If I Fall (5 page)

He would come out of the house in his dark trousers and loosened tie simply to lie beside his eldest daughter. And I would watch him as he traced lines with his fingers in the air, creating stories to match the images so vividly outlined in the sky.

“Your garden is as beautiful as ever,” he would say. “Like your flowers, you have blossomed into a proper young lady.”

His words would make me smile and we would return our attention to the stars, feeling the warmth in the knowledge that someone is beside you.

I turn my head, wishing the crate lying beside me was my Father, wishing it could wrap me in its arms and tell me everything will be okay. I wait for it to speak. I wait to hear its heartbeat. I wait to feel something besides the dull ache of grief at the pit of my stomach.

I wait for things that will never come.

Dela sleeps at the opposite side of the room, but we are miles apart. I lie in her company and feel more alone than ever before.

A sharp pang of hunger joins the aching and I grudgingly sit upright.

“No time for pity parties, El,” I tell myself as I tighten my tie and replace my bowler hat atop my head. I consider waking Dela to tell her I am leaving, but think better of it as I remember her groggy tendencies. Tiptoeing towards the door, I crack it open an inch and peek outside. An empty corridor leads to a stairwell. I slip through the opening. The security of the cargo room calls out to me, a persuading cry I yearn to obey, as I step closer and closer to the very people who want me dead.

Assaulted.

Assaulted by sights. Assaulted by smells. Assaulted by noises.

The cargo room had been a bubble. A bubble of calm protecting us from the world just above. The atmosphere had been stale and dry, but on the top deck, the wind whips around my face and I struggle to keep my hair concealed below my hat. It carries with it the spray of the sea. I inhale deeply, soaking up the fresh, moist air.

The murmurs of many people float across the air, snippets of words and conversations. A group of women to my right gazes at the horizon, their faces raised to the heavens. I imagine puppet strings attached to their noses and must suppress a snicker. By the sight of the pearls dripping from their necks and ears, I assume they are first-class passengers.

A young girl stands on the lowest rung of the rail, bending over to see the waves break against the ship. Her father stands just behind her, his hands on her waist to keep her from falling over. She wears a white dress, the hems frayed and torn. Most definitely third-class. One of the women from first-class gazes over at the two and whispers to her friends. They break into giggles before raising their noses even higher and walking away.

I wonder how they would react to someone like me, someone who is below the lowest, below even those in steerage.

Annoyed by their superior attitudes, I turn away, scanning the deck for a sign of food. Through a wall of windows, I see the dining room. Girls wearing wide-brimmed hats and lingerie dresses sit around a table drinking tea and laughing behind their crisp, white napkins. Men in black morning coats and trousers talk business, their bushy mustaches moving up and down as they speak. I grow jealous of their leisurely lifestyle, wanting to knock the teacups from their hands. Thinking of Dela, I resist the urge and surreptitiously step through the entrance.

White tablecloths adorn the tables, polished silverware and crystal glasses set at each place. Elegantly folded napkins rest before every seat atop cream plates. Croissants and pastries on tiered platters inhabit every occupied table, but there is no chance of inconspicuously stealing a few. My stomach rumbles. My mouth waters. The heavenly smells of the kitchen waft through the air.

I stand in the corner, ogling the food with eager eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” a waiter says as he steps by me. In his hands is a large platter full of cranberry bread and French toast, muffins and rolls. The aroma is torturous.

“Mr. Simmons,” someone calls from the kitchen, “you have forgotten the tea!”

The man called Simmons sits the tray on a nearby table with an agitated sigh and walks back into the kitchen. It rests only a few steps away, food ready for the taking. I eye the kitchen door one last time and pounce upon the table. Quickly, I begin filling my pockets, an advantageous addition to my trousers. Dress-makers never did seem to understand the value of pockets.

“What do you think you are doing?”

My head snaps up. The waiter is back.

His face is red. His eyes narrowed, staring right at me. They flicker down to my bulging pockets and I freeze. A white teapot with rose blossoms painted on the front threatens to crack under the pressure of his white-knuckled hands. Without thinking, I turn and run.

“Hey!” he yells after me.
“Stop!”

I do not listen. The wind rushes past my ears, the pants giving me a new freedom as I run. My heart is pounding, my lungs sucking in salty air. I glance over my shoulder; the waiter is pushing through the tables after me, apologizing to each passenger he bumps into along the way.

At last, I make it to the entrance. I can feel the diners’ eyes on my back, but I do not stop. My legs carry me across the deck, sidestepping each obstacle thrust in my way with ease. The man’s yells cannot make it through the haze enveloping my thoughts. Running is the purest ecstasy, the purest freedom; it creates a fog that eliminates the surrounding world. I take another glance behind me and smile at how far behind the waiter has become.
He shall never catch me!
I think joyfully, before …
Smack!

The hard hit knocks me to the ground, and I lie sprawled across the deck on my back. My breath whooshes from my lungs and the world floods back in. I lift my gaze to see what hard object I had run into and gasp. The shadowy shape of a man looms over me, but I cannot see his face, blinded by the glaring sun behind him.

My hat lies upside down beside me, my hair falling down across my shoulders. Fear beats through my veins. My second biggest secret whips around my face in the form of black ringlets.

“Stop right there!”

The towering man’s head snaps up and I crane my neck to see, too. The waiter! He runs forward, still meters away but drawing closer every second. I gaze at the young man and then at the waiter. What am I to do? Snapping my hat up, I stand, rearing to run, when the man grabs my arm. I gasp, looking down at my pale arm in his strong grip. I pull against him, but his firm hold does not waver.

Confused and frightened, I meet his gaze. He stares back at me, his abnormally light green eyes cold and calculating. His skin is tan, a few freckles dotting his nose. Long lashes frame his startling eyes and his pink lips press into a thin line. His deep brown hair falls over his forehead, disheveled. I find myself realizing he is handsome, beautiful even, and perhaps only a year older than me. Eighteen at the very most.

“Put your hat back on,” he says, his voice deeper than I expected. I peer over his shoulder and see the waiter coming towards us. With difficulty, I secure my hair beneath the bowler. Just as I tuck away the last curl, the man jogs over to us, placing his hands on his knees as he takes deep breaths. It is clearly not every day that he must chase a thieving girl-boy.

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Laurence, sir,” he says, and straightens. I find it strange that the waiter should know his name. This Mr. Laurence must be a first-class passenger, and a very important one at that. “If you would be so kind as to hand over the lad, I’ll let you continue on your way.”

The young man holding my arm smirks. “I think not.”

I must not be the only one surprised by this turn of events, for the waiter is staring at the young man, dumbfounded. I stare, too, unsure as to what he is doing. Or more importantly,
why?

“Here’s what you are going to do,” the young man says, a clear tone of authority lacing his voice. “You are going to return to the kitchen and inform anyone who asks that you were mistaken. You will not mention this occurrence to anyone. You will return to your life as though the past five minutes never occurred.” He digs in his pockets and puts a handful of shillings in the waiter’s hands. “Do we have an understanding?”

“But—Sir—” the waiter stammers. I almost feel sorry for him.

Holding up a hand, the young man silences him. “No questions. Do as I say and begone.”

The waiter nods his head in a short bow and leaves, sneaking incredulous glances over his shoulder.

Still holding my arm, the young man turns, pulling me along with him. I follow behind, afraid to speak if he should change his mind about saving me. He marches me through doors and corridors, through an airy tea room, and what I am sure is the ballroom, until we stop before a door on the third level. He pulls a key from his blazer pocket and opens the door, stepping inside and pulling me in after him.

The cabin is large with a small living room branching into a dining room and two bedrooms. I catch a glimpse of a claw foot bathtub through a door to my right. Whoever this young man is, he has money and lots of it. He swings me around onto a pink chaise and closes the door, leaning against it purposefully.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a maid scurry into the closest room, afraid she has stumbled upon an intimate moment between her master and his new lady friend. I find myself wondering if she must do this often when he brings
guests.

“Who are you?” The sudden sound of his deep voice jars me out of my reverie. His tone skips over all pleasantries, and I grope for a reply.

“I beg your pardon?”

He moves forward, bending down until his nose is only inches away from mine.
“Who—are
—you?’”

I shake my head. “I—I don’t—”

He sighs, rubbing his light eyes before setting them back on me. A touch of humor glistens in the green of his irises. “Let’s start with your name, Mr.—” He pauses, then laughs. “—Or should I say, Miss…?”

“Hamilton. Miss Elvira Hamilton,” I answer squeakily. It is only after the words have left my mouth that I realize I should have given him a false name. Mistake number one.

“Elvira,” he muses, testing the sound of it on his own tongue. “Very well, Vi. My name is Adam Laurence.”

I scowl, deciding I do not like this Mr. Laurence, no matter what he has done for me. He exudes the attitude of a pompous, rich heir; his use of my first name inexcusably rude.

“Well, Mr. Laurence—”

“Adam,” he corrects.

My eyes narrow even further as I stand, returning to my full height, still inches shorter than him. “Mr. Laurence,” I say, putting as much malice and indignation in his name as possible, “thank you for going out of your way to help me. I am much obliged to you; however, I really must be going. Good day.” I move towards the door, but he gets there faster, leaning back against it to keep me from leaving.

His booming laugh startles me and I stare at him, not amused.

“You honestly believed I would let you leave? You’re a criminal!”

“Am not!” I yell childishly. He gazes down at my overflowing pockets and raises his brows. “You do not know me, Mr. Laurence. Please do not pretend otherwise.”

“Ah, but I will know you.”

I throw my hands in the air, forgetting all manners. “This is positively absurd. I am leaving.”

He ignores me, but grabs the wrist of my outstretched hand before I so much as touch the doorknob. I see violet peeking out from beneath his fingers and suck in a gulp of air through my teeth. “I will know you just as soon as you answer my questions.”

I pause, wrenching my hand out of his grasp. Furtively, I pull my sleeve back down to cover the Mark.

“You cannot possibly know someone by asking a few questions; not truly, anyhow.” I sigh. “If I answer your questions, will you allow me to leave?”

Raising a hand to his chest, he crosses his heart with two smooth strokes of a finger. “I promise.”

“Go on, then. Ask your questions,” I say, and quickly add, “but you only get three.”

“Three questions! You are far more infuriating and stubborn than I would have initially believed, but three shall do.” He taps his index finger against his chin as he paces before the door. “All right, question number one.” He pauses, a devilish smirk sidling up his face. “Do you find me exceptionally attractive or only moderately so?” He winks and bares his teeth in a flashy grin. My mouth drops open and my violet eyes widen in shock. How can anyone be so exasperatingly audacious?

He chuckles at my reaction, as if I and everyone else in the world exist purely for his own amusement. “Calm down, Vi. It was only a joke. The
real
question number one: Why is a pretty girl such as yourself disguised as a boy and resorting to minor criminal offenses like stealing baked goods?”

My thoughts catch on the word
pretty
, but I instantly dismiss it. “That’s two questions and your initial question counts, as well.”

“You didn’t even answer! Although, I suppose your eyes did say it all.” He grins smugly.

I glare at his smile, wanting to swipe it from his face. “My eyes said nothing. You didn’t get an answer because you do not deserve an answer.”

He smirks. “Very well. I still want the answers to the last two then.” He steps forward and his dark brown hair gleams in the light cast by a Tiffany lamp much like the one I dumped into the ocean. Those green eyes find mine and I relinquish with a sigh.

“Clearly, I disguise myself because I do not want people knowing I am a woman. As for the pastries, I was hungry.”

“Those are obvious answers.” He takes a step closer, raising his chin and crossing his arms.

“They were obvious questions.” I mimic his movement, my nose only inches away from his puffed out chest.

“But why do you not want people knowing you are a woman?” he asks.

I shake my head, two black curls falling down around my shoulders from beneath the bowler hat. “You had your three questions, Mr. Laurence; now you must let me pass.”

Reluctantly, he steps aside, but keeps a hand on the doorknob. “Fair enough, but first, tell me what cabin you are staying in.”

I smile. He still believes I am a passenger on the ship.
If only you
knew.