Titanic Rhapsody by Jina Bacarr

Note: Prologue omitted.

If there was one thing that made Captain Lord Jack Blackthorn smile more than holding a pretty woman in his arms, it was a winning hand at cards.

To his dismay, at the moment he had neither.

“I’ll raise you, gentlemen,” Jack said, stretching his long legs under the green-topped playing table. An uncomfortable itch stung his palm as he laid down several gaming chips. He never did enjoy playing against boatmen, professional gamblers who followed the sea, but he was in desperate need of funds.

A voluptuous blonde in Mayfair had seen to that. Smoking a cigarette out of an amber holder, Lady Irene Pennington had taken him for a jolly good ride, though he had to admit she was worth it. The gilded lily with the seductive smile made a man believe he was a king.

And not the second son of a duke without home or hearth to offer her.

Still, she’d made him happy until her husband, a prominent public servant, returned home unexpectedly from a mission abroad and found out about the affair. That had set Jack packing his bags and off on another adventure, much to the disappointment of her ladyship. She hated losing him. He made love as fiercely as he led his men into battle. Such vigor was wildly exciting to the aristocratic set and Lady Pennington was no exception.

A generous offer from his old college roommate, Treyton Brady, to join him and his fiancée aboard the Titanic had provided him with the perfect escape.

Which was how Jack found himself sitting in the first class smoking room busily engaged in four-handed poker after the ship stopped to pick up passengers and mail in Cherbourg. The liner was headed next to Queenstown in southern Ireland and was scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning, its final stop before heading out to sea across the North Atlantic.

“Too rich for my blood, Jack.” Trey threw down his cards, picked up his highball from the cup holder and with a quick swallow of vodka, he was gone.

Jack cocked an eyebrow. Odd. Trey could well afford to stay in the game. That half-smile of his often meant female amusement was on his mind.

Most likely his friend was slumming in second class, cavorting with the pretty young passenger he’d seen him conversing with earlier. His friend’s exploits with the fair sex often got him into an uncomfortable situation. He wasn’t as discreet as Jack when it came to a lady’s virtue.

An American thing, he called it.

Whatever it was, Jack found it difficult to keep his mind on the game. Trey’s actions disturbed him. He was neglecting his fiancée, settling into her stateroom. Doe-eyed and chestnut-haired, everything Fiona Winston-Hale did seemed effortless, as if she were leading the life of a woman at ease due her as the Countess of Marbury. The reality was she fretted over every detail lest anyone discover what dire straits she was in.

The countess was in danger of losing Dirksen Castle, her thousand-year-old family home in Scotland.

Only time would tell if he’d done her a disservice by introducing her to his friend from his days at Cambridge, though Trey was considered quite a catch among the ladies.

His late father was F.G. Brady, a multi-millionaire industrialist from New York. Trey was heir to a vast fortune made in steel, if anyone asked the deck steward about the jaunty young man with the pencil-thin moustache and easy smile.

After dinner, most gentlemen found their way to the smoke room with its impressive fireplace, painted stained glass windows and soft burgundy leather chairs. There they enjoyed drinks and gambling.

Trey had shown little interest in the idea. Now he knew why.

Jack was eager to get into a card game. A member of the British peerage by birth, he was a soldier and high society gambler by choice.

“I’ll see you and raise you another fifty,” said the man seated across from him with a handful of chips in his hand. Mr. Charters was a rich manufacturer from Liverpool with a big belly and a bigger laugh.

“I’ll raise you another hundred and call,” said the third man still in the game, a stocky man whose face bore the scars of hard living. He puffed on a big cigar.

Jack had listened with more than curiosity when the man announced he was Mr. Watts from North Carolina, a cotton exporter. He seemed quite pleased to be aboard the Millionaires’ Special. A dubious moniker given to the ship’s maiden voyage because of the wealthy men aboard, including Colonel John Jacob Astor IV and Benjamin Guggenheim.

Jack shuffled his cards. How easy it would be for him to get up and leave before he lost any more money, but something about the man stuck in his craw. He was bluffing, while the man with the cigar looked too sure of himself. Which made him suspect the man was guilty of dobbing, marking the cards in such a way as to tell whether a card was a king, a queen or an ace.

He had every reason to believe the man was a phony and had substituted a marked deck, obvious by the worn edges on the green gilt-edged cards inscribed with the White Star Line burgee in the center. These swindlers played dirty, Jack knew, and had the survival instinct of cockroaches.

He watched the man carefully, his bulging knuckles, broken numerous times, clear evidence of his dubious background.

The gent made a sound like a snort. “Too much for you Brits, eh?”

Mr. Charters wiped his face with his silk handkerchief, then threw down his money. “I’m in.”

“How ‘bout you, Captain Lord Blackthorn?” said Mr. Watts, putting down his cigar.

Smoke from the cigar resting on the crystal glass tray drifted toward him. Jack ignored it. He noted the man’s heavy twang, how he added an “r” sound to every vowel, unlike other well-to-do Southern gentlemen he’d met from across the pond.

No doubt Mr. Watts was a card sharp traveling under an alias.

Not surprising. Notices had been posted in the smoking room warning about “Games of Chance” and the likelihood of professional gamblers aboard looking for easy pickings at high-stakes card games.

The warning obviously had little effect on the players.

Including Jack. It was impossible to know every trick of these gamblers, but he had a few of his own up his sleeve.

With his features hard, determined, he remained calm, making small talk about the fast speed of the ship. Inside he was like a jungle cat, sniffing its prey and ready to attack if cornered. He presented the picture of the perfect British gentleman, but he could duke it out with the best of them, whether it was in the ring or playing cards.

“A pair of aces, gentlemen.” Jack laid his cards down on the table.

“Three of a kind,” said the man from Liverpool with a hearty laugh.

“Sorry to disappoint you gents,” said the player who was no doubt the card sharp, “but a full house takes the pot.”

Jack, watching the man’s face, saw him snicker. He knew Jack was on to him and expected him to act like a proper Englishman and say nothing.

He grimaced. Mr. Watts had another thing coming. Anger gripped him. He was blind to everything else going on around him, the intense feeling racing through him urging him to strike first, then ask questions. Only by sheer will did he control himself, though he continued looking at the man.

“If this were a game at Pratt’s or White’s in London, sir,” Jack said, choosing his words carefully, “I would call you a swindler. However, since we are at sea, I shall wait until we arrive in New York to settle the score.”

“I reckon we settle it now.” The phony millionaire drew a pistol from his coat and pointed it at Jack. Mr. Charters gasped loudly, then ducked under the table, though because of his girth that wasn’t easy.

Jack smiled, but didn’t move a muscle. Inside he was still seething, but cautious. A man with a gun was as deadly as a cobra.

You never knew when either would strike.

“Are you suggesting pistols at twenty paces on the Boat deck at dawn?” Jack asked, dead serious while calculating his next move. He had a quick eye and a sure sense of timing. Both served him well, whether in a card game or taking down an opponent. “That will prove interesting shipboard entertainment for early morning strollers.”

“Your lordship ain’t going to make no fool out of me.” The card sharp cocked the hammer on his pistol.

“You’re doing a fine job of that yourself,” Jack said. “Brandishing that pistol about like a wild man in a freak show.”

“I’d keep your opinions to yourself if I was you.”

“Put that gun down before it goes off and you find yourself in a bigger mess than impersonating a certain millionaire from North Carolina.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I am, sir. I played cards with Mr. Watts aboard the Mauretania. I’ve never found a more pleasant and honest gentleman who ever turned over a card.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“At the risk of being impertinent, sir,” Jack said, “find yourself another, how do you Americans say, sucker?”

“Why you lowdown—”

Before the impersonator could fire off a shot, Jack pushed his chair away from the table and knocked the gun out of his hand, then slammed him in the ribs so hard the man staggered backward and fell to the floor. His pistol slid over the dark red and blue linoleum tiles like they were made of ice, his eyes fluttering wildly as he lay on his back, unable to get up.

The other gentlemen, engrossed in their card games, barely acknowledged the entire incident.

“I suggest you disembark when the ship stops in Queenstown, Mr. Watts,” Jack said, shoving the pistol into his jacket pocket. “I shall be on deck to make certain you do. Or I will report your unsavory behavior to the captain.”

“You British aristocrats think you’re so high and mighty,” said the man, holding his gut as he pulled himself to his feet. “Unsinkable, like this ship.”

Jack smiled. “No one is unsinkable, sir, they just think they are.”

Disgusted, the card sharp stomped off. Jack didn’t take his eye off him until he was through the revolving doors. Then he gathered up the winnings and handed them to the portly man from Liverpool. He’d stuck his head out from under the table in time to see the entire scene unfold.

“Good show, your lordship,” said Mr. Charters, slapping him on the back.

“A story to tell your grandchildren, sir, about your crossing on the Titanic,” Jack said, grinning.

Jack turned to see a steward in his white jacket and brass buttons racing toward him.

“Yes, man, what is it?”

“Come with me quickly, your lordship,” he said, out of breath. “It’s urgent.”

“Urgent?” Jack questioned.

“Yes, the Countess of Marbury needs your help straightaway.”

“Where’s Mr. Brady?” Jack asked, concerned.

“I don’t know, your lordship. I’ve looked everywhere. On deck, in the gymnasium, the swimming pool. He’s nowhere to be found.” The steward paused. “Her ladyship asked me to summon you.”

Jack remained silent. Trey was no doubt regaling a certain lady in her second class cabin with stories of his adventures in the Orient. Indeed, he’d spent most of his time at the bar in the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. Damn him. He’d hoped embarking on married life would settle him down.

Obviously not.

The former Army captain never imagined himself settling down. That was different. He didn’t believe in love or marriage. He saw what it did to his mother, a frail but kind woman. He hated his father, the duke, for how he’d treated her. Women were exquisite creatures to be protected and adored, he believed, not treated as property.

Jack had yet to meet a woman who intrigued him enough to put aside his wild ways. He doubted he ever would.

He wouldn’t stand by and allow his friend to treat the countess with anything less than respect. Jack admired her subtlety and graciousness, traits he found lacking in most women. She was a true lady in dignity and manner. He often questioned why he hadn’t sought entrance to her bedroom since they’d known each other for years. The truth was she was too much of a lady for his tastes.

Delicate and proper. Exactly what Trey needed.

“What’s happened to the countess?” Jack wanted to know, hurrying down the two sets of stairs to C deck where the countess had a stateroom. If he had to, he’d track his old friend down and drag him by the neck back to his duty.

The steward tried to keep up with him, suggesting they take the electric lift. Elevators were too slow for the soldier.

“It’s not the countess, your lordship,” said the steward, wiping the perspiration from his face, “but her lady’s maid. She’s taken a terrible tumble. Sprained her ankle.”

“Fetch the ship’s surgeon and have him come to her ladyship’s stateroom immediately.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

The steward dashed off, leaving Jack with a troubled mind. He wanted to say to Trey, “I’ll skin your hide if you pull this trick again. This isn’t Cambridge and a student prank. Grow up.”

He didn’t. For the countess’ sake.

No reason to alienate her because of his anger toward Trey. She wanted life to be smooth and orderly and sweet. Trey wasn’t suited for that. Her future happiness lay in her ignorance of her fiancé’s weaknesses.

Instead Jack went to her stateroom and acted as if nothing had happened.

* * * * *

It wasn’t the fear of mice or loud snoring that kept Katie awake, but the worrisome fear she’d be found out and sent to the local jail.

A fine mess she was in, and her hiding out in a flophouse until morning when the ship sailed. What kind of devil’s underworld went on in a place like this when the sun went down she could only guess.

And the smell.

Slipping her steamship ticket under the hard pillow, she put her head down. The pungent scent of cut grass made her gag. A man’s seed, spilled upon the dirty sheet, the fibers still damp with the stain of human desire. As sure as she’d never breathe a word of this to a living soul, Katie had no doubt mice were the least of her worries.

She was about to close her eyes when—

A cold hand slipped up her leg and stroked her bare skin.

“You dirty vermin!” Katie cried out, jumping up and kicking him. A loud groan assaulted her ears.

“Leave her alone, Ned,” she heard a raspy voice say in the darkness. “I’ve got it.”

Who was that? Katie wondered. Not Florie Sims, the landlady. Who, then?

“Why can’t I have a turn with her?” asked the man, grumbling.

“Because you’re my beau,” said the young woman, coming into view. Katie could see her face lit up by the golden glow from the gaslight and a man’s hand fumbling inside her blouse.

Turn away, Katie my girl, she could hear her mum whispering in her ear, and protect your innocence.

Katie couldn’t stop the fervid thoughts clattering about in her brain. With those two spooning, she’d not close her eyes all night. Morning couldn’t come quick enough for her.

She lay her head down on the cot and reached under the pillow—

“It’s gone!“ she cried out.

Laughter.

“Give me my ticket, now!” Katie yelled, wrestling the girl to the floor.

The troublemaker spat in her face, then threw the white ticket into the air.

Ned caught it. “A steamship ticket, just like the landlady said.” He sounded impressed. “I bet McGinnis will give me two, maybe three pounds for it.”

No, no. They couldn’t take her dream away from her. They couldn’t.

All day and half the night Katie had kept to the dark corners of the lodging house, munching on the scraps she found in the kitchen. Rinsing her mouth out with well water the color of last week’s washing. Looking at her steamship ticket for passage to New York. Over and over again, praying it wouldn’t crumble to dust between her fingers.

Nearly every penny she’d saved from her wages spent for her passage.

“Give it back to me!” Katie demanded, making a grab for the ticket.

She missed.

Smirking, Ned tripped her and down she went, the breath knocked out of her.

What unholy creature was about this night? she wondered. The devil he was, but he’d not get the best of her.

Breathing hard, Katie struggled to get to her feet when—

“Open up!” yelled a woman’s voice outside the door. “I know you’ve got a man in there.”

“It’s the landlady,” whispered the girl, turning down the gaslight. “Go, Ned, now!”

Ned raced toward the open window leading to the roof, having no doubt used the trellis from the second floor to the ground before on numerous occasions.

But not before Katie grabbed his crotch and he dropped her steamship ticket.

* * * * *

New York.

The sound of it gave Katie courage. Nothing must stop her from having her chance.

There she’d get a job and lodging, and when she’d saved enough, she could send for Mary Dolores. The two girls would be together again as their mother had wished.

Giving her mind rest with these comforting thoughts, Katie slept with one eye open the rest of the night. She thought about leaving now for the dock with everything she owned packed in her small traveling bag, but she didn’t dare set her feet to walking on the streets. Queenstown wasn’t much more than a village with clapboard houses built on steep terraces with rows of shops along the quays.

She had every right to be cautious.

She was on the run.

Because of her.

Lady Olivia. His lordship’s daughter. The girl became jealous when her intended, a handsome young dandy with a title and a fortune, took too keen an interest in Katie. A grand liar the girl was, always trying to get Katie into trouble since the first day she came to work as a housemaid at Cameron Bally Manor House.

Her late mother, Mary Elizabeth Sullivan O’Reilly, would have said her real crime was trying to better herself. Her uppity airs and graces would do her in someday, her mum had warned her, for Katie yearned for a life outside of service.

Something her sister didn’t understand. Mary Dolores held her position in Lord Emsy’s household as sacred. What Katie saw as humiliating servitude, she embraced as a proper and decently paid life and much aspired to for the likes of them.

Two orphaned girls without kin.

All that came crashing down with the incident of the stolen bracelet.

The spoiled Lady Olivia pretended to find the lost bracelet in Katie’s possession and unjustly accused her of taking it. In spite of her protests, Katie was found guilty.

Who would take a servant girl’s word over his lordship’s daughter? That would upset the order of things and that would never do.

Katie would never forget the fear rattling her bones when his lordship threatened to turn her over to the proper authorities at Cork for grand larceny. Pleased with herself, Lady Olivia said she was no better than a scullery maid, turned on her heel and glided upstairs like a pretentious princess, taking her aristocratic airs with her.

Katie had nearly died with embarrassment. Oh not because she’d called her a scullery maid. Because of the unfairness of it all, and how the guilty could walk away free while the innocent paid the price.

“The saints be warned,” Katie said now, banging her fist into her hand. “I’ll not be done in by that girl’s lies. I’ve seen how the world works and how you have to fight for what you want. Aye, fight. And that I will do…or me name isn’t Katie O’Reilly.”

She let out a deep sigh. It was no use. She couldn’t sleep. If only morning would come so she could be on her way to the dock. Hours yet until the sun came up.

Sitting on the edge of the open window sill, her mind wandered back to other times.

Happy times, then sad.

When her da was alive, she oft came to Queenstown with its narrow streets winding up steep hills, seeing him off on his fishing boat until the day he never returned. The sea had claimed him as it had so many others, his body washing up on shore while his soul roamed free.

It broke her dear mother’s heart, kind lady she was, her fingers always entwined around the holy black beads her sister in the convent had fastened for her. She’d buried three sons before they reached the age of five. Children lost to the ills of being poor, then her husband to the ravages of the sea.

That was six months ago. Before her mum died, she made Katie promise to join her sister in service. Now Katie had broken that promise and she was running off to America.

With a price on her head.

Leave Ireland? Her home?

Was she daft?

Her parents were buried here. Not even a handful of dirt from their final resting place did she have to take with her.

Only her mother’s black rosary beads.

Katie gripped her hands together and beat upon her breast, calling upon the angels to help her.

Oh, God, please, she prayed, tell my dear mum I’m sorry, but I have to do this. And please, oh please, make her forgive me.

She would, wouldn’t she?

Had Katie not made every effort to be a good housemaid?

Was it her fault she got sacked because a man looked at her? She never expected the girl would accuse her of being a thief. She ran away from the grand house before the constable showed up.

There was a steep price to pay if she were caught.

Years spent in a cold, damp cell, but the wild intoxication of being free was a heady stimulant that surpassed any grim thoughts she might have.

For Katie had a plan.

That ticket was her passage to freedom.

She was going to America on the next steamship leaving Queenstown.

The Titanic.