She pushed past him, ignoring his groping hands, his breath on her cheek. Too relieved to be annoyed by his behavior, Francesca darted quickly down the narrow corridor. At the first door, she peered through a small oval window. The room was crowded with luggage. She continued forward, pausing at each window, becoming more anxious as she went. When she came upon the dining saloon, she found the door locked and the room empty. Though the evening meal wouldn’t be served for another couple of hours, she’d hoped the room might be open for late-afternoon tea or libations. It must be the first class who were offered such luxuries. She huffed out an irritated breath and continued down the narrow corridor.
Ahead, she saw a young woman wearing a pale-blue frock with a fashionable bustle and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with ribbons. She was prettily dressed, her frock likely one of a series that she rotated every other week, something Francesca aspired to have one day soon. As she neared the woman, the scent of roses drifted around them and filled the cramped space. Francesca met the woman’s eye briefly and nodded, even as she stared back at Francesca like she were diseased.
Ignoring the uncomfortable exchange, Francesca continued to the end of the corridor to the last room before the cabins began. It was a storage room filled with barrels and shelves of foodstuffs. It, too, was locked.
She leaned against the door. Of course it was locked. They wanted to prevent thieves from pilfering goods—thieves like her. Sister Alberta’s lectures about letting God provide rang in her ears. Yet had Francesca let God provide, she would have starved to death on more than one occasion. Had she let Him provide shelter and comfort, she would have suffered broken bones at her father’s hand for many more years. God gave her plenty of free will, and with it, she chose to provide for herself. Only she wasn’t doing that so well either.
She fought back tears. Maria needed water desperately. Could Francesca risk it, try first class? It would probably turn out the same, but she had to try. Fists clenched, she pushed back from the door. She weaved around several male passengers and a woman in a striped dress, pausing to ask them for water, but they first looked annoyed and then ignored her. When she reached the first-class deck, another steward stood watch at the top of the landing.
“You there!” He pointed at her. “You aren’t allowed here.”
Concentrating, she searched for the words Sister Alberta had taught her.
I need, You need, He needs, We need…
“I need…” she began tentatively. “You need Forrester.” She shook her head. “Forrester needs you. The captain is angry.”
The guard squinted. “What for?”
“The captain is angry,” she repeated, willing her pulse to slow. “You go now.”
“Nice try, miss, but I ain’t leaving my post. Now be on your way.”
“I—”
The door behind him swung open and a shrill voice cut the air. “Boy! I need your help at once!” A middle-aged woman draped in furs glared at him with expectation.
The guard’s scowl gave way to one of feigned interest. “How can I help you, madam?”
“The linens on my table are filthy, and I want them changed immediately. That poor excuse for a waitstaff is ignoring me entirely, and I won’t have it.”
“I’m sure they’ll be with you soon, madam.”
“You would have me stand in the middle of the room while others are being tended to until someone decides to help me?” she shrieked.
“Of course not, madam,” he said quickly, realizing his mistake.
As he darted after her, Francesca’s knees went weak with relief. With haste, she followed them at a short distance to the dining saloon, but as the wealthy came into view in their elegant silks and jewels, her footsteps faltered. If the fashionable women she’d seen in second class had been intimidating, these women felt otherworldly as they sparkled in diamonds and bright red and blue stones, smiling and floating around the room with unimaginable grace.
What was she doing here? In that instant, she realized how completely ridiculous she appeared in her borrowed shawl and rouge, her modest earbobs and combs. She could never pass for first class. Not ever.
But as Maria’s dear face flashed in her mind’s eye and Sister Alberta’s voice echoed in her ears, Francesca remembered what she must do. How far she’d already come.
“Time to be brave, Cesca.” She whispered Sister Alberta’s words the day they had departed Sicilia.
Ignoring the bold stare of a lady dressed in cornflower-blue silk, Francesca followed the others inside the dining saloon.
Rows of tables dressed in elegant linens fanned around a center point in the room where a grove of potted trees made the space more welcoming with their lush greens. Above, the ceiling formed a dome of glass panels edged with shiny bronze. Francesca imagined sunrays streaming through the milky glass on nicer days, spilling over the crystal goblets and water carafes, and making them sparkle like diamonds. The dining room couldn’t be more different from the dark hole crammed with unwashed bodies where she spent her days.
The startling contrast between what her life was, and what it could be had she been born in a different world, held her there, transfixed.
A waiter brushed past her, breaking the spell.
Francesca clutched her canteen tightly. There wasn’t time for dreaming. Now was her chance. Pulse racing, she crossed the room, focusing on the full water carafes in the center of each table.
Several heads bobbed in her direction.
She picked up her pace. If someone stopped her, would they lock her in the holding cabin for criminals? When she reached the outer ring of tables at the back wall, she willed her hand to remain steady and reached for a carafe atop an empty table.
“What do you think you’re doing?” A woman’s voice came from behind her.
Francesca whirled around, slopping water onto the front of her dress. She hardly noticed the woman’s scowl; she was too taken with her stunning black crepe dress lined with glittering beads, her thick fur stole, and long silk gloves tapered to her elbows. A feather adorned a jewel-studded band in her hair. The woman wasn’t beautiful, but she possessed a learned grace evident in her posture and dress.
And she clearly didn’t take kindly to steerage.
“Please,” Francesca continued in broken English. “Maria is malata. My sister…she’s very ill.”
Pressing her lips together, the woman took in Francesca’s worn cream-colored dress with dull buttons fastened to her chin, the cashmere shawl, her thin frame.
Francesca held her head high beneath the woman’s scrutiny. “We need water. Please, my sister—”
“What a sad tale.” The feather at the signora’s crown bobbed as she spoke; the diamonds at her neck twinkled. She waved her hand in dismissal. “Be on your way, young lady.”
“Mother, she just needs a little water.” A gentleman joined the woman at the table, smiling kindly at Francesca. “And we have plenty.”
“Thank you,” Francesca said in English, and then in Italian, “I have my canteen.”
The woman’s expression turned sour. “She’s speaking that filthy language. Really, Marshall, why must you pick up strays?”
A waiter approached the table, nostrils flaring and cheeks flushed. “I beg your pardon, sir. Madam.” He tilted his head in a conciliatory bow. He said several things more that Francesca couldn’t understand, then gripped her arm.
She cried out as his hand closed over the last painful bruise her father had gifted to her. It was a deep bruise, slow to heal—and the final push she’d needed to leave.