Page 51 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
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Fighting her tears, Cecile ran to the end of the passageway.
Henry had made it clear she wasn’t to stray from her own suite, unless it was to call upon Maud. Fleetingly, she considered returning there—but, she couldn’t bear to be comforted, nor pitied, and she’d no wish to dissect what she’d just seen. She simply needed to recover her composure.
She looked out through the doors leading onto the deck. The rain was still lashing the glass, but might there be some quiet place, out of the weather, where she’d find peace? There were deckchairs ranged not far along, under an overhang to provide shade, though she supposed they might have been taken in during the storm. Not that she needed a chair—just a place to gather her thoughts, where she wouldn’t be disturbed.
Bending her head against the tormenting elements, she launched through the doors and, attaining the corner where she hoped to find shelter, pressed her back to the wall. But the gusts were too strong, driving both rain and spray from the sea. Already, her skirts flapped wetly against her legs. Staying here wasn’t possible. However much she desired respite, catching pneumonia would do her no good.
Where might she go?
She remembered, then, the door through which they’d passed on the day of touring the ship. The narrow stairwell was gloomy, but it would do for now. She’d be safe from both the weather and prying eyes.
She hurled herself once more into the fray, several times slipping on the wet deck before she reached the white, metal door, inset within its riveted frame. It occurred to her that it might be locked, but the handle turned without hindrance. A single wholehearted push saw her stumbling through.
Gasping, she used her shoulder to close it again, battling the outward wind. Only once the mechanism was locked into place did she breathe freely. The relief of being alone—somewhere quiet, unseen—was enough.
The sound of pummelling rain receded and she leant her forehead against the cold steel wall.
A fierceness in her blood had compelled her thus far; an emptiness now replaced it. About her heart was a great ache. Not only there. The anguish seemed to have penetrated her bones. Her knees, her shoulders, every part of her was sore.
Had Lance’s kisses meant nothing?
And what of Lucrezia? Was she partly to blame?
Cecile couldn’t help a dogged misgiving. Lucrezia was more worldly, more charismatic, more alluring to men. Cecile didn’t doubt that Lance was fond of her, but what if his attraction to Lucrezia was stronger?
Briefly, she’d allowed herself to imagine a future in which he featured—a journey that encompassed adventure, travel through unknown regions and, further ahead, a house of her own, children perhaps—with Lucrezia alongside, making her laugh and encouraging her to be daring.
It was selfish, of course—as if Lucrezia mightn’t have her own plans, her own path to follow.
The pang came again.
Cecile had a small income of her own. Henry wouldn’t like it, but she could purchase passage back to England. There would always be a place for her in the home of her aunt. Lance would forget her. Lucrezia would be philosophical. She was inventive; wherever she went, she would find her way.
As an escape route, it was possible, but the thought of returning to her life as it had been was repugnant—scurrying away like a frightened rabbit. Hadn’t she learnt to be braver than that?
Besides which, when she thought of going away, it made her feel hollow. Could she bear never to see Lucrezia again? And what of Lance?
They’d only known each other a short time, but meeting him again had felt like a true homecoming. He’d understood her desire for independence, for he was searching out the same. She’d sensed that he would never attempt to cage her. Rather, her happiness would be his—and, in his arms, she’d felt cherished.
Could she give that up? Was the choice even hers?
Lance had made no declaration. In truth, he’d promised nothing. Only in her mind had she imagined he might care for her as she did him.
A shiver passed over her. This place was dry, but her damp clothing was making her chill. She peered into the stairwell. The lamps gave poor illumination but she heard no footfall, no sign that anyone was below.
Holding fast to the handrail, she made her way downward, pausing every few steps to listen. The hum and clang of pistons was faint, but the air grew warmer, the deeper she progressed.
She’d forgotten how far it was, to the very bottom. Lance had carried her up these stairs effortlessly, no more than a week ago.
She pushed that thought away.
Her decision, whatever that might be, would not be governed by physical attraction.
Reaching the final platform, she glanced upwards. Somewhere, far above, were they looking for her now? She supposed they probably were. Lucrezia would advocate for giving her time to herself, but her brother would be angry that she’d disobeyed him.
And Lance? He would worry; that much she knew.
