On the train platform bench closest to her, someone had left a folded newspaper. The Saint Louis Chronicle. She didn’t want to read the paper. Hearst owned most of them—Washington Evening Star, Detroit Tribune, Baltimore Sun, Chicago Examiner, New York Daily News. They’d all printed filthy stories about her. Career-destroying lies, and that was no exaggeration. Annie never wanted to read a newspaper again.
A man approached, studied her from head to foot, gestured toward the bench and accepted her tight head-shake. She would not sit. When he did finally lower himself with a grunt onto the bench, she became aware that he was in an even better position to ogle her from behind.
The train doors weren’t opening. She needed to be away from the foul-breathing man. She didn’t want to be here. But she didn’t want to be in New Jersey, either. She didn’t want to be anywhere, except perhaps in a city where no one would recognize her, in a city where someone might be able to help her deal with her nerves—and her rage.
She could hear the man behind her, rustling the paper and then merely breathing, too heavily. She would not turn around. She would not move away. She was waiting to get on the train, that was all. She had managed to perform on stages and under bright lights and in open fields and in the center of enormous race tracks for audiences of thousands without feeling vulnerable, but now every set of eyes burned into her.
She had to be stronger, but how could she be? First the train crash, then Hearst, and now this: daily humiliations on top of pain, both physical and mental.
The predator can spot weakness.
The world was full of wolves.
Three weeks later, she was standing at the rail of the steamship, still more than twelve hours from Liverpool. Ridiculous to look this early for signs of land this far out. But it had been a long crossing, especially because Frank had not accompanied her. Equally distressing had been Annie’s need to keep her identity hidden in order to avoid any attention from the American press. Whenever presented to anyone aboard the ship, she referred to herself as Mrs. Butler. Phoebe—her birthname—Butler. None of it a lie. She didn’t like telling lies.
And yet today at breakfast, her identity almost had been revealed. The captain, speaking to their entire table, had asked if she might demonstrate her shooting skills, from the deck.
“I brought no arms,” she said without smiling.
“I’m sure we can find something. We have a number of sport shooters aboard . . .”
She leveled her gaze at him. “It’s Sunday.”
“Well, that’s the best day for leisure.”
She shot him a dark look.
“Pardon me,” he said, and changed the subject. Well, at least he got the hint, and yes, they could believe she was pious if that meant they left her alone.
As she stood to leave, he apologized and mentioned that there would be a small church service to attend after breakfast, if that appealed. It didn’t. She begged off, claiming a headache, and went first to her cabin for a warmer coat and then to the deck.
She avoided a cluster of lounge chairs where a trio of women were gathered and chatting, and instead picked the last seat in the row, one chair down from a woman who was peering through binoculars in the direction of distant seabirds.
“I see you’ve decided against the captain’s offer as well,” the woman said when she lowered her field glasses. Now Annie recognized her. She’d been at breakfast and had some sort of European accent, maybe German. She was in her twenties and rather somber: black coat, black hat, voluminous checked scarf that hid the bottom half of her small pretty face.
“I prefer to be alone,” Annie said. Not meaning to be sour, she added, “I don’t mean without the company of another woman, like yourself. I just . . .”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
“And you? No interest in the prayer service today?”
“I’m not Christian.”
“Oh. I see.”
“You?”
“I was raised Quaker,” Annie said. “Mother taught us we didn’t need a church building or any particular set of prayers to feel the presence of God.”
“Then we have a different heritage but are of a like mind,” the woman said. “I’ll leave you to your own peaceful thoughts.” She picked up a thick book with a blue cover, the title too small to make out. Annie didn’t read much herself, and never without effort. A lifelong failing.
Noticing Annie staring, the woman said, “It’s about trafficking.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. And I don’t know what that means, actually.”
“Of humans.”
“White slavery, then.”
“That’s another term for it.”
“I hope it’s on the decline?”
“Not with the increasing flow of people into cities and from one country to another. I’d say it’s only bound to get worse.” The woman smiled and reached across the empty chair between them to shake hands. “My name’s Giselle.”
“Phoebe. Phoebe Ann.” This was ridiculous. She was no good at false identities—even partially false ones. “It doesn’t sound like light reading.”
“It isn’t. I’m preparing for a conference.”
“In Liverpool?”
“Berlin. After that, I’ll return home to Hamburg. Last month I was in Delaware. Do you know they lowered the age of consent in Delaware from ten to seven? How could a seven-year-old girl provide consent for anything of an intimate nature?”
Annie was speechless.
Giselle said, “I’m a social worker, but I have the good fortune to travel for these sorts of women’s events.” She leaned forward in her deck chair. “Should I know who you are?”
Annie thought, When Thomas Edison made a film of me shooting, you were probably no more than five years old. “I’d rather you didn’t, to tell you the truth.”
“It’s just . . . the captain seemed to imply you’re famous. Are you sure you haven’t done something exceptional?”
Annie didn’t like people who overvalued themselves or wore their achievements on their sleeves. For professional photographs, she had to gussy up, but how many medals did anyone need? She’d recently had a trunk of them melted down, the proceeds sent to charities.
Taking the question seriously, Annie said, “I’ve earned an honest living since I was a child. I’ve always put food on the table. I don’t think that’s exceptional. But it’s always mattered to me.”
“I take it you’re not married.”