn’t Gabriel. Not even slightly. I went very red.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘You ain’t who I thought.’
The boy sniffed. ‘Clearly,’ he said, and turned his back.
By now, other people were staring too, all with the same snooty look on their faces. I grew hotter and crosser. And to cap it all, the steward was back with his tray of glasses.
‘May I see your pass?’ he said.
I went to give it to him. A minute ago it’d been in my hand. Now the blasted thing wasn’t here.
‘Just hang on.’ I searched my pockets.
No sign of it.
‘I had it, I swear I did,’ I said in growing panic.
The steward was already signalling with his eyes to another man by the door. ‘The fun’s over, miss. Time to get off the ship,’ he said.
Wildly, I looked around for Mr Wellbeloved. I had to find him, fast.
The steward put his drinks tray down. His mate by the door was now halfway across the room. My heart started racing. Two of them. One of me. There was nothing else for it.
I ran.
Once through the doors, I turned right. Anywhere just to keep moving. More of those finger signs pointed the way to the deck. I ran faster, my boots thudding hard on the carpet. The passage ended in two flights of steps. One was a proper staircase. The other was a narrow set of steps. I took these. Only one steward was behind me now. I needed to shake him off my tail. I took the steps two at a time. At the top was a little door. The handle was stiff and it took me a moment to force it open. Once I was through, I slammed the door behind me.
The deck was packed with people. Some leaned over the railings, calling goodbyes towards the quay. Others stood in huddles, singing songs or saying prayers. My hopes sank. No sign of a tall top hat here either.
Somewhere on deck a bell started ringing.
‘Last call for visitor passes,’ came the cry.
Abruptly, the bell stopped ringing. As if on cue, people began sobbing. All around me white hankies waved at the quayside, where more hankies waved back. Time was running out. If I didn’t find Mr Wellbeloved very fast, I’d be back on dry land with nothing.
The steward had almost caught up now, but he still hadn’t spotted me in the crowd. I did the first thing I could think of. Just like everyone else, I waved at the quay. He did too, or rather gestured with his arms. A few hearty shouts and the gangplank was raised. Smoke belched from the ship’s funnel. The deck seemed to shudder. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks. Then, bit by bit, the quay slipped away. The ship was moving and I was stuck on board. And I still hadn’t found Mr Wellbeloved.
Yet come what may, we were sailing. Next stop America.