The Light in the Darkness 1

by Carla Louise Robinson

  Below her Ladyship’s bust, but slightly higher than her lady’s waist, the dress was somewhat pulled in, providing her with the fashionable narrow waist look the wealthy were already accustomed to.

  For each outfit, Hazel selected and laid out matching gloves and stockings, as well as complementary jewellery, as well as Mary Jane heels, also custom made; nothing in the Gresham family could be found merely from any regular store. As the ship’s bugler would announce luncheon within the hour, and with the wealthiest ladies wanting to illustrate their station, many of them – especially within first class – would change. Lady Georgiana, who wouldn’t be docking the Titanic until it reached Cherbourg in the evening, would likely arrive ready in her evening attire, primed for the ten-course degustation.

  It was of the utmost importance to both Lord and Lady Gresham to maintain the family’s regnal status, especially on a ship filled with – to Lady Gresham’s noticeable displeasure – Americans. Her Lady found Americans to be vulgar and rude, and frequently commented on the fact that they were unable to hold their utensils in a dignified manner. Whilst Hazel found the complaint all but absurd, she could not help but wonder why so many Americans would cut their food, place their knife to the side, pick up their fork with the wrong hand, and then resume eating their food. Even a working servitude like Hazel was aware of how to eat per formal etiquette – the butler at Gresham Estate had seen to it. He, like his master, was a strict and conservative man who did not want any “tomfoolery” in his establishment, which included the way the servants ate their meals.

  After carefully arranging the three nominated outfits, Hazel busied herself by arranging a bouquet of fresh, pink roses, that felt cold to the touch, as if they’d just been recently removed from an icebox. Hazel was astounded at just how many fresh flowers seemed to fill the ship; everywhere she turned, there was a fresh bouquet. As she continued with her errands, she tried in earnest to circumvent overhearing Lord and Lady Gresham’s conversation as they deliberated their woes of Cecilia’s growing discontent, and Lord Albert’s growing concerns that Lady Cecilia was going to follow in Lady Georgiana’s footsteps, instead of her elder sister’s.

  “Albert, I’m not entirely sure I can bear to be separated from my daughter,” pressed Lady Eleonora. “Is this necessary? I mean, she does have a point. We do not need this allegiance, and you know the Vanderbilts are only seeking her for her title, to help them reduce the notorious reputation that comes with new money.” Hazel didn’t like how those with “old money” derided those with “new money”, as if their money and position had been afforded to them by God himself, and not by chance, and that anyone seeking to raise their status was somehow less than. However, it wasn’t Hazel’s place to have an opinion either way, and she certainly had no place to express it should she even be permitted one.

  “You are being melodramatic,” Albert replied. “Trans-Atlantic travel is different now. We’ll be in New York within the week. You will be able to visit your daughter as much as you’d like, and there are ships even faster than the Titanic. You’ve always been fond of the Mauretania.”

  “That isn’t the point, Albert,” snapped her Lady. “I don’t want to be separated from my baby, and I cannot constantly be travelling to America. You know that I can’t. I have responsibilities and obligations, and I take them seriously, even if you do not.”

  “I still don’t think you’re being realistic,” Albert countered. “People travel all the time. This ship is filled with Americans who do that very thing.”

  “You’re not listening, Albert.” On that, Hazel concurred.

  “Perhaps we should have forbade it,” Lord Albert sighed, rubbing his greying temples, dismissing his wife’s statement, as if she had never spoken. “I fear we made a grave mistake, my love. I fear, by not disowning Georgiana when she disobeyed us so, Cecilia sees fit to follow in her sister’s footsteps. Does she not see how necessary it is for us to secure alliances, finances?”

  Hazel mused to herself what “finances” or “alliances” Lord Albert deemed necessary; it was not as if the Estate was poorly run, nor were they in a state of war. Lady Cecilia, too, had a point: The Gresham Estate already had an heir-apparent, and with Lady Georgiana’s marriage, it was likely that there would be an heir-presumptive soon on the way. Hazel couldn’t help but agree (even though she was not entitled to) with Lady Cecilia: There was no sound reason for a rushed betrothal to some American magnate.

  Lady Eleonora sat beside her husband at the sitting table, the small lamp mirroring off her jewelled rings, reaching for his lordship’s hand. Neither noticed nor cared about all the servants bustling around them, having had years of their private life engaged with unmemorable servants – Bohee, his Lordship’s valet, was arranging his master’s clothes and organising the suits that required pressing, having a firm discussion with the young stewardess about the importance of his Lordship’s clothes – as well as several stewards and stewardesses from the Titanic, helping to unpack the family’s thirteen trunks, with five crates stored below in the ship’s cargo hold. The Gresham family occupied several of the Titanic’s starboard parlour suites – the only others being as grand were filled on the port side by Mr Ismay, whose name meant nothing to Hazel. However, she could tell by the way his name was stated that he was a man of prominence, and potentially even an acquaintance of Albert’s.

  “What finances and alliances, Albert? Bertie, dear, you must see that she is a little right. She is only but seventeen, and she doesn’t turn eighteen until the beginning of June. I know Eliana married young, because we wished it so to secure the Estate’s future, but Cecilia’s right – much time has passed in the years since. And, if our Georgiana had not fallen for dear William, I would not have wished to see her marry until she was at least of twenty. Was that not why we delayed her debut at court, and rejected so many fine, potential suitors?”

  While it was not Hazel’s place to have an opinion, if she did, she would have shared her support with her Ladyship. She, too, did not understand the pertinence – or her Lordship’s insistence – that Lady Cecilia’s marriage to the young man from the Vanderbilt family was to proceed directly, especially when it seemed to make Lady Cecilia unhappy so. While Hazel was aware that the young man appeared to be enamoured by the pocket photo Lady Cecilia had sent him, she knew that Lady Cecilia’s feelings, warm as they may be, were not yet of the romantic kind. In many ways, Hazel doubted that they could be; how could one love someone by letters only? How could any couple be aware of what was to come? Americans were very different in nature, frequently expressing their feelings, emotive and theatrical, while Britons were reserved to the point of ill-feeling, as if determined to allow their emotions to consume them inwardly.

  “My dear, the way you speak is as if you believe we’re making a mistake.” It wasn’t a question; Lord Albert’s voice contained a distinct note of caution. He paused, allowing an unsettling stillness to fill the room. “You speak as if you believe that I am making a mistake.”

  “Not a mistake, my love,” pacified Lady Eleonora. “I’m just saying that Cecilia is not wrong in raising her qualms; I would feel them too. I do feel them, Albert, and I have felt them, every single day since you agreed with Cornelius Vanderbilt that a marital alliance was in the best interest of both our families. Cecilia’s my baby, Bertie – to be torn from her so? It’s been agony, and I simply don’t see why it’s necessary. Why can’t she marry someone from England? There are so many suitors in our own country, Albert! Perhaps not all with Vanderbilt’s wealth, but certainly with far more prestige than any American family can claim. And a viscount is not so very below an Earl; you talk as if Georgiana fell from grace. She didn’t, Albert. Georgie fell in love, something so few of us in our stations get to envision. William adores Georgiana, and she him. I could not want for a better match, knowing our beloved daughter will always be taken care of. It’s been three months since their wedding, and I honestly don’t know why you still insist on opposing thei
r union, I really don’t.”

  “Because it’s the blasted principle of the matter!” erupted Lord Albert. “She deliberately defied us, Eleonora. We had plans. She wasn’t born so beautiful to be married off for love. And he’s a lowly viscount. He’s barely worthy of such a title. I cannot believe you are defending our daughter so.”

  “And I cannot believe that you are being a pompous, pretentious child, tantruming as if you’ve never heard the word no!” spat Eleonora. “Can you not think of anyone but yourself anymore, Albert? Have you become so lost in yourself that you are willing to alienate family just for a principle?”

  Hazel tried not to look on; the discussion had taken a drastic, vicious turn; something rare amongst the usually harmonious couple, as Eleonora frequently bowed to and obeyed her husband’s wishes, but had the potential to become nasty when they did openly oppose each other. Albert was the type of man whose ego needed to be satiated, not opposed; despite his prominent position in genteel society, like most men, he was fearful of looking a fool.

  “It’s the family I’m thinking of,” retorted Albert. “You know that many Estates floundered, because old men like me refused to adapt to the times. That’s what I’m doing, Ellie. I’m adapting. I don’t want Celia to go to America any more than you do.” Albert’s voice cracked. “The idea alone pains me. However, you know as well as I do that the running costs of the Gresham Estate are expanding, and we need to be prepared to pay for our taxes when the time comes. We must provide for the village, and I will be failing my duty if I do not ensure that we have plenty of money when our debts are called. The Vanderbilts won’t let our family fall into ill-repute once Cecilia’s marriage is sealed, and we will know that Cecilia’s arranged marriage will provide for generations to come, just as Queen Victoria decreed. We must follow the late Queen’s example; we cannot fall folly to love, hopes and dreams. Especially not to that of a child’s whims.”

  Hazel didn’t understand what her Lordship meant by “Queen Victoria’s example”, and she had heard Albert discuss the Estate’s finances with her Lady before, but she doubted everything was as dire as he made it sound. With her tasks completed, she moved silently forward to her Ladyship, ready to assist.

  “We are not the royal family, Albert, and you know as well as I do that Edward wasn’t the greatest king to succeed her, you’ve said so yourself. At least his son, King George, appears quite dull. It is a nice change from the chaos that was presented at court during Edward’s reign.”

  “Yes; but her children and grandchildren are on almost every continent on this planet!”

  “Albert, you’re being unreasonable. We may be descended from royalty, but we are not.”

  Lord Albert looked as if he might retort, before seemingly biting his tongue. “We’ll discuss this later. I’ve already paid for a squash lesson, and I’m not interested in wasting 50p to listen to your pathetic dribble.” Albert moved to the wardrobe room, summoning Bohee, so he could change into suitable whites for the court. Seizing her opportunity, Hazel, who had been standing idly by, took to her Ladyship.

  “Excuse me, My Lady,” interrupted Hazel.

  “Yes, Wilson?” Lady Eleonora turned her body to focus on her Lady’s Maid, extending her arms so that Wilson could begin unbuttoning her travelling dress coat at the wrists.

  “I was wondering if now a decent time for you was to consider what you’d like to wear to the luncheon, My Lady. It’s just that it’s now twenty minutes until the bugler announces luncheon, and I know how Your Ladyship likes to make an entrance.”

  “Of course, Wilson. I’d be absolutely lost without you. Albert?” she called into the wardrobe room, where the large, thick ornate wooden door was ajar.

  “Yes, my love?”

  “We’ll discuss this further tonight.” Albert did not answer his wife, and Hazel helped her Lady dress for luncheon with her female companions.

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday, April 20th, 1912

  Howard

  The temperature had dropped significantly and rapidly from noon onwards, leaving most of the crew of the Mackay-Bennett shivering in the bitter cold. The icy temperature, which continued to fall quickly and unexpectedly, left Howard with an uneasy feeling; one he couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how hard he tried. When the Rhine had passed the cable vessel earlier, Howard had overheard the Marconi operators discussing with the other crew what they’d witnessed– and what the Mackay-Bennett was fast-approaching.

  The Rhine reported seeing icebergs, larger than grand houses, debris scattering the Atlantic Ocean further than the eye could see, and worst of all, the bodies. One of the men had talked about how they appeared to be peculiar, almost frozen cakes from a distance; and then, the nearer the Rhine had gotten, the frozen “cakes” began to take the appearance of mannequins; a great many, frozen, silent mannequins.

  A graveyard of victims, spreading miles in each direction, as far as the eye could see.

  According to the Rhine, there were more than hundreds of victims, and Howard knew the ship wasn’t built or prepared to escort that many bodies back – if the accounts from the Rhine proved to be accurate, of course. Men, sometimes at sea for weeks at a time with nothing but stories to regale, were prone to hyperbole at times. It was fair, Howard knew; he’d been trapped at sea for more than a few days in his life, and madness quickly seized slothful men. Madness frequently bred arrogance, leading men to tell tales of things that didn’t exist in Man’s world or God’s.

  While Howard had seen the papers (though most of the words he couldn’t make out, let alone read); and he’d heard of the riveting, frightful tales, reportedly told from the survivors; he found it challenging to believe quite so many had died. Surely, Howard could not help but think that there were more survivors, and they’d probably arrived in New York the day the Mackay-Bennett departed; he wasn’t a learned man, after all. He didn’t know how things worked, and, after all, there were reports of ships like the Californian being only a few miles from the Titanic.

  Howard did not need anyone to explain the definition of denial to him; he knew why he’d volunteered, and knew his purpose, yet he could not fathom how God might have deemed it fit to take so many innocent lives in one night.

  Since the newly-minted information brought on board the Mackay-Bennett by the Rhine, the only person that seemed genuinely eager about what lay ahead of them was the ship’s chief embalmer, a man named Mr Snow, a man that Howard found unexpectedly pleasant despite his grisly ambition.

  Howard glanced down at his pocket watch – an inheritance from his long-deceased Grandpappy – and despite its many scratches and the well-worn, muted steel, the watch still works diligently, telling an exhausted Howard that his day was nearing to an end. It was nearing seven, and the Mackay-Bennett, now surrounded by a bewildering fog that had started encasing the ship since twilight of Friday noon, and the Captain would not risk those on board for those who had already passed, however grievous the loss of body recovery may be to the survivors and awaiting families.

  In the distance, Howard could make out the faint lights of the approaching steamer, the SS Bremem in the short distance; he knew the Bremem had, too, crossed through the Titanic’s graveyard, having transmitted multiple Marconi messages earlier in the day of what both the crew and passengers had witnessed. Reverend Hind had begun twisting his hands repeatedly, and every night, after Our Father, he sung For Those In Peril Across The Sea in recognition of Titanic’s dead.

  While Howard had only caught snippets of whispers as they trickled through, he was aware that the Bremem had passed the wreckage site an hour and a half prior, meaning that the Mackay-Bennett would reach her target by morning.

  He wondered what grisly details would filter through the Mackay-Bennett, now that a second passenger liner was communicating with his ship’s Marconi operator. While it wasn’t a sin, as such, he found himself in an eternal moral struggle: Howard wanted to hear the details, and as much as he tried to pretend it was to p
repare him for the following day’s challenges, he, too, shared the same morbid curiosity as his colleagues. Would God feel fit to judge him? Or would God, who had taken vengeance into thine own hands on more than one occasion, understand Howard’s motivations?

  Howard took his leave, heading toward the cabin area, filling his plate high – a hearty liver stew, with bread and butter was currently being served, before he sat with the rest of the crew, hearing second, third, and fourth-hand accounts from different sources, all of which contradicting each other, about what they had heard from the Bremem.

  “I ’eard ’twas a mas-care,” he heard a skinny, paled red-haired man shout through his mouth, even though it was filled with food. Howard tried not to look; he despised bad manners, yet they ran abundant on a small ship.

  “Course it was George. Whaddaya fucking think happened, you mad cunt? Everyone’s just waiting in the freezing fucking Atlantic peacefully, like it’s some fucking summer holiday, you miserable cunt?”

  “Don’t be a cunt, Jonesy,” George quipped. Profanity wasn’t a sin Howard adopted; the Lord was clear on his stance of immoral language. However, he’d long learnt to make his peace with the language of other men; it was the way of the ocean, and the way of working men, it seemed. Howard did not mind so much; it helped him keep to himself, which was his preference.

  “I heard there’s even kids,” another man piped up; Howard recognised him as Lieutenant Jobs, a man who was a devout Catholic. Howard didn’t care much for Catholics; he found their ritualistic obsessions cumbersome, and they seemed to have a complex relationship with God. However, his pastor had taught him it was a sin to judge another man, even one who believed in a false god. Pastor Stevens had always said the devil was malice; meaning every man and woman was capable of being swayed by it. According to Pastor Stevens, God had ordained that, to be a good Christian, one must love their neighbours, no matter their beliefs. He insisted that Jesus had not cared about a man’s god nor how a person earned a living wage, which was the message that lay in the story of Jesus washing Mary Magdalene’s feet. Pastor Stevens preached in knowing and judging a man based on his character, not on one’s own assumptions. It wasn’t always an easy task, but Howard felt he was a better man for his diligence, even if Pastor Stevens would remind him that he judged others too harshly.