Invited
Meg had just dozed off when a knocking on the cabin door jarred her awake. The family had come back briefly after breakfast, delivering the promised food stuffs, and then set out again. This time, Ruth was determined to see an “ocapus,” and even though her parents warned her that Uncle Charlie probably wouldn’t be around to help her find one, she was hopeful he would show up.
She wasn’t the only one.
But Meg was fairly certain when she reached the door, it wouldn’t be him on the other side. Pulling it open to find Jonathan standing in the hall, therefore, was not disappointing.
“I think you should come with me,” he said, not even bothering with a greeting.
Meg ran a hand through her disheveled hair. “Does he want to see me?” she asked, confused.
“Not necessarily,” Jonathan admitted. “But I think you should still come with me.”
“To Charlie’s stateroom?”
“Yes.”
“Uninvited?”
“Invited by me.”
She considered the proposition again. “But what if he….”
“Meg, what could possibly be worse?”
He had a point. “All right. Can I bring the dress and other items I need to return to Molly?”
“Of course,” he replied and waited for her to go and fetch them from beneath the bed.
She kept them wrapped in the blanket so they wouldn’t be so awkward to carry, and they made their way up and over to First Class.
Jonathan was unusually quiet as they walked along, and Meg was hesitant to speak. At one point, she did ask, “Is Charlie’s room near Mrs. Brown’s?” and was answered with a quiet, “No.” She was left wondering what she might be doing with the dress and other items then, which he had insisted on carrying for her, but she soon realized she was only so focused on returning those items because she didn’t want to think about the conversation she was about to have with Charlie—if he would even speak to her at all.
Upon reaching the stateroom, Jonathan ushered her into the parlor. They could hear Charlie in the bedroom, and the valet clearly wanted to make sure he spoke to Charlie before he discovered Meg’s presence. “Have a seat,” Jonathan said, and rushed off into the adjoining room.
She had traveled on luxurious ocean liners before, but she had never seen anything quite like this stateroom. The furniture was Georgian, whereas Mrs. Brown’s had been Louis XV, and the sheer size of the space was also quite impressive. As she sat in the chair Jonathan had pointed out for what seemed an eternity, she could hear their muffled exchange coming from the other room, and though she could not understand what was being said, it was clear Charlie was not happy that Jonathan had retrieved her without his permission. She began to glance nervously at the door, pondering the possibility of just walking out. As time went by, the idea seemed more and more appealing, and she had just placed her hand on the armchair to push herself up to standing when the bedroom door opened.
Charlie looked terrible--for Charlie anyway, which compared to most people still made him quite handsome, but she couldn’t help but notice that he looked ill. His skin was pale, his hair was damp, there were bags beneath his eyes, which were bloodshot, and even though he was neatly dressed, she couldn’t help but think he had just thrown on his clothes because she was there.
He stood behind the sofa, across the room from her, just staring. Even when Jonathan exited the bedroom, clearly on his way to deliver the outfit to Mrs. Brown, he did not take his eyes off of her. Finally, she stood, saying, “I shouldn’t stay.”
“You shouldn’t have come.”
She nodded once, sharply.
“But you’re here, so you might as well stay.”
Meg hesitated, not sure if he really meant it or not. She glanced at the door, and then back at him. He hadn’t moved. Her eyes darted to the door again.
“Sit down, Mary Margaret.”
She complied.
Charlie continued to stand behind the sofa, his hands pushed deep into his pants pockets for a few more seconds before he finally walked around the corner and sat down on the edge of the cushion, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, staring at her. She was extremely uncomfortable, but she deserved every second of it. When he didn’t speak, she cleared her throat nervously. He still said nothing. When she could stand it no more, she asked quietly, “Are you well?”
He scoffed, shaking his head, just a touch, slowly from side to side, finally looking away from her. Still, he said nothing.
“What I meant to say, is are you ill?”
“I know what you meant to say,” he assured her. “I’m not ill. I’m very hung-over.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, shifting her position slightly in the chair.
“You should be.”
“I meant… about the… I mean, of course I’m sorry….”
“I know what you meant, Mary Margaret.”
“I’m still Meg.”
“Not to me you’re not.”
The sting of those words hit hard, and she instantly felt the tears hit the corners of her eyes. She noticed a flicker of a smile then, as if he was happy to have gotten that reaction, but she knew she deserved anything he sent her way, so she endured it.
He scooted back on the couch then, resting one ankle on the opposite knee, his elbow on the arm rest, his head on his fist. “What is this vitally important piece of information that you’re about to share with me that will make me realize I should forgive you? That all of this is really all my fault?”
“It’s not your fault, not at all. If someone said something to make you think that I have ever implied that you’ve done anything to deserve the way I’ve treated you then they are sadly mistaken,” she interjected quickly. If he heard nothing else she said, ever again for the rest of her life, then he at least had to hear—and understand—that.
“Then what is it, Mary Margaret? What is it that you’ve come to tell me?”
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