Susan Dennard: A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Uh . . .” I was too busy trying to calm my pulse to follow her French. “What?”

“This is your room?” She dipped her head and peered at me from the tops of her eyes.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Then we are roommates.”

“Roommates?” I repeated stupidly. I hadn’t even considered the possibility, but of course second class would mean sharing a cabin.

“ Mais oui .” She stepped aside so I could trudge in, and with a wave to a set of bunks in one corner, she said, “I took the top bed.”

“Oh . . . all right.” I crossed to the bunk and heaved my carpetbag on it. Then I shifted around to inspect the stateroom.

My eyes instantly lit on two more bunks and two elegant black trunks stacked beside them. So, not roommate but roommates .

I turned my attention to the rest of the room. White enamel walls with walnut fittings surrounded portholes and large electric lights. The beds were made up with crisp, white linens, and a navy curtain hung elegantly over them. Squeezed into the center of the room were two navy satin armchairs.

At that moment, the young woman stepped in front of me. “I am Mademoiselle Laure Primeau,” she drawled, holding out a dainty hand. “And you are?”

“I’m Eleanor Fitt.” I gulped, suddenly hot with embarrassment. “I-I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I lifted my bandaged wrist.

Her eyes widened. “ Mon Dieu. ” She hastily withdrew her hand. “I am sorry. That looks . . . painful.”

“Yes, it was.” I twisted around to my carpetbag, not wishing to dwell on my injury. “Where can I put my things?”

She sighed. “I fear the other ladies ’ave already claimed most of the space.” Skirts rustled behind me, and when I glanced back, she was draped over one of the chairs. “If you do not ’ave much, then you should use the drawer beneath the bed.”

I nodded and set to placing my few items—extra underclothes, a hatbox, a nightgown—in the drawer. At the bottom of the bag, I found the stack of Elijah’s letters.

Gnawing the inside of my mouth, I eyed them warily. Then, as quickly as possible, I withdrew them and stuffed them beneath my spare petticoat before finally crawling onto my bed.

Laure eyed me from her chair, and I eyed her right back. She looked to be a bit older than Jie—

twenty-five years at the most.

“You are traveling alone?” she asked.

“Yes. And you?”

“ Oui . But I am an old maid—you are so young. How can you travel alone? You ’ave no family?”

My stomach twisted. My daughter is now dead to me . I dropped my gaze. “No . . . I have no family.”

“Ah. But that is sad, non ? I ’ave a family, but—”

The cabin door flew open, cutting her off. I shot to my feet, ready to fight . . . but it was only an angular, gray-haired woman shuffling in. An auburn-haired girl of eight or nine skipped happily behind her.

Laure’s expression soured, and with clear displeasure, she stood. “ Bonjour , Madame Brown. We

’ave our final roommate.” She motioned to me. “This is Mademoiselle Fitt.”

The older woman curtsied primly, all the while openly examining me. “You are traveling alone?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, not bothering to hide my own return-examination. She was long faced and unfortunately hairy around the chin.

“This is my granddaughter, Lizzie.” Mrs. Brown motioned to the girl, who gave me a bright grin—

revealing her own unfortunate feature: exceptionally large front teeth. “Lizzie, get your parasol. We are going to the promenade deck to watch the ship depart. Would you care to join us?”

Nothing about her expression suggested she wanted me, so I forced a polite smile. “No thank you, Ma’am.”

Her gaze shifted to Laure. “ Mademoiselle ?”

“ Non merci .” Laure bared her teeth in a terrifying grin.

“Found it!” Lizzie trilled, whipping up a lacy parasol. She skipped back to Mrs. Brown’s side and, after giving Laure and me a little curtsy, trotted from the room. Mrs. Brown followed.

Once the door was firmly shut, Laure’s lips twitched up mischievously, and she rubbed her hands together. “ Mademoiselle , you ’ave scandalized her.”

“You mean by traveling alone?”

“ Oui. C’est magnifique .” She snickered. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I will go to the promenade deck and watch us depart— without the Browns for company.” Then, with a wink, she left.

I fell back onto my bed and draped a hand over my eyes. As much as I also wanted to see our departure, it was safer to stay locked away until the Philadelphia wharf—and I hoped Marcus too—

were long gone. Once we had sailed the hundred miles of Delaware River to reach the ocean, then I would allow myself to roam the ship.

An image of the chestnut-haired young man flashed in my mind. If he could hear those dogs and feel that wind, then perhaps he would know what was happening. Perhaps he could explain. Or—if he was as lost as I—we could try to muddle through it together.

And since he was somewhere on this ship and we were stuck here for well over a week, I had every intention of finding him—and finding out what he knew.

Hours later, I found myself curled into a ball on my bed. After an evening of rocking, I was so queasy, I couldn’t even stand—much less try to explore the ship. When I heard the Brown ladies come in to change into dinner attire, I could only screw my eyes tighter and pray that this nausea would vanish.

“ Oh la ,” Laure said, hovering over me. She had just finished donning her evening wear. “You are ill?”

I cracked open an eyelid. “The boat . . . it won’t stop moving.”

She laughed. “ Oui. That is ’ow it usually works.” She flicked her hand toward the portholes. “It helps to be outside, you know. Watching the ’orizon keeps your digestion calm.”

She dragged me into a sitting position. “And it is best on the first-class promenade deck.”

“But we aren’t first class.”

“ Pas de problème . One must simply sneak onto the first-class deck when all its passengers are at dinner.”

She helped me stand. Her eyes briefly settled on my missing hand but then passed on to my undoubtedly green face. “I can take you there and then we can go to dinner.”

“But . . .” I waved helplessly at my gown as we made our way to the door. “This is all I have to wear.” Heat crept up my neck, and at the sympathetic swoop in Laure’s eyebrows, I dropped my gaze.

She sighed. “Then you can stay on the deck, where it is no matter what you wear, and I will go to supper.” She towed me toward the main stairwell I had circled around earlier, and we climbed it three floors up before finally stepping into the first-class saloon.

“This is where all of the first-class passengers will spend most of their day-to-day time,” Laure explained as we walked through. “It is not so different from the second-class saloon.”

I nodded, my eyes flicking around. The room reminded me of my family’s parlor—or as the parlor used to look before I had sold everything. There was a grand piano in one corner, oak and ebony bookcases along the walls, and red velvet armchairs and sofas strategically placed throughout.

Skylights overhead showed an orange sky, and plate glass mirrors shone with reflected light.

We reached a door at the end of the room, and Laure planted her shoulder against it and shoved.

“The wind outside is strong. Nice but strong.”

The instant she got the door open, air blasted into me. My heart flipped, and my ears strained, expecting to hear hounds at any moment.