The Dressmaker (15 page)

“I don’t think I can take your word for that,” Tess said, thinking of the newspapers she had seen in Europe.

“You would be a bit naïve if you did. Lots of people say we’re obnoxious and deceitful, and sometimes it’s true. Look, I just want to hear your story. I don’t know who you are, but I’m glad you survived. I assure you, that is not a deceitful statement. What’s your name?”

“Tess Collins, and please don’t call me Tessie.”

Someone that immediately touchy was probably a servant. “How did you end up on the
Titanic
?” Pinky asked. She tried not to make her voice hurried, but she couldn’t waste time if she was going to get more interviews before Smith and his crowd caught her.

“I was hired as a maid for the trip, and I was lucky.”

“Why were you lucky?”

“Because I had a cabin in first class, where the lifeboats were.”

Pinky waited again. She got her best information that way.

“People died because they weren’t able to get on the boats,” Tess said.

“There weren’t enough, right? That’s what we’re hearing.” Pinky pulled a notebook and pencil from her pocket and began scribbling. “How did you escape?”

“I made it into one of the last lifeboats, with two children; their father asked me to take them.”

“Did he make it?”

“No.”

This would be good color. “Whose maid are you?”

Tess stiffened. “I’m only that for the journey.”

“Sorry.” It took time to be adroit, time she didn’t have. “So who—”

“I work for Lady Lucile Duff Gordon.”

“The designer?”

“Yes.”

“Was she in your boat?”

“No. Look, you can get better stories from other people.” It suddenly occurred to Tess that she was disobeying Lucile, getting herself into more peril. She didn’t want to talk about anything more. She just wanted this reporter to go away.

“I’m sorry, it must be brutal to get questions fired at you so fast.” But Pinky wasn’t through. “If all the lifeboats were on the upper deck, then mostly first-class passengers survived?”

Tess saw again the faces from steerage. “I think so,” she said. “Most of the others couldn’t get to the boats in time.”

“Then you were doubly lucky.” Pinky scribbled faster. Here it was, that whole rotten class-division thing again. This was going to be one more story, she was sure of it, of the rich getting preferential treatment over the poor. She didn’t have the count yet, but she was certain many more first-class than steerage passengers survived. What a corrupt world it was. She stopped, pencil poised. “Why weren’t you in the boat with Lady Duff Gordon?”

“It was launched before I could get in.”

“Why? Was it full?”

Tess hesitated. “No. I don’t know why.”

“How many people in it?”

“About twelve or so.”

The pieces were fitting together amazingly fast—on her first try. The imperious Lucile Duff Gordon, the not-too-nice doyenne of the
fashion world—this world-famous rich woman saved herself in an almost empty boat. Pinky closed her notebook. She wanted to ask more questions, but she had to catch other passengers before Senator Smith finished handing out his subpoenas. If she didn’t go back on that tender with him, she’d get stuck in the crowd at the disembarking.

“Thanks, you’ve been helpful,” Pinky said, shoving notebook and pencil into her pocket. “It was nice to meet you.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Good luck,” she said, reaching out a hand. “Maybe we’ll meet again on shore.”

“Thank you for saving my carving,” Tess said suddenly.

“Sure,” said Pinky. “Maybe you’ll tell me the story behind it next time.”

“Story?”

“There’s always a story,” Pinky said as she turned away, dodged behind a smokestack, and disappeared into the crowd.

The ship moved on slowly, and soon those on board found themselves staring at what looked like thousands of people on the pier who, in their silence, seemed almost a mirror image of themselves. Bundled in heavy, dark coats and bowler hats with rain dripping onto their collars, the families waiting on the dock stood in lines arranged alaphabetically under large posters. It was a forlorn effort to somehow organize the reunion of survivors and families without chaos, doomed to failure.

Hoarse voices began crying out names, hoping to hear answering shouts. Women began to cry. People pushed forward as the gangplanks were hoisted into place, many groaning in frustration when they realized that first-class passengers would be first to disembark. Doctors in white coats and nurses in starched caps moved among the waiting men and women, armed with smelling salts and cold compresses for those who might faint or suffer heart attacks when they learned the worst. It was coming for many of them, a snaking live wire of dread traveling through the crowd.

Senator Smith stood on the bridge of the
Carpathia
, looking out past the black sea at the crowd on the dock, his stomach roiling. He hated ships, hated the sea. His hands felt sticky with salt water. He had a strong urge to wash them, but perhaps that urge was primarily to wash away the memory of the frozen-faced Brit he had just interviewed. How could the man be so stiff in the face of what had happened? All Ismay was worried about was saving his own hide. Smith grabbed the railing as the ship suddenly rocked sideways, pushing down the bile in his throat. He had to get off this thing. But his instinct had been right. He was glad he had come on board and caught Ismay before the wily fellow had a chance to hop a returning ship, escaping any accounting to the people of the United States. His resolve to see this through, to pursue every angle, was strengthening. It wasn’t just about making a name for himself in Washington anymore. Didn’t those people down below him, watching the ship come closer, knowing their lives were forever altered—didn’t they deserve to know the truth of
why
that bloody ship went down? They were close enough now—he could see their faces: a woman with hands clasped in front of her mouth as if in prayer; the man next to her peering upward in obvious anguish, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar face. A wife? A child? He swallowed hard. He could do this. He
would
do this, follow every lead, no matter what, for if he was anything he was a righteous man.

And that Brit, with his flat, expressionless eyes, would be the first witness, whether he liked it or not.

Lucile hesitated at the top of the gangplank as she looked down on the faces turned in her direction, jolted by the sheer nakedness of emotion they displayed. She shuddered, clutching at Cosmo’s arm.

“Walk quickly, dear,” Cosmo said. “These people don’t want to see us.” He held on to her firmly as dockworkers began clearing a route for the first-class passengers through the crowd and to their
waiting automobiles. With Tess following close behind, the Duff Gordons made their way to the parking area and their Packard Victoria. And standing there, talking to the driver, a long coat hiding her pants, was Pinky Wade.

“Welcome back to New York, Madame Lucile,” she said cheerfully, not looking at Tess. “I’m Pinky Wade of the
New York Times
.”

“No interviews now,” Cosmo said gruffly.

Lucile paused as she started to enter the car, scanning Pinky’s face. “Any relation to Prescott Wade?” she asked.

“My father,” Pinky said shortly.

Lucile’s eyes widened slightly. “I knew your father. Long after he became famous covering the Beecher trial, of course. A very gallant adventurer, as I recall. Climbed mountains, and other things.”

“Well, he did get around.” As usual, Pinky looked down when her father’s name was dropped into a conversation.

“We must go,” Cosmo said. “No interview, please.” He opened the front door and nodded to Tess to climb in next to the driver.

“Of course not, you’ve all been through a terrible experience.” Pinky shut her open notebook with a snap. “But life goes on, and I’d like to talk to you later—about the ship and, well, I’m not much into fashion, but I’d be interested in how you’re planning to market your spring collection.”

Lucile nodded. “That can be arranged,” she said, getting into the car.

“I know this sounds terribly inappropriate, but it’s always a bounce for the social set here when you arrive,” Pinky said with a grin, thinking fast. Anything to keep this woman’s attention. “And I hear your sister is ready to shock Hollywood again with her latest novel—can we talk about that, too?”

This time Lucile laughed. “I’m having a dinner tonight at our hotel—why don’t you join us?”

“No, that’s not a good idea,” objected a startled Cosmo.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I knew her father,” Lucile said impatiently. “Well?”

“I’d be delighted,” Pinky said. Even she was a little shocked.

With pain and sadness wrecking the lives of the people still on the dock behind them, this woman was planning a fancy dinner? She had better get back to the newsroom and write fast. This was too good to miss.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Lucile said before vanishing into the car. “But you put it well, Miss Wade. Life must go on. Dinner is in an hour.”

Tess glanced back at the figure of Pinky Wade standing on the curb as the car drove off, wondering if she should mention their encounter on the ship. But Lucile and Cosmo had launched immediately into an argument.

“You’re too careless with your invitations,” Cosmo began.

“Nonsense,” Lucile said. Cosmo was entirely too cautious. That girl’s father had been a delightful man, very responsible, not just a grubby reporter; surely this Pinky woman knew she had a legacy to live up to. There were so many more important things to think about! There were dozens of things to do in preparation for the New York spring show; thank goodness they were staying at the Waldorf. Tonight would be lovely: no more terrible shipboard food; good friends, gracious dining.… How could he want to spoil her fun?

“Tess, you’re invited too, dear,” she said.

Slumped in her seat, Tess dozed, letting herself enjoy the feel of the soft leather cushion caressing her head. She had never been in so luxurious an automobile. Outside, scraps of a new, busy city slipped by, too quickly for her brain to absorb. She would face its demands and energy tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was a room alone, with clean sheets and a soft pillow. She closed her eyes and, with a sting of melancholy, her thoughts drifted to Jack Bremerton. He was gone, and with him her silly fantasies about seeing him again. A brave man, gone. Her thoughts turned to Jim, reliving their moments of goodbye on the
Carpathia
—his blue eyes, his kindness, his serious intensity. She could no longer dismiss him as just a village boy. Not that it mattered,
because she would probably never see him again, which deepened her melancholy. By the time the sleek black Packard in which they rode pulled up at the Waldorf, she was in a hazy, deep sleep.