Titanic: The Long Night (3 page)

He was right, Elizabeth conceded. She particularly liked the natural light streaming in through the wrought iron and glass dome overhead, which prevented that dark, closed-in feeling she’d experienced on other ships. The staircase curved similarly to one she had seen in an enormous mansion in Atlanta, Georgia, during a visit to friends, and the railings were intricately carved with wrought iron insets. At the midway point, where the lower railings began to swirl gently outward on either side, there was a large, stately carved panel on the landing containing a clock, surrounded by two embossed figures her father explained were meant to symbolize Honor and Glory crowning Time. Elizabeth had no idea what that meant, but she decided she liked the carving. On each landing as they descended, there were paintings on the walls, gold-plated light fixtures, and comfortable chairs and tables should one need to rest.

There were people seated in the white-paneled reception room, relaxing before going on through the double doors into the dining room and luncheon. Voices and laughter provided a pleasant sound.

Her mother’s concern about the difficulty of finding seating in the dining room, Elizabeth realized as they stood in the entrance, had been just plain silly. The room, which her father stated was the largest room afloat, was enormous, over one hundred feet in length, with small, cozy alcoves and leaded floor-to-ceiling windows. While she had expected long, narrow tables and perhaps wooden, straight-backed chairs, what she saw instead were groups of smaller, white-clothed tables and elegant chairs upholstered in a luxurious green fabric. Thick beige carpet lay underfoot. Lush green plants provided a tropical look, and crystal and china adorned the tables. The vast room, which could easily seat five hundred, was bright and welcoming, although Elizabeth would have been happier had she seen more people her own age sitting at the tables.

The ship was so steady that her water glass never bobbled once on the white tablecloth, nor did her salmon mousse slide about on her fork as she lifted it to her mouth. The food was delicious, and the sea air had made her ravenously hungry. If it hadn’t been for what was facing her at the end of this trip, and for the strained relationship between herself and her parents, she would have been quite content.

“There, now!” her father said heartily, lifting his wine glass. “Isn’t this everything I said it would be?” He beamed a broad smile first at his wife, then his daughter.

Elizabeth quickly erased the smile by complaining, “I don’t see very many people my age.”

“Perhaps someone nice will board in Cherbourg,” her mother said hastily, clearly not wanting an argument to begin in public. “A lovely young French girl. That would give you an excellent opportunity to practice your language skills.”

Elizabeth set her glass down on the table. “I speak French like a native, Mother. And what does it really matter, since I will never have occasion to use it? Alan Reed has no interest in travel. It’s all he can do just to make the trip from his house in Manhattan to his estate in Tarrytown.”

“Please, Elizabeth,” her mother pleaded in a low voice, “not here. Would you be kind enough to let us enjoy our meal?” Turning from her daughter to her husband, she added in a more cheerful tone, “Isn’t this lamb magnificent? So tender. I wonder if it would be possible to get the recipe from the cook?”

I’ve been dismissed, Elizabeth told herself. Roast lamb is more important to them than I am. Though she was still hungry, she refused to eat another bite. Her parents pretended not to notice.

After lunch, they went up to the first-class lounge on B deck for coffee. On their way to the elevator, they found the corridors crowded with passengers exploring the ship, intent on learning their way around. Most were too accustomed to luxury to exclaim openly. Still, the expressions on all of the faces were admiring, and some were full of wonder as they peered into this room or that.

There were people playing cards in the lounge, a large, carpeted room with wall sconces, arched doorways, patterned upholstered chairs, and elaborately carved wooden paneling on the walls and ceiling. Others engaged in conversation, striking up acquaintanceships that would last throughout the trip.

Unwilling to sit with only adults, Elizabeth invented a headache. She excused herself and walked the length of the room to the aft first-class staircase, where she left the lounge. A cool breeze caressed her face as she went to the rail and stood there, looking out over the water. The sea was still smooth, a silken sheet of dark blue. She could taste salt on her lips. Around her, couples strolled, hand in hand, talking and laughing. A pang of envy shot through Elizabeth. She knew there were honeymooning couples aboard, and she tried to envision herself and Alan Reed strolling among them. Impossible. Alan hated traveling, that was the first thing. The second thing was she couldn’t picture Alan laughing and talking as freely and easily as these couples seemed to be doing.

Elizabeth sighed. Better to jump over the railing right now and disappear forever beneath the surface than spend her entire life in the dull, dreary company of Alan Reed.

Then she straightened up, took a deep breath of salty air, and shook her head vehemently. Nonsense! Alan wasn’t important enough to make her do something so stupid. She had her whole life ahead of her, and she was going to see to it herself that she spent it the way
she
wanted. Whatever that took.

Her father came up, accompanied her to the enclosed promenade on A deck, and rented a chair and a lap robe for her. “A nice relaxing rest,” he said gently. “Just what the doctor ordered.” He gave her an awkward pat on the head as he turned to leave. Then he spoiled it by adding, “Your head is uncovered, Elizabeth. Would you like me to run down to your cabin and bring you a hat?”

Every other woman on deck was wearing a hat.

“No, Father,” Elizabeth said, sliding down beneath the lap robe. “The hat is what gave me the headache in the first place.” Not true. But if she could invent a headache, she could certainly invent the reason for it. “Don’t worry, no one’s going to throw me overboard because my head is bare.”

She heard the sigh that followed him off deck. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Bad enough he hadn’t had the son he wanted, who would follow him into the banking business. Now his daughter was being difficult.

She stayed in the deck chair all afternoon, drinking endless cups of hot tea and brooding about her future. It wasn’t until the ship slowed as they approached Cherbourg that she tossed the lap robe aside, climbed to her feet, and left the promenade to walk along the starboard rail where she could watch the embarkation. She could see the long seawall straight ahead, and peered more closely to look for the tenders that would bring passengers aboard. There they were, sitting low in the shallow waters along the shore. The small boats were already loaded. She wondered how long the passengers had been waiting. Probably an hour or more.

The sun hadn’t set yet. It turned the water along the low shore into liquid gold for a brief period. Then dusk quickly descended as the tenders made for the ship. Elizabeth imagined how the
Titanic
must look from where they were. The ship’s lights had all come on, hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, and were turning the ship into a fairyland castle sitting high in the water.

She was still standing at the rail, watching with interest at seven-thirty, when the bugle sounded for dinner. Her stomach was growling with hunger, and she was curious about why her parents hadn’t come looking for her. Her mother, who spent hours getting herself ready for any occasion, knew Elizabeth would have to bathe and change before the evening meal. Odd that her father hadn’t come to peel her away from the railing.

Elizabeth turned and went inside, to stand at a distance opposite the entrance to watch as the first-class passengers from Cherbourg came on board. She was hoping there would be another girl her age, of almost any nationality. If the girl didn’t speak English or French, they’d find some other way to communicate. But at least she’d have someone besides her parents for company on board.

There
was
someone her age, or near her age. Unfortunately, not a female. A young man, very tall, almost too thin, in a worn tweed jacket and matching cap pulled low over his light brown hair, which needed cutting. The minute he came through the doorway, Elizabeth knew he was in the wrong place. Not only were his clothes far too worn for first class, but he was carrying his own baggage: what looked to be a portfolio of some kind, and several boxes tied with string. First-class passengers did
not
tote their own luggage. She wondered how he had gotten past the staff greeting arriving passengers. Didn’t they check to see what class ticket the new arrivals carried?

She wondered if he even spoke English or French. There were many nationalities traveling on this ship. Some were emigrating to America; others were on their way to visit relatives. If the young man was Norwegian or Swedish or German, Elizabeth would be at a loss. She spoke only English and French.

She glanced around as the tall young man struggled to balance his boxes. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him. Perhaps in all the confusion of this new group of passengers boarding, he had supped by the crew. He must not have understood the class designation on his ticket.

As he neared, she took a step forward and, intending to be helpful, asked, “Excuse me. Do you speak English?”

He lifted his head to look at her over the tower of black boxes, but didn’t answer. His eyes were a deep, dark blue, thickly lashed. But they seemed to Elizabeth uncomprehending.

“Well,” she said gently, “I think you might be in the wrong area of the ship. Does your ticket read first class?”

Still no answer. His face was so lean, his cheekbones sculpted so acutely, Elizabeth wondered if he might be starving. How had he afforded this trip at all? Even a third-class passage on the
Titanic
would require funds he could have used for food.

The dark blue eyes regarded her carefully. She saw no comprehension in them.

Elizabeth took pity on him. Calling a steward to assist him might be a humiliation. Deciding that even a second-class passenger probably wouldn’t be carrying his own luggage, she tried to think where the third-class en-trance might be. She had no idea. She hesitated, wondering if she should interfere at all. Then she thought how mortified she herself would feel if she were mistakenly at the wrong entrance, and made up her mind. In that same, gentle tone of voice, she said, “Would you excuse me for a minute? Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried over to a nearby, uniformed steward directing a group of passengers to their cabins. “Could you please tell me where the third-class entrance might be?” she asked, keeping her voice low so the young man wouldn’t hear.

Barely restraining surprise at such a question coming from someone so well-dressed, the steward answered politely, “There’s two I know of, miss. Aft on C deck, D deck on the bow.”

Nodding and thanking him, Elizabeth returned to the passenger. “Come with me,” she said briskly. “I’ll direct you to a third-class entrance. We’ll take the elevator to C deck.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Then I’ve got to rush back up and get ready for dinner or my parents will have everyone on the ship looking for me.”

He still had not spoken a word when the lift stopped at C deck, and the door opened. But as she pointed aft and told him good-bye, he managed somehow to free a hand long enough to tip his tweed cap to her and nod a thank-you before striding off along the corridor.

Feeling satisfied, even a little smug at proving she
could
be useful on her own, Elizabeth returned to her stateroom to change for dinner.

Wednesday, April 10, 1912

Knowing her father had little patience on an empty stomach, Elizabeth resisted the urge to discuss her impending debut and marriage to Alan Reed while they were all changing for dinner. She regarded this strategy as prudent rather than cowardly. The best military generals plotted their moves carefully. She would do no less. She was determined to win this war.

She wore her apricot silk, its collar high around her throat, its sleeves full and to the elbow. It was the most feminine dress she owned, and she knew how becoming it was. She hadn’t seen anyone who looked especially interesting board at Cherbourg, but she had been distracted by that confused young man from third class. It was possible that while she was helping him, someone fascinating had boarded. If so, that person would most likely be in the dining room. She should look her best, just in case. The apricot silk brought out the peach tones in her skin and the reddish highlights in her hair.

“Tomorrow night,” her mother said as she fastened a mother-of-pearl comb in her own blond upsweep, “I should like to dine in the à la carte restaurant. Mrs. Widener tells me the cuisine is extraordinary. But tonight I prefer the dining room. Someone we know may have boarded in Cherbourg. The Jarvises were touring the Continent this spring, and Lily Bascomb rented a house in the south of France for the entire month of March. Wouldn’t it be lovely if they were all on board?”

Since Elizabeth couldn’t tolerate her mother’s friend Miss Bascomb, a silly, vain woman who talked of nothing but herself, she made no comment. She thought it interesting, even surprising, that she and her mother were thinking alike. They so seldom did. But now they were both hoping someone interesting had boarded at Cherbourg.

Elizabeth’s apricot-dyed shoes pinched her toes, forcing her to take tiny, mincing steps.

“Good heavens, Elizabeth!” her mother said. “Must you walk like that?”

“You ordered the shoes a half size too small. They hurt.”

“Then change them,” her father interjected. “Heaven knows you’ve got plenty of others in your wardrobe room. If I were as astute a businessman as everyone thinks I am, I’d invest in an Italian shoe company.”

Nola Farr looked shocked. “Martin! Those shoes were custom-dyed specifically for that dress. And they are
not
the wrong size. Elizabeth is just being melodramatic.”