Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure

by T. L. B. Wood

  “I plan on going to the smoking lounge again tonight and return Littleton’s book, if he shows,” Peter remarked. Standing, he walked to one of the windows that opened out to the Atlantic; he was restless and pensive. I saw his thick forelock of hair stir as the gusts of wind grazed his face. It was almost too cool to sit on the deck with the windows opened, but the lupines enjoyed the feel of the cleansing air tunneling through their fur; I pulled the collar of my dressing gown closer around my neck.

  Elani glanced up at me and wagged her tail. “I thought it went well,” she said, referring to the evening spent in the smoking lounge. “Peter was comfortable and confident,” she added, looking over to him. It was clear she thought he needed some boot applied to nudge him out of his somber mood.

  “It’s difficult, is it not, to be around these people, make acquaintances and realize in a few days all of this will end in tragedy?“Peter asked, as he stared at the ocean. “What I find is that it disrupts my focus.” He had obviously hesitated in his confession, not wanting any of us to think he’d lost any of his gameness for the experience. After a moment, he turned, his eyes meeting mine.

  “I think we all feel that way, Peter,” I replied, watching as his face relaxed at my admission.

  “And there are so many things that we’ll not be able to prove or disprove,” he added, frowning.

  “Such as?”

  “The rivets in the bow of the ship were of a lesser grade wrought iron than those used elsewhere during construction,” Peter replied. “How will we know if a higher grade material had been used would it have made a difference?”

  “We won’t know that,” I replied. “It’s tempting to look at all things with the gift of foresight and retrospection and ask questions. In the case of the Titanic, it was said later that she should have been moving at a slower rate of speed considering the condition of the ocean. However, Captain Smith seems, from what we studied, to have been following the usual protocol for ships crossing the Atlantic. Remember, too, he even changed the course of the ship southward to avoid icebergs, thinking that being in the Gulf Stream would save him. But it didn’t.” I sighed. “So many intersecting lines,” I added, looking at the crust of bread resting forlornly on my plate. A smear of pear preserves half covered the brave White Star Line logo imprinted on the porcelain. I wanted more buttered bread and pear preserves but didn’t want to be a total hog. Glancing over at Kipp, who shared my thoughts, I smiled as he winked at me, our private moment enjoyed.

  We split up again, since moving separately allowed us to meet more passengers and continue to assess the feel of the ship. As I walked outside, the sun had brought its warmth, and the air felt pleasantly mild. The ship’s orchestra was playing after having split into two groups, so that one was in the lounge while the other was set up on the Boat Deck, where upbeat ragtime songs echoed across the smooth, gray ocean. I drifted close enough to the bridge to eavesdrop, with Kipp’s help to assist me to focus, on some of the dialog ongoing between members of the crew. The ship’s chief engineer was on the bridge with Captain Smith.

  “They’re talking about the coal fires in boiler room five and six,” Kipp said, tilting his head as if he was using his large ears rather than his excellent telepathy to listen in on their conversations. “The engineer is not overly worried and thinks by the time we get to New York the coal bins will be depleted enough to allow the remaining burning coal to be extinguished.”

  “I know some contemporary researchers have speculated that the coal fires could have weakened the hull and subsequent metal failure contributed to the sinking,” I said, pausing to rest my elbows on the railing of the Promenade Deck. “But unless one could have inspected the hull in real time, there will be no way to prove that theory.”

  “Maybe that’s the essential mystery of the Titanic,” Kipp remarked, folding his haunches to sit at my side. “There’s too much speculation and few enough provable facts.” The breeze that skimmed over the surface of the water brought with it the smell of the ocean. Kipp’s burnished fur was caught up by the wind and rippled, like a field of uncut grass before a storm.

  Reaching up, I straightened my hat while bemoaning the fact I never seemed to have quite enough hat pins to do the proper job. I began to walk aft; Kipp stayed glued to my leg so that no one would issue a complaint about unleashed large dogs rampaging on the Promenade Deck. As we passed a grouping of deck chairs, I noticed a woman who was reclining, a book open across her lap. She perked up, obviously intrigued more by Kipp than me.

  “Hello, fellow traveler!” The woman greeted me with a smile. I paused, nodding at her cheerful salutation as she indicated the empty deck chair next to hers. “Please join me,” she invited. “I’m Helen Candee.” Her pretty, oval face was an open window to her effortless charm, and it was easy to see why the men on the ship catered to her every whim. Even now, though there were no male heroes standing by with hot lemonades and woolen throws for warmth against the air, she was covered with a soft rug and had some type of beverage resting on a low mahogany table. I guess she could take care of herself. I introduced myself in kind as well as Kipp, who had really drawn her attention. As I sat on the closest deck chair, a steward appeared as if summoned by a magician and offered to bring me a drink. As he zoomed off to fetch a hot lemonade, I settled in to act out my role.

  “I don’t know when I’ve seen a more interesting looking dog,” Mrs. Candee remarked. “I actually saw you earlier with a man, and he was likewise accompanied by another lovely animal.”

  I laughed softly, trying to act a smidgen cultured for a change by avoiding braying like a donkey. For reasons I didn’t understand, Helen Candee’s opinion of me mattered in that moment. “That’s my brother, Peter, and we are fortunate to have Kipp and Elani as our companions.” Before she could ask, since I knew the question formed in her mind, I added, “Kipp is a Chinese Red Crested Mastiff.”

  “Oh, what a bother, Petra!” Kipp whined. “You promised you’d come up with some other name for me, and once again you stick to the same old worn out one.”

  “Shut up, Kipp,” I murmured, squinting one eye half shut at him.

  Mrs. Candee was a tiny little thing with a face that could have been copied from the mold for a perfect porcelain doll. Although I was not particularly large, I felt clumsy and oversized in her presence. As we chatted and I sipped on my hot lemonade, she mentioned she was traveling home to see to her son, who had been injured in an accident. Her thoughts betrayed her intense anxiety, but her face remained composed in the stoic way expected of her by her peers. I found myself immediately liking her and knew why others did, too. She was bright, clever and actually quite nice.

  “Don’t tell me that you are the author of How Women May Earn a Living?” I asked, smiling at her.

  “Why, yes, I am. And how kind of you to remark upon it,” she said, her cheeks flushing prettily.

  “I found it to be a very bold and ambitious work,” I replied, meaning it. I’d read the tome when it was originally published, and it was leaps and bounds ahead of its time. The fact she’d authored that novel, coupled with the rebellious lock of hair escaping her carefully coiffed style, told me more about her inner self than would any prolonged association.

  At that moment, Colonel Gracie ambled up and stood, his head slightly tilted to one side, beaming as he beheld us. Mrs. Candee was one of the women under his “protection”, since she was a female traveling alone. He playfully referred to the group of five men who took turns toting and fetching as well as serving as escort for the widow as “Our Coterie”.

  “I’ve never drawn that degree of male attention,” I remarked to Kipp as Colonel Gracie waxed eloquent on the weather as well as the excellent service to be found on board the Titanic.

  “You have me,” Kipp replied confidently. “You don’t need any other guys in your life.” Turning his head, he winked slyly, slowly closing one amber eye at me.

  I knew that Colonel Gracie had hoped to find Mrs. Candee unoccupied
so he could score some time with her. None of it was nefarious in nature; he just liked being of assistance and fell sway to her effortless magnetism. The men who catered to her needs were all behaving as gentlemen, but there was an unspoken, subtle competition to be chosen as her favorite.

  “What’s that about?” Kipp asked, after I’d excused myself, saying that I had to meet Peter. As we walked away, Colonel Gracie, after claiming my vacant deck chair, signaled to a steward. More hot lemonades were obviously in order.

  “Just an odd aspect of human nature. Some people need to be needed,” I replied. “People become competitive for many reasons…some good and some bad. It’s what drives the best and worst in humanity.”

  We continued our review of the ship and eventually made our way down the Grand Staircase to the Saloon Deck where we had begun our journey on the Titanic. From the Reception Room, which was amidships, we walked aft until we approached the kitchen galley. The smell of food being prepared wafted down the corridor, hinting at something spectacular on the horizon. Even in steerage, where the food served was a little less fancy than in first class, the fare was still wholesome and often much more nutritious and plentiful than what had been available at home. We turned a corner and startled the ship’s cat, Jenny, who was chasing one of her kittens who had gone off unaccompanied on a bold adventure. The kitten, a little yellow ball of fur, dashed right at Kipp, who loved all creatures great and small. The kitten, seeing the huge lupine, skidded to a halt and puffed up, crab walking sideways while spitting and hissing at Kipp, whose ears drooped in disappointment. I was forced to admire the moxie of the tiny creature who was about the size of one of Kipp’s paws.

  “But I like cats,” Kipp whined.

  “Well, other than Lily, they don’t care for you,” I replied firmly.

  Jenny also blew up like a puffer fish but showed the inherent bravery of a mother as she stalked forward, growling, to retrieve her little baby. This time, he returned to her side, and they skulked, low crawling, down the hall to disappear around a corner. To add to the general barnyard atmosphere, the roosters we’d heard about begin to crow; the lack of natural light had thrown off their timing, no doubt.

  We kept walking and finally climbed back up the staircase, returning the way we’d come. On the B Deck, where our suite was located, we traveled aft until we approached the A la Carte Restaurant. We couldn’t enter, since I had Kipp at my side, but we took a moment to inspect the room as best we could, through the entrance, while trying not to crane our necks like the curious onlookers that we were. The room was lovely, with fawn colored paneling of pale walnut, carpet the color of a pink blush rose, and small tables with lamps topped with shades that matched the hue of the carpet. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, casting a soft, delicate light in the room. Many of the elite dined here, since it was more intimate than the large First Class Dining Room on the D Deck. It must have been near lunch time, because a woman approached the entrance as if to enter. Realizing I was blocking the doorway, I quit gawking and moved out of her way.

  “I’m Margaret Brown,” she said, holding out her hand to grasp mine in a strong grip. The fragrance of lavender teased me, probably the result of some scented lotion or sachets placed in her trunk amidst folds of clothing. “Are you dining?” she inquired, tilting her head to the side. The mischievous part of her wanted me to enter the room with Kipp at my side. At her core was a sassy rebelliousness that was infectious and definitely not typical for women during that time in history.

  She was much taller than I, and her large hat only added more inches. A formidable presence, she knew that her status as being of humble beginnings and new money made her a bit of an outsider. Something in her nature made her push harder to enter the exclusive club versus retreating. She, like Mrs. Candee, had a charisma that was undeniable, as well as unbounded self confidence.

  “I’m Petra Keaton,” I replied. “And this is Kipp.” Smiling, I gestured at my companion, who sat on cue and gave a soft bark just to amuse Margaret Brown. “And I don’t think he will be admitted, so, no, I usually eat in my cabin.”

  “Oh, you’re the one,” Margaret remarked, squinting her eyes as she peered at me a little more closely. “You’re in the parlor suite and displaced Bruce Ismay.” Subtlety was not one of her qualities. Throwing back her head, she laughed, enjoying the moment. “You know, it’s good to shake up the establishment from time to time,” she said, smiling at me. “And I should know since I’ve made a business out of doing just that.”

  I started to reply in the expected manner and tell her that I regretted Ismay’s discomfiture as well as any inconvenience, but then I understood she really didn’t care. Yes, she’d gone to college after gaining wealth and could probably put some of those people who looked down upon her to shame with her knowledge, but she had no need to brag. Margaret Brown knew exactly who she was.

  “Well, I like dogs and they usually like me,” she was saying, leaning forward to scratch Kipp’s auburn head. “So, why don’t you plan on meeting me in my cabin for tea later today? I’ll introduce you to a few people.”

  Unable to turn down an invitation to peek into the inner thoughts of Margaret Brown, I accepted. Not exactly knowing why, I wanted to look reasonably well dressed, so when I returned to our cabin, I pulled out the gown I’d worn to meet J.P. Morgan–the pretty green frock that Kipp liked so much–and began to dress.

  “Darn it,” I fussed. “Where’s Peter?” I asked, as I struggled to get the last two buttons fastened. “I’m not a contortionist!”

  Kipp closed his eyes and concentrated, pushing aside the human thoughts milling about the enormous ship. “He’s down at the squash court, setting up a time to play with Colonel Gracie.” Opening his amber colored eyes, he glanced up at me. “And can you explain squash, please?”

  “You hit a little ball with a racquet,” I replied.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Kipp grumbled. “I can see the fun in chasing a ball but hitting it…you humanoids have some odd things that you find amusing.”

  “I thought Gracie didn’t play during the voyage until the morning of the accident,” I replied, determined to not let Kipp divert my train of thoughts.

  “Well, you know, history will be changed to some degree by our being here,” Kipp replied, sounding for a moment like an elderly sage lecturing a class of eager youths. Stretching out on his side on the floor, he thumped his tail lazily. “Why are you so on edge?” he asked.

  I’d finally managed to get the last button fastened and sat down in front of the dresser mirror; my cheeks were bright pink with the exertion of simply getting dressed. With relief, I recognized that humanity would make the transition, in most cultures, for simpler clothing. Why one needed multiple layers was beyond me. All I knew was that I appreciated the brassiere I wore versus a traditional corset. I didn’t think Peter would help snug me into one of those, his knee in the middle of my back as he pulled the laces tighter and tighter!

  “I’m not sure, Kipp.” I sighed as I released my hair from the mussed French braid and began to brush through the dark mass. “No matter what I do, every time I meet someone new, I think of what will happen in a few days, and I feel sad. I try to push my feelings to the back of my head, but they linger there.” As I rewound my hair on top of my head, I glanced in the mirror at Kipp, who watched with his usual curiosity and fascination over the lengths humanoids must go to simply get prepared for the day. He thumped his tail again.

  “We’ll make it, Petra. And I’ve been thinking about something,” he added.

  “What?”

  “When we get close to the end, I want to remain as long as is possible. We’ll need to send Peter and Elani off earlier, rather than later, if you get my meaning.” His eyes met mine in the mirror.

  “Yes, I agree,” I replied.

  “We don’t want them getting so distracted by the chaos, fear and negative energy that they can’t concentrate and time shift.” Kipp sighed, his sides heaving.
“I know you and I can do it, since we’ve shifted in the midst of extreme stress before.”

  “Only because you are so wonderful,” I said, smiling at him.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right,” he replied with a yawn.

  Chapter 22

  I was pretty confident that the tea held by Mrs. Brown in her stateroom went far astray from the historical timeline. She, no doubt, might have sat with the assembled ladies in one of the common rooms to meet, sip tea and gossip, but the change of location to her cabin was made purely to accommodate Kipp. She’d invited Madeline Astor, the Countess of Rothes–who preferred to be called Noel—as well as the sweet natured Helen Candee. So, Kipp and I, the outsiders in all ways possible, settled in for a three hour session, since the tea stretched on into the late afternoon.

  Never the one to stick by the standard of the day, I’d decided it was acceptable, since I was indoors and visiting another cabin, to not wear a hat. The hats were heavy, unpleasant and left me with hat hair which resulted in a sore scalp and a bad attitude. However, to my dismay, the other ladies were perfectly coiffed, with large hats carefully balanced on top of improbably fluffy layers of hair. Margaret Brown seemed to take notice of my blushed cheeks as I realized my error; with a grand gesture, she pulled the hat pins free and removed hers, tossing it carelessly to land upon a lovely settee.

  “I’ve waited all day to do that,” she said, laughing, running her fingers lightly along her hair line. Her behavior was quickly modeled by the others who rather impishly, I thought, removed theirs in quick succession. Their actions told me more about their character than I’d learn in a day of gentle discourse. And I knew they were relieved to rid themselves of the buckets on their heads, too, even if they usually tolerated their burdens with stoic reserve.