Her fellow passengers, she gathered later, were dazzled by the Titanic’s grand appointments and air of glamour. For Charlotte, all those public spaces were merely backdrops to an unending, excruciating game of make-believe. At every meal, during afternoons in the lounge, or on deck, she played the dutiful wife, pretending to find Georgie’s company tolerable. He was an overgrown child, all eager smiles and self-amused giggles, shooting glances at Reg the way a puppy begs for scraps at the table. His attempts to befriend Charlotte were laughably clumsy. When he tried to butter her up by telling her how highly Reg thought of her, Charlotte was too tired and frustrated to summon a polite response.
“He thinks of you as a sister,” Georgie insisted.
“Yes, we had quite jolly times together. Until you came along.”
Georgie looked so wounded, like a child that’d gotten a slap instead of a pat, that Charlotte almost felt guilty. Then he went off on a story about his mother’s sister’s horse, and her moment of empathy passed.
Reg was the only member of their unconventional trio who never seemed ill at ease. He befriended businessmen and won handily at cards; he boasted that the sea air was doing him good, and he felt better than he had in years. He fawned over his “dear wife” in public, but never gave Charlotte a private opportunity to ask what would happen when they arrived in New York. She’d pictured herself and Reg on a spree across America, like the outlaws they wrote about in the papers, stealing from millionaires who wouldn’t even know they’d been robbed. Now, there was Georgie to consider. Georgie with his grating laugh and exasperating need to be liked; Georgie who wanted Reg all to himself.
So when the dreadful night came, and the steward rapped on the door and informed her that the captain had ordered all women and children to the lifeboats, Charlotte wasn’t frightened. She was already miserable; this was merely another trial to be endured. Reg came for her soon after—his shirt and trousers rumpled—and Georgie hung behind, looking similarly bedraggled. She tried not to think about the fact that they’d obviously pulled on their clothes in a rush.
“What’s happened?” Charlotte asked Reg as he fussed with her life belt.
“Something’s wrong with the ship,” Reg said.
“It’s just a precaution, though, isn’t it?” Georgie asked. “They’re not actually launching the boats, are they?”
Honestly, Charlotte thought. She caught a cringe of annoyance pass across Reg’s face. Good. She and Reg walked up to the deck in silence, ignoring Georgie’s prattling. When Charlotte stepped outside, her face prickled in the arctic air. She looked at the row of lifeboats, which hung from ropes that were secured to metal davits jutting up and out from the ship. Sailors and officers were huddled around the boat nearest her, arguing. She heard a sharp creak as the boat was winched partway down, then came to a shuddering stop. The water looked impossibly far away. The crewmen’s obvious unfamiliarity with the lifeboat’s mechanisms was hardly reassuring.
Passengers were gathered in small groups around the boat, but Charlotte was never able to explain, afterward, the calm that prevailed amid the commotion. No one was screaming or panicking; families were separating with polite farewells, pecks on the cheek, and sometimes no words at all.
“You watch,” an elderly lady said decisively. “They’re going to row us out, then row us right back.”
The even-more-elderly gentleman beside her pursed his mouth, his bushy mustache squirming like a caterpillar. Everywhere around Charlotte, couples were having offhand discussions about whether to go or stay, as if they were planning a summer holiday. Cornwall or the Lake District? No one was stepping forward to get in the boat.
Reg pushed Charlotte forward, with Georgie right behind. The officer at the helm of the boat nodded to Charlotte, then looked sternly at Georgie.
“Women and children only.”
“He’s only a lad . . . ,” Reg wheedled.
“Step back,” the officer ordered.
Charlotte was in no rush to climb into what looked like a poor shelter in the vast ocean, and she fell back alongside Georgie. The sailor nearest her muttered a curse as he tried to maneuver the ropes; either the boat was stuck, or he had no idea what he was doing. When a man called out that boats were being launched on the other side, most of the people around Charlotte moved away.
What happened next came so quickly—Reg pulling them toward the stairs, tossing his coat around Charlotte, and muttering in her ear—that she could barely remember how they came to be standing in the enclosed second-class promenade, three floors down from the lifeboats.
“No one will know,” Reg was saying, and Charlotte suddenly realized what he was asking of her. “With your hat and coat, he could pass. Say he’s your sister . . .”
“Absolutely not!” Georgie protested, all injured pride. “I will conduct myself as a gentleman!”
“You won’t be a gentleman if you’re dead!”
The force of Reg’s anger froze Charlotte in place. She felt the rough wool of her hat against her fingers, the weight of Reg’s coat on her shoulders. A single lie, to add to the thousands she’d already told. A lie that might save a man’s life. She looked at Georgie’s hated, bewildered face. She heard the quiver in Reg’s voice as he softly murmured, “Lottie.” It was the first time she’d ever seen him frightened.
And Charlotte knew what she must do.
US SENATE COMMITTEE ON COMMERCE
Titanic Disaster Investigation
Thursday, May 2, 1912
Testimony of Mrs. George McBride, First-Class Passenger
Senator Smith: Was there any panic as the lifeboats were boarded?
Mrs. McBride: Not at all. It was very orderly. An officer supervised the loading, and he escorted me on board, followed by my two sisters. We were able to step in without any inconvenience.
Senator Smith: How many were in your boat when it left the ship?
Mrs. McBride: Perhaps a dozen. I didn’t count.
Senator Smith: The boat was built to carry the weight of sixty-five people. Do you know why it was lowered at less than half capacity?
Mrs. McBride: I couldn’t say. We waited quite some time before the officer gave the order to board. When my sister and I entered the boat, the officer called out, “Any more women?” but there was no reply. We dropped down in great fits and starts, and one of my sisters was convinced we’d all be tipped overboard.
Senator Smith: How many sailors were in your boat?
Mrs. McBride: Two.
Senator Smith: How would you describe their conduct?
Mrs. McBride: One of them was a very rough fellow. He waved his oar all around, and I said to him, “Why don’t you put the oar in the oarlock?” and he said, “Do you mean that hole?” He’d never held an oar in his life. He also smoked a pipe against many of the ladies’ objections. We were quite upset that our safety had been entrusted to such a man.
Senator Smith: And the other sailor?
Mrs. McBride: I had no complaint with him. He seemed quite comfortable rowing and steering, and he was properly deferential with the passengers. I had great confidence in him until the disagreements broke out.
Senator Smith: What disagreements?
Mrs. McBride: There was some confusion as to what we should do, after the ship was gone. It was not always clear who had charge of the boat.
Senator Smith: Would it not be the senior crewman?
Mrs. McBride: Yes, I suppose.
Senator Smith: What was the nature of these disagreements?
Mrs. McBride: It does not matter now. We were all quite upset. It was very dark and very cold. We did our best in trying circumstances. We survived.
ESME
Afterward, people would always ask Esme where she’d been when the ship struck the iceberg. Had she heard the impact? Did she know what had happened? She learned to deflect questions by saying she’d been in bed, asleep. The momentous event had passed her by, unnoticed.
It was partially true; she had been in be
d. But she wasn’t asleep, and she wasn’t alone. When the Titanic’s starboard flank scraped against the ice, with a sound that one passenger later described as rolling over a thousand marbles, Esme was curled up next to Charlie, her arm draped over his chest, smiling as he twisted a finger through her hair.
Soon, the honeymoon would be over, and she’d be back in Philadelphia. Esme was amazed by how essential Charlie had become, in so short a time. Every thought she had meandered toward him; every breath she took in his presence restored her. She had been stockpiling sensations during their nights together, crafting memories she could draw strength from later. As the first surge of water poured through the Titanic’s hull, sealing its doom, Esme was thinking: I love him so much it hurts.
She heard a faint metallic groan, and Charlie turned his head toward the door.
“What d’you think that was?”
Esme was still floating in the haze that overtook her after giving in to Charlie’s whispered urgings. Before, she’d always put up a show of being reluctant and shy. At first, anyway. That night, with her homecoming looming ever closer, she’d flung herself against him as soon as the stateroom door was closed. She’d nuzzled his neck as he attacked the buttons of her dress, her skin prickling in anticipation of his touch. She hadn’t cared how she looked or what she did, because Charlie was the man she loved, the person who knew her best in all the world. How could something that brought them both such joy be wrong?
Esme glanced at the gold pocket watch Charlie had placed on the nightstand: 11:43 p.m. They didn’t have much time. She swept her fingertips across his lips. Charlie was elegantly attractive in his evening clothes, or when tipping his hat to ladies on the promenade deck. But the sight of him like this—cheeks flushed, his dark hair mussed, bare shoulders and chest peeking out from the sheets—made her nearly sick with longing. And it was more than simple physical attraction; Charlie was clever and witty, affectionate and kind. When he fixed his inquisitive eyes on Esme, it was because he wanted to truly know her, as no one else ever had.
Esme kissed Charlie’s cheek, hoping to draw back his attention. He absentmindedly stroked her back. Even now, after all they’d done, he didn’t take for granted that she was his; he always waited for Esme to signal when and where he could touch her. Esme pulled him toward her, and Charlie tucked the covers around their bodies, molding them together in a private cocoon. Esme knew she’d have to ask him eventually about their future, about what they’d do when the Titanic docked in New York. But with Charlie’s arms encasing her, and her heart racing, she could only kiss him, over and over, with frenetic pleasure.
The steady hum that had been a constant backdrop to the voyage suddenly stopped, leaving an eerie silence. Charlie froze.
“The engines are off.”
He pulled away and sat up. Esme heard muffled voices in the hallway. A door opening.
“Maybe they’re broken,” Esme said. “And it will take days to repair them, and we’ll have that many more evenings together. Sounds rather blissful, doesn’t it?”
“Little goat,” Charlie said affectionately. It was the nickname he’d given her the first time they kissed. “You don’t want to go home, do you?”
Esme shook her head. Thinking of home, and what it meant, brought on an overpowering despair. She didn’t trust herself to speak without crying.
Hurried footsteps thumped closer and gradually faded away. Someone else passed in the opposite direction, talking quickly. Esme thought she recognized the voice of Mr. Trumbell, the steward, though she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Charlie slid out of bed and pulled on his drawers and undershirt.
“Do you think it’s serious?” Esme asked.
“Of course not,” Charlie said, but not in a reassuring way. “You’d better get dressed, too. With all this commotion, it’s going to be harder to get to your room without being seen.”
With Charlie’s help, she managed to get herself halfway respectable. The evening gown she’d bought in Paris sparkled in the lamplight, but there wasn’t time to arrange her hair properly, so she pulled it over one shoulder. Taking a diamond-and-velvet bracelet off her wrist, she tied it around her hair at the nape of her neck so it wouldn’t hang loose. Then, after Charlie had peeked outside and declared the coast clear, Esme crept down the hall and up the stairs to her husband.
Esme had intended to be a good wife. It was the position she’d been raised and groomed for, her life’s work. She’d never be the richest girl in Philadelphia society or the most beautiful. She didn’t have the lustrous eyes and lashes of Faith Hodges, who sat languidly at parties while the boys swarmed around her. But Esme was pink-cheeked and vivacious, able to talk to anyone and make them feel flattered by her attention. Esme, everyone agreed, was fun; parties and outings turned brighter when she was there. Esme was conscientious in her duties: she sat through French lessons with the forbidding Madame Guilldot and learned to play piano well enough to entertain her father’s friends after dinner. But she drifted from childhood to adulthood with very little education in the practical aspects of being a wife. Esme’s mother, who had died when Esme was six, was nothing more than a faint memory of rustling skirts and medicinal smells. Esme grew up knowing how to manage a household, but not how to manage a marriage. She’d never seen a successful one up close.
Esme’s social debut was followed by a delicious whirl of parties and ice-cream socials. Esme enjoyed herself thoroughly, but she never lost sight of her ultimate goal. Father’s cryptic hints about difficulties at the factory made it clear that she’d best marry soon—and well. Within a few months, she’d settled on two likely prospects. Theodore Yates was the eldest son of a former mayor, part of a well-established political family. Cursed with a stammer, he’d never follow in his forefathers’ footsteps, but Esme found his awkwardness endearing. Theo was always so grateful when she stopped to talk to him or when she kept the conversation going even though he stumbled over half his words. He was tall and skinny, and she’d heard a few of the girls jokingly call him the “Sc-sc-scarecrow.” But Esme sensed he’d be fiercely loyal to a wife who accepted his deficiencies. As would his family.
Then there was John Moss. John was the life of every party, his laughter resonating above the din of conversation. John, like Esme, was fun. He banged out music on the piano to liven up stodgy luncheons, arranged picnics in the country—with silver flasks passed discreetly among the men—and once held a séance at which he swore he spoke to the spirit of his dead grandmother. John was the one who had pulled Esme behind a tree during an Easter egg hunt and kissed her, his hands firm against her waist. Afterward, he’d smiled and put his fingers to his lips, and the fact that he hadn’t declared his love for her, or gone to her father to ask for her hand in marriage, should have made Esme upset. But she hadn’t been. The knowledge of that secret kiss—hinted at later with winks and long looks but never discussed—only increased John’s appeal. Though she was woefully uneducated on relations between men and women, she suspected John’s forwardness should make her wary, that it wasn’t a desirable quality in a husband. But she was tempted by the unpredictability of a future with him.
It was while she was veering between Theo and John—between Good and Fun—that Esme’s father invited Mr. Harper to dinner. She’d spoken to him briefly at some affair or other, and she’d heard about his tragic past: the death of his wife and baby daughter after only a year of marriage, the devotion to their memory that kept him a widower. But it was unusual for Father to invite one of his professional acquaintances home for supper; he usually dined with them at his club. Father told Esme that Mr. Harper, president of Keystone National Bank, had approved a loan to Father’s factory, and the meal was a gesture of thanks. Esme enthusiastically agreed to act as hostess. She put together the small guest list, planned the menu along with the family cook, and arranged the flowers on the table herself.
When Mr. Harper arrived, Esme was at the door to welcome him.
“How lovely to see you
again,” she said, smiling brightly. She was wearing the emerald-green gown that set off her eyes, and the effect seemed to dazzle Mr. Harper.
“Miss Sullivan,” he said, with a formal bow.
“Come in, come in,” she urged, waving for Nora, the maid, to take Mr. Harper’s coat. “We’re starting out in the front parlor, this way. Mr. and Mrs. Ayres are already here. We’ll be a small party but an enjoyable one, I hope.”
Mr. Harper looked as if he hadn’t enjoyed himself since the last century. He offered Esme a wan smile, his cheek muscles straining with the effort. Esme felt sorry for him, in the general way she was sorry for anyone who’d suffered a tragedy, but she couldn’t help being irritated, too. He could make a small effort, couldn’t he? He might even be handsome, in a distinguished way, if his expression weren’t so miserable and droopy. She’d seen statues with more spirit than Mr. Harper.
The thought made her smile.
“Am I amusing, Miss Sullivan?”
“Not at all,” Esme said girlishly. She tilted her head sideways for a coquettish effect. “I have the terrible habit of smiling for no reason at all.”
“A cheerful disposition is a rare gift,” Mr. Harper said stiffly.
Esme waited for the next polite observation: Your father tells me . . . or, When I was your age . . . but Mr. Harper’s mouth had reverted back to a half frown. Esme felt genuine pity for him then. How lonely he must be, if he could barely manage this much conversation!
Despite Mr. Harper’s reserve, the dinner proceeded smoothly, thanks in large part to Mrs. Ayres, a chatterbox who never allowed a lull to linger. As they finished the dessert course, Father prompted Esme to play piano for their guests, an offer she modestly declined.
On a Cold Dark Sea Page 4
