The Glass Ocean

by Beatriz Williams

  Gilbert said, “I’m sure Mrs. Hochstetter needs a rest, but if you could direct me to the smoking room . . .”

  “I don’t need a rest,” Caroline said, not meeting her husband’s gaze. “I’m afraid I’m far too excited to close my eyes. I’d like to walk around for a little bit.”

  Mr. Houlihan bowed his head, his hands clasped in front of him. “Then I will check back with you later.” He looked at Gilbert, who had pulled out his gold watch for the third time since reaching the pier.

  “One more hour until we depart, yes?” Gilbert didn’t smile.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. There’s been a slight delay, but rest assured that Captain Turner will do all he can to make up for lost time. The Lusitania is a fast ship. One of the fastest, sir.”

  Gilbert frowned down at his watch before tucking it back into his waistcoat. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Mr. Houlihan bowed again then walked away as Caroline nestled her hand again into the crook of Gilbert’s elbow. After a brief hesitation, he started walking, moving them slowly around the Promenade Deck. It was the place to see and be seen, as ladies and gentlemen paraded up and down, looking out toward the harbor and open sea, the gulls shrieking at them all as they prepared to say goodbye to New York.

  They passed a man in a resplendent navy blue uniform complete with gold braid and shiny brass buttons. He wasn’t overly tall or necessarily handsome, but the uniform made him appear to be both. Even without an introduction, she knew him to be their captain, William Turner. He’d been invited to their party but had sent his regrets. This hadn’t surprised Caroline as she’d been told that Captain Turner wasn’t prone to enjoying social occasions either on or off his ship. Which was really fine with her, as long as he knew how to safely navigate Lusitania across the Atlantic.

  He was speaking with none other than Alfred Vanderbilt, who’d made an appearance at the Hochstetters’ party the previous evening. Caroline and Gilbert nodded, but continued walking as the other two seemed deep in conversation about something important, the captain speaking in reassuring tones.

  “What do you think they’re discussing?” Caroline asked her husband as they continued to walk along the promenade. When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him and saw that his thoughts were elsewhere. He distractedly patted the breast pocket of his overcoat as he’d done about one hundred times since they’d left the house that morning. It was where he kept the Strauss music sheets, carefully stored in their oilskin pouch.

  “Gilbert?” she said, a little more loudly.

  He looked startled to find her walking next to him. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering what the captain and Mr. Vanderbilt were discussing. It seems to be a serious matter.”

  He looked back to where the two gentlemen were still talking, a small frown on his lips. Patting her hand gently, he said, “Nothing for you to worry about, my dear. Nothing for you to worry about at all.”

  She opened her mouth to let him know that she was much stronger than he thought, and if there was something bothering him, about his business, or this voyage, or even if his shoes were too tight, she wanted to know. Because she loved him, and what affected him affected her. But they’d had that argument too many times already, and walking the deck of the Lusitania, surrounded by so many people, was not the time nor the place to bring it up again. Later, she told herself. Later, when they were alone in their stateroom, perhaps over tea, she would bring it up again.

  They continued to walk until the shrill of a woman’s voice near the railing caused Caroline to stop. She glanced around until she recognized the owner of the voice. Of course, the outrageously large hat with an excess of peacock feathers would have identified Prunella Schuyler even if she’d been silent instead of in a heated conversation with her well-known adversary, her very disagreeable sister-in-law Margery Schuyler. Both were grand dames of Manhattan society, but Caroline made a point of avoiding them, owing in part to their vindictive gossiping and also because they disapproved of Gilbert and his new money. Which only made Gilbert try even harder to ingratiate himself into their world.

  Caroline tried to reverse their steps but they’d already been spotted and Gilbert was removing his hat to greet them. “No, Gilbert, please don’t stop. They are such vexations. . . .”

  But he was already speaking to them. “Mrs. Schuyler. Miss Schuyler. How lovely to see you both.” He made a point of kissing their gloved hands while both women stared stonily at him.

  Knowing it was too late to escape, Caroline greeted them both, doing her best not to focus on the unattractive sore in the corner of Margery’s mouth. “I hope you’re feeling better, Miss Schuyler.”

  The woman looked at her, not understanding.

  “You left our party early because you were taken ill. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  Margery didn’t even pretend to be mortified at being caught in a lie. “I’m feeling quite well, thank you.”

  Gilbert touched Caroline’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you in the good company of these fine women, dear. I’m headed to the smoking room.”

  “But . . .” she started, but he’d already begun to walk away, unaware of her fantasy of them waving goodbye to New York together, then retiring to her bedroom as the ship sailed out into the Hudson River on its way to the Atlantic.

  Prunella gave Caroline a tight smile, her upper lip pulled over her slightly protruding front teeth. “I was just telling Margery about my brilliant stepson, Phillip. He’s at Harvard Law now, you know. He will be quite the catch, I’m sure. Brilliant, handsome, and the Schuyler name. We’ll have to be very careful about whom he marries. Blood will tell.”

  Margery’s watery blue eyes had taken on a glassy cast, as if she’d been listening to Prunella wax poetic about Phillip since they’d boarded the ship. Apparently eager to change the subject, she said, “There will be a talent night here on board Thursday evening. Isn’t that exciting? My late father, God rest his soul, loved my singing voice and always asked for me to sing at our parties.”

  “Wasn’t he deaf in one ear?” Prunella asked, her face serious.

  Ignoring her sister-in-law, Margery continued, “I think the talent evening will be the perfect place to showcase my singing voice. I just need to find someone to accompany me on the piano.”

  Both eyes turned to her and for a brief moment, Caroline contemplated throwing herself over the railing.

  A twisted grin settled on Prunella’s face. “You play the piano, don’t you, Mrs. Hochstetter?”

  “Ah, yes, I do, but—”

  “Perfect,” Margery said. “And rumor has it that you have a rare Strauss waltz with you here on the ship. Perhaps I shall sing it and you may accompany me.”

  Caroline blinked. “Actually, there are no lyrics. Waltzes rarely do . . .”

  Margery frowned at Caroline. “Don’t be such a defeatist. I’m quite quick with the pen and can create my own. I’ll just need to see the waltz so that I can match the lyrics to the melody.”

  Caroline looked about for a means of escape, trying not to look dejected when she found none. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. It’s very rare, and my husband is very protective of it. He will have it under lock and key for the duration of the voyage.”

  “Hrmph. I find that very unacceptable,” Margery said, her lips pressed together in disapproval. “Regardless, before I will agree to perform with you, you will need to audition, to make sure you’re up to standard. There’s nothing more terrible than an accompanist who is not of the caliber of the vocalist. I’ll have my maid contact you with a time and place. Which stateroom are you in?”

  “B-48 and 50—the portside Regal Suite. Although, I’m not sure if—”

  Margery was already speaking over her. “Do you have any medical knowledge, Mrs. Hochstetter? I have this pesky sore on my mouth, and I’m not quite sure how to get rid of it.”

  Caroline looked with longing at the railing just as a male voice sounded behind her. “Mrs. Hochstetter.
Ladies. What a lovely surprise.”

  Caroline turned around to find Robert Langford, looking darkly handsome in a black wool overcoat, and his chestnut hair, unencumbered by a hat, blowing in the wind and lending him a boyish air. He smiled at the older ladies, and Caroline was fairly sure that Margery—a spinster in her late thirties at least, with a dour face and sallow complexion—actually blushed.

  Caroline made the introductions, trying not to show her relief at his sudden presence. He bowed his head to the two older ladies. “I apologize for the intrusion, but Mr. Hochstetter has sent me to find his wife and return her to his side. Will you please excuse us?”

  They said their goodbyes and walked away down the promenade. “Did Gilbert really send you to find me?” She hated the eagerness in her voice.

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s just that I saw you with those two ladies and I was concerned at the look you kept giving the railing. As if you’d prefer to be on the other side of it.”

  “Was it that obvious?” she asked, holding her gloved hand to her mouth.

  “Only to those of us who know you well,” he said. His face was serious as he regarded her, making something odd happen to her breathing. But then he smiled, and they both laughed and the moment was forgotten.

  “I’d be happy to escort you to your stateroom if you’d tell me where.”

  “We’re in the portside Regal Suite on B-deck, but I’m not ready to go down yet.”

  “What a lovely coincidence. I’m also on B-deck. A smaller cabin, alas, but still first-class. And I’ve been told I have a porthole so I at least have a view. Are you up here until we head out to sea, then?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I was hoping Gilbert would want to do the same, but apparently he found the lure of the smoking room to be more appealing.”

  “I couldn’t imagine,” Robert said, keeping his gaze ahead of him. “Perhaps he was looking for someone with whom to discuss this morning’s news.”

  “News?”

  He gave her a quick glance as if judging whether or not she was strong enough to hear it, and then deciding that she was. “Yes. The German embassy put a warning in most major newspapers warning passengers that the Lusitania is a British ship and that Germany is at war with Britain. And that travelers sailing in the war zone on a ship of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk.”

  She stopped and he stopped, too. “Should we be afraid?”

  “It’s wartime, Caroline. We should all be afraid. But Captain Turner is assuring passengers that Lusitania is too fast for a German U-boat to track long enough to launch a torpedo. We will also be given a naval escort as soon as we reach international waters.” He smiled gently. “Does that make you feel better?”

  Lifting her chin, she said, “Yes, thank you. And thank you for sharing the news with me. I’m sure Gilbert doesn’t think I should be burdened with it.”

  Robert didn’t say anything but continued to walk around the deck with her. She studied his profile, remembering something he’d said to her about his reason for going home to England. “You said you had family business to attend. Do I dare hope it’s to reconcile with your father?”

  He looked away from her, but not before she saw the shadows in his eyes. “One could certainly hope, but that’s not why. It’s a little more . . . complicated. All completely boring, I assure you, which is the only reason why I’m not sharing every excruciating detail with you. Boring but necessary, I’m afraid. At least it gives me a reason to be on board this ship with you.”

  They were approaching an area where games had been set up and a large number of children, escorted by what appeared to be an army of nannies, were busy playing hopscotch, jumping rope, and pushing wooden toys. Caroline stopped, watching a little girl of about three with unruly blond curls that had escaped an enormous bow on top of her head. She clutched a ragged teddy bear as she jumped with sturdy legs on the hopscotch board, unable, or not caring, to avoid the lines.

  “She’s adorable, isn’t she?”

  Caroline nodded, unsure if she could trust her voice.

  “I’m surprised you don’t have children of your own,” Robert said. “I always pictured you as a mother.”

  She waited a moment to force a smile before turning back to Robert. “Me, too. We’re hopeful it will happen. It would be our greatest joy to have children.”

  “It will happen, Caroline. I’m sure of it. Just as I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful mother.”

  “Mr. Langford, Mrs. Hochstetter.”

  They both turned to see Patrick Houlihan, the steward, approaching with what appeared to be two telegrams clutched in his hands. “I beg your pardon. But I have a telegram for each of you.” He handed one to Robert and one to Caroline, then bowed to them both before hurrying away.

  Assuming Robert would be as eager to read his as she was to read hers, she ripped it open, smiling as she saw it was from her mother, then sobering as she read the rest. She glanced up at Robert. He was looking at his own unopened telegram, his fingers stiff against the paper.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Caroline asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I will.” He indicated hers. “Good news, I hope?”

  She considered her answer. “I suppose so. Our mutual friend, Hamilton Talmadge, of the infamous garden party incident, has apparently saved my mother from ruin. He has purchased our family home and will be allowing my mother to live in it for the rest of her life for a penny a year.”

  “Nice chap.”

  “I suppose so. He’s a widower now, you know. He’s a bit too young for my mother, otherwise I think they’d make a lovely match. But at least Mama won’t have to worry about her finances anymore.”

  She could tell Robert wasn’t really listening, staring instead at his own unopened telegram. “Please open it,” Caroline said. “I could leave if you’d like some privacy.”

  His eyes met hers. “It’s from my father,” he said bluntly.

  “Then you should definitely open it.”

  “Should I?” Their gazes held before Robert turned abruptly and walked toward the railing. He held the telegram suspended over the water for a long moment as if undecided.

  “Don’t!” she shouted, moving toward him. She thought of her own beloved father, his memory faded like fabric left out in the sun, yet the imprint of his love and devotion as permanent as the stars.

  He ripped a corner of the telegram, clutching both pieces. Caroline held her breath. If she had just one letter from her father, just one . . . “Don’t!” she said again, louder.

  “Why?” he asked. “I already know what’s in it. He cabled me yesterday telling me to stay in New York. Touching, isn’t it? How eager my father is to keep an ocean between us?”

  Caroline watched as Robert was suddenly surrounded by a throng of people moving to starboard holding large white handkerchiefs in preparation for the ship’s departure. Everyone seemed dressed in shades of black and gray, giving the impression of unsettled ghosts.

  “Because he’s still your father,” she said over the din, unsure if he’d heard her.

  He must have because he turned back to her, but not before the ripped corner of the telegram was torn from his hand by a strong gust. He clutched what remained of the telegram with one hand but shifted his gaze to watch the errant piece of paper. It sailed on the blustery wind, twisting and looping on its descent toward the grasping waves of the harbor as the great ship’s funnels belched black smoke into the pewter sky, and the gulls continued to scream.

  Chapter 6

  Tess

  New York City

  Saturday, May 1, 1915

  Would those blasted birds never shut up?

  Tess slipped through the door from the promenade, letting the wind slam it shut behind her. That was better. The promenade was crammed with hanky-wielding travelers and their well-wishers, everyone jammed up against the rails, waving at the shore for all they were worth. The society reporters were making their rounds,
cozying up to the swells; children were running back and forth, jamming hoops into unprotected ankles; and, above it all, the gulls circled like vultures with a head cold.

  It wasn’t the crowds Tess minded. Crowds were good. Crowds were a place you could lose yourself. It was the incessant rock, rock, rocking of the ship, even at anchor, and that tang of salt in the air. Salt and something vaguely fishy.

  The closest Tess had come to the sea was the swan boats in Central Park.

  Deep breaths. Tess leaned back against the white wainscoting of the wall and breathed in starch and soap with a soupçon of coal smoke. Even here, even on B-deck, where the Vanderbilts slept in state, they couldn’t keep out the stench of the fuel that made the ship run.

  But it was more bearable. It was certainly more bearable.

  It was quieter in here than outside, but nearly as busy. Servants bustled about, making sure their masters’ belongings were settled. Porters staggered beneath vast bouquets of flowers, delivering farewell trophies to the proper suites. Tess clutched her battered carpetbag to her chest and tried to look suitably lost, which wasn’t as hard as she’d feared, since she was.

  Find me on B-deck, Ginny had told her. By the parlor suites.

  Well, here she was, incongruous in her navy serge traveling suit from Gimbels ($10.75, with belt), a poor, lost wanderer from the second-class lounge, just looking to find her way to the stairs down to E-deck. Never mind that the staircase was smack in the middle of the second-class lounge, and clearly marked, at that. What American girl wouldn’t want a glimpse of the luxury of her betters?

  Oh, wait. She wasn’t meant to be American. She was Tessa Fairweather, from Devon. Where, apparently, they made some special sort of cream and had something to do with Sir Francis Drake. Ordinarily, Tess researched her roles better than this, but Ginny had sprung this one on her. One week’s notice and here she was, on this floating palace, planning a light bit of major felony and personal reinvention.

  Tess craned her neck, scanning the busy servants, the porters with their bundles. Damn it, Ginny. Where are you?