“So, let me send a telegram and tell them I have friends who will need my parlor suite,” he was saying. “They are the best accommodations on the Titanic.”
“J.P., do you see any issue with the dogs?” Tristan asked. His face wore the expression of a total innocent.
“Not if I instruct the captain and crew that I would consider it a personal favor if certain liberties are allowed,” Morgan replied. “Of course, I know you won’t abuse those privileges, since the dogs can’t go into the formal dining room.” He laughed again. “Well, they could, but it would be pretty disruptive, and that could only happen if I were there to enjoy the moment.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Peter was saying, his eyes huge. “We would never take advantage of your good nature and generosity.”
Of course we would, and given the ultimate destiny of the Titanic, who would worry about a couple of big dogs that had been given a little too much freedom.
Chapter 18
The boat train sped towards Southampton, its path taking us past congested, inhabited areas where the sky above was blackened with the smoke from coal fires, as well as rural villages where tired fields lay fallow next to others carpeted in pale, new grass. I could only imagine, when the grass grew high, the rippling waves of color like an ocean of green as the wind stroked the hillsides. We were offered refreshment by the porter, but both Peter and I were too nervous to eat. I did, however, sip on a cup of black coffee that was full of caffeine and hit my brain like a hammer. Kipp and Elani watched the passing scenery that varied from dark brick row houses to timber and thatch dwellings scattered along the gently rolling Surrey countryside. Kipp, as always, was curious but relaxed; his natural self confidence did much to soothe Elani, who had the mild anxiety expected of a youngster. After all, we were doing something that none of our kind had attempted. I confess I felt a touch of anxiety myself, despite my years of experience engaged in the unpredictable and downright dangerous business of traveling.
“The moors,” Kipp was saying, “always make me think of Sherlock Holmes and The Hound of the Baskervilles.” He sighed. “I realize they’re just another land feature, but there is something inherently mysterious about them.” Kipp almost seemed moody, an unusual state for him, as he gazed out the window at the desolate, barren expanse where early morning mist rose from the ground to cover the concave valley with a shimmering gray haze that would be burned away as the sun climbed higher in the heavens.
We were passing through the area of Surrey where darkened moors stretched into the distance until they were lost from sight on the far horizon. A harsh winter had paled the deep bronze color of clumps of bracken nestled beneath the curve of a hilltop. It required little effort to imagine the swath of heather that would overtake the land later in the season, turning the ground into a soft carpet of purple. From our vantage point, the land looked bleak and sparsely inhabited, with occasional isolated homesteads punctuating the landscape; a road twisted, going nowhere, resembling a fresh scar upon the land. Gazing at a far hillside, I saw a thin, wavering line of blue smoke trailing upwards from the chimney of a lonely steading. Some family was living in that small dwelling made of stone, timber and thatch. I wondered how they made do with no farmable land. A cloud must have passed between the sun and earth, because a black shadow chased up that bleak hillside until it was lost from view. As we left the country and passed Winchester, I realized we were close to our destination. Shortly thereafter, we coasted into Southampton and eased to a stop at the train platform specially built on the White Star Line’s ocean dock. We couldn’t see her yet, but I knew the Titanic waited for us, tethered to that dock; for a moment, I held my breath, not realizing I was doing so. The boat train stopped so gently, that I barely felt the tiny jerk as the compartment shuddered to a halt. A moment later, a porter opened the outside door to our compartment and, with a grand flourish, indicated the direction we should go. Our trunks were already being sent to our suite, he assured us. I guess there was something to be said for being a personal guest of J.P. Morgan.
“How do I look?” Peter asked, his brown eyes grave, his face wearing a much too serious expression.
Reaching up, I straightened his tie. “Perfect,” I responded. With a slight adjustment to my smaller traveling hat which I’d worn for comfort on the train, I leaned down to clip a leather lead to Kipp’s collar, ignoring his bared teeth. “Chill out, bud,” I whispered. “It’s something I must do. Why don’t you act like Elani?” I asked, gesturing to her as she preened and pranced as Peter hitched the leash to her collar.
“Whatever,” Kipp replied. He took a sharp breath before intoning, “There she is!”
Turning my head, I could see the Titanic; I felt my pulse quicken. She lay quietly next to the ocean dock, purring as if she were asleep. It seemed almost impossible something of that size, made of metal, could bob so lightly in the dark river water of the Test. The four gold smokestacks towered upward…it seemed surreal, almost as if some hopeful street artist had painted them against a glazed background of azure blue. As people pushed past us, I recognized some elite faces from pictures we’d studied in preparation for the trip. Since Peter and I were unknown to society, we were ignored except for the attention drawn to us by the two huge lupines who walked politely at our sides. The confusion and noise was disconcerting for telepaths, with so many minds roiling with excitement and anxiety. Instinctively, our mental blocks involuntarily popped up in defense. We finally arrived at the gangway that led to D Deck where the Reception Room was located. A young, fresh faced steward started to object to our bringing the lupines, suggesting instead that he promptly take them to the kennels.
“Oh, Mr. Morgan said they could stay with us,” I remarked, my face innocent, eyebrows lifted in mock consternation. “We will need to discuss this with the purser,” I added, smiling at the man.
“No need for that, ma’am,” the fellow replied, his face turning red. Yes, he’d gotten the memo from J.P. Morgan, who’d been good to his promise. The lupines had been cleared from one word from the big man at the top of the food chain. In the past, I’d been forced to fight for such accommodations for my lupine partner–previously Tula, now Kipp–and, for once, it was nice to have the skids greased.
We joined the other first class passengers who trailed up the gangway, waiting our turn. As fellow voyagers who recognized one another from their place in society began to chat excitedly about the upcoming trip on the most exclusive ship in the world, Peter and I melted into the scenery, only subjected to curious glances since we were strangers and our clothing was not as fine, hinting at our more conservative roots.
“If we were in steerage, we would have been engaged in some friendly chit chat by now, I think,” Peter remarked. “Elite society is remarkably insular, isn’t it?”
“Try being a dog,” Kipp replied drily.
I peeked over the railing of the gangway, looking down at the gray river water which seemed so far below, before glancing up to stare at the ship which loomed overhead. The closer I drew to the actual ship, the more I was struck by her size and the beauty of her lines. I could imagine the pride on the face of her creators as she was first launched to land gently in the water as she tried out her sea legs.
The Reception Room, which led to the First Class Dining Room, was part of a large “U” shaped hallway that opened off the landing where the Grand Stairway wound its way through several levels of the ship. The gleaming walls were white paneled, with arched leaded paned windows that allowed diffuse, gentle lighting into the room. White wicker chairs were positioned strategically around small tables, the entire presentation understated and tastefully elegant. We waited patiently until our turn to meet Hugh McElroy, the purser, who was in charge of registering the upper crust. I knew that history described him as the epitome of discretion, a necessary quality since he dealt with the world’s most famous people. He was tall, nice looking, with an open, charismatic face. Yes, I could see why he invited the sharing of secrets.
“I am Peter Keaton,” Peter began. Almost immediately, McElroy’s face changed, but not in a bad way. He’d appeared curious, since we were unknown to him, but upon hearing Peter’s name, he immediately became very effusive in his greeting.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Keaton. You and your sister are the special guests of Mr. Morgan,” he purred. “On behalf of the White Star Line, let me welcome you aboard the Titanic.”
Kipp looked up at me, smiling, as his jaw dropped open. “This is gonna be sweet.”
“Well, not really, Kipp, when you consider the outcome. But, yes, up until the end, it will be fascinating, and we will be well treated.” I had to bring him down a notch.
A short distance behind us, the line had thinned, and I saw Kipp twist his head to look towards the entrance. Following his gaze, I saw a short man hesitate as he crossed the threshold. I almost gave a start, since the resemblance was so shocking. It was clear I was staring at Anthony Littleton! All of the information that led to this moment was true, and a man named Anthony Littleton, who was obviously the father of Nicholas Little–if genetics had anything to do with physical similarities–had just entered the Reception Room. I noticed he kept his head down, avoiding contact with the other passengers, who were chirping happily like a busy flock of birds. Yes, he’d be left alone, just as were we, unless he sought the comfort and social exchanges with his fellow passengers. But he wouldn’t, given his dark thoughts and terrifying purpose. Kipp stared intently at the man, who was slightly built, with narrow shoulders across which his suit jacket fit poorly; he’d removed his hat which he kept turning in his hands, holding it by the brim.
“It doesn’t take a telepath to see he’s anxious,” Kipp observed. “He doesn’t worry so much about dying in an accident as he is about failing in what he thinks is his mission.” Kipp’s eyes closed as he lifted his head and focused to dig deeper. “He misses his wife and for a moment wondered what it would have been like to have her here with him, enjoying the loveliness of the ship. His hopelessness and grief is almost overwhelming.” Kipp’s ears flattened for a moment.
“It makes you wonder if he, at his core, wants to damage the ship due to his anarchistic leanings or because he is terribly depressed. Is this an act of self-annihilation?” I glanced at Littleton again, curious about the man.
Littleton looked up at that moment and must have caught my stare, because he turned away, ducking his head even lower on his chest, if that were possible. I linked my arm within Peter’s and tried to act as if everything McElroy was saying was the most important in the world, while listening in on the thoughts of Littleton.
McElroy brought us back to the present as he introduced the steward who would be assigned to our suite. Charles was his name, a cheerful lad who appeared to be in his mid twenties; his cheeks shone with a natural ruddiness that deepened as he was introduced. His face was clean shaven and glowing on top of the pristine white tunic he wore. The top button seemed a little too snugly fastened for comfort and one could only hope his head wouldn’t pop off. Between the obviously uncomfortable tunic button and his rosy cheeks, I immediately liked him.
“Did he make it?” Elani asked before I brusquely shook off her question.
“We won’t do that, Elani,” I said curtly, my voice harsh in her mind. “We simply can’t look at all these people and worry about what will happen to them in the end.” Reaching down, I tousled the hair on top of her head, my finger tips tunneling through the fur to find the funny, now familiar, point on her noggin. “We just can’t, sweetheart, and keep our sanity.” No one contested my setting down the rules, since they knew I was correct. If there ever was a mission to steel one’s heart, this was it.
Although there were elevators, I wanted to experience the Grand Staircase, having seen photos of the one on the Olympic, Titanic’s sister ship. There was no photograph of the one on the Titanic, but the two were said to be identical. As we ascended, I ran my hand lightly along the surface of the smooth oak paneling at the landings and paused to examine the ornate wrought iron scrollwork along the banisters. Tipping my head back, I could see, far above on A Deck, the huge skylight that allowed the sun to fall through the levels of the ship to illuminate the Reception Room below on D Deck. I didn’t realize I was smiling until I noticed Kipp’s curious gaze.
“What?” I asked, innocently.
“The expression on your face,” he replied. “You’re looking at something you never dreamt you’d see, and the beauty is capturing you.” Kipp searched for an analogy. “Maybe like a little girl who gets the bicycle she’d hoped for at Christmas…and it’s grander and more beautiful than she imagined.”
I laughed softly at his comparison. There hadn’t been bikes when I was a child, and the Titanic was just a wee bit more spectacular than any bicycle, but it was a pleasant thought, nonetheless.
Charles halted our ascent on B Deck and led us the short distance to the parlor suite—B 52, 54 and 56—which we knew was the most exclusive on the Titanic. Bruce Ismay, who jumped on the accommodations when Morgan defected, was relegated to another unused cabin somewhere else on the ship. With a little flourish, Charles opened the door and stood aside, beaming, as he waited to observe our reaction. As we walked into the sitting room, I think I was most struck by the ornate, gold finished fireplace that was surrounded by a carved mantle; on top of the mantle was a clock as well as two vases of fresh cut flowers. The fragrance of roses filled the room, which was paneled in dark mahogany wood that looked as if it had been freshly polished. Across the room, large windows were attractively framed by tasteful curtains, which had been pulled back to afford one a view of the private promenade deck. The door to the deck was open, and a gentle breeze wove through the sitting room as I felt the hair curling at the nape of my neck stir. I could smell the river water as well as coal fired smoke improbably mixed with a pleasant food fragrance drifting up from the galley. Kipp looked up at me, his tail wagging; he was clearly fascinated. All of us had read and studied extensively, and this moment almost felt like we’d lived it before…déjà vu for time travelers. The gimbal lamps, table fan, as well as the beautiful fireplace were just as described in the various literatures.
As Peter and Elani followed Charles down the passage that led past the bathroom, a small servant’s room and the two bedrooms, Kipp and I stepped out onto the fifty foot long private promenade. Kipp playfully trotted back and forth a few times, panting in an exaggerated manner as he did so.
“Good place to exercise,” he remarked. “I don’t want to get too soft with all the fine living and good food,” he huffed. “Gotta stay buff,” Kipp added, holding his head a little higher.
“Baby, you were born buff,” I replied, smiling at his silliness.
The promenade was decorated in mock Tudor style with white panels segmented by dark, half timbering. White wicker chairs gathered around a table where one could enjoy afternoon tea, I figured. Large potted palm plants swayed gently in concert with the air currents that streamed through the row of windows. Walking to one aperture, I peered out to view the dock, which was teeming with people. The noise and chaos was significant, and I was grateful I was a telepath and not forced to shout to make myself heard.
Peter returned, wearing a big, happy grin on his face. The atmosphere of excitement was definitely infectious. “Petra, the last room must be yours,” he said. “There’s a canopy bed with velvet curtains draping over the frame. The bed coverlet is made of the most amazing deep red brocade fabric, very rich and simply decadent. The wall paneling extends to the wainscoting, which has been hand carved.” He paused to take a breath, his face flushed. “I’ve never seen anything this beautiful.”
I knew he was being generous and giving me the more magnificent room. I would have been happy in the servant’s room, which was nicer than most places I’d visited in my lifetime. It really mattered not, but I let him make the gesture so that he’d feel he’d given up something nice for me.
Before Charles left, he tilted his head in a
conspiratorial way and admitted that the crew had been told to extend every courtesy to us as well as our four legged traveling companions. “You can count on me,” he advised. We knew we could but had decided we wouldn’t overtly push the envelope, such as showing up with the lupines in the formal dining room on D Deck. Even with the lupines brushed and a pretty bow tied around Elani’s neck, their appearance would be beyond the pale. But Peter would definitely visit the men’s smoking lounge with an elegant Elani at his side. And I wasn’t sure for myself yet but would only go where Kipp could follow.
Unfortunately, the bathroom issue reared its ugly head again. Charles offered to take the lupines to the poop deck as needed for their daily constitutionals. Peter deftly handled that delicate moment by telling him he’d manage to their needs. He did, however, discretely ask for some newspapers and also that Charles dig up a couple of water bowls. The little we’d eat, we planned to do so in our room.
“I figured, guys,” Peter said, addressing the lupines, “that we will all use the same bathroom. We’ll just put down some paper, and I will go in and take care of it later. And I promise not to tell,” he added, crossing his heart symbolically with the forefinger of his right hand.
Kipp was still grumbling until Elani coaxed him out of his mood by engaging him in a game of chase, galloping up and down the promenade and through the line of rooms. She would pose just out of reach, bow her back so that she was on her elbows, butt in the air, teasing him as do dogs during play, before shooting off in an unexpected direction.
It was a given that we wanted to be on an outside deck as the ship left the dock, since so many odd events associated with the actual launch had been documented. So, after I checked the angle of my hat in the mirror, we found our way to the staircase so we could join the other first class passengers on the Boat Deck, where there was a promenade amidships. As we walked along, Peter linked his arm companionably in mine.
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 20
