Titanic: The Long Night (4 page)

“Tell my
toes
that,” Elizabeth said. But she repositioned her feet in the shoes enough to allow her a normal gait. She didn’t want to waste any time arguing on something as insignificant as shoes. There were far more important issues to discuss with her parents.

The dining room was more crowded than it had been earlier in the day. Mr. Farr shared information garnered from one of the stewards that one hundred and forty-two first-class passengers had boarded in Cherbourg. But the enormous room was also more festive. Now that darkness had fallen, the lights were on, sending a soft glow across the tables. Elizabeth found herself wishing she were making this trip with someone other than her parents.

The thought took her by surprise. Romance hadn’t been on her mind lately. She’d been concentrating too hard on removing Alan Reed from her life to even think about putting someone else
in.

But there was something about this magical ship gliding across the Atlantic Ocean that made her think about strolling on the promenade hand in hand with someone wonderful. Someone who understood her. (And
liked
her.) Maybe it was the soft, golden glow cast by the lights, or the love songs being played by the orchestra now and again, or the sight of honeymooning couples seated in the cozy alcoves, holding hands across the table and gazing into each other’s eyes.

Whatever it was, Elizabeth felt a sudden wash of loneliness sweep over her, and she shivered.

Her father noticed and said, “You should have worn a shawl.”

“I shouldn’t have worn these
shoes.
” Elizabeth shifted position again to ease the cramping in her toes, and as she did so, she saw, across the room, the third-class passenger she had helped. He was seated at a table with Mr. Benjamin Guggenheim, a friend of Elizabeth’s father’s.

At first, she thought she was mistaken. How could that passenger be sitting in the first-class dining salon? But as she continued to look, she knew there was no mistaking those finely chiseled cheekbones. He was still in need of a haircut, and although he had changed into a dinner jacket, he was wearing it over a white turtle-neck sweater, the only man in the entire room dressed so informally. He probably didn’t know any better.

What was he doing
here
? According to the pamphlet they’d been given with their tickets, there was supposed to be a very clear separation of classes on board. Second-class passengers had their own dining room, also on D deck, but near the bow, and third-class passengers, like this fellow, were supposed to eat in their own dining room on E deck. Not that she cared where anyone ate. But if someone…a waiter, perhaps…checked and discovered a third-class passenger dining in the first-class salon, it could be positively mortifying for the young man.

It seemed obvious that he must not understand a word of English.

“Well,” her father, standing at Elizabeth’s elbow, said then, “I do see someone we know. Two people, actually. And their table isn’t yet full. Shall we join them?”

It made sense to Elizabeth that he led the way then to Mr. Benjamin Guggenheim’s table. After all, the man was an acquaintance of her father’s. She had met him herself twice, and wouldn’t need to be introduced.

What did not make sense, however, was the way her father turned to the young man in the turtleneck, who had politely risen to acknowledge the presence of ladies, and said with a smile, “And this, if I’m not mistaken, is Jules Whittaker’s slightly wayward son, Maxwell. Max, isn’t it?” Mr. Farr extended his hand. As the two shook hands, Elizabeth’s father added, “Studying art in Paris, weren’t you? Always the rebel, eh, Max?”

Elizabeth stared, unaware that her jaw had dropped. He was an
American
”! The son of someone her father knew? He spoke English, and he wasn’t poor? But then, what—?

She knew who Jules Whittaker was. He owned one of the largest fur salons in New York and another in Los Angeles. Her mother adored him…or maybe it was his furs she adored. Jules Whittaker was a very wealthy man. His son, rebel or not, wouldn’t be traveling third class…unless Daddy had disowned him. But if that were true, her own father would know it, and wouldn’t be speaking to the son in such a civil, even friendly, voice.

Elizabeth knew the Whittakers slightly. She also knew they had a son. She even knew the son’s name was Max, and that he had a talent for art. But she had never met him.

So. The tall, thin, confused, third-class passenger she’d “helped” earlier that evening wasn’t third class at all, and hadn’t been the tiniest bit confused. He was as wealthy and privileged as
she
was. How mortifying. For
her
, not for him. How could she have made such a mistake?

“Enid Whittaker is near collapse,” Elizabeth remembered her mother reporting at breakfast one morning late in August last year. “That younger son of theirs, the one who’s always been so difficult, is giving her palpitations.” This was the young man she’d been talking about? This Max standing in front of her, smiling?

“That boy has spirit,” her father had answered in August. “He’s just sowing his wild oats. They’d be well-advised to leave him alone, let him stand on his own two feet for a change.”

Elizabeth had been angry about that. Why was it he didn’t feel the same way about his daughter standing on
her
own two feet? Now, she struggled with her chagrin over mistaking Jules Whittaker’s son for a third-class passenger. Remembering how he had remained so completely silent while she directed him to third class, Elizabeth flushed with anger. He could have
said
something—before she made a complete fool of herself.

Of course, she
had
made the mistake of judging him by his appearance. Bad, bad mistake. But he could have set her straight. Why hadn’t he? He must have been laughing at her the whole time.

She remained miserably mute when they were introduced, barely nodding her head. She looked away, fixing an aloof stare on the ornate ceiling above his head. But she knew he was still smiling.

She hated him.

“I’m sure your parents will be relieved,” Elizabeth’s mother said. “I know your mother’s been beside herself, with you off in France alone.” Her voice lacked its usual warmth. Elizabeth knew why. The shagginess of his haircut, the turtleneck sweater…one of those things all by itself would have set her mother’s teeth on edge. The two combined were simply too much. She was, of course, completely civil. Nola’s Rules of Etiquette were on display. But she was not as friendly as she would normally be to the son of an acquaintance.

Elizabeth wondered if Max Whittaker noticed. Probably not. Probably wouldn’t care, anyway, about a woman who had a fool for a daughter.

The fool daughter had no choice but to be equally civil to the Whittaker’s errant son. Her mother would expect nothing less of her. And Elizabeth didn’t want to waste time back in the stateroom listening to a lecture on manners. If she didn’t face her parents tonight regarding their plans for her, the entire first day at sea would be a waste. She couldn’t afford that.

The only thing she learned about Max Whittaker during that endless dinner was that he was intelligent and could carry on a spirited conversation. He entertained them all with witty tales of his adventures living among the poor artists in Paris. Even as he lifted a forkful of filet mignon to his lips, he said, “You can make a surprisingly palatable tomato soup with nothing more than catsup and water. Very cheap, and very filling.”

What Elizabeth couldn’t figure out and was unwilling to ask was how Max Whittaker, who had apparently defied his parents, could afford first-class passage on the
Titanic.
Had his parents forgiven him for rejecting Harvard and choosing instead to live among the bohemians in Paris? She could imagine the message inserted in the fine linen envelope containing his first-class ticket: “All is forgiven. Come home.”

She tried her best to ignore him, but his stories
were
interesting. Then, too, she told herself she might be forced to follow his example and cut all ties with her own parents if they refused to listen to her wishes. Perhaps she could learn something about living on one’s own if she listened carefully to Max Whittaker. Although she couldn’t imagine eating tomato soup made from catsup and water.

They all left the dining room together. They were passing through the lounge when Max Whittaker suddenly appeared at her side and asked quietly, “Helped any more third-class passengers since I saw you last?”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush scarlet. Fortunately, her parents had paused to talk for a moment with Second Officer Lightoller, and were unaware of their daughter’s discomfort.

“No,” she snapped in response. Not content to leave it at that, she added under her breath, “And if you’re really Jules Whittaker’s son, I would think you could afford a decent haircut!” With that, she picked up the hem of her apricot dress and swept out of the lounge with her head held high.

She heard laughter behind her. She didn’t turn around. But she knew it was coming from him.

Wednesday, April 10, 1912

Katie couldn’t sleep. Her body ached from the rigors of the long trip and she was physically exhausted, but her mind was racing. She lay in the narrow bed under the eaves in Tommy Bascomb’s attic in Queenstown and willed morning to come quickly. Then, at last she would be on her way to America!

It would be hard, leaving her beautiful country. She had lived here sixteen years and one month, surrounded by family and friends. And she had been happy. But Ireland had little to offer a young girl except marriage and children, and she wasn’t ready for that yet. She wanted to see some of the world first. She wanted to see America, where the streets were paved with gold.

At first, her ma thought she was addlepated. “Sure, and why would you be wantin’ to traipse off to a big, rough place like America where there’s nothin’ but strangers?”

Katie couldn’t explain, though she’d tried. Her da understood. “Make your fortune while you’re young, Katie-girl.” Hadn’t there been a note of wistfulness in his voice? “You wait too long, it’ll pass you by.”

And then he had given her the ticket for her birthday, while her mother got teary-eyed at the kitchen table, having long since accepted the fact of Katie’s leaving.

Tommy Bascomb, Brian’s da’s friend with whom they were staying overnight, said, “There’s money to be made in America. I’d go meself if I thought they could use another butcher. But I hear they’ve got plenty, and here I own me own shop. But three fine young people like yourselves can make your mark, and that’s the truth of it. Even you,” he had added, addressing Katie directly. “A comely young lass like yourself should have no trouble finding a rich husband.”

Katie had bristled. “ ’Tis not a husband I’m seekin’,” she had said hotly. “I’m goin’ to make me
own
fortune!”

Brian had laughed uproariously, as had Tommy. Only Paddy had defended her, saying firmly, “She’s quick-minded, and she’s healthy and strong. She’ll do fine in America.”

“Aye, but she’s a
girl
,” Tommy had protested.

Katie turned restlessly in bed. What if he was right? What if Brian and Tommy knew something about the way of the world that she didn’t? Doom and disaster could be awaiting her in the new country. And then there was the great ship itself. If the
Titanic
was as big as everyone said it was, how could it be expected to stay afloat all the way to America?

She didn’t know how to swim.

Katie laughed softly to herself. Even if she could swim, the waters of the Atlantic at this time of year were so icy, the strongest swimmer would flounder, arms and legs frozen after only seconds in the frigid sea. Knowing how to swim would be useless.

“It’s unsinkable,” she reminded herself in a whisper meant to reassure. “The
Titanic
is unsinkable. Da said so.”

Remembering her father’s wholehearted support of her adventure comforted Katie, and she finally fell asleep.

Elizabeth became increasingly tense as she waited alone in the stateroom for her parents to return. What was taking them so long? She could almost hear the giant clock on the Grand Staircase ticking away her life.
Tick…tick…tick
…Elizabeth Farr has…
tick, tick
…no say in…
tick, tick
…her own future.

“Oh, yes I do!” she muttered under her breath. She began pacing back and forth. The apricot silk swirled around her ankles, making a soft, whispering sound that seemed to Elizabeth yet another “
tick
,
tick
…”

She was still pacing when her parents arrived, laughing over some remembered witticism of Max Whittaker’s as they entered their cabin. Elizabeth knew it had come from Max because her mother was saying, “I know he’s given poor Enid a difficult time, but he really is quite charming.”

Elizabeth stiffened. Charming? Max Whittaker?

“Where have you been?” she asked as she stepped from her cabin into theirs. “I’ve been back for
hours
!”

Unperturbed, her father pulled his gold pocket watch free and glanced at it. “You left us exactly twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes does not constitute an hour, Elizabeth, let alone several.”

“Well, it seemed like it,” she replied, flopping into a wine velvet upholstered chair. “You
knew
I wanted to talk to you.”

“I knew no such thing,” her mother said, slipping out of her gold slippers and collapsing wearily onto the chaise lounge. “Martin, did you know Elizabeth wished to speak to us?”

“Elizabeth always wishes to speak to us. Unfortunately, it’s always on the same subject.” Elizabeth’s father, still standing in the middle of the cabin, smiled warily at her. “I dare say I’m right? Or are we about to get lucky and simply talk about this great ship and what a pleasant day at sea it’s been?” He took a seat on the green velvet banquette against the wall opposite Elizabeth’s chair. “That would be so refreshing.”

“I’m not going to marry Alan Reed,” Elizabeth said quickly. “And I’m not making my debut, either. I want to go to college. To Vassar. You
have
to let me.”