Tip of the Iceberg Page 9

  No sooner had the door clicked shut, Bridget became aware of the tension within her own body. Her fists gripped her nightdress, twisting the cream-coloured silk into tight twirls and pulling the soft fabric tight against her thighs. Her delicate shoulders and smooth neck were so rigid and knotted she was aware of the blood pulsing through her arteries, and her entire body radiated heat, so much so she detected a soft sheen of perspiration. It coated her skin and formed a small rivulet, which trickled gently south through the soft valley of her breasts and on towards her swollen baby belly.

  Bridget was so convinced William would resort to violence that she still shook with a mixture of pent up anger and fear. The adrenaline she felt coursing through her body set her very soul on edge and shredded her nerves. She made a conscious effort to breathe, forcing the air deep into her lungs before pushing it out with an exaggerated sigh, willing her sore muscles to relax. Finally, she slumped into the upholstered chair provided with the elaborate dressing table.

  Studying her reflection in its gilt-edged mirror, Bridget was shocked to see tired, red-rimmed eyes staring back at her. She knew she had not slept well. Pain and fear were never good bedfellows and the pregnancy was beginning to take its toll on her, but she hadn’t realized how tired she looked until now.

  Bridget took a few moments to regain her composure before rising from the chair. She hurried to the bathroom, pulling the nightgown over her head, dropping it to the floor on her way, before quickly splashing cold water over her face and rubbing her body down with a damp towel. Once she was satisfied she had at least removed the unladylike sweat, she patted herself down with a clean towel pulled from the pile and inspected the still bright red welts on her back from William’s last, overzealous beating. Relieved to see they were at least not bleeding, she gingerly pulled on her undergarments, taking great care not to remove any of the scabs forming over her wounds. Over this, she buttoned a plain, but expensive brown dress before piling her hair up, fastening it under a demure wide brimmed hat with two large hat pins.

  Satisfied the hat concealed the evidence of her hurried morning ablutions, Bridget selected an extravagant necklace featuring a large, creamy coloured pearl surrounded by a ring of tiny diamonds. She matched this with a pair of drop pearl earrings and a small silver broach before slipping her feet into her favourite leather ankle-boots.

  All the while she could hear William whistling impatiently in the next room.

  The journey to breakfast was an awkward affair. They walked to the dining saloon on D Deck, descending the grand staircase arm-in-arm, smiling politely at the other guests as they passed. The steward escorted them to a vacant table then, having taken their request for a pot of tea he scurried away, leaving them alone. Bridget glanced around the room, deliberately avoiding making eye contact with her husband, who sat impassively opposite her. Neither spoke until the steward returned with the tea tray, which he placed centrally on the table. William ordered a cooked breakfast with all the usual trimmings for himself, and two slices of dry toast for Bridget, telling the steward she felt ‘a little under the weather.’

  Once the steward took his leave, William poured tea for them both. “I thought toast might be best for you, what with the sickness and all.” His voice showed little of the emotions that Bridget believed must be tumbling around inside him.

  “That is most thoughtful, my love.” Bridget knew better than to disagree with him.

  “How sweet those words would have sounded yesterday, yet today they have soured. I am no more your love than you mine. It is, with the honeymoon not yet over, a sad state of affairs, yet true.” He placed Bridget’s tea on the table then, interlacing his fingers, fixed her with a searching stare. “You see, I married you for your connections in America and because being unmarried, as I was at my age, warrants becoming the subject of idle tittle-tattle among the old women at society tea parties. And tittle-tattle is not conducive to being able to do business with those ladies’ husbands. So you see, my love, you were a well-connected distraction, a young, beautiful and elegant distraction, but a distraction nonetheless.”

  Bridget took a sip of her tea, carefully placing the china cup back on its saucer. She thought she would feel guilt, a sense of self-loathing, of failure, but she didn’t. As she sat opposite the violent bully she had promised to love, honour, and obey only a couple of months previously, she felt nothing as he revealed their marriage to be nothing but an astute business decision. In fact, if she felt anything at all, it was empowerment. William needed her. He needed her connections and her ability to charm his business associates, but most of all he needed not to have a scandalous divorce.

  With a soft smile, she met her spouse’s stare. She rapidly came to the conclusion that she no longer feared him or his riding crop, she was his equal. And best of all, he didn’t know it. “My dear, William, I do not know how you found out about my pregnancy, but I do know it makes no difference. If I had told you next week I was pregnant and it was yours you would still have been angry, but none the wiser. You would have had to raise it as your own, and that still applies. I’m your wife and this, as far as anyone else is concerned, will be our child.”

  “I will not be party to raising a child, especially one whose parentage is in doubt.” William hissed.

  “Oh! There is no doubt. His father is at Yale, a dashingly handsome man who spent last Christmas in Boston as a guest of my father. The families are old friends, and I gave him a special gift on Christmas Eve, a gift a woman can never get back, a gift he accepted with great skill and enthusiasm.” Bridget found it hard to keep the smirk from her lips as her husband’s jawline tighten. Deep within his eyes, she saw the flickering flames of his anger as it threatened to consume him.

  They sat in silence while William digested this information. His world, the accepted norms of his life, had just been turned on their head. He was rich, well respected, with a much-admired younger wife who, despite being a spirited filly, was subservient to his will, and had a mistress with whom he could indulge his love of opium and sexual deviance. Yet, his wife had whored herself out, and either by design or her own good fortune, now had him over a barrel.

  William knew he could not divorce her; the scandal alone would be inconceivable, let alone the financial implications, and he needed to guarantee Bridget’s silence or, at the very least, her complicity in their shameful wedlock. But the thought of looking at her every day knowing she had allowed another man to deflower her ... to fuck her, and then expect him to raise the offspring of that bastard union, was too much to bear. He may not want her sexually, but he would be damned if he would tolerate another man lying with her. For now, for the sake of appearances, he would have to accept the circumstances as they were. After all, pregnancy and childbirth were dangerous times for a woman. Anything could happen.

  William relaxed a little and gave Bridget a forced smile as the steward returned with their breakfast. He waited while the man served their food, then when he had left them alone, spoke in a hushed, but confident tone. “It would appear we are both victims of circumstance.” William decided to inflict some emotional damage of his own and in so doing, he hoped, strengthen his position. “I too have enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh with another, in fact, with your serving maid, Violet. She may not be a debutant of an exclusive finishing school, but she knows how to please a man in the boudoir.”

  Bridget nodded knowingly before replying, “So that was how you found out I’m with child, from your whore!” His revelation regarding the identity of his mistress didn’t surprise her. She strangely had no say in Violet’s employment as her maid, but Bridget would make sure she had a say in the bitch’s dismissal.

  “Yes, my dear. How does it feel to be betrayed by such a close confidante?” It was William’s turn to smirk as he forked a large piece of bacon into his mouth.

  “I wouldn’t call her a confidante, it’s just she’s seen me naked more times than you have: a state of affairs that obviously applies in the reverse.
But think on this, she has known of the pregnancy for a while, so why only tell you about it now? Maybe she has designs on your fortune, perhaps even, on being the next Mrs. Grafton. Now that would be ironic, as it was only for your wealth and position that I married you.” While she talked, she’d buttered her toast, adding a liberal spreading of marmalade, which she was about to eat when a thought struck her. “You only found out about the baby last night, mid-Atlantic. You’ve brought your Cyprian with you, haven’t you? That’s why you keep disappearing! You must have her stashed away in her own stateroom, you’re too much of an English snob to visit her in second class, and you complain about me fraternizing with the hired help. Now that’s ironic.” Bridget threw her head back and laughed, her eyes sparkling in genuine merriment, the raucousness of her laughter disturbing the patrons at the nearby tables.

  Far from making Bridget feel betrayed and undermined, William felt he had only succeeded in giving his wife a better bargaining position, and obviously, a good laugh at his expense, but he pushed on anyway.

  “In the interest of avoiding an unseemly incident, I’m prepared to allow the child to be raised under my roof. However, I want to make it clear I will have nothing to do with it. In exchange, you allow me to continue my dalliance with Violet, thereby allowing us both to fulfill our desires.”

  No longer laughing, Bridget scowled at her husband. “She leaves our household. You want to fuck her you can do it somewhere else. Also, there will be no more riding crop, a real man doesn’t need to beat a lady.”

  William gave a begrudging nod, then leaving his breakfast unfinished, he tossed his napkin onto the table and without uttering another word, stormed from the saloon.

  Eighteen

  Bernard, keen on finding his ticket into New York society, slipped out onto the ships exclusive first class promenade. Here, anybody who was anybody would step out for a constitutional stroll, or just sit on one of the ship’s many deck chairs taking the chance to read or maybe just watch the ocean roll by.

  It was late morning, and the weak April sun struggled to burn off the early morning mist that still surrounded the ship. The air was cold, the stiff breeze blowing from the northeast, colder still. Bernard wore his finest suit and a thick woollen overcoat that had, on close inspection, seen better days, and an old battered top hat. He spent a good while buffing the hat’s well-worn silk so, at least from a distance, it looked the fine accessory of a well-to-do gentleman. In his pocket, he carried a silver case in which he kept gilt-edged cards announcing him as Sir Bernard Astor. The ugly, but not so gullible lady, bought it for him as a present, even having it engraved, before discovering he was nothing but a fraud. It became useful in completing his image as a slightly tarnished, even eccentric, but rich, well-to-do gentleman from the upper echelons of English society.

  Bernard completed two leisurely lengths of the promenade and was nonchalantly turning for a third when he spotted a well-built middle-aged woman, dressed from head to foot in black, struggling with a parasol. A sudden gust of wind had turned the flimsy black material inside out and the woman in question appeared unsure of what to do. If she let go, it would be lost over the ship’s side, but holding on to it only caused it to swing menacingly around her head, threatening to take someone’s eye out. In her other hand, she held a large cumbersome handbag of the sort women used to carry knitting or sewing.

  Bernard had seen enough. She was traveling first class; she was in mourning and was definitely in need of a perfect gentleman. He hurried to her aid; catching hold of the errant parasol with both hands, he quickly brought it under control, pushing the twisted spokes flat against the handle so he could fasten the canopy closed. He handed the parasol back to the relieved lady with a flourish and an exaggerated bow.

  “Thank you so much. I thought it would be a good idea to bring some protection from the sun, but it looks like I was wrong on that score.” She smiled at Bernard; her accent was American but not the soft, refined accent of well-to-do society. It was a harsh, shrill whine that sounded like a suckling pig being dragged through a mincer. Bernard immediately slipped into his bumbling country gent act giving her a gentle smile, the well-rehearsed smile which, over the years, had put so many unsuspecting women at ease.

  “It can be so easy for one to misjudge the strength of the breeze from within one’s cabin; however, I believe you were wise to furnish yourself with some protection from the sun. It’s so easy to burn without feeling the sun’s warmth, especially, if I may be so bold, with skin as delicate as yours.” Bernard looked at his feet, feigning embarrassment. In his head, he counted to three then added, “Oh my! Please excuse my impertinence. I do not know what possessed me to make such a boorish utterance.”

  He made to walk away, but the woman caught his arm with her gloved hand. “It’s been awhile since any man saw fit to pass me a compliment, boorish or otherwise, mister?” He turned to face her as she spoke and noticed, now that he looked at her up close, she was strikingly beautiful. Her hair, probably once so dark, was flecked through with strands of silver and pulled loosely up beneath the wide brim of her hat, while her eyes, a rich hazelnut in colour, had a disarming quality about them. The warm smile she gave him revealed near perfect teeth, the only blemish being a small gap right in the middle of her upper row, and she bore strikingly well-defined features, despite her advancing years.

  Acting as though he had been caught off guard, Bernard flustered, aware she was waiting for him to introduce himself. “I’m so sorry, my manners have deserted me. I’m Sir Bernard Astor.” He accepted the hand she graciously offered, touching it briefly to his lips before letting go.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Sir Bernard. I have no such fancy title and have to settle for Kathleen Black, but it is, nevertheless, a name that has served me well.” Kathleen said in a shrill nasal twang.

  Bernard resisted the urge to flinch with every syllable she uttered. He was well aware who she was. He had examined the passenger list in great detail, and he was also aware that her husband had died a wealthy man, thanks to his investment in the American steel industry.

  “It is a wonderful name that needs no fancy appendages,” he replied before moving in for the kill with his next question. “Would you please allow me to escort you on your stroll?” He held his arm out, playfully waggling his bushy moustache.

  Kathleen Black tried, for the sake of appearances, to look aloof and gracious as she politely accepted his arm. But that part of her, the part that remained forever a young girl dreaming of romance, was there for the trained eye to spot, and Sir Bernard Astor possessed such a trained eye. As they walked arm in arm along the promenade, he wore the smile of a prospector holding a nugget of pure gold.

  Nineteen

  Patrick entered the sparse cabin he shared with Bernard. Fate had thrown them together in this great adventure, and although he sensed they would become firm friends, he was relieved not to find the eccentric Englishman reclined on his bunk. Throwing his hat on to the top bunk he’d commandeered by boarding first, he sat on the hard padded bench occupying the opposite wall. Reaching into the storage space below, Patrick slid out the battered old valise. He removed a small paper bag from the pocket of his overcoat and set it down on the bench next to him before flicking the valise’s brass catch open.

  Patrick gently eased the valise open and peered into it. Pandora’s confidence had grown, she still looked sad but no longer shied away, staring confidently, almost arrogantly, back at him. He made a clicking sound with his lips then said, “I’ve brought you some chicken, Pandora.” Reaching into the paper bag he removed one of the pieces of meat, which he dropped into the valise. He watched with fascination as her small hands found the thumb-sized chunk of cold, white meat, which she inspected carefully for a moment before tearing it apart with sharp, pointed teeth. In just a few seconds, she had completely devoured his offering.

  “You like that, eh? Here you go.” He dropped another piece of the succulent meat into the bag, which the hungr
y monkey tore apart and consumed with equal ferocity. “Ah, Pandora, you’re a strange one, make no mistake.”

  Laughing, Patrick reached into the paper bag for one last piece of chicken, his attention momentarily distracted from the valise at his feet. He located a suitable morsel of chicken and returned his attention to the open valise.

  The eyes, that just a few moments before had portrayed such sadness now burned with an intense anger that surprised Patrick. A shrieking cackle filled the air as the diminutive monkey vaulted from the top of the valise onto Patrick’s knee. He swung his arm at the splenetic primate as he struggled to get to his feet, but she was too quick for him. With one agile leap, the monkey’s tiny hands latched onto his face.

  Caught off balance, Patrick was helpless as the monkey’s strong fingers clawed at his hair, her sharp nails scratching thin slits into his skin. He looked into Pandora’s snarling mouth, briefly glimpsing her razor-like teeth before they tore into the tender flesh just below his left eye. Shocked at the sheer speed and ferocity of her violent assault, he took a few precious seconds to prise her hands away from his face. As soon as he broke the grip of her tiny fingers, he hurled the screaming Pandora into the corner. Stunned, she scurried under the lower bunk with a shrill cackle, a sliver of his skin still clamped in her deceptively strong jaws.

  Patrick climbed shakily to his feet and inspected his bloodied facial wound in the small mirror bolted to the cabin wall. A three-inch long tear, surrounded by red swollen skin, adorned his soft Celtic features. The wound bled profusely. A small flap of loose skin hung from the bottom edge of the jagged wound. He snatched a pillow from his bunk, quickly retreating to the far side of the room in case Pandora should attack again, and removed the white cotton case, wadding it into a makeshift bandage, which he pressed against the bite. Pain flashed through his cheek causing him to flinch, sucking air through his tightly clenched teeth.