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“Horatio, you’re quite late.” Hamlet says. “I rather thought you’d not be coming.”
Horatio wishes that he hadn’t, but it is too late to go back and hide in Hamlet’s study and wait out the last of the launch party. The Titanic is leaving Southampton the day after tomorrow, and Lord Pirrie has gathered the anxious investors and affluent passengers to flock around each other and play several awful games of cricket.
Horatio shouldn’t be here. He’s an assistant telegraph operator who had the good fortune to meet Prince Hamlet while delivering a birthday greeting from King Alphonse XII of Spain. He shouldn’t be at this party and he certainly shouldn’t be accepting the deep look of gratitude from Hamlet when he leans on the banister next to him.
“I was planning to toss myself into the cricket club’s charming little duck pond if you hadn’t arrived by noon,” Hamlet laughs.
Horatio straightens his sport’s coat and examines his shoes. “I’m afraid that Mr. Morgan was right when he said that you required constant supervision, your grace.”
Hamlet scoffs, slapping Horatio’s shoulder. “Did he really say that to you?” Horatio shrugs noncommittally, listening to the club’s pianist play a roster of pleasant summer etudes. “And you defended me, I’m sure? Told him what’s what?”
Horatio hazards brushing his fingers across Hamlet’s palm. “Pistols at dawn, actually.” The pianist pauses and the cricketers set down their mallets to clap.
“When I lived in Shanghai, I used to go to the Grand once a month and hear the big bands play pieces like that in concert. Thirty men on thirty types of saxophone. I would take you there, some time, Horatio.” Hamlet's smile was gentle; his memories, warm and fresh. “There’s nothing like that in Southampton, Horatio.”
Southampton is Horatio’s home, has been since he finished school, but it feels as if he hadn’t seen any of it until he met Hamlet. There are theatres and cathedrals and bathhouses; there are small coves in the University library and soft skin on the inside of Hamlet’s elbows. There is more to the city than cobbles and coffeehouses, and he finds that even if he cannot love Southampton, it at least has become more luminous in its gloom. Hamlet prefers the dark, and he has learnt to make it splendid. Unfortunately, there is little he can do little to darken the summer sun over the cricket club’s lunching deck. He tries, staying firmly beneath the shadow of the awning, but the heat is diligent and seeps in everywhere.
“I’m looking forward to America, though,” Hamlet admits. “It’s been ages since I went last. Six years.” Horatio leans against the wooden banister and catches Andrews’ eye. He dabs at his forehead and looks back to the cricket match, which is collecting its players back from the table of refreshments. “I went when I was thirteen,” Hamlet says. He picks at the paint on the banister and flicks it into the shrubbery. Hamlet’s eyes go distant and sad. “It will be hard without you. I have forgotten how to be alone.” Horatio moves closer to him, touches his shoulder with tender caution.
“I’m sorry,” Hamlet continues. He covers Horatio’s hand with his own. “I must sound like a child to you.”
Horatio shuffles closer still, till he is close enough to take Hamlet’s hand in his own. “You don’t, your grace.” He plays idle patterns against Hamlet’s palm, quiet and assured. He wonders if he should speak, chooses a dozen or more different replies. Months of life with Hamlet have estranged him from discomfort. He will acclimate again, he knows. Hamlet will take classes in the United States and Horatio will transcribe endless telegrams on endless transatlantic voyages and they will each relearn loneliness in their own time.
Horatio watches Captain Smith carry hushed conversation with Thomas Andrews out by the cricket pitch. Hamlet’s acquaintances and their relations scurry in half-hearted competition through their lazy game. Andrews wipes his patrician brow with an equally patrician handkerchief, glances longingly towards the shade of the deck where Hamlet lounges and listens to Shanghai jazz through his memories.
Ophelia sets her mug of tea on the stout table. The curls of steam are nearly opaque, thick wet rings extending to the ceiling of the cabin. “How is the journey treating you?”
“Fine. Three days at sea never passed so quickly,” he says softly. Hamlet does not stand, forgets to greet her. She pretends, as always, not to notice.
Ophelia turns the knob on the electric fireplace and pours another mug of strong tea. The ship pitches and the tea sloshes in the cup, lapping at the ceramic lip. Ophelia walks with short steps to the chaise lounge. Hamlet reaches out for the cup, wrapping his fingers around her small hands.
“Hamlet,” she murmurs. He glances up to meet her eyes, smiling.
Together they place the cup on the wooden arm of the chair. The ship pitches again, more gently. Titanic is large enough that the first class berths barely seem to move on calm days, but a storm such as this will make itself known.
“Hamlet,” she says again, stepping back. There is an echo of his palms on the backs of her hands when he releases them. “It will be hard without you in Copenhagen.”
Hamlet curls in on himself. He blows on the tea, sending the steam swirling away. “I suppose.”
She looks back to the small fire. “Will you visit?”
“No.”
Ophelia sighs. Thunder roars outside the cabin, sends flashes of brilliant lightning hurtling towards the sea.
"It makes you angry, doesn't it?" Hamlet asks, voice thin. She's not sure what he is referring to--his escape, his selfishness, her own loneliness without him--that he can leave and she cannot.
A wave smashes against the side of the ship, rattling the windows. “I don’t blame you.”
“Thank you.” Hamlet sips the tea politely. “How long will you be staying in New York?”
“Just one month. Visiting old friends, then heading back home.” Ophelia pulls a seat from Hamlet’s card table and sits down. Her gloves are folded and tucked into her belt, the same bright yellow as the wilting forsythia that she brought him that morning.
Hamlet blows cool air onto the tea. “How old are you now?”
Ophelia turns. She blinks several times before speaking. “How is the tea?”
Hamlet grunts, rising abruptly. “Ophelia,” he sighs, wondering where to go now that he is standing, “you look so different. How old are you?”
“You have been in Southampton for almost a year, your grace,” she says reasonably. “I grew up.”
Hamlet nods. “Of course. I’m sorry, Ophelia.” He sits back down, feeling foolish.
Ophelia smiles, not happy or sad. “I’m sorry too.”
The electric fire crackles. Thunder shakes the ship. Hamlet stands again. “Thank you, Ophelia, for the tea and for your company. I must go send a telegram.”
She nods and takes his mug, puts it down on the card table. He is only half aware of her presence as he puts on his evening jacket and changes his shoes. Ophelia, he is sure, will not be in his rooms when he returns. She will be in her own cabin, perhaps sewing or dancing or reading the Titanic’s daily paper. And he will be alone again, just as he wanted.
Horatio dozes in the telegraph office, curled up away from the operators on duty. His shift ended half an hour ago, but he could not muster the energy to go down to his crew berth for the night. Just a few more minutes, he promises himself, and I will go.
When he does finally make it out of the office, he finds Hamlet leaning on the wall, reading from a pocket-size novella.
“Horatio,” he chirps, stuffing the book away. “You're always late.”
Horatio wavers under exhaustion. “Hello, your grace.”
“I was feeling an awful gloom with all this stormy weather and felt myself in need of your company. Can this be granted?” Horatio allows himself to be dragged towards Hamlet’s cabin. He feels moderately more awake, but only enough to plod through the sumptuous Georgian decorations. It looks glorious and untouched; the only proof of a living inhabitant is a pair of tea mugs set on the ivory card table, a bouquet of pale yellow flowers on the armoire.
Hamlet gives Horatio a gentle push towards the bed. Horatio accepts the offer and lies down, listens to Hamlet prattle about his eccentric wealthy friends as he readies for bed in the washroom. He went lunching with the so-and-sos of Westchester, took his supper with the something-or-other of Spurila, had a morning run with the owner of this or that railroad company.
“Horatio?” Hamlet says. “Horatio, have you been listening?”
He grunts noncommittally, trying to recall the long list of names and companies that Hamlet has recited.
“Well, Horatio, I was just thinking about New York.”
“New York?”
“When we dock,” Hamlet mused. “What will become of us?” He dipped his comb back into the sink basin, wetting the teeth. His hair was an unruly mess, cowlicks and curls insisting on undignified directions. Horatio wondered if he had gone around like that all day. Probably.
Hamlet listened for the soft patter of Horatio’s footsteps as he rose from the bed, wandering about the cabin, picking up some small luxury and examining it before replacing the vignette or tea plate or statuette.
“Us?” Horatio asks. “I suppose we’ll disembark. You’ll go to school and I’ll sail back on the return trip.”
Hamlet snorts. “And what then? You’ll live aboard Titanic, and I'll study till I die, and we’ll never see each other again?”
Horatio’s footsteps halt. “If you like.” Hamlet leans against the sink, closes his eyes and imagines it. He does not like what he sees.
“Why don’t you stay on staff at White Star in their New York office? They’ll need telegraph operators stateside, I assume. I can speak to J.P.” Hamlet offers. “He owes me a favor, anyhow.”
"Who does? J.P. Morgan?” Horatio calls out. Hamlet realized a second too late that this was not the right thing to say.
“A little favor,” Hamlet amends. This is not true. The springs on the bed give a slight squeal as Horatio lies down again. His shift at the telegraph starts in eight hours, and he needs his rest between then and now, but he never takes it. He prefers to sit up and listen to Hamlet’s strange world of millionaires and princes.
“I spoke to Roosevelt about lengthening the docks in New York a few years back, make them large enough for White Star’s fleet.” Hamlet tells him, dropping the comb into the basin for a soak. He splashed a bit of water on his face and toweled it off. He drops the towel in the bath basin and returns to his bedroom.
Horatio’s hair is a dark inkblot on Hamlet’s crème pillows. He wonders if he could reel him in forever, like a hawk on a hunter’s arm. Horatio has a silent heart, so quiet that Hamlet must hold his breath to hear whatever feeling it might churn out. He listens now, standing still as he can in the doorframe. Horatio picks at the coverlet. When he glances up to meet Hamlet’s eyes, he looks resolute. “I don’t want to talk about New York anymore,” he says.
“Let’s not think about New York,” Hamlet breathes, at last. He sits on the edge of the quilt and Horatio leans up to kiss him. “Let’s stay here and never reach New York at all.”
“As you command, your grace.”