by Tricia Goyer
“I would like such a tour, and I do have time while my aunt rises and prepares for the day, but don’t you have your own duties to attend to?”
“What are they going to do? Fire me?” Geraldine winked. “Come, let us go meet the other stewards and stewardesses. I don’t believe any were around who knew your mother, but they’ll be glad to know that she was one of our own. That you are one of us, deep in your heart where it matters.”
“Yes, of course.” Amelia smiled at those words, and she followed the older woman with quickened steps, surprised she was so spritely at her age. Amelia liked that Geraldine saw her as one of them. That was how she wanted to be seen—as a simple woman who took all that was offered to her and freely shared it. That was very different than the type of woman she felt when she was with Damien. In her fine dress and in the polished setting, it became easy to forget that all men and women were created equal. Last night she hadn’t paid a bit of mind to the dining stewards who’d served their table. Had there been one server? Two? Were they young? Old? It shamed her that she didn’t know.
Amelia followed Geraldine through a doorway that read, STAFF ONLY. Down a hall, she found a washroom. Inside, a group of women were busy folding towels.
They all paused, eyes wide, as Amelia entered, their laughter stopping. They seemed almost worried, as if they’d all been caught robbing a bank window.
“Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to someone. This is Amelia Gladstone. Her mother, Emma, was a good friend of mine. We worked together as stewardesses many moons ago, back when the great liners were no more than tin cans.” Geraldine chuckled.
“Your mother, you say, was one of us?” a red-headed woman asked. The pinned cap on the top of her head did little to keep her mass of curls in place. She wiped damp, sweaty hair back from her face. “How special, then, for you to be a passenger! Third-class? Second?” The woman stepped closer.
“Second.” Geraldine puffed out her chest with pride. “But last night our dear Amelia was the guest of Mr. Damien Walpole in first class. He’s staying in one of the grand suites, but he ventured down to the second-class lounge to invite her to dine with him.”
The women’s mouths circled into Os, and Amelia glanced over at Geraldine in amazement. “Gerri, how did you know such things? Did you talk to my aunt?”
Laughter filled the room, echoing off the steel walls.
“Oh, Amelia, you have much to learn about your mother’s work. We have eyes and ears. We have friends from bow to stern.”
Amelia nodded, unsure how to respond. She looked deep into Geraldine’s eyes. What else did the woman know? Did she know about Quentin? Did she know that the man who called himself Henry Gladstone was the long-lost son of none other than C.J. Walpole in first class?
Amelia didn’t have time to ask. As the women continued their work, Geraldine led her to meet many of the other stewards and stewardesses who worked on the various decks.
For most of her life, Amelia had pictured her mother’s job a romantic one, but as she watched the stewardesses work, there was nothing romantic about making beds, cleaning bathrooms and cabins, sweeping, dusting, and bringing trays for breakfast or tea.
As they strolled the first-class area, Amelia kept her eyes peeled for C.J. or Damien, but she saw neither. Instead Geraldine provided commentary on many of the passengers they passed.
“Margaret Brown joined our liner after touring Cairo, Egypt. She vacationed with the Astors and with her daughter, Helen. She’s heading home because her grandson has taken ill. One of the stewards overheard her talking with a friend at tea. Apparently, in Cairo she visited a fortune-teller. After studying her palm, he said, ‘Water, water, water,’ and predicted a sinking ship surrounded by drowning people. They were laughing because, of all ships, they were booked on the Titanic. Poor thing, I hope she didn’t pay him too much for that prediction.” Geraldine shook her head.
Amelia nodded but didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t think much about fortune-tellers, but she wasn’t going to tell Geraldine that.
Geraldine pointed to an older man and woman. “Isidor Straus there is the co-owner of Macy’s department stores. He’s traveling with his wife, Ida. I hear the Strauses are very charitable and kindly. Many of the first-class stewardesses like waiting on them best.”
As they walked past the exercise room, Geraldine pointed to Mr. Astor exercising on one of the mechanical machines.
“Do you see that man?” Geraldine said. “John Jacob Astor. And his bride of a year.” His young wife sat next to him, watching him.
Amelia looked closer at the quiet, sullen young woman, wondering if it was just morning sickness that made her look upon the opulence so indifferently.
“The wealth of the world does not bring joy,” Amelia’s mother had told her once. “I’ve not seen more miserable passengers than those in first class.”
The more she walked through life—and through the decks of this ship—the more Amelia understood what her mother meant. Maybe people seemed sad because wealth separated them from others. There was always the question of whether others wanted to spend time with them—or with their things. There were expectations of how to live, what to say, what to wear, and how to act. And the more one owned, it seemed, the more the desire grew to achieve and acquire.
In her own life, Amelia knew she felt no greater joy than to make up some potato soup and take it to a family in need. Even on days when she was feeling tired or depressed by the gray Southampton clouds that blocked out the sun, getting out and thinking of another’s needs was the best way to bring a little sun into her life.
She felt awkward, too, to hear Geraldine commenting about the indiscretions of those in first class. Even though Geraldine was their servant, she talked about them as if she were far better than they. Amelia understood the men and women in first class better after last night. They were just people, like the rest of them, trying to find love and acceptance. Sitting among them, watching and listening to their conversations, had given her a different view.
How hard it must be to live one’s life with one million people looking on. She remembered the weary look on John Jacob Astor’s face when he’d come to C.J. for an encouraging word. Yes, he was the richest man on the ship, but it was clear the treatment of others—their judgment on his indiscretions—had worn him down.
As Geraldine and Amelia continued their tour, two affable and well-groomed men strolled past them toward the smoking room. Both of the men stared at Amelia as they crossed paths, causing Geraldine to chuckle.
“Child, I’m sure they believe that you are a fine lady from this deck and I am your maid.”
“Probably so, but I do not like the way they stare.” She sidled closer to Geraldine. “It was like this the last time I walked these decks, too. Geraldine, do you know why?”
“I can guess.” The woman clicked her tongue. “They’re wondering if they know you and to which wealthy family you belong. They wish to know if you are unattached. If so, they might consider you someone to pursue. And finally”—Geraldine squeezed her arm—“because you’re beautiful. You’ve received many of the same stares in second class, dear, but here you’re more aware.”
Amelia felt herself blushing. “Yes, I do feel more self-conscious here….”
“Then perhaps it’s time to take you to third class and then to the decks below that. Some of my favorite friends work down there.”
Amelia followed Geraldine through a maze of passageways. “I hope your plans are to take me back to my room, too, because I’m afraid I’ll never be able to find my way on my own.”
“It is a complex maze, isn’t it, dear?” Geraldine pushed open yet another door that led down a long hall. “Most of us staff didn’t come on board until three days before the launch. Many, myself included, have gotten lost every day. The worst is trying to give directions to a passenger. I can never tell someone which door to take or which stairway to climb.”
Finally, as they walked a long, quiet
passageway, she couldn’t help but ask, “Geraldine, I have a question for you. Have you remembered anything more about my mother? I’d love to hear news that seems unimportant even from long ago.”
“I’m sorry, Amelia. I am afraid I haven’t. We were good friends, but that was when my hair still had color and my face wasn’t all wrinkled up. I don’t even remember exactly when Emma stopped showing up. There are usually more workers than jobs available.”
“I bet there were many who wished they could be on the Titanic.”
“Yes, yes, indeed.” Geraldine nodded. “And I was one of the lucky ones.”
“So when you didn’t see my mother at work, you didn’t think much of it?”
“No, I just believed she didn’t get an assignment.”
“And after that?” “After that, I was certain she found a special man. Got married. Started a life. It was common. Most young stewardesses do.”
“What about you, Geraldine? Did you ever find love?”
“I did once.” Her voice grew wistful. She glanced up at the ceiling, yet Amelia could see a story in her gaze. “I found it, but it was lost.” She let out a sigh.
“Did he not feel the same?”
“He did, dear, but I did not trust the emotions. I didn’t think they could come on so strong. I thought it would be prudent that we wait, to get to know each other better. We wrote letters for a while, but many weeks would pass in between. I’d have to wait to mail the letters—or receive them—until we got to shore. Two years passed, and he got tired of waiting for me. Waiting for me to trust my heart.”
“I see.” Amelia swallowed hard, wishing she could let down her guard with Geraldine and tell her that she had the same feelings. She felt drawn to Quentin, but of all the men who were interested in her, he seemed by be the worst choice. Damien Walpole offered her the world. Mr. Chapman offered a good but simple life. But Quentin? He didn’t have anything to offer, nor had he shown much interest. If anything, he pushed her away. But it was him her thoughts trailed to.
She opened her mouth to talk about that, but the words didn’t come. Instead she turned her questions to Geraldine.
“So you say this will be your last voyage. Why’s that?”
“I’ve enjoyed my time on the sea, but I’ve saved enough for a small apartment. I even found one with a garden area in the courtyard. Because of the prolonged coal strike, jobs have been harder and harder to find. I told myself if I somehow made it on this liner, the Titanic, that it was God’s message to me that I’d done my good duty and now I could settle down. I told myself after that I’d only make one bed each day”—she chuckled—“my own.”
CHAPTER 14
Geraldine led Amelia to the third-class area, and though the staterooms were smaller and there was much less luxury, she was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the accommodations. Amelia also saw far more smiles there than she saw in first class. People sat in small groups, laughing and talking. Children chased each other, played, and sang songs from their homeland. Musicians gathered together, and although it was clear they didn’t understand each other’s language, they communicated through happy tunes.
They passed the third-class smoking room. Men’s laughter rang out from behind the glass door, along with the clinking of glasses. A song began on the piano. It was a happy tune, and a smile lifted Amelia’s lips.
After walking through the third-class berth, Geraldine led her through the cargo area to the powerhouse in the deep, dark belly of the ship. The mood down there changed, and Amelia no longer felt like she was on the same liner. With cautious steps, she moved into the boiler room. Huge coal-burning furnaces supplied power to the ship’s engines. Stokers stood with shovels in hand, and then a gong sounded. In unison the stokers shoveled in more coal. The men worked as one.
“See those dials?” Geraldine pointed to the gauges on the boilers. “They tell you which boiler needs coal next.”
The floor beneath Amelia’s feet quaked, not nearly as smooth a ride as it was up top.
Amelia looked at the faces of the men, wondering what they thought of the passengers above. Or did they think of them? Maybe not. Maybe it was easier to do one’s work and not think of those who lounged and dined.
They left the doorway, shutting it tight, and reversed their path. “I doubt many passengers know, but there was a fire in boiler room six. It was smoldering when we left the dock in Southampton, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s smoldering still.
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Geraldine shrugged. “The firemen keep an eye on it. And the truth is, every time we head out to sea there’s a certain level of danger. Fire, storms, ice, human error. What surprises me is when we make it to port without incident.”
Amelia grew weary from all the walking. She didn’t know how Geraldine could stay on her feet all day every day. The stewardess returned Amelia to her stateroom, and they paused at the door.
“Thank you,” Amelia said. “I’m sure I’ve seen more of the ship than any of the other passengers.”
“That is certain.” Geraldine offered a quick hug. “I just hope it’ll help you, Amelia. Help you know your mother in ways you haven’t before.”
“That it will. Have a good day, Geraldine,” Amelia said, and gathering up her strength again, she stepped through the door into her stateroom.
“Where have you been?” Aunt Neda asked. “Did you have breakfast with Mr. Walpole by chance?”
Amelia was surprised by the smile that played on Aunt Neda’s lips. Perhaps Damien’s wealth was drawing Aunt Neda more than she wanted to admit. After all, if one married the likes of him, one would never lack for anything….
Except ownership of oneself, she thought. Gain the whole world and lose your soul, not necessarily to damnation, but to the masses who desire to know all about your life and who live a bit of their dreams through you.
As Aunt Neda finished pinning up her hair, Amelia sat down to read yet another letter from Mr. Chapman, hoping beyond hope that his words would draw her again to his heart.
Dear Miss Gladstone,
I am grateful to receive your correspondence today. Your thoughtful dialogue and conversational tone made it seem as if you sat beside me at dinner, sharing your favorite stories, which I greatly appreciated. I do confess I have no great tales of today’s interactions. I work with figures at the bank most of my day. I suppose I could tell you I caught an error that one of my colleagues had overlooked, but that is not nearly as interesting as your tales of taking fresh bread to a poor widow who’d eaten her last crumb the night prior. I do agree with you that it was our good Lord who put her face within your dream. I also agree that there are plenty of needy people here in New Haven. I cannot go out to visit them during the day, but I weekly provide some coins to the nuns at a nearby church who see to it that they are given to those with the greatest need. Know, dear Amelia, that I understand the caring heart God has given you. Know that I will support your efforts in all the ways that I can.
Your cousin Elizabeth searched through her trunk and indeed found the photo of the two of you taken a few years ago. I was pleasantly surprised by your symmetrical features and bright eyes. If only you had been smiling. Elizabeth claims your smile lights up a room. I believe it would.
I showed your photo to Miss Betsie MacLellan, the cook. She agreed you had fine features and guessed you are the same age as she. I regretfully could not remember your birthday, but Betsie’s is June 21, 1887. Since that is the first day of summer, I sometimes call her flower. And when she is baking, I call her flour, although since the word is spoken, I don’t believe she notices the change.
Amelia laughed out loud, and Aunt Neda turned. Then, almost immediately, she realized again whom he spoke of … that Betsie MacLellan. Was flower or flour a term of endearment? “What is it, Amelia? What do you find so humorous?” She pushed the smile back onto her lips. “Uh, I forgot how witty Mr. Chapman is…. If you are going to read any more let
ters from him, Aunt, you should start with this one.”
“Yes, well, I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Aunt Neda rose, patted her hair as she looked into the mirror, and moved to the door. “But for now I’d like my breakfast. And maybe we’ll be greeted by another one of your suitors, Amelia. It seems we never know who to expect at the table, do we?”
It was Quentin who waited in the second-class dining room as Amelia and her aunt approached. He rose and greeted them with a smile. Amelia smiled back at Quentin and noticed again what a truly nice man he was when he wasn’t attempting to push her away.
Aunt Neda didn’t seem overjoyed that Quentin was there, but she didn’t completely ignore him either. Instead she eyed him, and as they ate their breakfast, Amelia saw he could be just as fine a gentleman as his brother, Damien, when he wanted to.
“So, Amelia, when did you start being an angel of mercy to the people in your neighborhood?” She could tell he was trying to be playful with his question, but she didn’t want Quentin to think he was just another person she took pity on.
“I didn’t set out to do that.” She spread fresh butter on a roll. “I suppose it started when I was twelve or so. I remember seeing one young girl walking down the street with her mother. Her dirty dress was far too small for her. I followed them to see where they lived, and then I rushed home to ask Aunt Neda if she could help them in some way.”
“That she did.” Aunt Neda nodded. “She wouldn’t let me get a wink of sleep that night until I sewed up a simple frock.”
“We took it to them the next morning.” Amelia smiled as the memory played in her mind. “You should have heard the girl’s squeals of joy as she clutched the garment to her chest. Then her mother made us stay while she tried it on. The girl pranced around the room as if she were Queen Victoria herself. Do you remember, Aunt?”
