Around the World in 100 Days by Gary Blackwood

Edward?”
    â€œNeither. It’s just Harry.” He paused, not certain he wanted to reveal his actual name. It would mean also revealing his origins. But for some reason, he wanted Elizabeth to know. Perhaps it was a sort of test, to see how she would react, whether it would matter to her. Or perhaps it was due to the sense of intimacy that occurs between shipboard acquaintances who know that, once the ship docks, they will never see each other again. “In actual fact,” he said, “it’s Hari, with an i . It’s an Indian name. According to my mother, it means ‘the sun.’ S-u -n, not s- o -n. But apparently it can also mean ‘the monkey.’”
    Elizabeth snickered. “You’re making that up.”
    â€œNo, honestly. When I started school, my mother insisted that I spell and pronounce it the English way. She wanted me to appear as British as possible. Didn’t want me to go through what she went through, I suppose.”
    â€œI’m sure it was difficult for her, trying to fit into a world so different from the one she was used to.”
    Harry glanced at her, curiously. “You sound as if you know her.”
    â€œNo, of course not. I was just assuming she grew up in India.” Elizabeth shivered. “It’s turned a bit chilly. I think I’ll go back to my cabin and my book.”
    â€œI’ll walk with you, then.”
    â€œPlease don’t bother.”
    â€œIt’s no bother, really—” Harry started to say, but she was already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “Good night, Monkey.”
    Â 
    The next day, Harry had a leisurely breakfast in the dining room, as well as a long luncheon, afternoon tea, and dinner, certain that Elizabeth would turn up for at least one meal. She did not. Harry could only assume that the book she was reading was awfully compelling—or that she was deliberately avoiding him.
    But that evening, as he wandered about the deck, trying to walk off his growing impatience, she approached again, with a smile that implied she was genuinely glad to see him. For nearly an hour they talked companionably, mostly about books and motorcars. Then she returned to her cabin, again refusing to let him escort her.
    They played out a similar scene the next night, and the next. Though she revealed nothing about her background or her reason for traveling to America, he did at least learn the title of the book she found so fascinating— Adam Bede , written by George Eliot, who was apparently a woman. Elizabeth promised to pass it on to him when she was done. But the truth was, Harry felt no need for a book; mulling over the mystery of this young woman was more than enough to occupy his mind.
    Harry had tried hard to respect Elizabeth’s wishes and let her remain anonymous. But on the fourth day out of Liverpool, his curiosity overrode his conscience; he talked the head steward into showing him the list of all the passengers in second class. Three Elizabeths appeared on the roll; two were accompanied by their husbands, and one was a child.
    Unless his Elizabeth was married or lying outrageously about her age, Harry could think of only one satisfactory explanation: She was, in fact, traveling first class and—unlike Charles Hardiman—chose to fraternize with the less exalted passengers for a brief while each day.
    That evening, when they met in their usual spot at the rail, Harry lost patience with her attempts to keep the conversation in safe, neutral territory and blurted out, “Why are you pretending to be a second-class passenger?”
    She blinked her blue eyes at him. “Whatever makes you think that?”
    â€œI looked at the passenger list.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me?”
    â€œWhy does it matter?” she countered. “To you, of all people?”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œYou know what it’s like to be looked down