“But…” I look down at the ticket. Dava could only have afforded a basic fare and she is too practical to have spent Rose’s money on anything more. Paul, I think. He must have bought me a more expensive ticket when he changed the reservation. A warm feeling floods through me. “Th-thank you.”

I climb one staircase, then another, finally reaching the top deck. It is a different world from the crowded galley below. The light wood promenade is open and spacious. A building with large glass windows occupies the center of the deck; inside, I can make out several tables and chairs. Passengers in fine linen dresses and suits sit in the chaise longues or stand in small groups around the perimeter of the deck, sipping cocktails and talking, shielded by parasols from the bright sun. I feel eyes upon me, taking in my coarse dress and thick, secondhand shoes. My face reddens. I don’t belong here. I walk quickly away from the other passengers toward the front of the deck.

Underneath my feet, I feel the ship begin to move. My stomach jumps. I am going to England. A few days ago, that would have meant everything to me. And I am still glad to be able to fulfill my promise to Dava and take the sad news to Rose’s aunt. But now the trip means leaving Paul, too. It is only for a few weeks, I remind myself. But an uneasy sadness overcomes me as I look back over my shoulder at the shore.

Look forward, I think, remembering Dava’s words. I force myself to turn away and keep walking toward the front of the ship. I am relieved to find that the deck is deserted here, perhaps owing to the lack of chairs or the strong breeze that blows off the bow. I stare out at the ocean, captivated. The water has grown choppier now, the green surface broken by hundreds of whitecaps. Seagulls dive to the water, trying to feed, then soar toward the sky once more.

The ship rolls suddenly, then dips to the right. Caught off guard, I stumble. My hands slam against the deck, breaking my fall. “Easy there,” a male voice above me says in English. A hand grasps my elbow, helping me to my feet. “Are you all right?”

I straighten, my palms smarting from the blow. Standing in front of me is the light-haired man I noticed in the other ticket line. The orange drink he is holding has splashed across his hand and a single spot stains the fine seersucker fabric of his jacket. But he does not seem to notice. His thin lips are puckered with concern. “I’m fine,” I reply, brushing off the front of my skirt.

“Didn’t want to see you go pitching over the edge,” he adds, his hand on my elbow.

“Thank you.” I pull back slowly, not wanting to appear rude. Up close, I can see that he is not more than about thirty, though his thin, side-combed hair and trim mustache give him an older look. He is nearly as tall as Paul, but slender, with a delicate frame matching his fine, almost feminine features.

“My pleasure.” He extends his hand. “Simon Gold.”

“Marta Nedermann.” Should I have introduced myself as Rose? I wonder, too late, as I shake his hand.

The small, even teeth appear once more as he smiles. “Charmed.” He holds my hand for several seconds, his fingers cool and moist. The boat lurches again and I pull back to grab the deck rail. Simon shifts his weight easily with the boat’s movement. “The Channel is a bit rough today. You just need to get your sea legs.”

I tilt my head. “Sea legs?”

He nods, holding his arms out perpendicular to his sides and leaning from one side to the other. “You know, balance.”

“Balance,” I repeat slowly. “I’m sorry, I’ve only recently learned English.”

“Really?” He cocks his head, appraising me. “You speak with so little accent, I never would have guessed. But if you would like to keep practicing, why don’t we go inside and have tea?” He gestures with his head toward the glass enclosure.

I hesitate. The man is a stranger. And I do not have the money for tea. “Please join me as my guest,” he persists. “It will pass the time until we reach Dover. The other guests are woefully boring,” he adds, his smile small and odd. I cannot help but think of Paul, the way his cheeks lift and eyes crinkle with each grin.

“Come along,” Simon says, starting for the enclosure. I did not, it occurs to me as I follow him, actually accept his invitation. I open my mouth to demur. But as Simon opens the door to the enclosure, the aroma of warm pastries fills the air, making my stomach grumble. I step inside as Simon holds the door for me. Then I stop. The café is so grand. Small tables, covered with white linen cloths and set with real china and silver, dot the room. A man in a tuxedo walks over to us and I half expect him to ask me to leave. But instead he escorts us to a table by one of the windows.

A waiter approaches the table with a pot of tea and plate of scones. As he pours the tea, I study Simon, still wondering if it was proper for me to accept the invitation of a man I do not know, especially now that I am engaged. He is just being friendly, I decide.

“So what brings you to England?” Simon asks after the waiter has left again.

I take a deep breath. “A friend of mine passed away.” I still cannot see Rose’s face in my mind without my eyes burning. “I’m bringing the news and her belongings to her aunt in London.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I nod. Talking about Rose with this stranger feels awkward. “And you?” I ask, eager to change the subject.

“I’m British,” he replies, taking a croissant from the plate of pastries that sits between us.

“I guessed that. I meant, what were you doing in Europe?”

“I’ve been in Europe for several months now for work. I’m a diplomat, you see.” Simon’s English is different from any I have heard before, clipped and precise, not difficult to understand. “I was helping to restore our embassies in the various cities where they were shut down during the war.” He works for the government. I worry again that I should have introduced myself as Rose, in case he sees my papers.

“Now I’m headed back to the Foreign Office. I’ll be going back to the department where I was working before this trip, Eastern European affairs.” He gestures to the plate of croissants. “You should try these, by the way. They’re delicious.”

I choose one of the croissants. “I’m from Poland,” I offer, before taking a bite. The pastry is light and flaky, with delicious bits of chocolate inside. It is not as good, I decide, as the one I had in Paris. I remember the patisserie, my surprise at seeing Paul. Why could it not be him sitting here with me now, instead of this man?

“Really? I thought from your accent that might be the case, but I didn’t want to ask. You know, if you’re looking for work once we reach London, I could use a secretary, one who speaks Polish….”

“Oh, goodness no,” I blurt out, my mouth still full. I finish chewing, swallow. “I mean, that’s very kind of you, but I’ll only be in London for a few weeks.”

“I see.” His brow furrows momentarily. “And then what?”

I hesitate. “I’m meeting up with my fiancé and traveling to America to live. He’s a soldier and he’s coming for me as soon as he’s discharged.”

A strange look crosses Simon’s face. He looks down at my hand. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“It was very last minute,” I explain. “The engagement, that is. We didn’t really have time to formalize things before I left for England.”

“Of course.” His voice is strained. Were his intentions romantic when he invited me to tea? I study his face, wondering if I had given him the wrong impression. He is not unattractive, with his smooth, even features and blue eyes. But when I think of Paul’s rugged good looks, the way he takes my breath away, there is no comparison. “Congratulations,” he adds, without feeling.

“Thank you.”

He clears his throat. “It’s too bad.” My eyes widen. Could he possibly be that blunt? “I mean, I could really use your help at the Foreign Office,” he adds quickly.