The Passport's Deceptive Birth Date
Mabel's heart skipped as she stared at the passport document in her hands. The date of birth—February 7, 1903—was clearly printed there.
“Excuse me,” she said, voice trembling slightly as she looked up at him. “Is this date accurate? February 7, 1903?”
Her words tumbled out in a flustered rush. “I... I think there might be a mix-up. The church baptism certificate says February 14, but the birth certificate says February 7. One of them must have the wrong date. My parents are gone now, so I can't check. I was told passports usually follow the birth certificate...”
Carlisle frowned, his brow creasing as he scanned her with eyes that clearly doubted every word. A rebuke of sorts, yet she shrank under it anyway.
“Could this cause problems?”
She asked, worry etching her face.
“Not a big one.”
His tone was firm, almost abrupt, and he added, “It won’t change anything.”
Mabel tilted her head, staring up at him in confusion.
Was he serious?
“Does that mean... you didn’t know my age until now?”
For a split second, his eyes flickered, then he wiped the surprise away and answered with surprising boldness. “The marriage documents were prepared by my solicitor. Besides, isn’t it improper to ask a lady her age?”
The logic was sound, yet it stirred something odd in her chest. How could a man who was about to marry her not even know how old she was?
A faint bell rang through the ship, the signal that dinner was served.
“Shall we, my dear?”
Carlisle offered his arm as if he had been waiting. Mabel pressed her lips tightly together and placed her hand on his sleeve.
She disliked being treated like a child, but the overly formal address of “my dear” grated even more. It wasn’t respect—it felt like mockery. Married friends called each other by first names without ceremony. Why cling to such outdated noble customs here, when he was clearly older?
Mabel muttered to herself as she walked beside him toward the first-class dining salon.
***
The Grand Dining Salon stretched across three levels, its ceiling soaring high. The chandelier’s light danced across the brilliant stained-glass panels, casting a soft glow throughout the room.
The steward moved gracefully as the ocean liner crossed the English Channel, signaling that from this moment the ship was officially French territory.
At the far end of the salon, the bar shutters rose. Bottles were lined up behind the counter, and the passengers erupted in cheers and applause. Finally, legitimate drinking was possible again.
Carlisle watched Mabel seated across from him.
No matter how he looked at her, she didn’t look her age. A woman sheltered and controlled by strict guardians, who had only ever seen beauty and propriety.
She had probably never heard the rumors of his ruthless, heartless existence at the bottom of society.
Mabel sat like a painting—elegant, graceful—stirring her food but unable to eat. The Paris Line’s dinner was an eight-course feast: Russian caviar, turtle soup, lobster Thermidor, truffle, and fillet mignon. A menu worthy of even the finest Parisian restaurants.
She had nibbled little during the day; dinner was the same—pushing the food around as if she couldn’t stomach it.
Just then, the elderly sommelier wheeled in the wine cart and stopped at their table. He offered the house wine, but Mabel impulsively chose champagne instead.
She looked at him in surprise. Around his neck hung the silver tastevin chain.
“Sir, the 1911 Châtillon-Villières is what you ordered. It is an honor to serve you this rare bottle from our ship.”
He held the label up for Carlisle and expertly removed the cork with a practiced hand.
“This legendary vintage has endured the horrors of the Great War. It is the final heirloom of the beautiful La Belle Époque. In 1911, the summers of Champagne were exceptionally hot and long, yet the balance of sweetness and acidity is perfect. I am certain no finer champagne will be produced for the next one hundred years.”
Mabel watched the sommelier’s graceful movements with fascination. After a solemn tasting ritual that even carried a hint of reverence, he poured the champagne into their two glasses in turn.
Carlisle lifted his glass. Mabel, still stunned, filled hers.
Their glasses met in a near-clink.
“To us,” he said meaningfully.
It was sincere.
At least for the next year and a half, the marriage would have to hold.
“To us.”
Mabel repeated his toast in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
She was still sober, yet her cheeks—pale only moments ago—flushed pink. She stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes, then quickly dropped her eyes when their gazes met.
She bit her full lower lip and touched her burning cheek with the back of her hand. For some reason, she looked shy.
Carlisle let out a soft sigh.
If Mabel was a woman who truly understood men, that pose would have been calculated flirtation.
In the environment that raised her, a girl only seventeen would be treated as an adult. Surrounded by every kind of threat, she would have learned to be cunning and hardened long ago.
No longer could she gaze at a man with such innocent, transparent eyes, hiding curiosity and admiration.
Carlisle picked up the pen to sign the marriage certificate. When he saw the age listed beside Mabel’s name—the age at last birthday—he was genuinely surprised.
Twenty-one.
He tilted his head, studying her.
Given the Darlington family’s overprotective ways, it was probably her first time alone with a man at a restaurant.
An innocent young bride, blushing for the first time in her life at the awareness of a man’s gaze, was both burdensome and irritating. Another man might have been drawn into her naive temptation without realizing it, but he was not.
Damn.
As the age gap shrank from two full years to one, the excuse of avoiding intimacy with her vanished.
“I am still only eighteen, too young to bear a child. Therefore, I will endure until you reach the legal age of twenty-one and will consider you.”
He had prepared to pacify her with such generous, gentlemanly nonsense.
Mabel, raised in the sheltered upper-class world, was sexually naive by nature. Given the strict Victorian ideals of submission and purity enforced by Mildred Darlington, it was only natural.
He would merely be grateful for her patience. The thought of her demanding intimacy first was unthinkable.
If he could simply endure for a year and a half, Mabel’s value as a hostage would disappear. And he would simply endure.
To Mabel, who had been drawn into this without sin, he would offer a generous settlement upon divorce—together with a handsome reward. A young, wealthy divorcée was the freest creature in society.
She would no longer be swayed by her family’s demands, nor would she lack for money.
Regardless of whether she divorced or not, there were countless men who would desire a woman like Mabel. A future marriage with a man of her choosing—and a love marriage—would be entirely possible.
He had once thought it only right that her first experience should be with her next husband.
Now what excuse would he use?
Carlisle gazed at Mabel with troubled eyes.
Fortunately, the rare and expensive champagne seemed to agree with her taste; she kept lifting her glass.
At that moment, a convenient thought crossed his mind.
“This champagne must be to your liking.”
“Ye-yes?”
Mabel looked down at her half-empty glass and her eyes widened.
Champagne was sweet and fruity, popular with women. Like the sweet cocktails popular in speakeasies lately, it was a drink whose exact amount was difficult to gauge until the effects took hold.
Carlisle took the champagne bottle from the ice bucket on the side table and poured it full into her glass.
“More, please.”
A calculating smile curved his lips.
Until a better way to protect his wife from him appeared, he would simply buy himself time.