A PERFECT WEDDING
By
Alice Duncan
Writing as Anne Robins
Book #3 in the “Titanic” series
A Perfect Wedding
Copyright © 2005 by Alice Duncan
All rights reserved.
Published 2005 by Kensington Corp.
Zebra Books
Smashwords edition October 1, 2009
Visit aliceduncan.net
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Prologue
April 15, 1912
Marjorie MacTavish raced along the corridor of the first-class deck of Titanic, her heart in her throat. Where was he? Dear Lord in heaven, where was he? She’d managed to get all the first-class passengers out of their cabins and upstairs, but where was Leonard?
Her heart leaped up when she beheld him swing ‘round a corner at the end of the corridor and run toward her. “Marjorie! Why aren’t you in a lifeboat?”
“Och, Leonard!” Under normal circumstances, Marjorie, who kept her emotions under strict control, would have been embarrassed at bursting into tears. These were extraordinary circumstances, however, and she didn’t care. She threw herself into Leonard’s arms when they met in the middle of the hallway.
“We’ve got to get on-deck, Marjorie. The ship is foundering. It’s going down fast.”
“Lord have mercy,” Marjorie whispered. She’d known, of course, that the ship was sinking, but hearing Leonard say it made it terrifyingly real.
“Come along with me, darling.” Leonard took her hand and pulled her to the stairway. He pushed her up the stairs ahead of him, never releasing her hand.
Marjorie heard the throng before she saw it, and she also heard the band playing. The music amid the noisy panic added to the surreal atmosphere of the moment. The night was black as tar, but the ship’s lights still shone. The lights and music made the scene look as if it were taking place at a carnival instead of on the largest ocean liner the world had ever seen.
And it was supposed to have been unsinkable. Tell that to the bluidy iceberg, Marjorie thought bitterly.
“There!” Leonard shouted, pointing. “They’re loading a lifeboat over there.” He fairly dragged her toward the boat, shoving people aside.
“But, Leonard, I should wait until the rest of the passengers are loaded.”
He stopped running, turned abruptly, and took Marjorie in his strong arms. As he held her in a desperate embrace, he whispered, “There aren’t enough lifeboats, darling. There aren’t enough lifeboats for half the number of people on the ship.”
Marjorie let out a cry. “Nae! Nivver say so! Och, Leonard.” When her emotions were stirred, Marjorie forgot the King’s English and reverted to her Glasgow roots.
“It’s so, Marjorie. Now be a good girl and come along. There are boats left, and I want to see you into one.”
“Nae, Leonard!”
“It’ll be all right, darling,” he said tenderly.
For the very first time since they became engaged to be married, Leonard Fleming held Marjorie MacTavish in his arms and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, but thorough, and it was filled with the love of a wonderful man for the woman he’d chosen to be with forever. Marjorie didn’t realized until much later that it had been a farewell kiss. They were both breathless when Leonard reluctantly pulled away from her.
“There,” he said, smiling down at her. “That will have to hold us for a while.”
She stared into his beautiful dark eyes. She loved him so much. He was not only a fine, upstanding man, but a handsome and ambitious one. He was already the chief steward on-board Titanic. They would have a good life together. Marjorie knew it in her heart and soul.
Turning once more, Leonard kept her hand snugly in his and resumed his progress toward the lifeboat. “Out of the way. We have a lady here. Women and children first!”
The deck hand who was helping load the lifeboat recognized Marjorie and Leonard and gestured them forward. Pushing and shoving, Leonard managed to work his way to the boat. “Thank you, Jenkins. Take Miss MacTavish here, will you? That’s a good fellow.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Fleming. Miss MacTavish?” Mr. Jenkins took Marjorie’s arm, being gentle.
Marjorie, confused, resisted. Turning to Leonard, she cried out, “But, Leonard, ye mun get in t’boot, too!”
Leonard leaned toward her and gave her one last kiss on the lips. “I’ll be along, Marjorie. Just get in the boat now.”
“No!” Marjorie began to struggle.
A significant glance passed between Mr. Jenkins and Leonard. Marjorie saw it, and for the first time she knew what it all meant. “Nae!” she screamed again, trying to wrench herself away from Mr. Jenkins.
But Mr. Jenkins, with a smile and a nod from Leonard, picked her up and put her in the lifeboat.
“Leonard!” she shrieked. Firm hands prevented her from climbing out of the boat.
“I love you, Marjorie!” he called back. He waved.
And she never saw him again.
Chapter One
September, 1915
The summer weather seemed to have gone into hiding, much as Marjorie MacTavish wished she could do. The air was chilly, and the fog had lingered into the afternoon. It swirled around her feet and crept up the walls of buildings like a cat burglar, slipping into rooms under doorways and through cracked windows and stealing the warmth therefrom. The atmosphere, damp and dreary, matched Marjorie’s mood.
She’d had enough fog in her youth and during her years as a White Star stewardess. Now she detested it and wished it would go away. For that matter, she wished she could go away.
“Third floor, ladies.” The elevator in which she had been riding clunked to a stop, and the operator pulled the lever drawing the double doors apart. Marjorie hesitated for a moment before stepping out into the hallway. She felt as if she were heading to her doom.
“I thought summers were supposed to be warm in California,” she said in something of a grump.
“It’ll warm up,” her companion assured her. “Summers in San Francisco are always a little foggy. It has something to do with the atmospheric conditions here on the coast.” There was no hesitation about her, and not a hint of gloom. She was bright as the morning sun—a good deal brighter than this morning’s sun, actually—as she led the way down the hall.
As ever, Marjorie thought darkly. Marjorie herself hung back as well as she could, although she didn’t dare be too stubborn. After all, Loretta Quarles, today’s companion and also the woman who employed Marjorie as her secretary, was almost nine months’ pregnant. What’s more, it was widely suspected that she was going to give birth to twins. Loretta was the healthiest specimen Marjorie had ever met in her life, but she didn’t want to cause her any trouble.
That didn’t negate the fact that she thought this was one of Loretta’s most harebrained ideas ever. And Loretta was full to the brim with harebrained ideas.
Not only that, Marjorie thought acerbically, but why an nine-months’ pregnant lady should be displaying herself in public was more than she could fathom. Any woman with an ounce of propriety would stay at home if she were in Loretta’s condition.
But, since she’d first encountered Loretta aboard the ill-fated Titanic, Marjorie had known her to be one of a kind. And that, if you asked her, w
as a very good thing, too. While Marjorie clung almost desperately to her conventional standards, Loretta flouted public opinion wherever and whenever she could. She also promoted every radical cause that came her way and had about as much truck with conventional behavior as she did with opera singing—and Loretta couldn’t hold a tune in a teacup.
“I dinna want to see this doctor, Loretta Quarles, and ye’re daft if ye think he’ll do me good.” As a rule, Marjorie did her very best to sound like a dignified, educated Englishwoman.
The sad fact of her life was that she’d been born in a slum in Glasgow almost thirty years earlier. But she’d overcome her beginnings. Every now and then, and especially when Loretta became particularly pushy or nonsensical, her origins came out in her speech.
“Fiddlesticks,” said Loretta stoutly, waddling quickly at Marjorie’s side. “You know as well as I do that you’ve been suffering terrible neuroses and phobias ever since the Titanic disaster.”
“Stuff!” Marjorie’s heart suffered a painful jolt, as it always did when she remembered that horrible night.
“It’s not stuff. That experience has given you a phobia of the ocean, and Dr. Hagendorf is just the person to help you get over it.”
Marjorie huffed, vexed. She didn’t like even thinking about the ocean . . . or that night, when she’d lost all that she’d ever held dear. She sure as anything didn’t want to chat about it with a stranger.
“Dr. Hagendorf and his wife Irene are my dear friends, Marjorie. William is a kind man, and a brilliant alienist. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you overcome your illogical fear of the water.”
“I deny that it’s illogical.”
“Pooh. It’s illogical to have such a terror of the sea that you can’t even go to the Cliff House to dine with me without suffering palpitations and spasms.”
“I dinna want to go to the Cliff House.”
“You’re being stubborn, Marjorie MacTavish. You know very well what I mean. You have a definite phobia about the ocean, and you need to overcome it.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it’s holding you back, is why!”
“From what?”
“From life! From fulfillment. From joy!”
“Codswallop.”
“It’s not codswallop. It’s the truth.”
“Well, and what if I dinna want to overcome this so-called phobia?” Marjorie said through clenched teeth. “What if I consider my life fulfilled already and as full of joy as it needs to be? What do I want the ocean for? I dinna care to travel. I’ve had my fill of it.”
“But it’s so silly, Marjorie. Wouldn’t you like to be free from the debilitating anxiety that grips you every time you get near water?”
“Fah.” The truth was that Marjorie never wanted to see an ocean again as long as she lived. Every time she even smelled the sea, she thought about her lost darling, Leonard Fleming. She no longer had to fight tears twenty-four hours every day, thank the good Lord. It had been more than three years since that black night, after all. However, she still hated the ocean. As far as Marjorie was concerned, the ocean had taken her very life from her.
Perhaps if Leonard’s body had been recovered, she wouldn’t feel this empty, gnawing grief in her heart; this sense of business unfinished and a life full of promise that remained unlived, but there it was. Poor Leonard had been one of the more than eight hundred people who had gone down with the ship, and who, for all anyone knew, were still there, locked in its barnacled bulk like ghostly prisoners.
Sometimes Marjorie envisioned his bones lying in the remains of the grand ballroom, picked clean by fishes and covered in cockles and sand, and the urge to cry assailed her anew. She fought it with all the strength she possessed. Marjorie wasn’t one to broadcast her woes to the world.
Since she lived in San Francisco, which was on the very edge of the Pacific Ocean, most of her days were endured with the smell of the sea in her head and the accompanying ache in her heart. But she didn’t have the energy to move farther inland.
Besides that, and although Loretta occasionally drove Marjorie daft with her constant harping on rights for women, and votes for women, and this and that and the other thing for women, Marjorie knew she’d never get a job that paid as well, or with an employer as kind, as the one she had.
Because she’d learned the futility of arguing with Loretta early in their acquaintanceship, she only repeated, “Ye’re daft,” and stopped fighting.
So she had to spend an hour lying on a couch and babbling to a doctor. So what? The hour might be well spent, if it only managed to silence Loretta on the “Marjorie’s awful neuroses” issues. Loretta had promised not to fuss at her anymore about seeing the alienist if she agreed to keep one appointment. An hour wouldn’t kill her.
The building in which Dr. Hagendorf practiced his trade was a fairly new one, having been built after the earthquake and fire that all but destroyed San Francisco in 1906. It rose tall and shiny in its clean white bricks on Market Street, close to where Loretta’s father’s bank sat.
Glancing at the pretty desert scenes decorating the walls of the hallway, Marjorie murmured, “Dr. Hagendorf must have a flourishing practice, if he can afford to have his office in this neighborhood.”
“That’s because he’s the best,” said Loretta, her confidence in her friend plain to hear in her voice.
Marjorie said, “Hmm,” and left it at that.
“Here we are.” Loretta sounded eager.
That made one of them. Because she didn’t want Loretta to strain herself, Marjorie hurried ahead of her and opened the door, a sign upon which proclaimed merely “William D. Hagendorf, M.D., Ph.D.” There was no mention of his specialty, Marjorie noted with interest. Evidently she wasn’t the only person in San Francisco who felt funny about being seen visiting an alienist’s office.
Dr. Hagendorf’s nurse-receptionist, in a pristine white uniform that reminded Marjorie of the crisp uniforms she’d worn as a stewardess for the White Star Line, greeted the two women with a smile. She sat behind a businesslike desk that sported a candlestick telephone and several pieces of paper.
“Mrs. Quarles, how nice to see you again,” said she. Glancing at Marjorie with an expression Marjorie could only deem as kindly, and which she resented, she went on, “And is this Miss MacTavish?”
With her usual cheerful ebullience, Loretta rushed to the desk, her bulk giving her a rocking gait not, Marjorie thought, unlike that of a corpulent bulldog. Or an ambulatory barrel. She would probably have grinned and relayed her notions to Loretta, who had a lively sense of humor, had she not been so peeved with her.
Loretta took the receptionist’s hand and shook it heartily. “How are you today, Miss Grindthorpe? It’s good to see you, too.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” gushed Miss Grindthorpe.
Marjorie had to fight a scowl. She considered Dr. Hagendorf and those of his ilk, not to mention the people who worked for them, no better than sly charlatans who preyed on gullible rich folks. If it weren’t for Loretta and her cursed bluidy fortune, Marjorie wouldn’t have to be going through this humiliating experience today.
As a rule, Marjorie loved Loretta like a sister. Sometimes, Loretta strained that rule beyond bearing, this being one of those times.
“Please take a seat, ladies,” Miss Grindthorpe said, sounding to Marjorie’s sensitive ears like the condescending mistress at a boarding school, not that she’d know anything about boarding schools. But she’d met plenty of nannies and governesses and rich people during her years as a stewardess, and she knew what they sounded like. “I’ll see if Dr. Hagendorf is ready for Miss MacTavish.”
Loretta immediately did as requested, subsiding into a chair with a grunt. She was very large. Marjorie sat, too, with less noise.
After Miss Grindthorpe had swished out of the office, Marjorie muttered, “‘T’would be better to ask if I’m ready for him.”
Loretta playfully patted her arm, one of her favorite forms of comm
unication. “Don’t be silly, Marjorie. This will be good for you.”
“So you keep telling me.”
Loretta only laughed.
A few minutes later, Miss Grindthorpe ushered Marjorie into Dr. Hagendorf’s lair—she meant his office. Her heart quailed when she saw the couch upon which she presumed she would be lying. Loretta had told her that Dr. Hagendorf used a “modified Freudian” method in his practice, whatever that was. When Loretta had tried to explain it to her, Marjorie had become so embarrassed that she’d fled from the room. Therefore, she still had no idea what to expect.
If the wretched man lectured her about the sexual urge and how repressed hers was, Marjorie might have to flee from this room, too. As dear as Loretta was to her, and as much as she tried to please her, there were some things she wouldn’t do.
Perhaps couldn’t was a more honest word. When she wasn’t fighting for her emotional life against Loretta’s outrageous incursions, Marjorie acknowledged to herself that she did have a problem or two, the main one being that she’d lost the only man she’d ever loved in the most catastrophic ocean liner disaster the world had ever seen. And she was absolutely, deathly, stomach-churningly terrified of the ocean. Still and all, as little as she liked what Loretta called her “neurosis,” and as much as she would like to overcome it, she figured she’d earned it.
As soon as the door opened, Dr. Hagendorf, who had been sitting at his desk and writing something—probably a report on some other poor soul whose life he’d invaded—rose and walked toward Marjorie and Miss Grindthorpe, his hand extended. He had a nice smile, and he seemed friendly.
Marjorie wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she hadn’t anticipated being greeted by this beardless man who looked more like a studious schoolboy than a doctor, with his thick-lensed eyeglasses, his rumpled suit, and his big grin. He had freckles across his nose, too, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps she’d thought he’d look more like Dr. Freud with his pointy beard and grim Germanic expression.
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