The Dressmaker (11 page)

Jean and Jordan Darling had drawn away from the cluster of survivors, huddling together by themselves, all lighthearted gaiety stripped away. Jean reached out as Lucile passed by. “Lucile, please,” she said, putting a hand lightly on her arm. “What would you have done?”

Lucile gave her a hard-edged smile. “I certainly wouldn’t have tossed a tablecloth over my husband to disguise him as a woman. You are a cheat, and your husband is a coward.”

Jean Darling covered her face with her hands as heads began to
turn. Tess was first shocked, then flooded with pity at the sight of her suffering.

“And yours was not?” Jean managed.

Lucile was giving no quarter. “There was no pretense. Don’t you understand the difference?” she demanded.

Jean Darling lowered her hands and looked directly at Lucile. “He would be dead and I couldn’t bear losing him,” she said.

“Really, your behavior is pathetic.” Lucile turned away.

“And what about your actions?” Jean Darling challenged.

“And what
about
me, my dear Jean?” Lucile said calmly. “Are you criticizing the fact that you and that husband of yours are both alive because of me? You are, you know.” She turned to Tess, who couldn’t take her eyes off Mrs. Darling’s stricken face. “Tess, I’m sure you can roust up some crew member to get us a little tea. You’ll do that now, won’t you?”

The rules still applied. “Yes, Madame,” Tess said. She was being sent away so as not to hear the rest of this. But something had happened on that lifeboat, the shape and truth of which she might never know. And this made her uneasy.

The cook’s wife took her eyes off the horizon long enough to grab at Tess’s clothes as she passed. “My daughter is ten,” she said. “She’s very spirited and well able to take care of her brother. He’s five. They’re coming soon. I’m very happy about that.”

Tess squeezed the woman’s hand, but knew there was no solace she could give. She kept walking.

The day grew warmer as the sun rose higher in the sky. Tess served a makeshift tea with two forlorn teacups and a shabby pot of tepid water to Madame, but there were no complaints. Afterward, she slipped behind a smokestack and curled herself tight, hoping not to
be noticed, hungry to be alone with the sun. Her thoughts flashed back to Jack Bremerton, remembering his calm demeanor as he handed that child into a lifeboat, looking up at her, clearly caring that she was still in peril. How could he be gone?

“I hear you were good with the oars.”

She looked up and saw Jim Bonney. “I learned, living on a lake,” she said.

“You worked them hard, I’m told. I’m not surprised.”

“Why not?”

He glanced down at her. “Your hands. They’ve seen plenty of sun. Have you worked on a farm?”

Instinctively, Tess tugged the sleeves of her sweater down over her fingers.

He spoke quickly. “Nothing to be ashamed of. May I join you?”

Tess nodded, and he sat down beside her. “If you’re not a seaman, what are you?” she said.

“A coal miner—at least, I was,” he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “Until three years ago. We went on strike—the big one, remember?” He looked at her expectantly.

She did remember, though somewhat hazily. It was all politics, her father used to say at the dinner table. Malcontents trying to get money out of the government. They should be grateful for their jobs and not make trouble. He would slam his spoon against his plate, repeating this, staring at Tess. The message was aimed at her; she was the troublemaker, the one who wanted to get away.

“I remember,” she said.

“I was an organizer,” he said. “Management gave in and we got better wages for the men. Organizing—that’s what I want to do.”

“Why in America?”

“Because it works. And people care about it.” Bonney kicked at a piece of debris blowing across the deck, then—with a quick, expert movement—flipped his cigarette over the side. “There’s a lot to be done with the unions in the States, especially in the West. Also”—he looked at her with a sudden smile—“a man can do what he wants, live the life he makes for himself. There’s no bloody class system holding you down.”

“Are you one of these—what are they called—Bolsheviks?”

“No,” he said. “But I don’t dismiss them. There’s this bloke, Vladimir Lenin.” He looked at her hopefully. “Russian. Have you heard of him?”

Tess shook her head, annoyed with herself. There was way too much she should know that she didn’t.

“So what about you? Why were you leaving?”

“I hate feeding cows and pigs and I hate doing rich people’s laundry, and I never want to do any of it again.”

He let go with a laugh. “So we share that. What will you do?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “It depends on Madame.”

“Why do you call her that?”

Tess hesitated. Because she was told to, that was the answer. But she wasn’t about to say so.

“It’s just for the trip.”

“What happens then?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I think she’ll give me work in her showroom. I love to sketch and sew.”

“You’re good at it?”

“I’m very good,” she said, scorning modesty.

“Good luck. She’s an arrogant one.” His voice stayed even.

“She’s been good to me.”

“She’s what’s wrong with the English class system.” His voice was suddenly sharp and angry.

“Why would you say that? She made it on her own, working hard.”

“Marrying into the titled class. That helped. Gave her license to be cold about other people’s lives.”

“I know how arrogant she can be, but there is more to her than that.” She pushed aside the memory of Jean Darling’s face, just for the moment. She would think about that later.

Bonney studied her for a moment, then glanced down to light another cigarette, cupping the flame against the wind. “Why did you stay out of the picture she wanted?”

“It felt wrong,” she said slowly.

“She’ll not let you get away with independent thinking.”

“It’s the only kind that comes easy to me.” Brave words; she wanted them to be true.

“Don’t fool yourself.”

Tess felt suddenly very tired, not quite ready for his determined opinions. “I’m trying to do my job, whether you think that is worthwhile or not. I don’t want to argue with you.”

“I’m not trying to undermine you. I’m mad at myself.”

“Why?”

“For what happened in that lifeboat. I should have fought harder against her.”

“What did she do?”

“Did you notice how empty our boat was? Do you know why? She wouldn’t let us pick up survivors.”

“Oh, my goodness.” This time Tess was the one covering her face with her hands.

“Pretty despicable, right? We could’ve easily saved people.”

“Maybe you were in danger of being swamped; we almost were.”

“You pulled that mother and her baby into the boat, didn’t you? That’s more than she would’ve done.”

“But—” She thought of how fearsome the dark water had been, how that had frightened everybody. Surely Madame wasn’t excluded? “There must have been good reason—are you sure? The officer on the ship said, I remember, he said the boat was unstable before it was launched. Couldn’t that be why?” She felt herself pleading. “I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

He gave her a hard look. “Are you so gone you defend her? I could tell you things.”

“Well, you haven’t—nothing that condemns Madame for anything. Everybody did the best they could.”

“There it is, ‘Madame’ again. All right, I see where this is going.” He spat out across the railing into the sea.

She hated it when men spat. “Well? What did you see?”

“Nothing I can talk about.”

“Then you’re making an ignorant denunciation.” Her heart was beating too fast.

His jaw stiffened, his mouth tightening. “Could be,” he said. “I see where you are. She’s your meal ticket.”

“What a dreadful thing to say,” she blurted angrily. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, the first she had shed since boarding the
Carpathia
.

He crushed his cigarette out on the deck and slapped one fist into the other. “I’m angry and too blunt. I don’t—”

“Look!” Someone was yelling and pointing from the bow. “We’re going by the damn thing! That’s where we went down!”

“Oh, my goodness,” a passenger from the
Carpathia
said, almost gaily. “I’ve always wanted to see an iceberg!”

Without a word, Tess and Jim scrambled up and hurried to the railing. Why am I drawn to this, Tess thought fleetingly. I don’t want to see it, but I can’t resist.

And there was the iceberg—huge, towering much higher than the ship. A beautifully shaped, evil thing formed by nature. Truly a ghastly work of art, with the sun’s rays pierced deep into its shimmering green core.

“Look over there,” someone shouted.

To the right of the iceberg was a wide circular stain of muddy brown water, so distinct it almost looked painted over the blue of the sea. It took a moment to realize what it was.

The wreckage of the
Titanic
lay before them, densely packed, a compost of intimate pieces of lost lives. A baby’s bonnet intertwined with a long white woman’s glove. Pieces and bits of unrecognizable matter curled and wound together. Chairs floating upright, stools and elaborately carved tables on their sides and upside down, boxes, stray articles of clothing, including a bright-red silk scarf coiled over the surface of the water like some sea serpent—all manner of floatable debris that had formed a tight field, torn free of the
Titanic
. Please, God, no yellow ribbon.

“I’m sorry for what I said about you,” Jim muttered. “Please forgive me.”

With hardly a thought, Tess cupped her hand over his on the rail. He made no move away, then turned his hand and curled his fingers into hers. Neither spoke as the ship moved on by.

“What can you tell me about them?”

The Frenchwoman nodded toward the two boys asleep under a blanket near the captain’s quarters.

“Their father is a widower, Mr. Hoffman.”

“He didn’t make it, I’m afraid. Somebody said they saw him handing the boys to you—that they heard him shout, ‘Tell my wife I love her.’ ”

“But he’s a widower.”

“Well, then, they are orphans now,” the woman said sadly. “We’ll have to wait until we reach land to try and find their family. But thank you—at least we know their names.”

“I saw them playing with tops,” Tess said, touching Michel’s face. “Are there any toys for the children?”

“I don’t think anything like that survived.”

“I’ll find something,” Tess said. Here was a task worth doing.

The long day dragged on. Tess searched the decks, peering at every face, wanting Jack Bremerton to be alive. Finally she mustered the nerve to go to the wheelhouse and ask to see the official survivors list. She scanned it quickly, then more carefully. His name was not on the list. Jack Bremerton had not survived; that’s how it was. He was gone. Without even closing her eyes, she could see his handsome profile, hear the warmth in his voice, as they talked that last evening on the
Titanic
. She could almost feel his closeness now. Could he truly be dead?

She handed the list back, turned, and walked out of the wheelhouse.