Caledon:

Silken sheets twist about my ankles; shackles, chains. I kick them away violently—it does no good. Oh. Damn it. Damn it all to hell, I had forgotten that she was beautiful. So beautiful. When she walked into that ballroom, the crowd of guests behind her, the ancient village bringing me my bride, I had felt a swell of possession so strong it had nearly knocked me to my knees. Charlotte Ashton had come before me a magnificent jewel, beautiful beyond belief, and I wanted her.

I love beautiful things, pride myself on my ability to acquire them. I will own Charlotte Ashton; she will be the crown jewel of my empire.

Thoughts such as these are the only thing capable of calming me now, nearly four in the morning, the rest of the house asleep. Yes, my bedroom does not face the sea, but in return the silence consumes me. Sweat drips down my back, between my skin and the linen of my nightshirt, pastes my hair to my forehead and rips the breath from my lungs. Sleep, I try to sleep. I have to sleep. But I cannot. I close my eyes and with nothing to fill the dead air, my memory fills it instead. Screaming. Always screaming. I waited so long to get off that damn ship, almost too long—the very thought makes my blood run cold.

You see, the difference between me and other young men of my standing is that I know I’m going to hell.

Which is why I’m determined to rip every ounce of pleasure out of life that I can.

Do not think to get away from me Charlotte. You are far too beautiful to escape my attention. I will have you willing whether you like it or not. I am not a man who enjoys cavorting with whores, or anyone else beneath my station for that matter. No, do not force me to humiliate you by turning to one of your peers for gratification.

She would have never bored me. No, even in those final nights together, she came to me, though dare I say it, probably unwilling. I had her, between those brand new sheets, in those beds that had never been slept in. I think that she lost herself in our coupling, pretending perhaps that she was somewhere else, even with someone else—much as it wounds me to admit. There was a degree of passion that she brought to my bed that not once had she ever shown me in our day-to-day exchanges. No, it was only the night before those final, fatal hours that she did not come to me…

And then there was madness.

I hear that little girl crying. Do you think that I’m a beast because I feel nothing but annoyance? That child who was my ticket off the ship, who was my ticket to life, who as soon as I was on the lifeboat I unceremoniously threw to somebody else?

Yes, hell indeed.

Kill or be killed. And besides, the child lived, what have I to feel guilty for? It was a mutually beneficial arrangement for the both of us.

Still, the screams do not stop. All steerage; most of the first class who lived were in boats by then. Screams in every language imaginable, from every human being imaginable. Screams that were silenced by the frigid Atlantic.

Less than a mile away from Roslyn Court is the Beechwood Estate, where John Jacob Astor the sixth, barely three years old, sleeps fatherless.

But I lived.

I lived.

But what good is living if I cannot get a decent night’s rest?!

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Augusta:

He is awake. I know he is. I feel it in my bones; my body is nearly shaking with the knowledge.

Shaking? With what reason? With fear? My fiancé is a cold, controlled man—not the kind of man who is easily broken or who takes well to people who won’t break. With apprehension? Once I am married, I know that he shall take me away from here, back with him to New York, where I will be expected to become his hostess, where his position will require that I be a brilliant hostess.

But I know that I can do that. I am young, but I have the best of the best in breeding. I will crush any woman who gets in my way, and one day, my name will rival even Alva Vanderbilt’s.

With desire? I always thought that I did not want a handsome husband, and Lord knows that I am still wary of it. An older, ugly man I could turn from with a blind eye as he sought his own amusements. But this man? This man? Caledon Hockley stands tall in the prime of his life, dark and vital, Hades reborn. When he walks by, heads turn. I was never a jealous girl—I never lacked anything to be jealous over. But how shall I behave when Hockley, as all men do, seeks the company of another woman in his bed? It is unnatural that I should want to be the only one there. No, not natural at all.

New York society? That will be nothing to conquer, just as Newport was nothing, just as Cambridge was nothing. But a man’s heart?

This is far too dangerous.

It is cold in my bedroom, but I do not care. Every window is open—I need every window open. The sound of the waves offers comfort, even if that comfort is small. Will I be able to hear the ocean in Manhattan? Somehow I do not think so.

I close my eyes; a dangerous, unexplained fantasy comes into my brain. Hockley, in bed with me, behind me, pulling my body into the warm curve of his own, his arm locked around my waist, his nose and lips blowing soft wisps of air against my neck. I cannot hear the ocean now, no, only his breathing. No matter how soft it is, it is still a roar, inundating my mind, blocking out all else. What’s worst of all is that I embrace the fantasy; I let it drag me down with it, the roar of his breath growing louder, his grip on my waste growing tighter, tighter, tighter…

I sit bolt upright. The heat of my phantom fiancé’s body is gone—the room is cold. The Atlantic sings to me from beyond the open balcony doors, the sweet crash of the waves mixed in with my own harsh panting.

This is ridiculous, moronic even. I kick my lavender satin bed sheets aside and vault myself over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the Chinese carpet beneath my feet with a dull thud. To my balcony I go, my sanctuary, and as I wrap my fingers around the white iron railing, Hockley’s engagement ring shines in the starlight. In that moment it strikes me, a feeling unlike any that I have ever felt before—a premonition. A gut instinct that is telling me to run, that I am standing on the edge of some great precipice and that should I jump now, the only result will be my body broken on the rocks below.

I shake my head against the breeze. Breathe Augusta. How many times have I offered up that silent prayer to myself this evening? I am not a creature prone to “gut” instinct and all manner of that idiocy. I operate on facts, and the facts state that Hockley is a fine match, one of the few matches whose wealth exceeds my own.

But still, something within my nags. Where shall you be at the end of all this?

“Checking the rails? I was under the impression that the Ashton family had the means to hire people for that sort of thing.”

The sound of his voice is like a fist around my neck. I stand so quickly that I almost fall, bracing myself against the balustrade. He is standing there, at the door of my room, dressed in slippers and robe, his hair falling almost playfully in front of his face…almost. Nothing about Caledon Hockley is playful.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Caledon:

I don’t know why I got up. I don’t know why I started wandering around. And I certainly don’t know why I entertained the notion that anything good could come from entering her room.

But the silence. The silence had over ridden my control. I needed to be somewhere where I wasn’t weak, where I wasn’t useless. I needed noise. Yelling evening. Maybe Charlotte will slap me for my impertinence.

And yet, no. I am her husband, if not yet by law than certainly in practice. She should welcome me to her room, to her bed, without question. I saw the light on; I knew that she was not sleeping.

“Mr. Hockley.” Her voice is unsure of herself, which makes me smile. It is good to know that I have the upper hand, though perhaps not for long. Her hair looks darker in the dim light, and it is longer than I thought it would be. Her skin looks pale as she stands on the balcony, the white of her nightgown almost translucent. Behind her, the Atlantic Ocean tosses and turns.

I am disgusted when the urge to run nearly overcomes me.

“Charlotte,” I say, advancing towards her, my informality intentional. For a moment, she looks as though she will correct me, but she shuts her mouth, her eyes never leaving my face. She does not move from her position on the balcony, and though I know that I am only imaging it, the sea seems to grow louder behind her, the waves larger, an otherworldly older brother, standing ready to defend her honor.

“You must call me by my given name,” I say, my perfect charm never slipping, my voice almost cheerful, as if I hadn’t been thrown out of bed at four in the morning by my own demons.

“Yes. Of course Cal, I—”

“My given name is not Cal,” I snap, the monster that I know I am so capable of becoming rearing it’s ugly head. She nearly steps back at the sting of my voice. Good. I shall never hear another woman call me “Cal.”

“Caledon,” she amends quietly.

Silence.

After a moment, “Good night.” She pauses. “Mr. Hockley.”

I smile, allowing her to dismiss me. I’ll give her that small victory. I say nothing as I leave, quite sure that my new wife will be perfectly adequate. There is fury smoldering in her eyes, but she says nothing either.

Good. That is all I require.

And if there is something nagging in my gut, telling me to turn back towards her, I ignore it.