Haunting the Deep Page 7

  Mary smiles.

  “I’d be careful with that offer, Mr. M,” Alice says. “Mary may look small, but she’s got the metabolism and food capacity of a Tasmanian devil.”

  The girls stop as if on cue and take in the room.

  “This is like a time capsule from the eighteen hundreds,” Susannah says. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Well, feel free to have a party in here anytime you like,” my dad says.

  Mary walks to the middle of the room and turns around twice. Her eyes widen. “What if we all meet here before the Spring Fling? It’s ideal for pictures.”

  My dad lights up. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “I wasn’t going—” I start to say.

  But Mary cuts me off with a squeal. “Is there a way to play music in here?”

  My dad grins. “Sure thing. There’s an old record player over there, and we could easily bring in a stereo with some speakers.”

  I cringe, remembering my fight with Jaxon. On impulse I pull out my phone and check my texts, but there are none. I usually hear from him ten times a day. I type a text and press send: Can we talk?

  Mary walks up to the old gramophone. She lifts the lid and places the needle on a record. Scratchy classical music fills the room, and Mary bounces on the balls of her feet. Something about the music feels oddly familiar, and not good familiar. She picks up the needle and the room goes quiet.

  The doorbell chimes. Jaxon?

  “I’ll get it,” I say. Would he really come over that fast?

  I speed-walk down the hall to the foyer and peer through the brass peephole. No one’s there. I open the door and squint into the darkness. A long glossy white box with a black bow sits on our steps with a card tucked into the ribbon.

  I step outside and look around. “Hello?” But there’s no answer, and no delivery truck leaving from the curb.

  I pull the box inside and open the card. It’s written in beautiful cursive, not as loopy as Elijah’s calligraphy, but close. It reads:

  Niece? Myra H.H.? “Daaad?”

  My dad comes down the hall so quickly I feel bad for having yelled his name. The girls are right behind him.

  “Sam?” he says, and looks down at the pretty box. He’s on edge about every little thing. It’s almost like he’s waiting for something bad to happen the same way I am.

  I hand him the card.

  His brow furrows. “Huh. Well, that’s odd, considering your mother and I were only children. And I don’t know anyone named Myra. I suppose ‘aunt’ could be loosely referring to someone from my mother’s extended family? I just didn’t think we had any Haxtun relatives left.”

  “Haxtun?”

  “Your grandmother’s maiden name was Haxtun. That could be what one of the H’s stands for. No other H names in the family that I can recall. Maybe this is one of her second cousins I don’t know about?” He looks at me. “Come to think of it, that painting we talked about in the hallway—she might have been a Haxtun. Was this all that was in the envelope?”

  “Yeah. No address or phone number of any kind.”

  Alice steps past Mary to get a closer look at the card.

  “Go on. Open it, Sam. I can’t take all the suspense,” Mary says.

  I untie the elaborate bow and slide the white lid off the box at arm’s length, not entirely convinced something won’t jump out at me. Inside, there is rose tissue paper and an emerald-green silk dress with short white lace sleeves. My dream! That green dress on the deck!

  I rub my thumb against my palm and avoid looking at my dad.

  Susannah lifts it up, and the skirt falls all the way to the floor. The fabric hangs in complicated folds, and the lace looks fragile.

  “Why would someone send me a fancy dress?”

  “This isn’t just a dress,” Mary says. “It’s an Edwardian evening gown.”

  Alice’s eyebrows go up. “Like Titanic Edwardian?”

  Mary nods, and we all stare at the gown.

  “Isn’t that the theme of your school dance?” my dad asks.

  “Yeah, maybe our Haxtun relative sent this for the dance?”

  “I don’t know the Haxtuns. It does seem odd for one of them to send you a dress out of the blue like this, though.” My dad laughs. “And we were just talking about you girls meeting here for pictures.”

  I swallow. Does he have any idea how weird this is? Or does he just think it’s a strange coincidence?

  “My mom’s sisters do this constantly,” Alice says quickly, and I’m extremely grateful to her for normalizing it. “I think I had seven different dress options for my tenth birthday.”

  “If this Myra knows about your school dance, she must live nearby. Want me to ask Mae about her?” my dad asks.

  I shake my head. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask her. That way I can send a thank-you card or something.”

  “Whoever saw someone look so gloomy after getting a beautiful dress.” He smiles at me. “You used to love them when you were little.”

  My shoulders relax. “They’re uncomfortable and I always trip,” I say. I couldn’t be more thrilled he thinks I’m upset only because it’s a dress.

  “Here.” He hands me back the card. “I’ll check outside for a delivery slip.”

  Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he does think it’s weirder than he’s letting on. My dad opens the door, steps outside, and closes it behind him.

  The girls move in so close, all of our shoulders touch.

  “I saw this dress in my dream. The very first dream I had. It was on the deck of the ship,” I say fast and nervously.

  Alice rubs her forehead. “And we were talking about the dance when it showed up. Another item appearing out of nowhere. And I don’t believe in coincidences. I think Redd was right that we started something. Don’t mess with this dress until we decide what to do with it.” Even in a whisper she sounds bossy.

  “We need to track down this Myra H.H.,” Susannah says. “I’m gonna ask my mom. Mary, you do the same.”

  “I’ll look in my grandmother’s study. Maybe she has some sort of record of our extended relatives. And not to change the topic, but as far as meeting here before the dance goes…Do you really think we should be going anywhere near something Titanic-themed?”

  “We can’t be sure the dance is even connected. But if it is, there’s no question that we have to go. We need all the information we can get.” Alice gives me a warning look. “And I’m serious about not touching that dress, Sam.”

  If Alice is right that the dance is inevitable, I need to talk to Jaxon. Everything’s changed since this morning. The door opens, and we all jump a foot apart.

  “No delivery slip,” my dad says.

  “Yeah, I’ll give you a call later with the homework assignment,” I say to Susannah.

  Mary picks up her bag, which was resting near the mail table.

  “You girls get home safe,” my dad says. “And come over soon so we can plan what to do for those pictures.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. M,” Mary says.

  The door shuts behind them, and it’s just me, my dad, and the awful dress.

  My dad wraps his arm around my shoulder. “That was fun.”

  I look up at his chin, which has a little bit of stubble on it. “You’re just basking in the fact that you’re hosting the pre-dance get-together, Mr. M.”

  “That was all your friend Mary’s idea. I’m only the hired help around here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He smiles. “It was nice having them over, though, wasn’t it? You’ve finally met a group of people who avoid brightly colored clothing the way you do. I better not take you girls anywhere at night. I might lose you.” He winks at me.

  I blow on a hot cup of strawberry-mint tea and stare at the dress box on my window seat. My phone buzzes on my nightstand.

  Jaxon: Talk tomorrow. Going to bed.

  Okay, he’s officially mad at me. He waited four whole hours to tell me that? And I get it; I’d be frustrated with
me, too. I don’t even know how that conversation spiraled out of control this morning or how we wound up talking about Elijah.

  I exhale audibly. “Why are you so hard to forget? I didn’t even like you at first, and here I am getting into arguments about whether or not I still have feelings for you? Total bull. And here I also am talking to myself for no good reason. You suck.”

  I put my phone down, and my eyes move back to the box. I’m just gonna put my jams on and not think about any of this until tomorrow.

  I walk to my armoire, grab the latch, and pause. I look back at the box. We opened it before and nothing witchy happened. We took the dress out and everything. I let go of the armoire door. It can’t be that dangerous to touch it if Susannah already did, right?

  I take off the box lid and grab the emerald-green silk dress. The box falls by my feet as I spread out the delicate fabric on my bed. A piece of white lace peeks out from the rose tissue paper on the floor. I push it aside, and there are lacy shorts, a bra, a slip, and a skirt. Who sends someone historical underwear?

  I run my fingers over the silk and down the seams. I’m not usually a dress fan, but even I have to admit this one is beautiful. Would it really be so bad to try it on?

  I slip off my jeans and sweater and step into the dainty shorts. I slide each layer on as though I know instinctively how they fit together. Weird. Last time I tried on a dress in a store, I got my shoulders caught and had to yell for help from the changing room.

  Once the delicate layers are on, I pick up the dress, pull it over my head, and—

  My vision blurs, and for a split second I panic. But the panic leaves just as quickly as it came. And with one blink, the world comes back into focus, a more vibrant world than I remember.

  I’m standing in front of a long oval mirror in my many undergarments. A girl just a couple of years older than me is tightening the laces on my corset. She wears a dark gray wool dress, and her curly brown hair is tucked into a white cap.

  Am I supposed to know who she is? I must; she’s dressing me. How could I not know someone who’s dressing me? My worry returns, but is quashed before it can take hold. I touch my stomach as the girl gives the corset laces a strong pull.

  “How am I going to eat in this thing?” Am I going to eat?

  The girl winks at me. “Small bites, miss,” she says with an accent. British? No, Irish, I think. She pulls an emerald-green dress off a pink satin hanger and holds it above my head for me to slip my arms into. “This must be the prettiest dress on the whole ship.”

  My brain is in a thick fog, and my mouth is answering when it shouldn’t. “Do I seem like myself to you?”

  The long skirt glides to the floor, and she works on fastening the small buttons in the back. “Just like yerself. Only maybe a wee more elegant in this.” She examines me in the mirror and runs her hands along my sides to smooth the fabric.

  Her voice is reassuring, and I smile at her. “I’d be more elegant if I didn’t trip in dresses.”

  She laughs. “Nonsense. Ya’ve made a singularly good impression here. There are a number o’ ladies talkin’ about yer fashion. And one young man in particular seems quite smitten. Come, sit down. I’ll fix yer hair.”

  The girl has freckles that form a speckled cloud under her eyes and across her nose. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name. That’s awful that I can’t remember her name when she seems to know me so well. My nervousness comes back for a third time, only it’s so weak that I brush it off entirely.

  The girl leads me to the vanity, and I sit down in the chair, careful not to catch my dress on anything.

  I watch in the mirror as she twists and pulls my hair into elaborate patterns. “Where did you learn to do hair like that?”

  “Me mum taught me. I was never quite awake in the mornin’ before school, and by the time I was dressed and ready, I’d missed me breakfast. She used ta say, ‘Mollie, do yer hair quick and yer eatin’ slow.’ ” She smiles to herself, and I smile with her.

  Mollie, her name is Mollie. She grabs a hairpin from the vanity and pushes it into my hair.

  “Sooo, who is it?” I ask.

  “Me mum, miss?”

  I laugh. “No. Who’s the guy who’s smitten?” What in the hell kind of a word is “smitten”?

  Mollie’s freckled cheeks lift in a smile, and she leans close to my ear. “Mr. Alexander Jessup Jr. I heard from one of the waiters that he could barely hold a conversation over lunch with his pa for seein’ ya. He nearly toppled his chair once, tryin’ ta get a better look atcha. But ya didn’t hear it from me. Yer uncle would box me ears if he knew I was gossipin’.”

  “I won’t say a word.” I run my fingers along the brown bristles of the hairbrush in front of me. “I don’t remember meeting an Alexander. Will you point him out to me?”

  There’s a noise in the adjoining room.

  Mollie stands straight up like someone pinched her in the butt. “I would be happy ta walk ya to the dinin’ room, miss,” she says at normal volume, and winks at me in the mirror.

  My messy hair has been transformed into an elaborate updo with more pins than I can count. Mollie lifts a gold lace ribbon with tiny pearls on it and weaves it into my hairstyle like a headband.

  I turn around once in front of the long mirror to make sure everything’s in order. This corset might be the end of me.

  A bugle belts a tune.

  “Time fer dinner, then.” Mollie holds out a long white coat and I slip my arms into it.

  We leave my bedroom, with its canopied bed, and make our way into the burgundy-colored sitting room, which has plush armchairs and a fireplace. Mollie holds the door for me. The moment I step into the hallway, I realize I’m unsure which way to go. It looks familiar and foreign at the same time. Maybe I ate something I shouldn’t have and it’s making me sick?

  “Left, miss,” she says, and I listen. “Through this archway on yer right.”

  I smile at her. I’m glad she’s here. I would feel strange wandering around with all these fancy people, asking for directions. We walk through a long room with couches and a sprawling grand staircase shaped like a lady’s fan.

  Mollie opens a door that leads into an extravagant dining room. The tiles on the floor look exactly like Persian carpet, white columns come down from the ornate white ceiling, and women wear jewelry fit for museums.

  I grab Mollie’s hand. There must be more than two hundred elegantly dressed people in here, many of whom turn to inspect me as we pass.

  “On yer left,” Mollie whispers, “three tables ahead of us. Alexander Jessup Jr.”

  I count up three tables and make brief eye contact with a handsome guy around my age with brown hair and blue eyes. He smiles at me, and my heart leapfrogs.

  “Yer uncle Harry is watching, miss,” Mollie whispers, and leads me to a table on my right.

  I immediately shift my gaze to a distinguished middle-aged gentleman, who rises from his seat. “You look beautiful this evening, niece. That dress suits you perfectly.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Harry.” His name sticks in my mouth like I’ve never said it before. I hope he doesn’t notice. Maybe the motion of the boat is affecting me? Actually, I’m sure that’s it. I’m not used to sea travel. I exhale, relieved to have located the probable cause of my strange feelings.

  Mollie takes my white coat and gives it to a waiter. Behind my uncle is a youngish-looking man with handsome brown skin and strikingly attractive features.

  My uncle follows my line of sight and turns to the man. “That will be all, Hammad.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hammad bows and makes eye contact with me before he walks away. He’s got an accent that I can’t quite place.

  My uncle brings his napkin to his lap.

  A waiter appears to my right. “May I serve you wine, miss?”

  I almost say no, that I’m not old enough. But I look at my uncle, and he doesn’t seem to object. “Yes, thank you.”

  The waiter fills my glass withou
t spilling a drop on the crisp white tablecloth.

  “Since it is only the two of us for dinner tonight, I thought we might invite the Jessups to sit with us. Yea or nay?” His amused grin lets me know Alexander’s feelings are not a secret. But if he’s inviting him to our table, then he must approve, right?

  I nod into my wineglass, and my uncle waves them over.

  A man around my uncle’s age, tall and lean with a hard face, approaches with Alexander behind him.

  “May I present Mr. Alexander Jessup and his son, Alexander Jessup Jr.” My uncle gestures toward me. “My niece, Samantha Mather. Her aunt and I have just taken her on a tour of Europe and Asia.”

  Europe and Asia? But as they both bow to me, my question fades from my thoughts.

  Mr. Jessup claps my uncle on the back and takes the seat next to him. “What a treat that we can join you both tonight, Mr. Harper.”

  Alexander sits next to me.

  The older men start talking immediately, and I read my menu, which has “RMS TITANIC” stenciled at the top. I frown at it. I have a nagging sense I can’t remember something. Something I don’t like.

  “Did you enjoy your tour, Miss Mather?” Alexander asks.

  I look up from my menu to find dark blue eyes focused intently on me. For a second I forget he’s asked me a question.

  “Call me Samantha.”

  He smiles, and it’s hard not to smile back at him. His brown hair is combed perfectly, and his suit is obviously expensive. “And you must call me Alexander.”

  “I will. I don’t like formality. Do you?”

  He laughs. “Do not say that too loudly in here or a couple of old women might faint.”

  I smile now, too. “They might not be the only ones. If I breathe too hard in this corset, I might pass out. Good thing these chairs have arms.”

  “If they did not, I would catch you.”

  Mollie was right. He’s definitely flirting with me. I clear my throat. “Where do you live?”

  “New York City. Not far from the Harpers. I met you a couple of years back at one of their Christmas parties. Do you remember?”