Free A Song Across the Sea by Shana McGuinn

you’re doin’? Peepin’ in windows? You bloody well know you’re not supposed to be up here! Now get back down to steerage before I report you to the captain. And keep to your place from now on, if you know wot’s good for you.”
    His shrill orders were interrupted by a smoother, calmer voice.
    “See here. Using language like that in front of a lady is simply unacceptable.”
    The steward’s tone quickly changed to a submissive, conciliatory one. “B-b-b-begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you and Mrs. Rutherford standing there.”
    The Rutherfords! She’d overheard them being discussed by some other passengers. “Richer than God,” was one woman’s description of them. “A man of considerable influence. He inherited a vast fortune and made it even bigger. Owns a newspaper, a railroad, and several silver mines. He’s one of New York’s leading citizens, don’t you know.”
    Mr. Winthrop Rutherford looked about sixty-five, his slender, elegant wife perhaps five years younger. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles and had that effortless air of authority that bespoke wealth and power. His wife—her silver hair styled in waves that hugged her aristocratic head—shivered and pulled her velvety sable coat more tightly around her. She smiled kindly down at Tara, who suddenly felt foolish. Of all things, to be scolded by a steward while clinging idiotically to a ladder! How kind, though, of this couple to come to her and Dominic’s defense.
    Mr. Rutherford cleared his throat meaningfully. “I wasn’t referring to my wife, although I may very well have been. That young lady there”—he indicated Tara—”is also deserving of respect, whatever her station in life.”
    The steward was indignant. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve had some experience with this type. If I don’t put the fear o’God into ’em, they’ll likely try sneakin’ back here again—and bringin’ their mates with ’em next time. Best to keep ’em well below. They’re a smelly lot, they are. Most of ’em don’t even speak English.”
    Tara bristled. “I speak English better than you do, you Cockney wharf-rat! You may like to put on airs, but you can’t hide where you’re from. I may be poor, but I’m a good girl from an honest family. Had I manners as rude as yours, I wouldn’t be so free in talkin’ about people smellin’ and speakin’ other languages. You’ve obviously had no sort of upbringin’ at all.”
    Her outburst was followed by an uncomfortably long moment of silence. Mrs. Rutherford viewed Tara with astonishment, and not a little admiration. Her husband looked as if he were trying to suppress a laugh.
    “Well, steward, I guess that clears the air well enough.” He softened his demeanor, sounding reasonable and diplomatic. “Let these young people go on their way. And see that you use a little more tact in the future. They’re passengers, after all. Just like we are.”
    “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Rutherford, they’re hardly like you and your wife.” The steward’s obstinate refusal to concede defeat stopped Mr. Rutherford as he started to lead his wife away.
    “I would hate,” he said slowly, “to have to speak to the captain about this.”
    The steward finally gave in. “You won’t have to, sir. Good night, sir.”
    •  •  •
    Tara and Dominic returned to the starboard well deck, giggling uncontrollably.
    “You see that steward’s face when you call him—what is it?—a Cockney rat? You are so angry. And so beautiful when you are angry.”
    “Me mother always said I couldn’t hold me tongue.”
    The Atlantic was glassy and smooth around them, under a moonless sky aglitter with a legion of stars. She squeezed her hands together. Gripping the cold metal rung of the ladder for so long had stiffened and numbed her fingers. The frigid air began to seep in through her clothing and clawed at her skin, making her shiver.
    “You are cold? Dominic will warm you.”
    He wrapped his strong