By the Light of the Silvery Moon Read Online Free

He considered opening the suitcase and going through its contents, but his instinct kicked in, telling him to leave, to run back to the safety of his room, to hide.
    Quentin finished bathing, dressed in his dirty pants and shirt, and then hurried back to his room that had two beds and a mahogany bureau. His heartbeat quickened at the thought of sleeping in a bed again. Of sleeping with a pillow, between fresh, clean sheets that had never been slept in.
    He placed the suitcase on the white bed covering. With a slight quiver of his hand, he opened the latches. Clothes. He pulled out a pair of new pants, a white shirt, and a jacket. A modest pair of shoes were tucked beside them, and under those yet another outfit.
    He lifted the jacket. A note fluttered to the ground. He picked it up. It smelled like the woman—soft and sweet like her perfume. Then he read:
    Dear Sir,
    My cousin has no need for his boat passage, nor for these garments my aunt sewed for him for the trip. Please accept these as our welcome aboard this beautiful vessel–have you ever seen such opulence in your life?
    The pants might be a bit short in length, the jacket a smidgen large. But I do hope you make use of them. Who knows, maybe we’ll see you at the dining hall later tonight. I’ll save a chair next to us just in case.
    With hopes of friendship,
Amelia Gladstone
     
    “Amelia,” he whispered, refolding the note and placing it on the bed. So that was the name of his angel of mercy.
    He looked at the jacket, and eagerness filled him. He would dress in these clothes and perhaps meet her and her aunt for supper. His only worry, though, was that his lack of excitement over this fine vessel would give him away. Amelia was wrong—he
had
seen such finery. Lived in places grander than this. But for a ship, he guessed, it was the nicest he’d seen.
    With a damp hand, he fingered the white cuff of the shirt.
    I’ll pretend to be awed by it all. For her.

C HAPTER 2
     
    F reshly bathed and in his new clothes, Quentin made his way to the second-class deck, amazed at the number of visitors and reporters who still strolled the decks so close to casting off. An older gentleman strode by in a white pinstriped suit. Even if the man was in second class, he dressed the part of someone from first class. Quentin was no stranger to playing the part of someone he wasn’t. He’d done it for years, living on the streets of London. He did it now. The ticket in his pocket read H ENRY G LADSTONE . He wondered what had caused Henry to skip the ship.
Poor Henry, missing out.
    Many people browsed the library, which still smelled of fresh paint. Quentin glanced into the room filled with books and polished wood, looking for the woman who’d given him the ticket. In addition to those who strode around the library, two men sat at a small table, relaxed and talking as if they spent every afternoon in such a manner.
    Quentin stepped back out onto the deck. A woman nearly walked into him. Her face was white, and she gripped a blue shawl around her shoulders. She had dark hair and a touch of gray at her temples. She longingly looked at the gangplank that would take her safely back to land.
    “I have a bad feeling about this. A bad feeling,” she muttered under her breath.
    “There is no need to worry, ma’am.” A red-haired deckhand cocked his chin and spoke as if he’d built the ship with his own two hands. “
Titanic
has been inspected bow to stern and declared man’s finest creation. God himself cannot sink this ship.”
    Quentin smirked as he heard the man’s words. He’d thrown more than enough boasting words into God’s face—and look where it had brought him. Yet while he shook his head, the woman stopped her pacing, relieved.
    Quentin scanned the sea of men in suits, women in fine hats, and children who wove in and out of the flow of bodies with their parents’ calls nipping at their heels.
    When he didn’t see the woman, he strolled along the second-class