by Kim Izzo
“The captain must be worried about submarines to order this,” a woman whispered to her husband.
The man put his arm around his wife protectively. “It’s just a show,” he explained. “Better to be safe than sorry.” Her fearful expression said she didn’t share his view.
Sydney didn’t want to watch any longer. It was too unnerving to think of any event that would cause them to need lifeboats. She walked sombrely along the deck dressed in her black wool crepe. It was a mourning dress, the only one she hadn’t packed away since her father’s death. After such a fitful night she had naturally gravitated to it at dawn.
“Good morning, Miss.”
The voice startled her. She jerked her head up and saw Junior Third Officer Bestic striding along, a forced smile on his lips. “Good morning, Officer Bestic,” she returned. “I see the captain has ordered all of the lifeboats to be swung out. It’s unsettling but I suppose it has to be done.”
Bestic glanced out to sea. “There is no reason to be afraid,” he insisted in a tone that belied his own nerves. “All precautions are being taken.”
Sydney smiled. “Have we officially entered the war zone now?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, Miss. We sailed into the war zone early this morning.”
“When is the Royal Naval escort arriving?” she asked. “I keep expecting to see a cruiser on the horizon any moment.”
“I can’t comment on that,” he answered flatly. “But as I said, there is nothing to be worried about. Captain Turner has the ship under the strictest naval orders and we will be in Liverpool on schedule.”
“Are we sailing at top speed now?” she asked. “It doesn’t feel very fast.” She almost questioned him about the fourth boiler but didn’t want to admit she’d been listening to rumours.
“The captain is the judge of when to increase her speed,” he answered. “Have a good day, Miss. I’m needed on the bridge.” He marched away from her.
She continued her walk, wishing she had spoken to the captain in more depth at dinner last night. There was much she wanted to know. She found a few people on the starboard side watching a school of dolphins cavort in the ship’s wake. The mammals leapt out of the water and wiggled with joy before disappearing below the surface. Again and again they played, much to the delight of the human audience high above. Sydney envied their ease and grace.
A gull appeared and glided above the dolphins, soaring upward until it was eye level with Sydney. It looked like the same gull that had been flying alongside the ship for the entire voyage. She doubted that it was the same bird but still, the fantasy of that possibility made her smile for the first time that morning. Perhaps it was watching over her and the other passengers. Children’s stories and fairy tales were full of guardian angels and fairy godmothers, why not a guardian gull? But mostly what Sydney saw as she gazed at the dolphins and the gull was freedom. Survival was their only concern in life. Not family strife, not politics and war and certainly not inappropriate feelings for a sister’s fiancé.
She headed toward her cabin. It was convenient that everyone was preoccupied with the war zone. It gave her behaviour a passable explanation. No one would question why she was anxious. If anyone noted her paleness or questioned her grave expression she could simply say it was the war zone. Then whomever she was speaking with would reassure her that all was well, as Bestic had done, or would agree that the world was terrifying, and commiserate. Yes, it was frightening to imagine submarines lurking below the surface, lying in wait. The German warning was imprinted on everyone’s mind and had been the talk at every meal, at every tea and conversation. But the source of her misery and anxiety was not the war zone. And as she padded her way toward breakfast she knew that later this morning she would enter the Regal Suite where Brooke would be waiting for her. She had done nothing wrong, at least nothing tangible. Her thoughts and emotions were her own private nightmare.
The Regal Suite was in a state of disarray. Gowns and dresses were strewn across divans, chairs, the bed and even the floor. Shoes, hats and various feminine accessories were scattered amongst the clothes. Sydney stood against the door and watched Sarah frantically pick up piece after piece as Brooke continued to aggressively scour her wardrobe for some unnamed jewel or other precious item.
“I can come back,” offered Sydney. She took the chaos as an indication of her sister’s state of mind.
Brooke wouldn’t look at her. Instead she buried her face in lavender silk; it was her favourite gown and had been selected for the wedding breakfast. “Sarah, would you leave us alone?”
Sarah dropped the armful of clothes where she stood and scurried away, past Sydney and out the door. Brooke ignored the mess and walked over to the divan that was covered in garments and with one sweep of her arm the whole mass landed on the floor with the others. She sat down and waited. Sydney reclined in one of the petal-pink Queen Anne chairs opposite. They faced each other like two opponents about to duel only instead of twenty paces in a fog-draped field it was twenty feet of silk and lace that stood between them.
“Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?” Sydney asked. She noticed a hand-knit scarf lying at her feet. She picked it up. It had been decorated with needlepoint at the ends in a sort of crest pattern. “Is this yours?”
Brooke raised an eyebrow. “That atrocity was made especially for me by Georgina. Hideous.”
Sydney smiled. “The needlepoint detail must have taken her weeks. I think it’s pretty.”
“You want that too?” Brooke spoke bluntly and stared at her. It was a tactic that Brooke had employed many times when she was growing up. She would stare wide-eyed at people—the nanny, her father, a child—until they gave in and asked her what was the matter, how could they help or apologize for some perceived slight. But Sydney wasn’t about to give in and so the stare down continued.
“I’m sure Georgina is expecting you to wear it,” she said, and placed the scarf in her lap.
“Did you enjoy the dancing last night?” Brooke asked in an accusatory tone.
Sydney stroked the scarf. “I did.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Brooke said, her tone stating otherwise. “Edward seems to like you.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Sydney asked, wishing this confrontation to be over quickly, like the blow from an executioner’s axe. “You were worried I’d ruin your wedding.”
“I was worried your political views would ruin my wedding,” she said. “I had no idea that I had to worry about you stealing my fiancé.”
There. The words had been spoken. All that had to be done was to deny it and move on. “I have no interest in stealing Edward,” Sydney answered. “It’s not my fault he pays so much attention to me.”
“No? You looked very fine in that gown.”
“In the gown you chose for me.”
“So it’s my fault Edward has a sudden appreciation of ladies’ fashion. As if,” scoffed Brooke.
“You wouldn’t know what he appreciates. You don’t even know him, not the real him,” Sydney said, and regretted it immediately when she saw Brooke’s accusing face.
“And you do? All the time you’ve spent with him talking his ear off has made you an expert on Edward Thorpe-Tracey?” she taunted.
“You see him as the means to an end. A title and an English estate,” Sydney continued. “He’s a man with a passion for the world, with an understanding of its people, wars and politics. He wants to fly . . .” The wide-eyed stare returned to Brooke’s face. Sydney chose not to play her game. “And he can dance the foxtrot and bleat like a sheep.”
Brooke flinched. “I see. Then his talent knows no bounds. Neither does your capacity for being ridiculous. Bleat like a sheep?”
“Because I’m the black sheep. It was a joke.”
“You’ve shared jokes, have you? How nice for you,” Brooke said.
Sydney took a deep breath. What was she doing defending Edward this way? He wasn’t hers to defend. And
Brooke wasn’t the enemy. “Let’s not do this,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Argue over a man,” Sydney snapped. “Especially one you don’t even love.”
Brooke threw her head back and laughed. It was a bellowing raucous laugh.
“Do you really think that love has anything to do with this?” Brooke asked. “You’re right. I don’t love Edward. But this isn’t about love or romance, it’s about business. You’re not the only modern woman in the family.” Sydney recoiled slightly. Brooke saw and smiled. “Our father taught us to value honesty, honour and the art of a good business deal. He also gave us ambition. You have your women’s issues. I have society. I’m getting a title, Sydney, just like our mother and I always dreamed of. I will live on a great estate and raise children who will inherit that estate and who will practically be royalty.”
“Those were books she read to you so you’d sleep. You can’t assume Mother expected you to live like a princess,” Sydney said.
“She would have been as thrilled as I am. I will be staking a claim in the old world and be someone and something more than just a rich girl from the colonies. I want authority and respect and being a member of the English aristocracy will give me that in spades,” Brooke said quickly and passionately. “That’s the only romance I’m after and I’ve found it and I’m not letting you ruin it because you have a crush on Edward or he has a crush on you. Or you have crushes on each other. I don’t care and it doesn’t matter.”
Sydney was silent. Brooke had never quite put it that way before. Marrying Edward was her strategy for gaining power. She wondered what their mother would make of them fighting over such matters as power and influence.
“If our mother had lived do you think we’d have turned out softer, more feminine?” Sydney asked.
Brooke’s face calmed. Her eyes were glistening and she wiped them with the back of her hand. “You mean kinder and gentler? Perhaps. But then you wouldn’t be a suffragette,” she said with a faint smile. “Our determination and practicality we owe to our father. He’s made us men in some ways.”
Sydney took this in. Her father had raised them like they were sons. They weren’t coddled and protected from the world the way their friends were. At the dinner table Augustus did not shelter them from his business dealings and financial concerns; instead he discussed these matters with them. You will inherit my fortune one day, he would say. You need to know how to manage it. Of course, Mr. Garrett had been hired to oversee the details but in reality both girls knew how to balance a ledger, read the stock exchange reports and recognize when to buy and sell stock. It was ingrained in them.
“But why marry a man you don’t love?” she asked. “I’m not being flippant. I really want to know.”
Brooke paused a moment, then smiled. “You don’t seem to get that love doesn’t matter to me. I’ve got the perfect husband. Edward and all the trappings, that’s what I want. Have no fear, I will be a good wife and mother.”
“I’m sure you will,” Sydney answered. She felt Edward fading away from her with each word her sister uttered.
Brooke looked at Sydney, the flash of warmth gone. “You need to remember one thing in all of this, Sydney,” she said. “If Edward has professed his love for you—”
“I never said—”
Brooke cut her off with a wave of her arm. “Whatever he may tell you, keep one thing in mind—switching his affections to you doesn’t change a thing for him.”
Sydney bristled. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Brooke laughed. “Even if he were passionately in love with you, rest assured he is fully aware that no matter which Sinclair he marries the money remains the same. He gets to keep Rathfon Hall.”
This was a blow to Sydney and Brooke seemed to relish it. She stood and gently took the scarf off Sydney’s lap and wrapped it around her own neck. Then, with a look of disgust, she tore it off and threw it back at Sydney. “It scratches my skin. I won’t be encouraging Georgina to make any more of those awful things.”
Sydney clutched the scarf and ignored her sister. She was too deep in thought. She had allowed herself to be swept up by Edward’s charm, his intelligence, how he listened to her go on about her causes, her mother, all of it. Her sister was right. There was no risk in his jilting Brooke and marrying her. He left England to fetch a rich American bride and he would land in England with one. What would it matter to any of his family which sister he wed? It made his attentions less flattering, less sincere. How stupid she felt.
“I have to go to my room,” Sydney announced, and stood up.
“Of course, dear,” Brooke cooed. “Go pack your things and come back here so we can finish the voyage together.” She put her arm around Sydney and walked her to the door, then kissed her cheek. “I will send Sarah down to help you.”
Sydney was downcast. Their fight was over and Brooke had won. “I can find a steward,” she said flatly, and walked out the door.
Isabel
Another telegram just came in from Queenstown Naval Centre, Commander Hope, sir,” Anstie said.
“Well, what does it say?” Hope asked. He was going over the transcripts from the night shift with Denniston. Isabel was seated beside them taking shorthand for the daily report. There hadn’t been word on Schwieger’s U-20 since yesterday.
“It’s a report of a submarine sighting off Daunt Rock off the south Irish coast,” Anstie said. “It submerged a few moments later.”
Isabel listened intently. Daunt Rock was close to Kinsale and Fastnet, both points along the southwest coast of Ireland.
“Schwieger hasn’t left the area then,” Denniston said. “Must be getting low on fuel by now.”
“Perhaps,” Hope said. “But if the captain keeps her at a slow pace or rests on the sea floor she can conserve fuel. Isabel, make a copy and take it at once to Lord Fisher.”
She took the telegram and sat at her typewriter and banged out the copy as fast as she could.
Lord Fisher’s secretary was a grim-looking woman in her fifties who wore wire-rim specs and always had the same diamond brooch in the shape of a beetle on her jacket. Isabel often wondered if the diamonds were real.
“This is for Lord Fisher,” Isabel said. “We received it a few moments ago. It’s of vital importance.”
The secretary looked bored, as though the war was a chore, like dusting, that had to be done but wasn’t worth getting excited over. “Very well. Give it to me and I’ll be sure he gets it.”
Isabel handed over the telegram. The secretary dropped it on top of a paper tray and did nothing more. Isabel was dumbfounded. Had the woman not heard her?
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s rather urgent,” she said.
The woman stole another glance at her. “And I’ll be sure to give it to him when the time comes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”
The fog that had cloaked London earlier in the morning had lifted and the sun shone brilliantly. Isabel took her lunch and sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square. She took a bite of her sandwich. It was sardines again.
“May I join you?”
She watched Henry approach, his own bagged lunch in hand. She didn’t want company, least of all his. They had barely spoken since her return. It made Isabel sad to think that when she had started at the Admiralty, Henry was her friend. Now she looked at him as an enemy. He might as well be a Jerry.
“Needs must,” she answered without looking at him. He sat down and unwrapped his sandwich.
“Last night’s pork,” he said, and bit into it.
Isabel’s sardine sandwich lacked more appeal than it had when she first sat down. Of course he had real meat. Mildred probably stole it from the Admiralty’s kitchen. She bit the head off a sardine.
“I’m glad I finally found you alone,” Henry said when he’d finished swallowing. “I’ve wanted to apologize.” She chewed in silence and stared up at Horatio Nelson. “Mildred was wrong to have told Mrs.
Burns about what …” He hesitated but seeing Isabel was still looking up to the sky he continued. “You know, what happened in Oxford. She knows it too. She feels terribly.”
Isabel popped the last corner of sandwich in her mouth and crumpled the wrapper into a ball. The last thing she needed on her lunch break was to listen to this sort of drivel. She started to rise but Henry grabbed her. Isabel glared at him so fiercely he not only let go of her but dropped his sandwich. The slice of pork jumped out of the bread and landed with a dull plop at his feet. She didn’t even attempt to conceal her laughter.
“I’m sure Miss Fox can steal another slice of pork for you,” she said, and stood up. “I can’t forgive you, Henry. You were my friend and yet you took her side.”
He picked up the meat and tossed it into the paper bag. He stared down at the empty slices of bread for a moment, then he threw them in too. “We are friends,” he said fiercely. “I shouldn’t have listened to her without speaking to you. I wanted to warn you but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.”
“You should have tried harder,” Isabel said wearily.
Henry was looking at her with a mixture of guilt and anger. “I didn’t betray you, you know. Not even after you read Churchill’s letter.”
