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“What is this?”
“The lads found it behind a coal bunker. It must have been there for years. See what’s inside.”
“You didn’t look, yet?’
“No, I saved that for you.”
She turned back the flap and pulled out a thick sheet of lavishly decorated parchment paper. Mr. Farquhar rested a hand on her shoulder as he leaned close.
“That looks like real gold.”
“Gold leaf.”
“What does it say?” He’d gone too farsighted to read without specs, but her stone blue eyes were still sharp.
“It’s an invitation to a wedding. On the ship! They were married on the ship!”
She gazed in wonder and delight, then turned it over.
“What’s that?”
“Wee figures and squiggles. Greek to me.” She slipped the invitation reverently into the envelope and rewrapped the envelope in the oilskin.
“Don’t you want it?” asked Mr. Farquhar. “It’s pretty. I could make a frame for it.”
“Take it directly to Mr. Thomas McGeady at the Cunard office. Tell him that I said to find this couple and send it to them.”
“You know Mr. McGeady?”
“I own a pub, Mr. Farquhar. I know everyone— Hurry! I’ll hold your tea.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Next month is their anniversary.”
SAN FRANCISCO
On Nob Hill, in one of the very fe
w mansions to survive the San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906, Isaac Bell was telling Marion, “It is possible that my eyesight is not as keen as it once was, so if I am to inspect this supposed wrinkle on your cheek you’re going to have to come closer into the light, here on my lap,” when he was interrupted by a child who ran in with the morning mail, dumped it beside them on the sofa, and ran out.
After the supposed wrinkle had been thoroughly debunked, they went through the mail and discovered a large manila envelope from the Cunard Line.
“Captain Turner?” asked Marion, though it couldn’t be. Over the years, Turner used to write on their anniversary. But he had retired from the line after the war and had become a recluse after being unfairly blamed for the torpedoing of the Lusitania.
Bell opened it with the knife from his boot.
Inside the manila envelope was a note from a Cunard executive: “The company thought you might enjoy this. It was found by Mr. Alec Farquhar of the Swan Works in Newcastle whilst refitting Mauretania, and sent along by Mrs. Alison Skelton. The chairman joins me in offering the line’s heartiest congratulations on your upcoming anniversary.”
Isaac and Marion recognized immediately the elaborate envelope that the ship’s printer had run up for their wedding. Moisture had blurred the recipient’s name. “Whose was this?” Marion asked, leaning closer to study the faded letters. Wisps of her golden champagne hair brushed Bell’s cheek. “Oh my gosh, this is Clyde Lynds’s invitation. Oh, poor Clyde.”
Marion pulled out the invitation itself, only slightly less for wear. “This is lovely. Oh, my dear, it’s like being married again.”
Isaac Bell asked, “What’s this on the back?”
FIVE YEARS LATER
THE STRAND THEATRE ON BROADWAY IN NEW YORK CITY
