by Diane Hoh
“Yes, I would have. Because I don’t want to be put on display like an exhibit at a World’s Fair. And Father is right. The whole point of debuting into society, whether anyone admits it or not, is to find a husband. Since you’ve already picked one out for me and made all the arrangements, why do I have to go through a debut?”
Her mother looked confused for a moment. Then her brow cleared, and she answered almost triumphantly, “Because this is how we do things.”
Elizabeth knew what “we” meant. The privileged of society. Wasn’t that why they were on this most impressive of all ocean liners in the first place, traveling in such luxury? And they weren’t the only ones. They were in the company of John Jacob Astor, one of the richest men in the United States, and his young wife, along with Mr. Isadore Strauss, owner of Macy’s department store, and his wife, and Benjamin Guggenheim. There was at least one countess on board. And they all did things a certain way. Her mother’s way.
Elizabeth thought, But I want to make my own way. Within reason, of course. She would admit she needed their support. Luxurious living was something she had learned to take for granted. She knew, just as her parents seemed to, that she would not be good at being poor. But right at the moment, the price she had to pay for privilege seemed much too high. Marriage to a man she didn’t love? Didn’t even especially like?
“I won’t marry him,” she repeated. “I’d rather jump overboard.”
“I hear,” her father said easily, lighting his pipe, “that the waters of the Atlantic are especially cold this time of year.”
“And you’d ruin your dress, dear,” Elizabeth’s mother said, sending a conspiratorial smile her husband’s way.
“Don’t do that!” Elizabeth said. “Don’t treat me like a two-year-old!”
“If you dislike it so much,” her father said, “you’d be well-advised to hold onto your temper, unlike most two-year-olds.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth cried in frustration. Fighting angry tears, she ran back to her own cabin.
She didn’t stay there long. In the adjoining cabin, she could hear her father chuckling and knew her parents were not taking her announcement seriously. It was her own fault. Her father was right. She had acted like a two-year-old. But it was so frustrating, not being taken seriously. Even if she hadn’t raised her voice, they still wouldn’t have changed their minds about Alan.
And she knew why. Because neither of her parents trusted her to take care of herself and to choose her own husband. They were afraid she’d pick some handsome but grasping fortune hunter instead of someone who already had his own fortune and had no need of hers.
I wouldn’t do that, Elizabeth told the dresser mirror as she passed it. I have more common sense than that.
She knew why her mother worried. There had been that one boy last summer…Joshua Lawrence…but her mother had overreacted to that. It had been perfectly innocent. Elizabeth hardly knew him. Joshua worked on the ice truck that served their neighborhood. He was terribly good-looking—all the girls said so—and he was very friendly. After only two days on the job, he knew the names of everyone in the neighborhood. Elizabeth’s mother had been shocked when, as the Farrs were leaving their brownstone one day last June, Joshua had called from the back of the truck as it passed, “Mornin’, Elizabeth.”
Perhaps that was when her mother had approached Alan Reed for the first time.
Joshua wasn’t a fortune hunter. He was just a friendly person. It would have been rude not to return his greeting.
But it had been impossible to convince her mother that he and Elizabeth had exchanged only the barest civilities, and nothing more. The solution, from Nola Farr’s point of view, was to marry her daughter off, as quickly as possible, to someone who didn’t need her money. Enter Alan Reed.
Pulling a pale yellow mohair shawl from one of the dresser drawers and tossing it around her shoulders, Elizabeth left the cabin and took the stairs up to A deck. If she was going to look at the sea, she wanted to feel the cool air and taste the salt on her lips.
It was after ten o’clock, but the open promenade was busy with strollers, many of them holding hands or linked arm in arm. The pang of wistfulness overtook Elizabeth again. How lucky they were to have each other.
“Looking for wayward travelers in need of assistance?” a deep voice at her shoulder asked.
She knew who it was immediately, and deliberately refused to turn her head. Her mother wasn’t around, so there was no reason to be polite. “This is a sea voyage,” she said, her voice as chilly as the air sweeping in from the vast, black ocean. The shawl was proving woefully inadequate. “So I am looking at the sea.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Yes. I do mind. Very much. Go away.” The words were barely out of her mouth when she sensed his presence at her left elbow, as if she hadn’t even spoken.
“Tsk, tsk, Elizabeth,” Max Whittaker scolded. “Deplorable manners! What would your mother say?”
“Do you see my mother anywhere around here? I believe I’m alone. And I would prefer to stay that way.” Elizabeth remained staring steadfastly out over the glistening, flat sea. It looked smooth enough to skate on, and indeed the immense ship moved across the water with none of the rocking motion Elizabeth had experienced on other crossings.
“Nice night. Aren’t you cold in that flimsy thing?”
He was referring to her shawl. His comment seemed much too personal. As if her comfort were any of his concern. Perhaps if she ignored him, he would go away.
He didn’t go away. Instead, he astonished her by saying suddenly, “So, getting married, are you?”
Taken by surprise, Elizabeth whirled around. “No, I am not getting married! And if I were, what concern would that be of yours? Have you been asking questions about me?”
“Your mother told me you were betrothed,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t noticed her anger. “I think she was warning me away.” He laughed lightly. “Must be the turtleneck. She disapproved. Looked at me pretty much the same way you did when you saw me come aboard.”
Annoyed by the presumption that she and her mother thought alike, Elizabeth snapped, “Well, it wasn’t the turtleneck then. You weren’t wearing it when you came on board.”
He laughed again, louder this time. “Quite right, I wasn’t.” He hesitated, then added seriously, “If I apologize for misleading you and taking advantage of your good will, will you apologize for judging me by my appearance?”
Although his accusation rankled, Elizabeth couldn’t help noticing that his eyes laughed when his mouth did, something she had always found attractive.
Still, she didn’t really feel like forgiving him. Unless…“I suppose I could forgive you,” she answered slowly, turning her gaze back to the sea. “But you’ll have to earn my forgiveness.”
“And how, exactly, do I do that?”
Elizabeth smiled. “You can start by telling me all about your life in Paris. You can tell me what it’s like for someone raised with money to strike out on his own and live on very little. That is, unless your parents were supporting you financially. Then I wouldn’t be interested.”
“They were not supporting me. I worked as a waiter in Paris to support myself.”
Elizabeth propped an elbow on the railing and rested her chin against it, and only then did she turn her face to meet his gaze. “Then tell me,” she insisted. “Tell me what it’s like to be on one’s own. And if you do a good job, perhaps I’ll forgive you.”
Max began talking.
Chapter 5
Thursday, April 11, 1912
When Elizabeth awoke on her second day at sea, it took her several moments to realize where she was. There was no noticeable bobbing to tell her she was on the ocean, and the warm wood paneling was much like that of any hotel room. She could have been safely on land in London, Paris, Zurich, or New York.
But she wasn’t. That realization dawned on her as she recalled the last thing Max Whittaker had said to her last night
. After listening intently for over an hour to his tales of Paris, Elizabeth had been summoned by her father. “It’s after eleven,” he had called from the first-class entrance. “Come along, Elizabeth.” She had politely, if reluctantly, thanked Max for the stimulating conversation, and as she walked away, hugging her arms around her to keep warm, he had called, “Smooth sailing, Elizabeth!”
Remembering now where she was, Elizabeth yawned and stretched slowly. As entertaining as Max’s stories had been, she knew herself well enough to realize that living in a garret somewhere, without heat or hot water, as Max had done this past year, was not for her. Max might not care a great deal about ready access to a long, soothing hot bath, but Elizabeth was painfully aware that she would be miserable without it. If her parents refused to pay her tuition at Vassar, she wouldn’t be able to go. Even if she were willing to live in a hovel and work to pay her own way, what sort of work could she find? She had no experience, no training, no qualifications.
It’s not my fault, she thought as she dressed in a long, white knife-pleated skirt and a white long-sleeved middy top.
But Max had been raised the same way she had. And yet he had spoken of eating week-old vegetables discarded by restaurants, and lighting his room by candlelight, and painting with fingers so cold, his knuckles ached. He had spoken of these hardships as if he had dealt with them all of his life.
But I’m not Max, Elizabeth told herself. I don’t want to freeze in a garret. All I’m asking for is an education! My parents shouldn’t have told me “yes” throughout my life to everything any girl could want, if they were going to turn around and tell me “no” to the one thing I really want. That isn’t fair of them.
She wasn’t very good company at breakfast. In spite of the bright, cheerful atmosphere in the dining room, which was nearly full, Elizabeth barely touched the grilled ham and tomato omelet her father ordered for her. She slid down in her chair, arms folded across her chest, and watched as he cheerfully relished every bite of his grilled mutton kidneys and bacon. Last night’s argument was never mentioned. Instead, her mother asked about Max.
“Your father tells me you were deep in conversation with the Whittaker boy last night. Whatever did you find to talk about for so long?”
Elizabeth seized this opportunity. “He was telling me how hard it was for him, living in Paris with no money, since his parents refused to send him any. It’s surprising that he didn’t fall ill, living under such desperate conditions. I find it hard to believe his parents really love him,” she added pointedly, “if they could let him suffer like that.”
“He chose to suffer like that,” her mother said, and her father added, “He didn’t look to me like he’d been suffering unduly. Seems like quite a happy chap, if you ask me. Could use a bit more meat on his bones, that’s clear. Probably hasn’t been eating sensibly.”
“He didn’t have enough money for food!” Elizabeth responded.
Her father shrugged. “As your mother pointed out, that was his choice. At any rate, he’s seen the light now and is on his way home. I’m sure Jules and Enid will be quite happy to see him.”
“Maybe he won’t go home,” Elizabeth said. How could they be so insensitive? “Maybe he’ll live on his own in New York, in a garret, just as he did in Paris. And become a world-famous artist with no help from anyone. Then his parents will be sorry for the way they treated him!”
Her father laughed as he lifted a scone to his mouth. “Elizabeth, you’re not fooling anyone. Your mother and I are not quite as dense as you like to think. It hasn’t escaped us that you are not actually talking about the Whittaker boy at all, but yourself.” His eyes twinkling with amusement, he added, “I wasn’t aware that you aspired to live in a garret and become a world-famous artist.”
Elizabeth blinked back tears of frustration. The tables around them were crowded. She couldn’t bear it if someone saw her crying. “Please don’t laugh at me. I don’t want to be an artist.” Her voice lowered to an insistent whisper. “I just…want…to go…to college! Why do you want me to be stupid?”
Her mother daintily forked a bite of baked apple. “What would be stupid,” she said calmly, “would be letting a fine, secure gentleman like Alan Reed slip out of your fingers and into someone else’s. It’s not as though you aren’t already educated, Elizabeth. We’ve spared no expense sending you to the finest schools.”
“But there is still so much to learn,” Elizabeth cried. Curious glances from people sitting at the tables around them turned her cheeks pink. She lowered her voice again, but the intensity in her words didn’t lessen. “I’ve learned how to do needlepoint, how to entertain forty guests at a time, how to calculate well enough to pay the servants. I know how to write a lovely thank-you note and how to judge the finest fabrics, jewelry, and furniture. I can play the piano adequately, I’m not atrocious at tennis, and I can swim and ride horseback.” She stared at her mother, her eyes begging. “Is that it? That’s all you want me to know throughout my entire lifetime?”
“It seems adequate to me.” Nola Farr lifted a coffee cup to her lips. Before sipping, she added, “If you insist upon learning more, you can always take up reading. As long as you employ adequate lighting, and don’t overdo. Eyestrain causes forehead wrinkles, dear.” She sipped, then added, “But as the wife of a prominent businessman like Alan, I daresay you won’t have much time for reading.”
Jumping to her feet and leaving, which was what Elizabeth wanted to do, would have created a stir in the dining room. She forced herself to stay in her chair. She couldn’t bear the thought of over four hundred pairs of eyes on her as she escaped. But she clamped her lips together and refused to say another word, even when Denver millionairess Mrs. J. J. “Molly” Brown stopped at their table to congratulate her father on his winnings at cards the night before. The woman clapped him on the back and said in a loud voice that she hoped he’d play again that night, “so’s I can take another crack at relievin’ you of some funds.” She smiled a broad grin. “Lighten your wallet a little, give you less to lug around on board.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” Elizabeth’s father said dryly, smiling in return.
When the woman had gone, Elizabeth’s mother murmured, “Now, there is a woman who is independently wealthy and completely in charge of her own life. She is also coarse, loud, and vulgar, particularly unattractive qualities in a woman. Is that who you would pattern yourself after, Elizabeth?”
“If she is allowed the luxury of making all of her own decisions, yes,” Elizabeth answered. And couldn’t resist adding, “So, if Molly Brown were a man, it would be acceptable for her to be coarse, loud, and vulgar? Is that what you’re saying, Mother?”
“Vulgarity is not acceptable from anyone,” came the stiff reply. Elizabeth’s mother, looking offended, touched her lips with the fine linen napkin. “But I do believe it is much more unseemly coming from a woman, and I do not apologize for thinking that. You would do well to think the same.”
Elizabeth fell silent again. She was despondent at the turn the discussion had taken. But she was only giving up for now, not for good. She would try again…and again…and again.
Still, she could hear the clock on the Grand Staircase ticking away the minutes. She willed the great ship to slow down, take its time, give her more hours in which to think up a new strategy, and more hours in which to employ it.
But the Titanic continued to speed smoothly across the water, making its way along Saint George’s Channel toward Queenstown, Ireland, where more passengers would board.
After breakfast, Elizabeth decided to go up on deck to watch the embarkation. She had never seen Ireland. She had heard that the country was beautiful, and while she might not be able to see that much of it from the ship, which she had been told would be anchored offshore, it would be foolish to stay inside and see nothing.
When her mother stopped on the way out of the dining room to say hello to the Widener party, Elizabeth’s father said quietly, “You might thi
nk about apologizing to your mother. Get on her good side. You’re not doing yourself any good taking this attitude.”
Elizabeth lifted her head to look straight up at him. “I don’t want to apologize,” she said clearly. “I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s hard to be polite when someone is arranging your entire life for you.” Her father was right about one thing: She wasn’t endearing herself to either of them by what they saw as her constant disagreeability. But how can I be agreeable, she asked herself as she left the dining room, when I don’t agree with what they’re doing to me?
When she was on deck, she glanced around for Max, the only other person she knew on board. She was eager to hear more about his adventures in Paris.
But when she found him, he wasn’t alone, which both surprised and disturbed her. He was strolling toward the bow along the promenade, and on his arm was a tall, very thin girl wearing clothes that Elizabeth considered odd. Her long, black skirt was much too full by the standards of the day. Her brightly colored jacket of crimson and green in a gaudy flower pattern appeared garish in contrast to the sedate tans and grays and navy blues of other women on deck. Her hair, darker than Max’s, hung loose and free around her shoulders, the sea breeze tossing it into a dark cloud around her oval, olive-skinned face.
She looks like a gypsy, Elizabeth thought. But Max was smiling down at the girl as they walked. And she, almost his height, was gazing at him with interest, as if she were hanging on his every word.
If the girl was traveling first class, someone—a mother, an aunt, a close friend?—should have given her lessons in what to wear while at sea. Elizabeth felt a sudden, sharp stab of shame. That was exactly what my mother would think, she thought, disgusted. Am I becoming like her? What difference does it make what that girl is wearing?
Others strolling the deck were not so tolerant. There were many questioning glances sent in the direction of Max and the girl. Neither took any notice.
Finding the sight of the apparently happy couple unsettling, Elizabeth turned away and strode to the rail. Perhaps the girl was someone he’d known in Paris, someone who had boarded with him at Cherbourg.
