Tom recovered first. He raced in, shouting to John to block the goal. He spared her no quarter, or at least not much, and the two of them wrestled with the ball to gain or keep control.
Exhilarated, Casey nudged them nearer her goal, occasionally using her long skirts to good advantage; Tom could not see the ball when she let them drop a bit, but she could always feel where it was. He laughed a bit in frustration, then took a chance and kicked where he thought the ball was. It escaped them both, but Casey was closer and she kicked it hard, startling John, who had not taken Tom’s order seriously.
As it sailed an inch above John’s outstretched arm, accompanied by yells and whistles from the spectators, Casey’s melancholy returned in full force, slamming her to a complete standstill, heart racing and lungs unable to fill with air. Tom touched her shoulder in alarm.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
She looked up into his anxious face, twitching once at the concern in his eyes, and her own fear. “Don’t go.”
“What?” He looked confused.
Her eyes flashed in sudden rage and she moved back a step, away from his arm. “On Titanic. I don’t want you to go.”
If she had turned him to stone, he could not have been more frozen. They faced each other, the breeze dancing through the trees and through Casey’s hair, which had come loose from its pins. Willie’s voice came to them just as a shaft of sunlight lit the ground at their feet: “Everything all right? Is she hurt?”
Tom raised an arm, keeping them all at a distance, as he continued to stare at Casey. The others drifted away, taking Jamie with them, mystified, but giving the couple space. Casey’s chin quivered a moment, then she lifted it defiantly, returning Tom’s stare; the course was committed and she couldn’t take back her words.
“I have to go.” His words sounded hollow, somehow.
She shook her head, slowly and carefully, her eyes still on his face. “You don’t. We need you, Tom. I need you.” Her voice was brittle.
“Casey.” He licked his lips, holding his hand out in an attempt to be reasonable. “For five years, we’ve planned this. I’ve done everything you and Sam suggested, I’ve made every change I could, I’ve made every contingency plan. Would you have me send someone else?”
Guilt tugged at her. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. But her lips tightened when he spoke again. “Should I send George? Or Ed?” He searched her face. “They have families, too. Would you have me send them off, with no warning of what’s to happen to them? With no knowledge of what needs to be done?”
He reached for her hand; she didn’t pull it away, but made no effort to hold his. He continued. “You and I and Sam have worked out the best method for unlatching the lifeboats, for loading people onto the boats. We’ve worked out how to get the third class people up to the boat deck. I’m taking an extra pair of binoculars and I know to give them to the lookouts. I can make sure Captain Smith gets all the ice warnings. If I have too, Casey, I can sabotage the engines. Sweetheart, there isn’t anyone else who can go.”
Tears trickled down his face. She knew what this was costing him. He stepped toward her, putting his arms around her and she felt something loosen in her heart. She slid her arms around his waist. “I know you have to go,” she whispered, not sure if he could hear her. “But I don’t want you to. I will never want you to. I don’t know how to live without you.”
He tightened his hold on her. “There’s never a guarantee about that, sweetheart, you know that. We always assume I won’t die before April fifteenth, but we don’t know anything about after that. It’s that way for everybody.”
“I know.”
He began to stroke her hair, urging her to look up, but she wouldn’t. So he just held her, and she listened to him whispering that he could never express how sorry he was for what he was asking of her.
Chapter 39
November 1911—April 1912
Tom had just arrived home and was in the library with Casey and Sam, when Mrs. Pennyworth appeared in the doorway, her arm resting lightly on the shoulder of young lad of about ten, who stood twisting his cap nervously in his hands. His gaze took in the three adults before he ducked his head and stared firmly at the floor.
“This is Johnny Peake,” Mrs. Pennyworth said, her face tight. “He just showed up at the back door, sayin’ he needs to speak with ye, sir.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Casey. “He told me what it’s about and I know ye’d like to hear him.”
“Certainly.” Tom took a step toward them, but stopped when the boy flinched. Thinking quickly, he slipped into the common Ulster dialect. “D’ye need to talk to just me, or to all of us, lad?”
Johnny looked the question to Mrs. Pennyworth, whom he had evidently decided was his ally. The corner of her mouth turned up for a moment as she returned his look. “All of ye, I think, sir. T’would be best.”
Tom nodded and held out an arm. Mrs. Pennyworth gave the boy a gentle shove into the room, before turning to leave.
“Perhaps some hot cocoa, Mrs. Pennyworth?” Tom asked. She nodded as she walked away. Tom eyed the nervous boy. “Sit ye down, Johnny.” He held a hand out to Casey. “This is Mrs. Andrews, and this gentleman is Mr. Altair, my wife’s guardian.”
Johnny perched on the edge of a chair, his wide eyes going from one to the other, hands continuing to twist his cap. He was pale, freckles visible on his face. His foot shook, as if he were prepared to dash from the room at any moment. Casey sat across from him, and Tom let her speak first, hoping the boy would be less afraid of her. “You’re out late, Johnny. Do your parents know you’re here?”
Johnny shook his head, back to gazing at the floor again. “Nay, ma’am. I told ’em I was down the street at my mate’s. They don’t know anythin’ about it, I swear.”
“About what?” Tom asked.
Johnny was trying valiantly not to cry, but tears sparkled in his eyes as he looked up. “About that letter. After the riot. They don’t know my little brother was ’ta one who wrote it.”
Tom froze, seeing Casey slowly lift a hand to cover her mouth, as if to hold back a scream. He placed a hand on her arm, not taking his eyes off the boy. Sam stood next to him, silent.
The boy continued. “Was Sloan made him do it. He didn’t know what it was, sir. He were only seven last year. Can’t spell right or nothin’. He said Sloan spelled the words for him to write.” He looked over at Casey, at the tears rolling down her cheeks, and his lips tightened. “It was in the paper. Our Da’ brought the paper home and read it out loud to Mum. Said whoever wrote that letter should be skinned alive.”
Johnny’s whole body was shaking now, but he seemed determined to finish. “My brother never said anythin’ to anyone. But he’s been sick all year, his stomach hurtin’ all the time and he stays in bed a lot. An’ he keeps havin’ bad dreams. Wakes me up all the time with his yellin’.”
Johnny stretched the twisted cap, playing it like an accordion. “He finally told me about it last night. He’s afraid Da’ will skin him if he finds out.” He looked up, his face earnest. “Da’ wouldn’t. I told him that. Da’ meant the man who made the boy write the letter should be skinned, but my brother didn’t know that. He’s been scared all year. He said Sloan made him promise to never say he wrote it and he was real afraid to tell me. Sloan’s mean, sometimes. I don’t know what to do.”
“Ah, lad.” Anger, regret, and triumph warred within Tom as he stood and pulled the boy into a hug, holding him tightly. “’Tis a miserable world where our children are used as pawns in adult games.” He stared at Casey over the boy’s head, seeing all her emotions play across her face—compassion for the children, fury at Sloan, fear. He was filled with uncertainty. What was their next step?