No Moon

by Irene N. Watts

  I open our door, and the children and I go inside. Can this really be for us? The bedroom doors are open in welcome, and the luggage is already waiting for me to unpack. A beautifully arranged bouquet of flowers stands beside a basket of fruit on the round table in the sitting area. Everything looks brand-new, as though someone has just a moment ago placed it there. I must keep reminding myself that it is brand-new and that we are the first passengers to sail on the Titanic.

  I almost expect to leave a fingerprint when I touch something. Compared to their plain nurseries at home, with furnishings chosen for children’s spills and sturdy wear, it looks like a palace. The girls wriggle and squeal with impatience to explore their new home.

  “We must not touch any of these beautiful things until our hands are spotless. You never know if the captain will hold an inspection,” I say, doing my best to look serious. I lead the way into a luxurious bathroom, with a large deep bathtub and a marble wash-stand. On the shelf below the mirror is an electric curling iron. I had expected a simple washbasin and jug, not these shining brass taps marked hot and cold, gushing out clear water the moment I turn them on! I roll up my sleeves and half-fill the basin. When I test that the water is the right temperature, I pick up a cake of soap. It is wrapped in paper embossed with a picture of the Titanic sailing through the waves. I shall save the wrapping of the fragrant-smelling Vinolia soap as a souvenir. For once, my charges endure being washed without complaint and dry their own faces and hands on the soft white towels.

  I have never slept in a room with a carpet, or indeed in a new bed made up with brand-new linen. The room that Hart and I are to share has two brass beds, covered with lace bedspreads. We have two bedside tables as well as a marble-topped dressing table and a roomy wardrobe.

  The girls have discovered their own bedroom and bounce up and down on the large brass bed.

  “My sister Kathleen and I always share a bed at home,” I say. “It is much smaller than this lovely one.” The girls look at each other, and I notice a glint of mischief. Well, it won’t be the first time I have taken part in or had to stop a pillow fight!

  Mr. Briggs has said that windows are called portholes aboard ship. I imagined they would be small and round, not at all like these, which are larger than our nursery ones and elegantly curtained in pink. I shall have so much to tell them at home when I return! There are pink-shaded lamps, an electric fire, a ceiling fan, a writing desk in one corner, and a small blue sofa with matching armchairs in the parlor.

  I decide to unpack after lunch, when the girls have a nap. I would truly prefer to stay and do it now than go out on deck. If I had not looked out of the porthole, I could convince myself that we are not on the water at all!

  “This is beautiful,” Hart says, as she comes in. She takes a quick admiring look around. “Everyone is exclaiming about the elegance of the staterooms, our steward said. I had to ring for more vases because Lord and Lady Milton have been sent so many bouquets! Did you know, Gardener, that this voyage is to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary?

  “You are to bring the children, now, please, to join their parents on the first-class promenade, on A deck. The warning whistle, for visitors to leave the ship, has been sounded twice. I’ll be staying below to arrange Lady Milton’s things. I can watch the Titanic’s departure from one of our windows.”

  The girls are delighted to go up in the lift again. We walk along smooth teak decks, past a glasswalled reading room. A glance in reveals deep leather chairs grouped around a fire. Further along the deck is the partly sheltered Verandah Café and Palm Court, where Lady Milton converses with another lady.

  Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra immediately hop from one white square to a black one on the checkered floor. The white wicker furniture and ivy trailing along the walls remind me of the gazebo in Lady Portman’s garden. It is hard to believe how all this is possible on board a ship!

  “There you are, Gardener. Portia, Alexandra, come and say good afternoon. Mrs. Spedden has a little boy, Robert, who is your age. You may play with him tomorrow afternoon, Portia. Gardener will bring you here, after your rest. Mrs. Spedden tells me that French vanilla ice cream will be served at tea.”

  Miss Portia’s eyes sparkle. The spoiling has begun, and I am thankful Nanny Mackintosh is not here to comment.

  “Come along, my dear, the ship is about to sail.” Lord Milton bows to the ladies, offers his arm to his wife, and I follow along with the girls to the open part of the deck. I envy Hart, whose duties keep her inside, and try not to look down at the water. A breeze ruffles my cap, and I am glad of Kathleen’s coat. Lord and Lady Milton greet several of the other passengers.

  “Andrews, my dear fellow,” Lord Milton addresses a gentleman who is absorbed in some detail of the lounge entrance. “The Titanic is more than you promised–a triumph of design. My congratulations!” Lord Milton shakes hands with the gentleman.

  “Indeed, Mr. Andrews, how gratified you must be to see the fruits of all your hard work,” Lady Milton says. “It is hard to believe that this is a maiden voyage. I have not come across a single item that can be improved upon. I told Rupert I have quite made up my mind to change the decor of my sitting room in London to match the beautiful Italian Renaissance decor in our suite.”

  “I can see that I will have much to answer for to the gentlemen on board if all the ladies demand new furnishings, Lady Milton. However, I still have to decide on final colors of the wicker furniture on the starboard side. More hooks are required in the suites,” Mr. Andrews says.

  “Nevertheless, I do hope that you will find time to join us for dinner in the à la carte restaurant, tomorrow perhaps? Lord and Lady Duff Gordon will be in our party. Do say you will come.” Lady Milton smiles at the gentleman.

  “I shall be delighted, ma’am. Until tomorrow, then.” Mr. Andrews bows and is immediately absorbed again in his inspection of the ship.

  “Well done, my dear. Andrews never stops working. I shall have to persuade him to join me in a game of squash, or a visit to the gymnasium. Come along, everyone.”

  I stand close behind the girls and their parents at the railings, ready, if needed, to remove the children. We are so high up on the deck, only one below the boat deck, how small we must appear to the people waving on the quay below.

  “Look at the big wave, Papa.” Miss Portia points to sprays of foam as the Titanic parts the water, churning it up as she starts her engines.

  Lord Milton explains that our ship is going to turn into the River Test. He points to two smaller vessels that the Titanic must pass–the New York and the Oceanic, which are moored nearby.

  Suddenly, there are a series of loud bangs, almost like shots. I hold the girls’ hands tightly.

  Lord Milton does not seem to be disturbed, however. “The Titanic has caused such a swell of water that the ropes holding the New York are unable to take the strain.”

  It is all I can do to hold myself back from running with the girls to the safety of our staterooms!

  Lady Milton places her gloved hand on her husband’s arm. “Rupert, the New York seems to be swinging towards us. There will surely be a collision!” she declares.

  Why did I ever agree to come on this ship? We have barely left shore, and here we are in difficulties!

  “Nonsense, Helen, my dear, you look quite pale. There is absolutely nothing for you to be concerned about. The tugs are on their way and will pull her back. Do you see them?”

  Lord Milton lifts Miss Alexandra up into his arms.

  “Look at the little tugboats, Alexandra! My word, your big brother would enjoy this. I shall write to him this afternoon and tell him all about our adventure.”

  “Toot, toot.” The little girl imitates the sound of the tugs, adding her voice to the buzz of excitement from the other passengers, who are leaning over the railings. I shudder to watch them.

  “There now, my dear, Captain Smith has reversed the ship. We are traveling backwards in perfect safety. I have the utmost confi
dence in him. After all, this is his final voyage after thirty years’ service at sea. I’d trust him with every life on board. Nevertheless, I admit that was a close shave!” Lord Milton tells his wife.

  A close shave? What little confidence I have managed to muster seeps away. How will I ever survive the next week? Not only that, we have to sail back again!

  “Down now, please, Papa.” Miss Alexandra wriggles in her father’s arms, and he hands her to me. I grasp her arm, firmly, before she can run off among the other spectators, or attempt to climb up on one of the railings.

  A family stands nearby, the nanny holding a baby boy in her arms. A little girl of perhaps two fidgets between her parents. No doubt, this child has captured Miss Alexandra’s attention. The nanny looks familiar…perhaps I have seen her walking in the park? She seems to notice my stare, turns, and looks down. Now I know who she reminds me of: Roberts! It cannot be her. She could not obtain a position without a reference. And this person’s hair is deep red under her cap!

  A bugle sounds, loud enough for Miss Portia to run to me and hold my hand. What now? Lord Milton looks delighted. The bugle plays “The Roast Beef of Old England.”

  “Ah, lunch at last!” he says. “We are on our way, an hour late–it is already one o’clock. However, we will soon make up the time. The purser mentioned some of the male passengers are already placing bets on the ship reaching New York at least a day ahead of schedule.”

  Seagulls scream high above us as we head back down to our own deck. Hart must have heard the bugle, for she waits at the door of the suite in readiness for Lord and Lady Milton’s return.

  “I shall be only ten minutes, Rupert. My hair is in total disarray, Hart. Good-bye, my darlings, Mama and Papa will come and see you both this evening.”

  The ship is so steady, I am scarcely aware of the movement. In our own rooms, the table is laid daintily for lunch. Our luggage had been unpacked for us. Are there elves aboard?

  No sooner are the girls washed and seated than there is a knock on the door and a stewardess enters, wheeling in our lunch. “Good afternoon, Miss Gardener, Miss Alexandra, and Miss Portia. I am Mrs. Landers, your stewardess. Chef was told simple fare, Miss Gardener. Should you have any special requests, please let me know.” She sets the steaming dishes of fine blue-and-white china, edged with gold, on the table. Chef has sent up beef consommé, slices of roast beef and gravy, chicken lyonnaise, creamed carrots, duchess potatoes, minted peas, and freshly baked bread and butter. “Please ring for me when you have finished, and I will bring up your tea or coffee then.”

  “Tea, please, Mrs. Landers,” I reply.

  Miss Portia eyes the apple tart, fruit salad, and jugs of cream and custard on the trolley. “I was afraid there would be tapioca pudding. Ice cream is my favorite!” she confides.

  I cannot believe our shy Miss Portia has spoken. Has Nanny’s absence helped her find her voice? And I’m trying not to think unkindly about Nanny Mackintosh!

  “I will mention your preference, Miss Portia.” Mrs. Landers leaves us to enjoy a luncheon that would cause Nanny to launch into a lecture about digestion. There I go again–it seems Nanny’s influence has followed me right into our stateroom!

  After I have settled the girls down for their nap, I clear the table and put the dishes back on the trolley before I ring the bell. It seems strange ringing for someone to wait upon me; I feel uncomfortable about doing so. Mrs. Landers answers almost immediately, bringing a tray with tea, lemon, milk, and a dish of sugar cubes. I resolve to put a few away for the children as a treat.

  “I hope everything was to your liking, Miss Gardener. Do tell me of anything else you require. And, Miss Gardener, it is part of my duties to serve and clear away. A nanny has enough to do, taking care of two little girls on board ship.”

  Is this what Nanny Mackintosh meant by knowing my place? I do not want to offend Mrs. Landers!

  “I am not really the children’s nanny, Mrs. Landers–I am their nursemaid. Their nanny had a fall just before the family was due to sail, and I was asked to take her place.” I am surprised how difficult I find it to explain my position to the stewardess. Not because I am ashamed of being a nursemaid–it is a wonderful start for me, everyone says so–but…

  “I am sure the children’s parents are pleased that their daughters have someone like you to take over, Miss Gardener,” Mrs. Landers says. “There is a family on C deck returning to Canada with their staff: a nanny, cook, chauffeur, maid, and two very young children. I am told the nanny had to be hired at short notice, when the regular nanny took ill. In confidence, Miss Gardener, she seems ill at ease. I would have guessed that, unlike you, she is not used to handling such young charges.” She pours out my tea.

  Is she referring to the nanny who resembles Roberts? If it is her, I wonder if she is wearing a wig. Roberts always wanted to be a nursemaid, which caused the problem between us. I shall try to forget about her….

  “Where are the life jackets kept, Mrs. Landers? Would you show me, please, how to fasten them, when it is convenient?”

  “The life jackets are on top of the wardrobes. I will get them down for you this evening, after we have taken on more passengers in Cherbourg. Even after the last passengers come on board in Queenstown, Ireland, tomorrow, we will not be full. There have been a few cancellations. Some passengers are superstitious about embarking on a maiden voyage. But a vessel like this is built to weather any storms. Nothing can sink her, Miss Gardener. I have never seen an April with as calm an ocean and as mild a climate as this one! I am confident that you may look forward to a pleasant, carefree voyage on a happy ship. Our crew is a most experienced one.

  “The bugle to dress is sounded one hour before meals. The first meal of the day is at seven o’clock, when tea, scones, and fruit are served for early risers. Breakfast is at eight o’clock. Lunch is at one, and the bugle to dress sounds again at six o’clock, for seven o’clock dinner. If it meets with your approval, I will serve dinner for you and the children at six o’clock.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Landers. I did want to ask you something else: I have been wondering how you manage to get from one end of the ship to the other so quickly.”

  “We have an alleyway for the crew, running along the entire ship, on E deck. We call it Scotland Road. I wish you a pleasant afternoon, Miss Gardener.”

  The first chance I get tomorrow, I will find Scotland Road and Mr. Patrick O’Connor, who is sweet on my sister, and give him her note.

  The Atlantic Ocean

  1912

  12

  At Sea

  I am as eager as the children to explore the ship. As soon as they wake up from their nap, we set off. We begin at the first-class entrance on the top deck, where the Grand Staircase begins. Miss Portia leads, her small pale fingers gripping the polished-wood railings. I follow behind, with Miss Alexandra. The stairs are covered in plush red carpet and wind down to the reception room on D deck. This opens out into the first-class dining room–the largest on the ship.

  On each of the landings, all leading into elegant reception rooms, red velvet seats offer views of the scene below. We sit down in a cozy alcove.

  “These stairs are where your mama and papa will descend tonight for dinner,” I tell the girls. I try to imagine what it might be like if Kathleen and I were two of the splendidly dressed ladies on board, sitting here and whispering secrets, or gossiping behind our fans!

  We continue our walk down to the next landing. The girls trail their fingers along the wrought-iron swirls of flowers and leaves ornamenting the balustrades beneath the railings.

  Afternoon sunlight streams through the glass roof, making the crystal chandelier beneath glisten and glitter. Brass and gold surround us. I would like to spend the next hour or two admiring the elaborate paintings, which are hung all along the paneled walls. The little girls, however, are more fascinated by a great clock, which forms the centerpiece of a wooden panel. I pick up Miss Alexandra, so she may look more closely at the t
wo carved figures holding the clock aloft. A gentleman nearby explains to his two lady companions that each carving represents Honor and Glory and the clock symbolizes Time.

  We continue down, right to the bottom of the staircase. Here, all three of us are enchanted by a bronze sculpture of a baby cherub. He stands with wings outspread, holding a lamp. But Miss Alexandra has had enough of being good, and we make our way back to the lift. The door opens, and several passengers emerge, among them the nanny I had noticed earlier. She is turned away from us, but I can hear her admonishing the little girl in her care. She pulls the child’s arm roughly.

  “Not kind,” Miss Portia whispers to me. “I don’t like Roberts.”

  “This nanny is not Roberts,” I reassure her. “Look at her red hair. Let’s go back to our stateroom. Would you and Miss Alexandra like to draw a picture of the ship to send to your brother? I saw pencils and paper in the drawer of our little desk.” They are happy to do so.

  I am certain this was the temporary nanny Mrs. Landers mentioned to me earlier! But isn’t it odd that both Miss Portia and I noticed the resemblance to Roberts?

  When their parents come in to say good night, the little girls are too sleepy to protest about going to bed.

  Lady Milton looks beautiful–Hart has dressed her so elegantly for the first evening’s dinner. She wears a rope of pearls, drop pearl and amethyst earrings, and a tiara. Her gown is of shimmering blue velvet. I cannot imagine any royal couple looking finer than Lord and Lady Milton this evening!

  After the children are asleep, I run a bath and luxuriate in taking as much hot water as I wish. There is no one to knock on the door to tell me to hurry up, or to remind me not to use up all the hot water!

  When I emerge, Mrs. Landers is just bringing in a jug of cocoa and a plate of biscuits. “By this time tomorrow,” she informs me, “we will have made our last stop before we leave the Irish coast and head out to open waters. Your first sight of land, Miss Gardener, will be next week, when we approach New York. Sleep well, miss.”