Duke of a Gilded Age (23 page)

“I’ll have one too,” Mrs. Stenger said. “If we’re to collide with icebergs and fishing boats, a few glasses of wine will numb the terror quite nicely.”

Wesley hid his mirth behind a napkin.

Mr. Ley cleared his throat. “A glass of wine all around wouldn’t go amiss.” He paused. “Actually, make mine a scotch.”

After dinner, Mr. Ley begged off chess to retire to his cabin.

“I’m afraid scotch and chess don’t mix,” he said. “I shall retain my dignity and play again another day—assuming the ship is not struck by a parade of horribles in the night.”

Wesley chuckled. “I attended a Horribles Parade in Brooklyn last July Fourth. Although there were a great many floats, none of them were icebergs.”

Mr. Ley laughed so hard at Wesley’s joke that tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. “Very good, my boy. Either that was very witty or I’ve had far too much to drink.”

Still laughing, the old man ambled off. Stephen appeared at Wesley’s elbow.

“For a moment I thought the fellow was having a fit,” he murmured. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. It was just a joke about an iceberg.”

“Hmm. It must’ve been a good one.”

Louise bounded over. “Annabelle taught us to play whist. Why don’t you boys play a game of cards too?”

“I can’t play whist,” Stephen said.

“The only card game I know is solitaire,” Wesley said.

When Belle arrived shortly thereafter with Eva, Stacy, Carl, and Horatio, Wesley had a sudden flash of inspiration. “I have an idea. Let’s swap players. Carl, Horatio, and I claim Miss Oakhurst for our whist instructor, while you ladies teach Stephen.”

“What an excellent notion,” Stacy said. “You can be my partner, Mr. Van Eyck.”

Outmaneuvered, Stephen could only smile. “I’d be honored, Miss Egermann.”

The group trooped upstairs to the library, where Wesley spent a very pleasant evening learning the game of whist. Every so often, Stephen shot him a baleful look from across the room, which Wesley answered with a delighted grin.

The next two days passed without incident, although occasional sightings of what Mr. Finnegan called
bergy bits
brought passengers running to the promenade deck rail for a glimpse. The elephant-sized lumps of ice were floating in the ocean like gigantic hailstones, but never came close enough to the ship to pose any danger. Clear, warm weather was the rule, and the seas remained calm enough that only a very few sensitive individuals were plagued with continued seasickness.

Never before had Belle been in such amiable company. Pleasant and diverting shipboard activities presented themselves at every turn, and she was getting along with everyone famously. Most importantly, she and Wesley had settled into a comfortable relationship, with nary a disagreeable moment. True to her word, Louise had not said anything more about Belle’s feelings, and Belle had managed to occupy herself so thoroughly she didn’t have time to dwell on them. Although she couldn’t pretend her contentment would last forever, she was determined to enjoy it as long as possible.

The dance club continued to make progress on the quadrille, practicing it so frequently that even Carl and Louise became familiar with the parts and movements.

“As long as I watch the head couple, I know what to do,” Louise said.

“If we’re to arrive in Liverpool Saturday, we really have only two days left for dance club meetings,” Belle said. “Would anyone like to learn the polka tomorrow?”

Eva and Stacy let out little exclamations of excitement.

“Yes, please!” Louise said. “What fun!”

“I’d love to learn the polka,” Wesley said.

“Nothing would please me more,” Stephen said.

“I’ll probably be just as good at the polka as I am with the waltz,” Carl said, deadpan.

“And you, Mr. Egermann?” Belle asked.

“I’m up to the task,” Horatio replied.

“Cavendish, do you know any polka tunes?” Wesley asked.

“A fair few, sir.” The valet played several spritely stanzas of Dvorak’s
Polka in E major
.

“That makes me want to dance, even now!” Louise exclaimed.

“It’s settled, then,” Belle said. “Tomorrow, we polka.”

An open invitation appeared in the Wednesday morning
Gazette
inviting the saloon passengers to a concert in the second class dining hall. The D’Oyly Carte Opera Company was returning to England after a tour in the United States, and they were to present an evening of music from
The Pirates of Penzance,
complete with props and costumes. The news had created a general sense of excitement among the saloon passengers; Wesley was looking forward to it as well.

After dinner, he escorted his mother downstairs for the concert. The dining hall in second class had no soaring dome or ceiling, but it was large, comfortable and well-appointed nonetheless. The concert proved so popular that Wesley and many other gentlemen were obliged to give up their seats to ladies and move to the back. He found himself standing next to Stephen. The air between them crackled with ill-disguised antagonism, interrupted only by a short welcoming speech given by the D’Oyly Carte Opera company tour manager, Mr. Nash.

As the concert commenced, Wesley admired the Major General’s patter and chuckled throughout
I am a Pirate King
. Thereafter, a pretty soprano began to sing
Poor Wand’ring One
, and as she sang, the girl strolled to the back of the room. She continued to sing her song to Wesley, and although he was uncomfortable in the spotlight, he played along with good humor. Afterward, the ingénue gave him a kiss on the cheek, and the room burst into applause.

Flustered, Wesley could scarcely listen to the company’s fine rendition of
How Beautifully Blue the Sky
. When the singers paused to change props, Stephen leaned over to needle him. “You really
are
an American devil, aren’t you?” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your lady friend, the soprano.”

“She’s
not
my lady friend, Stephen. I never saw her before in my life.”

“Right you are. She just picked you out of a whole room of people at random?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Wesley fumed at Stephen’s insinuation. “Furthermore, people would more easily expect a string of lady friends from you, not me.”

“I should thrash you for that.”

Wesley shot him an angry glance. “I wouldn’t want you to muss your hair.”

Stephen balled his fists. “See here—”

Just then, Mr. Duncan brushed past on his way to the front of the dining hall. “Excuse me, everyone! Can I have your attention?”

The chatter stopped.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mr. Duncan said. “About an hour ago, we came across a steamer in distress.”

The dining hall was immediately filled with a frightened din, which the Chief Officer tried to calm. “The
City of New York
is in no danger, I assure you! But our assistance has been requested, and Captain Howe is obliged to render aid. Does anyone here speak Italian?”

Wesley glanced around, assuming someone fluent would respond. Nobody did, so he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Duncan, I speak a very little. How can I help?”

“Come with me, Your Grace. And to everyone else, please forgive the interruption. You may continue with the concert, if you like.”

The Chief Officer escorted Wesley from the room, followed closely by Stephen.

“What’s the situation, Mr. Duncan?” Wesley asked as they mounted the stairs.

“I’m not entirely sure myself, Your Grace. A half hour ago, five crewmen rowed a longboat over from the
Apollo
, requesting our help. After they conferred with the captain, he sent me to find someone who speaks Italian. That’s all I know.”

When Wesley emerged on deck, he saw the
Apollo
crewmen wearing cork jackets underneath Macintosh coats, huddled in conversation with Captain Howe.

“Captain, His Grace speaks Italian,” Mr. Duncan said.

Wesley hastened to clarify. “Only a little…a few words here and there. I’m not sure if I’m of any use at all.”

“Son, we’ve canvassed everyone on the ship and you’re the best we’ve got,” Captain Howe replied. “The SS
Apollo
was en route to New York when she suffered an engine explosion. She’s hulled and taking on water. Captain Yarborough needs his passengers and crew to evacuate the ship as quickly as possible.”

“How can I help?”

“The saloon passengers apparently understand the situation full well, but the steerage passengers are another matter. They’re Italian immigrants, speak not a word of English, and are terrified out of their wits.”

“The
Apollo
doesn’t have anybody on board who speaks Italian?” Wesley asked, incredulous.

“The interpreter was killed in the blast.”

Wesley grimaced. “All right. What would you like me to do?”

“The
Apollo
crew will row you to their vessel. You must convince the Italians to evacuate the ship…women and children first.”

Several passengers had followed Wesley from the concert and formed a crowd of curious onlookers. Lady Frederic pushed her way through in time to hear Captain Howe’s request.

“No! A tiny rowboat in the Atlantic Ocean isn’t safe!” she exclaimed. “Captain, you’re asking too much.”

Wesley gripped his mother by the arms. “If I don’t go, people may die.”

“I won’t have you risk your life, Wesley. You’re all I have left.”

“I wouldn’t be any kind of a man if I don’t do this.”

“Milady, he’ll wear a cork jacket and carry a life buoy,” Captain Howe said. “And the longboat is quite seaworthy.”

Stephen shouldered past Mr. Duncan. “I’ll go too.”

“You don’t speak Italian,” Wesley said.

“I studied Latin. How different can it be?” Stephen’s teeth gleamed in the lamplight. “Besides, if there are ladies to cajole, I’m just the person to do it.”