The Dressmaker (17 page)

“No, not like that …” Tess tried to say more, but no words came out. Lucile stared at her, an impenetrable gaze. But Tess saw again something elusive flitting back and forth in Madame’s eyes. And then it disappeared.

“You may—let me put it differently—you are
ordered
to return to your room.” Lucile turned on her heel, pausing to add, “Get some sleep, in a decent bed, finally.” She marched back to the dining room, not waiting for Tess’s response.

Pinky stared at her image in the gilt-framed mirror at the back of the elevator as it descended. Women preened and primped in front of
this thing every night, pinching their cheeks for a rosy glow, adjusting their hair, stroking their diamonds. But right now she was looking at herself, and she looked grubby. Sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and grubby.

She shouldn’t have turned her back on Tess; she could have said something more. Why did she always feel that it was up to her to correct the unfairness of the world? Her father scolded her often enough. Lose your coolness and you’ll lose your journalist eye; that’s what he said.

The elevator doors parted and she stepped out into the Waldorf’s lobby, where preparations were already under way for the beginning of the U.S. Senate’s
Titanic
inquiry. It was a smart decision to move fast, before the survivors became restive to go home. More people were gathering, probably afraid they wouldn’t get seats in the morning. Even she was nonplussed at the increased intensity of the scene. Women in shabby clothes sat unheedingly on the rich brocade chairs, some of them crying and wiping their eyes. Men in tweed caps, eyes haunted, milled about, talking to one another, holding themselves apart from this alien environment. Pinky glanced down at her notebook: 706 survivors out of some 2,223 people. Sixty percent of the first-class passengers survived, most of them women. No surprise there. And only twenty-five percent of those in steerage.

Young men in stiff collars carrying boxes into the hotel were hurrying back and forth through the lobby, vanishing into a huge ballroom lit with crystal. Pinky’s gaze traveled back to the center of the room, where the action seemed concentrated around a slight man in a black coat. His mustache was so big it almost swallowed his face.

So now she could meet William Alden Smith legitimately. No use keeping out of his way; he surely knew she had sneaked onto the
Carpathia
—that is, if he and his aides had read her survivor interviews in the late edition. But maybe not. Notebook out, Pinky wedged her way closer, scribbling down everything she could hear. “Hello, Senator Smith,” she said with a big smile. “I’m Pinky Wade, from the
New York Times
. What—”

“Yes, Miss Wade, I think we’ve traveled together. Am I right?” His eyes were quick, more intelligent than she had expected.

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you the one in the cap, whistling?”

Pinky felt a slight blush creep up her neck. She nodded.

“I thought so. It’s a good song, ‘Good Night, Ladies.’ But it isn’t a sailor’s tune.”

“Next time I’ll choose a better one,” she said. “Can I ask a question now?”

He smiled and nodded. He had thrown her off balance for a second or two; that felt good.

“Who’s your first witness tomorrow?”

“Bruce Ismay.” No reason not to tell her. He knew her reputation; this was a reporter to cultivate.

“Is it true he was trying to set a speed record?”

Smith blinked, startled. “Who told you that?”

“I’ve got my sources, Senator. You can read all about it in the night edition of the
Times
.”

“I have no comment,” he said stiffly.

“Okay, but it sounds like the focus of your inquiry is on White Star’s culpability, right?”

“
Alleged
culpability. We will cover everything, Miss Wade. Including the fact that there weren’t enough lifeboats.”

“My editor figured that out first. Be sure to ask Ismay how many people were in his. There were a lot of places in those lifeboats that went begging. Especially in Lifeboat One.”

“I know that,” he said, annoyed. This woman was getting on his nerves.

Pinky grinned. “Thanks, Senator. See you tomorrow morning.”

She turned, satisfied; at least she had a fresh top for the earliest morning edition. She headed for the door, then stopped. Sitting in a corner of the lobby, half hidden by a monster elephant-tree plant, was one of the sailors she had talked with on the
Carpathia
. He looked depressed, almost as if he was deliberately hiding himself.

Pinky edged through the crowd toward the man. “Hello again,” she said, pushing back the huge leaves of the plant. “It’s me, Pinky Wade. What’s wrong?”

Startled, he looked up at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just a little more reporting. We didn’t talk too long on the ship. Anything else you want to tell me?”

“No.” He slumped back down in his seat.

“Are you going to have to testify?” she asked.

“I hope not.”

“I would sure like to know what happened in that lifeboat.”

He looked up at her again, more thoughtfully this time. Assessing her usefulness to him, she figured. “Maybe you will,” he said.

“Now?”

“Now.”

Pinky pulled up a chair.

It must have been long past midnight, but Tess couldn’t sleep. The first night of her life in a bed with a thick, luxurious mattress that felt heavenly, covered in the smooth crispness of fine percale sheets, and she could not close her eyes. The Duff Gordons were arguing with each other, their voices rising and falling in the next room, gaining energy as the hours passed. Only when they shouted could she hear the words. “I’ll say what I want to say, and no one will stop me, not even you,” Madame railed at one point. Tess threw an arm across her brow. She knew enough about marital fights—she had certainly lived through many of these late-night sessions between her parents.

She rose, moving silently across the room, wary of making any noise. She stopped before a handsome mahogany dresser and poured herself a glass of water from a fragile porcelain pitcher, staring into the mirror. Only a few days ago, she wanted nothing more than to
be
the fabulous Lucile. All that she had dreamed about and hoped for had been delivered to her. She had moved into the orbit of the woman she most admired.

But things were tipping, turning sideways. That one warm moment on the ship—Lucile understanding the pain, sharing this awful experience—what a wonderful thing. To know that she cared, that she understood what it was like to try and break free and move upward—overwhelming. Yet those flashes of—say it plain, no one
was listening—
cruelty
 … What was there to say about them? Sometimes the fabulous Lucile didn’t seem quite so fabulous anymore. But at other times she seemed to be reaching out, in need. How could Tess not offer solace?

And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else going on that she didn’t understand.

Pinky was right—it wasn’t enough just to survive. And maybe Jim was, too: maybe she was trying too hard to hold on to her meal ticket in this new country.

She bowed her head, weary at being faced once again with conflicting emotions. Stand up, challenge, do what you want. Yes. That’s what had got her off the farm, got her fleeing Cherbourg, got her on the
Titanic
. No. Be careful, be loyal, challenge nothing. Why had she survived? Why not all those poor souls praying and pleading in the water? Why not Jack Bremerton? She owed a debt, but it wasn’t clear to whom—or how it was to be paid.

She fingered the carving of the lifeboat she had placed in front of the mirror, moving her finger gently around its curves and crevices. Impulsively, she dipped a finger into a jar of cold cream and drew the outline of her face on the mirror, then stepped back. Odd—the size of the image didn’t change even as she retreated. Shouldn’t it be shrinking? She moved forward; it stayed the same. She was no larger, no smaller.

She drained the glass, grateful for the cool water, then returned to bed. She fell into a restless sleep with one last conscious thought: whatever was to come next would not be the glamour of strolling the deck of the
Titanic
. That was gone forever, if it had ever existed.

WALDORF-ASTORIA
APRIL 19

J
ess knocked lightly on the Duff Gordons’ door the next morning, not sure what to expect. Lucile answered almost immediately, looking wan and listless. There was no sign of her husband. Silently, she pointed to a copy of the
American
on her bed.

Tess picked up the paper. “
MY HARROWING EXPERIENCE ESCAPING THE TITANIC
” was the headline, followed by a first-person account of Lucile’s near-death adventure, enhanced with lurid prose. So melodramatic, it took her breath away.

“Did I say all that last night?” Lucile asked. Her voice was subdued.

“Some of it. But it’s been embellished; it’s not fair.”

“I feel terrible. Cosmo is furious.”

Lucile looked so fragile, her face crumpled and tired, that Tess, impulsively, took her hand. “It’s just someone’s idea of a way of selling newspapers,” she said. “The same way it’s done in England.”

“But not with me as the victim.” The older woman sank down on the silk-covered sofa next to the window. “Cosmo says I’ve put myself front and center of this disaster and we will pay dearly for it.
That everybody will go after us now, making up all sorts of stories. Why are they mocking me?” She snatched the paper and threw it to the floor. “Did you read some of those sentences?” She quoted, in a mincing voice: “ ‘I said to my husband, we may as well get into the boat, although the trip will be only a little pleasure excursion until the morning.’ I never said that! Did I?”

“No, you didn’t—you weren’t at all flippant.” There was no use reminding Lucile of how much she
had
said last night. “You were just telling your story.”

“Thank you, dear. You understand.” Lucile seemed genuinely comforted. “There’s nothing about me in the
New York Times
, fortunately,” she said. “The Wade girl wrote about the failings of the ship’s captain and the muddled response of White Star, and threw in a few narrow-escape stories—the full front page. She didn’t write about my dinner. Probably realized she owed us something for that good meal she gobbled down.” Lucile glanced sideways at Tess, her only acknowledgment of their confrontation the night before.

“What a scruffy lot, these reporters,” she continued. “Now help me get ready, dear. I have to get to my shop. Thank goodness I shipped most of the dresses for the show ahead of time. It would have been truly dreadful if they had all gone down. The—”

“What about the inquiry?” Tess asked, surprised.

Lucile looked at her sharply. “After this story? Tess, if I go down there I will be inundated with reporters. You know what the bellman who brought up the papers this morning said? He said people downstairs were talking about the ‘millionaires’ boat.’ How can I go down and be subjected to that mockery?” She waved her hand dismissively, looking less wan and more determined. “You go and find out what happens. You had your dress sent to the hotel laundress last night, didn’t you? I’m going to my salon.”