“Oh, Queenstown,” she said. “Definitely Queenstown.”
Then she was gone. I stood there, still feeling a little stupified, looking around my new domain. Of all the strange things that had happened to me in my life, this was certainly one of the strangest. Am I never to cross the Atlantic as myself? I wondered. Then I looked in the mirror and started to smile. The smile turned into a laugh. A week in luxury, waited on by a maid and stewards—that wasn’t too bad anyway you looked at it.
Seven
Down below there were shouts and cheers, the sounds of gangways clanking as they were withdrawn. A band was playing “Rule Britannia,” White Star being an English line. We were
underway. I opened my porthole and watched the New York skyline slide past me, until all I could see was ocean. The great ship reacted as it met the first of the big waves and my stomach reacted equally—not with queasiness, since I had proved myself an excellent sailor on the previous crossing, but with a surge of excitement. I was about to start a great adventure, now made even more thrilling by my new role as Oona Sheehan. I was off alone to Ireland, leaving behind the complications of my life. I planned to enjoy every minute of it, especially my newfound first-class splendor.
I was just settling down when there came a tapping at my door.
“Come in,” I called, trying to sound like a famous actress with a bad case of sore throat.
Instead of the steward a young girl came in, smiled shyly, and bobbed a curtsey.
“I’m Rose, miss. Miss Sheehan said I’m to look after you well and give you whatever you need.”
She was yet another Irish redhead, but round faced and sturdy.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Rose. I’m—”
She held up a hand. “Please don’t tell me your real name or ask me to call you by it, or I might slip up. The mistress said I’ve got to think ofyou as Oona Sheehan and that's what I’m trying to do. And it's not at all hard, with you looking like that. You’d be taken for her younger sister any day.”
“Thank you, Rose,” I said, “but it's only because of her clothes, her wig, and her makeup, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no, miss. I think you look lovely. Are you in the theater yourself?”
“No, I’m not, I’m afraid.”
“You should be glad, miss,” she said. “Terrible hard life in the theater. You should see what the mistress has to go through, with all those men following her around, calling her up on her telephone at all hours of the day and night, threatening to kill themselves if she won’t dine with them. My, but they’re a silly lot. Too many men with too much money and too much time on their hands, if you ask me.”
I nodded agreement.
“Is there something you’d like, miss?” she asked. “I think they’ve sounded the gong for the lunch sitting. Shall I have some lunch brought to you?”
“Lunch would be a grand idea,” I said. “You can stay and have some with me, if you’d like.”
She looked horrified. “Oh no, miss. That would never do. I know my place. I’ll have your steward deliver your lunch then, shall I?”
She curtseyed and was gone. I arranged myself on the daybed in what I hoped was an elegant pose, pretending to be reading a magazine, and waited. Soon thereafter the steward arrived with a lunch tray.
“I understand you’re feeling poorly, Miss Sheehan,” he said, looking down at me with concern. “That will never do. I’ve brought some things that might build you up—a good bowl of oxtail soup, some poached sole, some grapes, and a glass of ice cream. They should slip down easily enough, shouldn’t they?”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” I whispered as he put the tray on the table.
“That throat sounds terrible,” he said. “Should I summon the ship's doctor to take a look at it?”
“No, please don’t worry,” I said. “I just need to be left alone and rest. I’m sure I’ll be up and feeling bright again by the time we dock.”
“There will be a lot of disappointed young men when they hear that news,” he said, giving me a knowing smile. “I’ve had to direct several of them firmly from your door when the news got out that you were aboard. But don’t you worry. I’ll make sure you’re kept in peace for the whole voyage.”
“Thank you. You’re most kind,” I said, in what I hoped was a gracious and theatrical way. “What is your name again?” “Frederick, miss,” he said.
“Thank you, Frederick.” I tried to give the sort of smile Oona Sheehan might have flashed at an adoring male.
In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)
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