There was a distinct but not overpowering floral scent wafting about the stateroom. Of course, as was true in my suite, fresh flowers were artfully bunched in glass vases for visual appeal. And I detected, once again, the earthy smell of lavender as well as a gentle undercurrent of rose. Perhaps one of the ladies had bathed in rose water?
“Mrs. Brown is fluent in several languages,” Madeline Astor was saying, as I snapped to attention to keep my focus. “Her proficiency came in handy as Mr. Astor and I traveled abroad,” she added, her face flushing a little as her eyes dropped down to the table top where the tea service rested along with a plate of sweets. Madeline was rather quiet and definitely uncertain of her place with the older women. The divorce of her husband before their marriage, as well as the age difference that existed, made for an awkward social setting, and only Margaret Brown was unconcerned with such things. Madeline was a pretty girl with the glowing, smooth skin of a teenager; the determined set of her chin was offset by a soft cleft that made her seem even younger than her years. A large brooch set with fashionable jet nestled at her throat, the dark stones shining as the light reflected off of them. I noticed she was almost too careful in her handling of the tea cup.
“What an odd experience,” Kipp murmured to me. “I’ve never had this happen, but I’m close enough to Madeline that I can feel the essence of her unborn baby.” I wanted to hear more but was drawn into the conversation at that point.
“And, Miss Keaton, how is it you are traveling in such fine company?” the Countess asked, smiling, nodding at Kipp who tilted his head at her, wagging his tail as was expected.
As I launched into my fabricated story, I focused on her. What a fascinating woman, I thought. Beautiful on the surface as well as beneath…her dark eyes were soulful, depthless, her mouth a perfect bow shape with delicately rouged lips. As history would reflect, she was a stalwart member of Lifeboat 8, where she was put in charge of the tiller. She would be thought of as determined and courageous, giving hope to others when perhaps she had lost it for herself. Although a member of the peerage, she was genuinely humble.
“I have been working with William Harrow to raise funds for the women’s hospital in Chelsea,” she was saying. My head jerked at her words, and I came perilously close to spilling my cup of tea. “He, of course, is the founder and benefactor of the boys’ home and school in Whitechapel,” she remarked, looking at Margaret Brown. “Such a fine man, as is his nephew, Daniel.”
I glanced at Kipp, who had closed his eyes. But he thumped his tail on the floor to give me his support. He was still engaged in his fascinated exploration of Madeline’s baby.
“He can hear the words being spoken and doesn’t understand, of course, but he reacts to the sounds by moving.” Kipp glanced up to watch as Madeline’s hand drifted to her belly as the baby shifted to get more comfortable. “What was your telepathy like with baby George?”
I wanted to answer, but it was too complex to manage that discussion with Kipp while attending to the ongoing one with the ladies. “I’ll tell you sometime,” I promised.
“Oh, yes, I was fortunate to meet him while in London,” Helen remarked. “And so well favored, too,” she added, almost giggling.
Mrs. Brown, since she was the hostess, warmed everyone’s tea from the fresh pot a steward delivered. Holding up the plate of frosted cakes, she encouraged me to take another one. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with a handsome man,” she said. “A good heart with a nice face is something to appreciate. Now Mr. Brown, he is nothing to look at, but he’s held my interest for all our years together,” she added with a loud laugh.
It was interesting that perhaps the only women on board in first class who would not have been offended by the presence of Mrs. Astor, given the jaded reputation of her husband, were present in that room. The Countess of Rothes–Noel—was simply a fine human being and looked at people, despite their class, in the same fashion. The same could be said for Mrs. Candee. It didn’t require much delving into Margaret’s mind to recognize she picked our group for tea time specifically to help Madeline Astor gain some acceptance. She liked the woman–no make that girl–and didn’t care for the disapprobation heaped upon her by others.
I confess I was mildly distracted as I surreptitiously looked around Margaret Brown’s state room, while not as opulent as my accommodations, was lovely nonetheless. As I gazed at a watercolor on the far wall, my attention was snapped back to where it should be by a few spoken words.
“You know, in regards to Mr. Harrow,” Noel was saying, “they say he fell in love many years ago and never found anyone to match her after she left him.” She took a sip of tea and sighed. “That speaks of a loyal heart.” Smiling, she glanced at me. “I was made to think of it because of your dog. It was said the woman he loved traveled with a large dog, as do you.”
I darted a glance at Kipp, who met my eyes and understood how my heart was both lifted and injured by the words. Yes, it selfishly fed my soul to hear of Harrow’s love for me, but the fact he’d never allowed himself to love again was sad. The three women were gazing at me, waiting for something; my face felt hot, and I could only hope the flesh hadn’t turned beet red.
“So, maybe he is fond of dogs, too?” I felt clumsy in my response, laughing softly to cover that fact, hoping my voice sounded unconcerned with the topic.
“Yes, perhaps,” Noel replied.
I was praying the talk of Harrow would move forward so that we could cheerfully gossip about other things. My wish was granted, and the more mature ladies delicately chatted about Bruce Ismay’s family and his connections, as well as making a light pass over the fact Benjamin Guggenheim was traveling with his mistress while his wife waited for him at home. The women knew the score…rich men could have a wife at home and another woman, or two, on the side as long as they were relatively discrete. I guess it said something about John Astor that he actually got a divorce and remarried, despite the damage it did to his reputation. He must have loved Madeline or else he would have been content to keep the social status quo with a wife and a mistress or two. I was curious if Madeline Astor would be uncomfortable with the flow of conversation, but the fact the others included her oddly made her feel more accepted.
“Why do humans lack loyalty?” Kipp asked.
“It’s more complicated than that, Kipp, and doesn’t just boil down to loyalty,” I responded. “Human hearts are one thing, but you combine that with the working of the brain, and people can be easily led astray…even when they know better.”
Kipp sighed deeply and pushed his jaw deeper into the carpet upon which he lay. Closing his eyes, his thoughts drifted up to me. “All I know is I will always be completely yours, Petra, and there is no other for me.”
In our manner, we continued to chat while I responded to the human dialog in the room. “Kipp, I’ve told you before that you may one day fall in love with another lupine and want to start a family. You really shouldn’t allow yourself to not consider those options.” I broke off some teacake and, with Margaret Brown’s nod, held it out for Kipp to nibble. “It would be selfish for me to bind you to me in that way.”
“You’ve done both, having a career and a family,” he replied, his voice a little pouty.
“And both are wonderful,” I said. “You know, Tula and I were together for a long time before we mutually agreed to retire from traveling to build families. I found someone I loved, had baby George, and, well, you know the rest. Tula’s relationship ended, too, for various reasons, so we eventually resumed traveling. Kipp, I just want you to experience all you can in your lifetime.”
“And I plan on it,” he said. “Just drop it for now, okay?” His tone was irritated, his mood grumpy, so I let go of it, per his request.
The tea drew to a close, and I realized the ladies needed time to prepare for the evening meal, since formal wear was involved. In my contemporary world, I might have thrown on a pair of jeans, pulled a wrinkled t-shirt out of the dryer and popped into a loca
l deli, but that wouldn’t be happening on the Titanic. Kipp and I would be excluded from the dinner party, which was fine with me. I really had no interest and planned on prowling about third class while Peter once again made his way, with Elani at his side, to the smoking lounge in the hope Littleton would show up again. After all, Peter had his book to return.
Returning to the parlor suite, I realized I was tired. Peter and Elani were missing, no doubt wandering about the ship, displaying the curiosity and energy of the young. Once I’d been like that, and even though I was still relatively young for my kind, I felt like an old codger next to Peter. Cursing softly, I managed to unfasten the buttons from hell and slipped out of the tea gown, leaving only my chemise. Pulling the heavy red drapes to obscure any light, I climbed into the magnificent bed, waiting for Kipp to hop up and take his place next to me. “I need a nap,” I said. “Wake me up in a couple of hours.”
Kipp nestled closer. Our time on the ocean had caused his fur to pick up the scent of saltwater and ocean breeze, the smell of him tickling my nose. “I need a nap, too.” His working overtime to amplify thoughts for the rest of us was no doubt fatiguing.
I woke suddenly, with that sense of disorientation one has when dreams have been deep and complex. Taking a deep breath, I exhaled out my nose, the sound loud in the room where only the ticking of a clock was audible. As my head cleared, I could hear muffled sounds of people on board, and I fancied I could actually detect the rumble of the engines that labored without rest. Kipp lifted his head and touched his damp nose to my cheek.
“I thought you’d never wake. It’s been four hours.”
“Are Peter and Elani back?”
“Yes, and Peter dressed to return to the smoking lounge. They left early to do some more wandering while waiting for the formal dinner to end.”
“Well, let’s do a little investigation of our own,” I said, struggling to make my body work. “I want to go to steerage.”
I decided to dress in my blouse and tweed traveling skirt since it was the least opulent of my clothing choices. I had no desire to stand out like a sore thumb in steerage and wished to be an unobtrusive observer. While gazing at my reflection in the dresser mirror, I completed a neat French braid of my hair, coiling the rope and securing it with hair pins. I planned on leaving the hats behind and for some reason didn’t think they’d be missed below where the dress code might be a little more relaxed. Quietly, Kipp and I slipped out of the parlor suite and made our way down to F Deck, where the Third Class Dining Salon was located. I made certain one of the stewards recognized me so that I’d be allowed to depart when I was ready, since the areas of the ship where third class passengers could wander was limited. The noise itself could have drawn us, and before I realized it, we were swept up into the vortex of energy from different cultures mingling, driven by the excitement of adventure and new horizons. Kipp looked up at me, his eyes bright, tail waving.
“Now we’re talking,” he commented with satisfaction.
Music from groups of players echoed across the room, the tempos and strains familiar to me from my long life of travel. In a center clearing, there was a dance in progress that had origins predating an American style square dance, with a man calling out the steps. Different cultures had their own variations of the same basic dance pattern. I’d edged closer to watch when unexpectedly a man grabbed my hand and pulled me into the swirling mass of couples who somehow managed to not bang into one another. Kipp, delighted at my unexpected initiation, began to bark, bowing his body low as he shouted his encouragement.
There was a reason I rarely danced…I possessed the same skill level with dancing that I displayed with pouring tea. And that amounted to little or none. So, it was only through the grace and patience of my kind partner that I didn’t stumble over my own two feet, and I know I stomped his a time or two. When I became breathless, I begged to be released, and he did so, leading me in the manner of a gentleman, with my hand neatly tucked in the crook of his arm, to the place from where he’d claimed me. Huffing and puffing, I found a bench populated by other ladies and plopped down to rest. A young woman next to me turned to regard me with curiosity since she’d not seen me before, and the fact I was accompanied by what appeared to be a large dog caused me to diverge from the expected norm.
“I’m Katie,” she said, nodding her head, her tone pleasant and inviting. She had a plain, broad face with a nose that was too long to be considered conventionally attractive and pale blue eyes set just a notch too close to one another for comfort. But I liked her immediately, drawn by her inner self versus the cosmetic. “And who might you be?” she asked, directing her inquiry to Kipp, who barked in response. “I’ve not seen the likes of you before.” Her accent hinted at rural England, somewhere in the north, I thought.
“I’m Petra and this is Kipp,” I replied, resting my hand lightly on his head. “We’re from upstairs,” I added with a little mock grimace. “Kipp can’t go into most places with me, and I thought we’d be welcomed here.”
Katie laughed in response. “Yes, the fancy folks might be worried about dog hair in their fine food,” she agreed. “You’re more than welcome to visit with us.” I shook away her offer of refreshment as we observed the ongoing festivities, laughing at some of the acrobatic antics of a few of the men who obviously wanted to show off for the ladies.
“And how are things upstairs?” Katie asked, trying to be heard over the din.
“Very nice,” I replied. “I’m honestly not accustomed to such splendor, and it is just luck and a little inherited money that got me here.” I hoped I didn’t sound falsely modest, but based on Katie’s thoughts, she was accepting of my story and didn’t begrudge me my alleged windfall.
“From the way you talk, I don’t think you’re from England,” she said, peering at me more closely.
“America,” I replied.
“I was raised on a farm,” Katie remarked. “Life was hard, scrabbling for food for too many of us to feed.” She waved her arms at the steerage public room. “This seems pretty fine to me.”
“Life is that way, isn’t it? It’s all in your perspective.” My eyes met hers, and reluctantly my thoughts began to drift as I realized that poor Katie probably didn’t make it as a survivor. There was a chance but statistically not a good one.
“Stop it, Petra!” Kipp ordered, his harsh voice almost a growl in the back of my head. Walking forward, he shoved his head in Katie’s lap, allowing her to gently finger comb his thick fur and rub his upright ears.
“Such a fine beastie,” she remarked, tilting her head to inspect him. “I had a little dog that I had to leave behind. My sister promised to take care of him, so he’ll be fine.” She gently bit her bottom lip, which was threatening to tremble. With another stroke of Kipp’s ears, Katie added wistfully, “But I do miss him.”
I admired her audacity at leaving her home, which despite its drawbacks was familiar to her, and striking out on her own in a new county. My life had been full of travel by my very nature, but I always could return home as long as I had a traveling partner. Katie’s journey was more complicated and hazardous.
The night was growing long, I was tired, and with a murmured thank you to Katie for her hospitality, I managed to leave without being pulled into another dance. One of the Swedish men, who was involved in the genesis of an industrious polka, tried to catch my eye and that made me hurry my departure since I knew any degree of polka would tax my depleted energy levels. Because my brain felt overly stimulated, I led Kipp back to the top deck where the bracing cold of the night air could clear my senses. It was quiet up there, and if I’d felt the sense of isolation before in the midst of the ocean, nothing compared to that experience of floating in the middle of the Atlantic when all was dark. There was no moon, but there was an arching canopy of stars. The Titanic was steaming steadily towards the west, her lights reflecting off the black water. I could hear the strains of the ship’s orchestra playing a ragtime tune, probably from the A la Car
te Restaurant where women lingered to chat and gossip. The first class men, for the most part, would be gathered in the smoking lounge. Kipp focused and found Peter and Elani, the latter of whom acknowledged his ping with a forceful one of her own. It took little imagination on my part to visualize her sassy expression, her jaw dropping in a smile. Yeah, Kipp was good at his craft, but Elani was no slouch. Peter was engrossed in a discussion with someone, and Kipp didn’t push far enough for details, lest he distract the young one from his purpose.
I was leaning against the railing, staring down into the hypnotic swirl of water as we passed, when a man paused and, after a moment’s hesitation, approached. It was Thomas Andrews, who was wearing his heavy coat and hat against the chill of the nighttime air.
“Why Miss Keaton and Master Kipp,” he remarked playfully, removing his hat. The slight breeze snagged his brown hair and softly teased it into a tangle across his broad forehead. “Is it not too chilly for you?” he asked me, his face creasing with concern. His thoughts betrayed his urge to remove his coat and offer it to me as a courtesy, but I forestalled him.
“Oh, no, not at all! I was down below where it was quite warm, so this feels good.”
“You were in steerage?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Oh, yes.” I laughed. “It was one place I thought Kipp could fit in.”
Andrews nodded his head. “Yes, I see your point. And how did you find steerage?” He was curious, hoping all classes of people would enjoy his creation.
“The people seemed happy, well fed and content, from my limited observation,” I replied. The ocean breeze as well as the antics of the dance marathon down in third class had left me disheveled and struggling to regain my composure. Andrews’ eyes glanced at my hair, the loosened strands of which were waving gaily in the breeze. “Somehow, I got nabbed and was made to dance way beyond my skill level,” I added in explanation, my mouth twisting in a wry smile.
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 25
