"It's never easy raising children. But it's a wonderful thing to do." And then finally he dared say something to her he'd thought for months but hadn't wanted to mention. "You ought to get out more, though. Your parents did. They did more than just raise all of you. They traveled, they saw friends, your mother was involved in a lot of things, and your father was busy with the paper."

"Are you suggesting I get a job?" She grinned, teasing him, and he shook his head as he watched her. He was a good-looking man, but she had never thought of him as anything but her father's friend and her adopted uncle.

"No, I meant that you should go out, see friends." She had gone out almost constantly with Charles during their engagement. Ben had loved seeing her in beautiful gowns with dancing eyes, as she left the house on Charles's arm, whenever he dined with her parents. She was meant for all that, not for living the life of a recluse, or a widowed mother. Her whole life still lay ahead, altered perhaps, but certainly not over. "What happened to all those parties you ... used to go to?" He was suddenly afraid to mention Charles, for fear it would be too painful, and Edwina lowered her eyes as she answered.

"It's not the time for that now." It was too soon, and it would only have reminded her of Charles and made his absence infinitely more difficult to bear. She never wanted to go out again, or so she thought at the moment. And in any case, she reminded Ben, she was still in full mourning for her parents. She still wore only black, and she had no desire to go anywhere, except with the children.

"Edwina," Ben sounded firm, "you need to get out more."

"I will one day." But her eyes weren't convincing, and he hoped it would be soon. She was twenty-one years old and she was leading the life of an old woman. Her birthday had gone almost unnoticed that year, except for the fact that she was now legally of age and could sign all her own papers.

Ben slept in the same cabin with the boys that night and they enjoyed his company. He took them fishing at 5:00 A.M., and when they returned, victorious, and very smelly, Edwina was already cooking breakfast. She had brought Sheilagh, the new Irish girl, with her, and she was pleasant, but no one seemed to have adjusted to her yet. They all still missed Oona. But Sheilagh endeared herself to the fishermen by cleaning their fish, and Edwina grudgingly cooked them for breakfast. But everyone else was extremely impressed that they had actually caught some fish this time, instead of just explaining why they didn't.

It was a happy few days with Ben, and they were all sorry when he had to go. They had just finished lunch and he said good-bye, and Edwina realized she hadn't seen the boys since just before lunchtime. They had said that they were going for a walk, and after that they were going swimming, and then suddenly as she and Ben talked, Phillip exploded into the clearing.

"Do you know what that little rat did?" Phillip shouted at her, barely coherent. He was angry and out of breath and obviously very frightened, as Edwina could feel her heart pound, fearing what might have happened. "He left while I was asleep, next to the fishing hole, way in back, at the creek. ... I woke up and found his shoes and his hat and his shirt floating in it.... I've been digging everywhere with sticks ... I dove all the way to the bottom of it ..." And as he spoke, Edwina saw that his arms were badly scratched, his clothes wet and torn, and his hands were covered with mud, his fingernails broken. "I thought he had drowned!" he shouted at her, choking on tears of fear and fury. "I thought ..." He turned away so they wouldn't see him cry, and his whole body shook as he made a lunge at George as he entered the clearing. Phillip cuffed him hard on the ear, grabbed his shoulders, and then shook him again. "Don't you ever do that again ... the next time you leave, you tell me about it!" He was shouting at him, and they could all see that George was fighting back tears, too, as he punched him.

"I would have told you if you weren't sleeping. You're always asleep or reading ... you don't even know how to fish!" He shouted back the only thing that came to mind, and Phillip just kept shaking him.

"You know what Papa said last year! No one goes anywhere without telling someone else where he's gone. Do you understand that?" But it was more than that now. It was all compounded by the agony of losing their parents, and the fact that all they had was each other. But George wouldn't back down as he glared at his brother.

"I don't have to tell you anything! You're not my father!"

"You answer to me now!" Phillip grew more heated by the moment, but George was furious now too. He swung at him again and missed his mark as Phillip ducked.

"I don't answer to anyone!" George screamed with tears running down his face. "You're not Papa and you never will be, and I hate you!" They were both in tears, as Ben finally decided to step in and stop it. He reached out quietly and separated them as tears rolled down Edwina's cheeks. It broke her heart to see her brothers fighting.

"All right, boys, enough!" He took George gently by the arms, and led him away, still sputtering, while Phillip calmed down. He looked at Edwina ferociously, walked to his cabin, and slammed the door. And once inside, he lay on his bed and sobbed because he thought George had drowned, and he desperately missed their father.

It was an incident that ill.u.s.trated how shaken they still were, and how great a strain it was on the boys to no longer have a father. The boys calmed down eventually, and Ben said good-bye to them, and once again took leave of Edwina. The episode between the two boys only reminded him of what he had thought in the beginning. The family was too great a burden for Edwina alone, and he wondered for a moment if he should have tried to force her to go to England to her aunt and uncle. But one look into her eyes told him that she would have hated it. She wanted this, her family, in the familiar places they had always lived, even if sometimes it wasn't easy.

"They're alright, you know," she rea.s.sured Ben. "It's good for Phillip to let off steam, and it's good for George to learn that he can't play his tricks all the time. He'll think twice next time."

"And what about you?" Ben asked. How could she manage them all alone? Two lively boys who were nearly men, and three other very young children. And the truth was there was no one to help her. But he had to admit, she didn't seem to mind it.

"I love this, you know." She said it calmly, and it was easy to believe that she meant it. "I love them."

"So do I. But I worry about you anyway. If you need anything, Edwina, just whistle, and I'll come running." She kissed him gratefully on the cheek, and he watched her for a long time, as she waved, and he drove slowly back toward the station.

Chapter 12.

THEY WERE ALL SAD TO LEAVE THE LAKE. BUT SHE HAD things to do back in San Francisco. She attended a monthly meeting at the newspaper now, with Ben, to show everyone that she was interested in what was going on, and she had to approve certain policy decisions, which was interesting. But she still felt uncomfortable in her father's place, and there was so much to learn even for her meager involvement. She had no desire to run the paper herself, but she wanted to preserve it over the next few years, for Phillip. And she was always grateful for Ben's advice at the meetings.

But the day after their August meeting was a hard one for her. She was working in the garden, pulling weeds, when the mailman came with what looked like an enormous parcel, from England. She imagined that it was something from Aunt Liz, and couldn't imagine what she had sent. She asked Mrs. Barnes to leave it in the front hall for her, and when she came in later with dirt all over her hands, and bits of gra.s.s and leaves on her black dress, she glanced at it, and felt her heart give a lurch. The sender's name on the parcel was not Hickham, but Fitzgerald. And it was written out in the careful elaborate hand that Edwina had long since come to recognize as Charles's mother's.

She went into the kitchen to wash her hands, and came back to carefully take the parcel to her bedroom. And as she touched it her hands were shaking. She couldn't imagine what Lady Fitzgerald would be sending her, and yet she somehow feared that it might be something of Charles's, and she was more than a little afraid to see it.

The house was quiet as she walked upstairs, the boys were out with friends, and Sheilagh had taken the three younger children to Golden Gate Park to see the new carousel, and they had left the house in high spirits. There was no one to interrupt her now, and Edwina carefully unwrapped the package that Lady Fitzgerald had sent her. It had come by mail steamer, and then by train, and it had taken well over a month to arrive from England. Edwina noticed that the parcel was very light. It almost felt as though there was nothing in it.

The last bits of paper fell away, and there was a smooth white box with a letter attached on blue stationery with the Fitzgerald crest engraved in the upper left-hand corner. But she didn't read the letter, she was too curious to see what was in the box, and as she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, her breath caught as she saw it. There were yards and yards of white tulle, and a delicately made white satin crown, embroidered in elaborate patterns with the tiniest white seed pearls. It was her wedding veil, the one Lady Fitzgerald was to have brought over when she came, and with a rapid calculation, Edwina realized that the next day was to have been her wedding day. She had tried to force it from her mind, and she had all but succeeded. And now all that was left was the veil, held in her trembling hands, as the miles of tulle floated across her room like a distant dream. Her whole body ached as she put it on, and the tears slid solemnly down her cheeks, as she looked in the mirror. It looked just as she thought it would, and she wondered what the dress would have been like. Surely, just as beautiful, but no one would ever know. The fabric they were bringing back to the States had gone down on the t.i.tanic. She had hardly let herself think of that until now, it seemed so pointless. But now suddenly, here was her veil, and all it had stood for was gone forever.

She sat down on her bed, crying softly, still wearing the veil, and opened Lady Fitzgerald's letter,. For the first time in months, she felt hopeless and alone, as she sat in her black mourning dress, with her wedding veil floating around her.

"My very dearest Edwina," she began, and it was like hearing her voice again as Edwina cried as she read it. She and Charles had looked so much alike, tall and aristocratic, and very English. "We think of you a great deal, and speak of you much of the time. It seems difficult to believe that you left London only four months ago ... difficult to believe all that has happened in the meantime.

"I am sending you this now, with trepidation and regret. I very much fear that it will upset you terribly when you receive the veil, but it has been finished for some time, and after thinking about it a great deal, Charles's father and I feel that you should have it. It is a symbol of a very beautiful time, and the love that Charles had for you until he died. You were the dearest thing in his life, and I know that the two of you would have been very happy. Put it away, dearest child, do not think of it too much ... and perhaps only look at it once in a while, and remember our beloved Charles, who so greatly loved you.

"We hope to see you again here one day. And in the meantime, to you and your brothers and sisters, we send our dearest love, and most especially to you, Edwina dear ... our every thought, now and forever." She had signed it "Margaret Fitzgerald," but Edwina was blinded by tears by the end of the letter and could barely read it. And she sat on her bed, in her wedding veil, until she heard the front door slam heavily downstairs and the children's voices in the stairway, looking for her. They had been to the carousel, and come home, and all afternoon, she had sat there, in her wedding veil, thinking of Charles, and the wedding day that was to have been tomorrow.

She took the veil off carefully, and set it back in the box, and she had just tied the lid when Fannie burst into the room with a broad, happy smile, and hurled herself into her big sister's arms. She didn't see the tears, or the ravaged look in her eyes. She was too young to understand what had happened. Edwina put the box away on a shelf, and listened as Fannie rattled away about the carousel in the park. There were horses and bra.s.s rings and gold stars, and lots of music, and there were even painted sleds if you didn't want to ride a horse, but the horses were really much better.

"And there were boats too!" she went on, but then she frowned. "But we don't like boats, Teddy, do we?" He shook his head, having just come into the room, and Alexis was just behind him. She looked at Edwina strangely then, as though she knew something was amiss, but she didn't know what it was. And only Phillip saw it later, after the children had gone to bed, and he asked Edwina cautiously as they walked upstairs together.

"Is something wrong?" He was always worried about her, always concerned, always anxious to play the fatherly role with the others. "Are you alright, Win?"

She nodded slowly, almost tempted to tell him about the veil, but she just couldn't say the words. And she wondered if he remembered what the date was. "Fin alright." And then, "I had a letter from Lady Fitzgerald today, Charles's mother."

"Oh." Unlike George, who was still too young and wouldn't have understood the implications, Phillip knew immediately what she was feeling. "How is she?"

"Alright, I guess." She looked sadly at Phillip then. She had to share it with someone, even if it was only her seventeen-year-old brother, and her voice was low and gruff as she said it. "Tomorrow was ... would have been ..." It was almost impossible to say the words, and she turned away as they reached the second-floor landing. But Phillip gently touched her arm and she turned to him with tears streaming from her eyes. "Never mind ... I'm sorry ..."

"Oh, Winnie." There were tears in his eyes too, as he pulled her close to him and she held him.

"Why did it happen?" she whispered to him. "Why?... why couldn't there have been enough lifeboats?" It would have been such a small thing ... lifeboats for everyone on the ship ... and it would have made all the difference. But there were other whys too ... like why the Californian had turned her radio off and never heard their frantic CQD's, their distress signals going out to ships all over the Atlantic. They had only been a few miles away, and they could have saved everyone, had they only heard ... there were so many whys and if onlys, but none of them mattered anymore, as Edwina cried in her brother's arms, the night before what should have been her wedding.

Chapter 13.

PREDICTABLY, CHRISTMAS WAS DIFFICULT FOR THEM THAT year. Or for the older ones, at least. Edwina kept the little ones so busy baking and making things that they scarcely had time to think about things being different. Ben came to visit and took the boys to an exhibition of new motorcars, and he took all of them to see the lighting of the Christmas tree at the Fairmont Hotel to help them through the holidays. And other friends of their parents invited them too. But sometimes the invitations were too painful, and made them feel more like orphans.

Alexis was still the most withdrawn of all of them, but Edwina was tireless in her efforts to help her recover. Edwina still found her upstairs in her mother's bedroom from time to time, and she didn't make a big fuss about it when she did. She just talked to her for a little while, sitting on the little pink settee in her mother's dressing room, or on the bed, and eventually, the little girl would come back to the others.

It always made Edwina feel strange being up there, it was as though it was a sacred place now, and to all of the children, it was a kind of shrine to their parents. Bert's and Kate's clothes still hung in the closets, and Edwina didn't have the heart to remove them. Her mother's hairbrushes and solid gold dresser set lay where she had last set them down. Mrs. Barnes dusted up there carefully, but even she didn't like going up there anymore. She said it always made her want to cry. And Sheilagh flatly refused to go up there at all, even to retrieve Alexis.

And Edwina never mentioned it, but she went up there now and then too. It was a way of staying close to them, of remembering what they'd been like. It was difficult to believe that it was only eight months since they'd died. In some ways, it seemed like only moments, in others it seemed aeons. And on Christmas Eve, once the younger children were in bed, Edwina said as much to Phillip.

They had survived the holidays, their first alone, and for Edwina it had been exhausting. But she had handled it gently and well, and the little ones had hung their stockings as they always did, and sang carols, and baked cookies, and gone to church. Just as their mother had always done, Edwina had spent days before wrapping presents. And Phillip had thanked her for all of them that night, just as Bert used to thank Kate, with a sleepy yawn, and it touched Edwina as she remembered.

Ben came to visit them on Christmas Day, and everyone was happy to see him. He brought presents for everyone, a wonderful hobbyhorse for Teddy, and dolls for the girls, an enormously elaborate magic set for George, which he adored, and a beautiful pocket watch for Phillip, and for Edwina an exquisite cashmere shawl. It was a delicate blue, and she longed to wear it when she abandoned her mourning in April. He had thought of buying it for her in black so she could wear it now, but the thought of doing that depressed him.

"I can't wait to see you in colors again," he said warmly as she opened the gift and thanked him. The children had all made him gifts. Even George had mastered a small oil painting of Ben's dog, and Phillip had carved him a very handsome pen stand. And Edwina had carefully selected a pair of her father's very favorite sapphire cuff links. She knew they would mean a lot to him, and she had asked George's and Phillip's permission before she gave them to him. She didn't want to give away anything that either of them seriously wanted, but both boys had liked the idea of Ben having their father's cuff links. He was their best friend, and he had been incredibly kind to them ever since their parents' death and long before that.

It was a loving day for all of them. And Christmas was always difficult for Ben too. It always brought back painful memories of the family he had had six years earlier, before the earthquake. But together, they all brought each other cheer, and they ended with laughter and smiles, and many tender moments. In the end, Teddy fell asleep on Ben's lap. And Ben carried him upstairs and put him to bed while Edwina watched him. In truth, he was wonderful with all of them, and the girls loved him just as much as the boys did. Fannie begged him to put her to bed too. And before he left, he even tucked in a smiling Alexis.

He had one last gla.s.s of port with the older ones before he left, and he went home feeling warm and contented. For a potentially difficult Christmas, it had actually been filled with blessings.

Unlike New Year's, which seemed to be filled only with tears and anguish. Their aunt Liz arrived on New Year's Day, and she cried incessantly from the moment she arrived, without seeming to stop for a single moment. The black gown she wore was so severe and so grim that when Edwina first saw her, she suddenly wondered if their uncle had died and she didn't know it. But Liz was quick to rea.s.sure her that Rupert was in the very worst of his poor health, and in an exceptionally appalling humor. He had been suffering abysmally with gout since the fall, and Liz said he was half out of his mind with pain and temper.

"He sends his love, of course," she was quick to add, dabbing at her eyes, and crying at each remembered object and photograph as she toured the house on Edwina's arm. And she cried even harder each time she saw the children, which completely unnerved them. But she couldn't bear the thought of her beloved sister being gone, and her children being reduced to orphans. But it was difficult for Edwina to listen to her, because in the past eight months they had struggled so hard not just to survive, but to thrive, but their aunt Liz absolutely refused to see it. She said the children looked terrible and pale, and she inquired immediately of Edwina who the cook was, or if they even had one.

"The same one we've always had, Aunt Liz. You remember Mrs. Barnes." But Liz only cried more, and said how awful it was, how dangerous even, for Phillip and George to be brought up only by their sister, although she did not specify the exact nature of the peril. But in the past eight months she herself seemed to have sunk into a terrible depression. She almost fainted when she entered her sister's dressing room and saw all her belongings still hanging there, and she literally screamed when she saw the bedroom.

"I can't bear it ... I can't bear it ... oh, Edwina, how could you! How could you do such a thing?" Edwina was not sure what she'd done, but her aunt was quick to tell her. "How could you leave everything there, as though they left only just this morning," Liz sobbed hysterically as she shook her head and looked accusingly at Edwina. But in some ways it was comforting for them to have everything still there, her father's suits, her mother's clothes, the familiar gold and pink enamel hairbrush. "You must pack everything up at once!" she wailed, and Edwina only shook her head. This was not going to be easy.

"We haven't been ready to do that yet," Edwina said quietly, handing her the gla.s.s of water that Phillip had discreetly brought her. "And Aunt Liz, you must try not to be so upset. It is very difficult for the children."

"Oh, how could you say such a thing, you insensitive child!" She broke into sobs again, which seemed to reverberate everywhere, as Edwina sent the children out for a walk with Sheilagh. "If you knew how I've mourned her all these months ... what her death meant to me ... my only sister." But she had been Edwina and the other children's only mother. Not to mention Bert ... and Charles ... and even poor Oona ... and all the others ... But Liz seemed bent on celebrating only her own grief and ignoring everyone else's. "You should have come to England when Rupert told you to," she said plaintively to her oldest niece. "I could have cared for all of you." And instead, selfishly, Edwina had robbed her of her last chance to mother children. She had refused to come and insisted they stay in San Francisco. And now Rupert said that the attorney wrote that they were doing extremely well, and Rupert said he was no longer well enough to have them. She had ruined everything by being so stubborn. She was clearly just like her father. "It was wicked of you not to come when you were told to," she said, and Phillip suddenly began to look angry.

"There is nothing 'wicked' about my sister, ma'am," he said through clenched teeth, and Edwina urged him to go back downstairs and see what George was up to.

She stayed for twenty-six days, and at times Edwina thought that she would go crazy if her aunt stayed a moment longer. She made the children nervous all the time, and she cried during her entire stay. And in the end, she actually forced Edwina to pack up at least part of her parents' bedroom. They put most of the clothes away, although Edwina refused to give them away. She kept it all, and Liz packed a few of Kate's things to take back to England, mostly mementos of their youth, which meant little to Edwina or the younger children.

And at last, after almost four weeks, they escorted her to the ferry to go to the train station, in Oakland. And it seemed to Edwina that she had never stopped crying. And she stayed angry at Edwina until the end. She was mad at everyone and the Fates for the hand that had been dealt her. She was angry that her sister had been lost, angry that Edwina and the children had refused to come to her afterward, angry that her own life seemed to be over. And angry, finally, at Rupert for the unhappy life she had led with him in England. It was as though, in the past nine months, she had given up, and there were times when Edwina wasn't sure if Liz was mourning her sister's death or her own disappointments. Even Ben had finally avoided her, and coming home from the ferry building with the children the morning Liz left, Edwina sank back against her seat, exhausted. The children were quiet too. They hadn't known what to make of her, but this time, one thing was sure, they hadn't liked her. She picked on Edwina all the time, or so it seemed, and she complained about everything, and the rest of the time she was crying.

"I hate her!" Alexis said on the way home, as Edwina gently chided her.

"No, you don't."

"Yes I do." And her eyes said she meant it. "She made you put away Mama's clothes and she had no right to do that."

"They're not put away," Edwina said quietly. And maybe her aunt had been right after all. Maybe it was time. But it hadn't been easy. "It doesn't matter anyway," Edwina rea.s.sured the child. "We can't put Mama away. You know she's always with us." There was silence the rest of the way home, as they all thought about what Edwina had said, and how close their mother still was to them, and how different she was from her sister.

Chapter 14.

THE ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR PARENTS' DEATH WAS A DIFFICULT day for them. And yet the service Edwina had said at their church was tender and gentle and human. It reminded everyone of how kind her parents had been, how interested in everyone, how full their lives, how involved in the community, and how rich in the blessings of their children. The Winfield children sat together in the first pew, listening, and occasionally dabbing at their eyes, but they were a proud legacy to the memory of Kate and Bertram Winfield.

Edwina had invited several of her parents' friends to lunch in their garden afterward, and it was the first time they had entertained since the fateful voyage on the t.i.tanic. It was a beautiful April afternoon, and they also celebrated Alexis's seventh birthday. There was a beautiful cake made by Mrs. Barnes, and the day turned out to be a warm, festive occasion. And people Edwina had barely seen all year were happy to see all of them again, and were offering all kinds of invitations now that their year of mourning was over. Several people noticed that she still wore her engagement ring on her left hand, and the minister had mentioned Charles as well, but Edwina was a beautiful girl and she was almost twenty-two years old, and there was no denying that she was going to be a handsome catch for someone. Ben noticed several of the younger men watching her after lunch, and he was surprised to find himself feeling protective.

"It was a lovely afternoon," he said quietly as he found her sitting on a swing in the garden with the children near her.

"It was, wasn't it?" She looked pleased. It had been a fitting tribute to her parents. And then she smiled up at him. "They would have liked it."

He smiled and nodded too. "Yes, they would. They'd be proud of all of you." Especially their eldest daughter. What an amazing woman she'd turned out to be. Not a child, not a girl, but a woman. "You've done an incredible job in the last year."

She smiled, flattered, but she knew there was always more to do. Each of the children needed help in different ways, and Phillip was especially anxious about getting into Harvard. "Sometimes I wish I could do more for each of them," she confessed to Ben. Especially for Alexis.

"I don't see how you could do more," he commented, as people came and went and stopped to thank her. There were anecdotes about her parents, stories about her father particularly, and when the last guest but one finally left, she was exhausted. The children were eating leftovers in the kitchen by then, with Sheilagh and Mrs. Barnes in attendance. And Edwina was in the library with Ben, still chatting about the party.

"You seemed to be getting a lot of invitations." He was pleased for her, and yet, much to his own surprise, he was jealous. It was as though he had actually liked it when she was in deep mourning and saw only him. But she only smiled at him in answer.

"I was. People are being very kind to me. But nothing's going to change much now that the year is over. I already have my hands full. Most people don't understand that."

Relief? Was he relieved, he asked himself, unable to believe what he was feeling. She was a child, wasn't she? His best friend's child ... barely more than a baby. And yet, he knew that none of that was true, and he looked deeply worried as she laughed and offered him a gla.s.s of sherry.

"Don't look so upset." She knew him well, or so they both thought.

"I'm not," he lied.

"Oh, yes, you are. You remind me of Aunt Liz. What are you afraid of? That I'll disgrace myself or the Winfield name?" she teased.

"Hardly." He took a sip of sherry and set it down, as he looked at her intently. "Edwina, what do you think about doing with your life now?" He glanced at the ring on her left hand and wondered if she was going to think he was crazy. He was beginning to think so himself. "I'm serious," he pressed for an answer, which surprised her. "Now that this year is over ... what do you want to do?" She stopped and thought about it, but the answer had been clear to her since the previous April.

"Nothing different than I'm doing now. I want to take care of the children." It seemed so clear to her. There were no choices anymore, only duty and love for them, and the promise she had made to her parents as she stepped into the lifeboat. "I don't need more than that, Ben." But at not yet twenty-two, that seemed crazy to him.

"Edwina, one day you'll regret that. You're too young to give up your whole life for your brothers and sisters."

"Is that what I'm doing?" She smiled at him, touched by his obvious concern for her. "Is it really so wrong?"

"Not wrong," he said softly, his eyes never leaving hers, "but it's a terrible waste, Edwina. You need more than that in your life. Your parents had much more than that. They had each other." They both thought of the things the minister had said about Kate and Bert only that morning. And Edwina thought to herself that she had almost had a life with Charles, and then she had lost that. And she wanted no one else ... only Charles ... but Ben was looking at her so intensely. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you, Edwina?" He smiled gently at her and she looked confused for a moment.

"Yes, I do," she said quietly, "you want me to be happy, and I am. I'm happy in my life here with the children."

"And that's all you want, Edwina ..." He hesitated, but only for a moment. "I want to offer you more than that." Her eyes opened wide and she looked extremely startled.

"You do? Ben ..." She had never even thought of that, never suspected for a moment that he loved her. Nor had he at first, but he had come to understand it in recent months, and he had been able to think of nothing else but Edwina ever since Christmas. He had promised himself he'd wait to say anything to her until at least April ... until they'd been gone a year, but now he was suddenly afraid that he should have waited longer. Perhaps in the end, that might have made a difference. "I never thought ..." She was blushing and looking away from him, as though the very thought of his wanting her was embarra.s.sing and almost painful.

"I'm sorry." He moved forward quickly and took her hands in his own. "Should I not have said anything, Edwina? I love you ... I have for a long time ... but more than anything, I don't want to lose our friendship. You mean everything to me ... and the children too ... please, Edwina ... I don't ever want to lose you."

"You won't," she whispered, forcing herself to look at him then. She owed him that much. And she loved him, too, but as her father's dearest friend, and nothing more. She just couldn't. She couldn't have worn the wedding veil for him ... she still loved Charles. In her heart, she was still his bride, and she knew that she always would be. "I can't, Ben ... I love you ... but I can't." She didn't want to hurt him, but she had to be truthful with him.

"Is it too soon?" he asked hopefully, and she shook her head.

"Is it the children?" He loved the children, too, but she was shaking her head again as he watched her, aching over the fear of losing her. What if she never spoke to him again? He had been a fool to tell her that he loved her.

"No, it's not the children, Ben, and it's not you ..." She smiled as tears sprang to her eyes, and she promised herself she'd be honest with him. "I think it's Charles ... I would feel so unfaithful to him if ..." She couldn't say the words, as the tears slipped slowly down her cheeks, and he reproached himself again for trying to force the issue too early. Perhaps in time ... but now he knew. He had risked everything, and he had lost, to the fiance she had lost on the t.i.tanic.