Mary wasn’t like that. She had been unfaithful, sure, but he’d long driven her to it. He was gone for long stretches, nearing a year at a time, and they had no children. Every year that passed that Mary didn’t fall pregnant, she’d succumbed into a deeper depression, and Barrett, ashamed he could not provide his wife with the happiness she longed for, he’d taken to the seas to avoid his marital problems.
When he’d finally decided to be an adult about what he was running from, and possibly losing, it was too late.
The light in Mary’s eyes had long since faded, he’d just never noticed.
He didn’t notice when she stopped saying “I love you”, nor when she no longer yearned to make love with him every night, and at least three times on the nights before he left.
He didn’t notice that she no longer instigated sexual relations, and simply obliged him when she felt it was her burden to perform her wifely duties.
He didn’t notice when she’d placed the emphasis on ‘burden’.
And he pretended he didn’t notice her crying, alone in their small bedroom. For a long time, he’d left her there, taking long walks, fishing, distracting himself with anything bar Mary’s melancholy. In his selfish mind, he faulted Mary; did she not presume he, too, had wanted children? He had wanted a son, to teach him what he knew, a boy to carry on in his footsteps. He, too, was suffering. His heart yearned for what seemed to come so easily to many, but not to his family.
His wife had begged and pleaded for his attention, and he’d been too self-absorbed in his own woes to listen to them, so she’d found someone who was all too willing to listen to them.
Mary was a beautiful woman; she had thin lips, and a small mouth. She had dirty blonde hair, and slated, large brown eyes. She had a nose that was way too small for her face, and against her large eyes, almost looked out of place.
Almost.
Yet, to Barrett, it merely added to her beauty.
And it had almost destroyed Barrett when he found his wife, completely naked, riding another man in their bed. She had sat on the stranger’s cock, rocking herself back and forth, the man’s grimy hands grasping at her jiggling breasts, his eyes closed in pleasure. Mary made cries of joy he had not heard from her in years, and she had cried out when he came, his seed spilling over her.
He’d known what he was entering as soon as he opened the front door to their tiny house.
He could hear his wife; her moans, her shouts, her cries, her prayers to God and the man she’d found love with.
And yet, he couldn’t help himself; he’d found himself drawn to the wooden doorknob.
After peering through the crack in the old, wooden door, he found the courage to open it, and Mary, who was still sitting on the other man, his hands now wrapped around her waist, slapping her ass, turned and looked at him. Her blonde hair was down in loose waves, reminding him of a siren. It was messy, tousled. Her brown eyes had pieces of green in them, which only ever happened when she was in unimaginable pain or pleasure.
Her long hair fell over her large breasts, her pink nipples standing to attention, wet from her lover’s kisses.
While the man looked frightened, Mary had turned her back on Barrett, and had said, loudly for both men to hear, “Fuck me again, only this time harder.”
He knew why she’d done it. He knew why she’d said it.
She wanted to inflict the same pain he’d been inflicting on her for months, and perhaps he deserved it. Some nights, when he lay awake, staring at the roof of the ship he was serving, he felt Mary had been lenient in her punishment.
All he knew was, he had never felt so broken. He’d left, so he wouldn’t hurt either of them, especially not his Mary. He had always had a frightful temper, and he dare not risk saying or doing anything that could not one day be repaired. Mary was hurt and angry, but that also meant that she still loved him; he’d seen it in her brown eyes when she’d turned to him.
Otherwise, she wouldn’t take such pleasure in humiliating him in such a way. The Mary Barrett he knew wasn’t cruel.
She was kind.
She had washed all his clothes in lye, trying to scrub out impossible greases, to the point her hands had been ravaged and ruined, peeling with dry skin, marred with callouses.
She had bathed him when he was too tired to stand.
She had made all his favourite meals upon his arrival.
She had waited many years, faithfully, for his return; wives of sailors spent months alone.
And when she had needed him the most, he had spurned her at every turn, proving to her that his peace and quiet was more important than her well-being.
“Don’t you fucking talk about my wife,” Barrett snarled through gritted teeth, his temper flaring. He could feel the rage building in his head, and he fought against the fog to regain control of himself. The man was asking for a beating, but it would be Barrett who would take the punishment if he lashed out. A hush fell over the men; they could sense a fight brewing, everyone’s eyes on Barrett’s taut muscles.
“Why? Cause your dick’s so small she has to go out and find a real man to satisfy her?”
Barrett lost control, all his anger at Mary’s betrayal welling within him, punching the man with a sharp right hook, knocking him to the ground. Barrett had grown up rough and earning a spot on a ship as an apprentice when you were thirteen forced you to harden up real quick; he’d engaged in one and fifty fights, winning them all, sometimes easily. While the other man had fallen – most likely from the shock of Barrett’s punch, as opposed to the strength; Barrett hadn’t wanted to injure him – the men in the gallery started shouting, egging on the fight; Barrett wanted to continue hitting the man, until his face bled and cracked, but he stilled himself. The man spoiling for a fight only succeeded in catching Chief Engineer Bell’s attention; the very thing Barrett had hoped to avoid had come to fruition.
“What on God’s good green earth is going on here!?”
“Uh, Chief –”
“I didn’t ask you, Harvey, I was asking Barrett here.”
Barrett placed his arms behind his back, and stood up straight. “I hit him, sir.”
“Why, pray tell?” he spoke with a strong northern accent.
Barrett glanced at the fallen man, and then looked at Bell. He knew Bell was already going to punish him for his insolence; he may as well make a spectacle of himself, to make the punishment worth it. A smarter man might have held his tongue, but Barrett relished the penalty, and as he couldn’t hurt Mary, nor the man she had been unfaithful with, he could take pleasure in taunting the others around him. It was why, after two weeks of being with the men, he’d earnt his surly reputation. He didn’t share dinners with anyone, and he didn’t start conversations. It wasn’t that Barrett would ignore someone speaking to him, or was rude; he just sought not to invite conversation.
“Because he called my wife a slut, so I gave him a slap.”
Bell stared furiously at Barrett; he hadn’t expected Barrett to answer, and some of the men listening cheered Barrett on, undermining Bell’s authority. Barrett could tell by Bell’s flush face that he would suffer doubly for the men’s affections.
“Do you think you’re being funny?” Bell said, his voice low and stern. “Do you think, as lead fireman, this is some kind of joke? That if the men laugh and jeer, you’re somehow absolved?” he shook his head in disgust. “I knew you were an unpleasant man, Barrett, but I did not think you held so little respect for yourself, your men and your position. If you’ve time to fight, you’ve time to work a double shift; perhaps you can take it as your penance, and be lucky I don’t write you up.” He paused in the doorway, just before leaving. “Oh, and Barrett? You might want to take a second handkerchief before you get down there; it’s even hotter than it was a few hours ago.”
“I can’t work an eight-hour shift, not in that circle of hell.”
“You can, Barrett, and you will. Otherwise, I’ll have you reported to the captain for insubordination, ref
usal to obey orders, and fighting, where you’ll find a far harsher punishment waiting for you. Maybe you’ll even be fired from the White Star Line service, and so early after the beginning of a promising career. And perhaps the idea of hell will have you focusing on the sins you’ve just committed and find a way to redeem yourself.”
Barrett glared at Bell, thinking about what it would cost him if he were to strike the Chief Engineer.
He doubted it would be favourable for Barrett’s long-term well-being, especially if he wished to continue employment for the rest of his journey, and not be locked below.
Bell sighed. “I know you don’t see it, son” – Barrett hated it when he was called ‘son’ by people he most certainly wasn’t the son of – “but you’re lead fireman, you are. These men look up to you. If there’s a crisis, they’ll turn to you for help and guidance. I need to trust that you’re a man of your word, that you’ll care for these men if the time comes. And they need to be able to trust you’re not some wayward larrikin who’s only looking out for himself.”
“Yes, sir,” Barrett said, looking at the ground in an attempt to at least appear appropriately admonished. He didn’t need his career to implode at the same time his marriage was; he hoped, by hanging his head in shame, he could somewhat mollify Bell. It wasn’t that Bell was wrong; in fact, his anger grew because he knew the man was right. He just didn’t want another reminder that he wasn’t a good man, and not being a good man was why his wife had strayed.
If he ever hoped to return to Mary, and beg for her forgiveness and atone for his sins, he needed to attend to himself. He needed to ensure he was worthy of his wife’s love, instead of shitting on it and taking it for granted. Sure, Barrett could blame it all on Mary, for laying with another; but when he’d taken Mary to be his wife, he’d made promises to God, too, that he had not kept.
While he had only lain with one woman, the sea had been his mistress, and he had attended to her far more diligently than he ever had his own wife. Was that not an adultery of a worse kind?
“Get to it now,” Bell said, before looking around the room. “Anyone else want to work a double shift?”
The men sighed and grumbled, either taking their seats to finish eating their supper, or moving along to dump their plates and cutlery for the kitchen waitstaff, moving either to their shift, if it was beginning, or to their quarters, where they could rest before the boiler rooms once again called their names.
Barrett finished his drink in one, large gulp – which stung his eyes, though he refused to admit it – before heading back down to Boiler Room Six.
Chapter Nineteen
Wednesday, 10th April, 1912
Georgiana
Georgiana and William dithered slightly behind the Astors and Margaret Brown, who were also dining in The Ritz – though at a separate table – and a waiter asked them how he could help.
William removed Georgiana’s large fur coat, revealing her beautiful red dress, before handing the fur coat to the waiter, and said firmly, “The Gresham family. This is Lady Georgiana, my wife, and the daughter of Lord Gresham; I am Lord William.”
The waiter bobbed his head contentedly, and recognition dawned on his face. “Yes, Lord and Lady Gresham have been awaiting your arrival. A selection of hors d’oeuvres will be brought to your table momentarily. Can I organise a drink for you?”
“An Irish whiskey please, neat,” William said, before turning to Georgiana, allowing her to answer.
“A red wine. I’m sure Papa has already ordered one, so whatever he has selected.”
“Of course, My Lord and Lady Grey. I shall take you to your seats.”
The maître d’ led them into the lavishly decorated room; it was more opulent than some of the five-star hotels her and William had stayed in while gallivanting across Europe and the Mediterranean, decorated in Louis XVI style. White Star Line didn’t own the restaurant; rather, by Luigi Gatti, an influential restauranteur and businessman. Axminster carpets in Rose du Barry coated the floors, and Georgiana’s feet sunk ever-so-slightly into the plush carpet. When they reached the table, laid to seat eight with a beautiful crystal lamp in the middle, as well as fresh red roses, she sought an opportunity to glance at the rest of the room. Georgiana admired the French walnut panelling, with gilt-bronze fixtures that donned the walls, and red and gold damask chairs added to the entire affair. A string orchestra was halfway through performing Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of Flowers – befitting, mused Georgiana, as she had never before seen such an assortment of flowers in her entire life, least of all on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic ocean – when they reached their table. Lord Albert, her father, stood first; he was sitting at the head of the table, and was the first to spot Georgiana and William’s arrival; followed by Eliana’s husband, who was sitting across from her elder sister. Eleonora was seated next to Cecilia, who Georgiana rushed to hug, leaving two spots free on the opposite side of the table for William and Georgiana. The men remained standing (as was custom) until Georgiana had greeted everyone and taken her seat.
After hugging Cecilia, and whispering, “I missed you so much”, Georgiana hugged her mother and then her father. As Eliana didn’t rise – “Don’t mind me, I’m not feeling so flash. I think I’ve got a touch of the mal de mer” – and hugged her brother-in-law, George, out of politeness as opposed to intimacy. It wasn’t that Georgiana didn’t care for George – she did, honestly. He was a good man; she had never had the opportunity to bond with him. Plus, he had a queer fascination with cricket, a sport she despised. She also found him pretty and kind, but lacking a brain.
“It’s so good to see you, my dear,” Eleonora said, looking fondly at her daughter. Georgiana knew her mother hadn’t been the tough egg to crack – she felt that Albert placed too much value on money and stature, and that there were indeed more important things to concern oneself with – and Georgiana felt a rush of affection for her mother. Her parents could both be equally snobbish, but Georgiana never felt unloved or uncared for when it came to her mother. She knew it was her mother’s cajoling that calmed her father down, allowing him to throw a wedding for the pair, to give his blessing. Without her mother, she might have been barred from seeing Cecilia – at least until her sister wed, and was able to make her own choices. Or rather, she would be able to make her own choices as long as they aligned with her husband’s choices for her.
“That dress is very French,” Albert said through way of greeting, though his tone suggested something more sinister.
“And by French, you mean revealing,” retorted Georgiana.
“I meant what I meant. The French have always been … progressive.” Georgiana tried not to smirk; she found it interesting that positive sexuality was deemed as ‘progressive’, as if such a thing were a bad idea. Perhaps if Henry VIII had been able to take mistresses in the way French kings and Popes did, the great Anne Boleyn would not have had the misfortune of losing her head.
“It’s a beautiful dress, Georgiana,” Cecilia interjected, her younger sister still ever the peacemaker. The dimple in her left cheek sharpened; Georgiana had missed her sister’s childlike smile and her unabashed wide-eyed innocence. “Did you have it custom made?”
“Of course,” Georgiana replied, as if it were ludicrous to assume that anyone within her family would wear anything but. “Father, it’s 1912. Those dreaded S girdles Granny used to wear don’t exist anymore.”
“Except for old people,” Eliana supplied.
“Thank goodness,” agreed Eleonora, ignoring Eliana’s remark. “They were dreadfully painful, and absolutely ridiculous to walk in. It’s the fashion now, my darling, and she’s not showing anything improper. I think she looks to be the most beautiful woman in this room, do you not? Please don’t be such a spoilsport, Bertie. Let us not ruin a perfectly wonderful night over a mere dress.”
Georgiana gave her mother a glowing smile, and Albert replied with, “Yes, well,” as if he wanted to say, “Yes, well, that doesn’t make it right!”
but decided it wasn’t an argument he was willing to enter. Georgiana was grateful for her father’s decision; she’d not but sat down for five minutes. A debate wasn’t something she quite wanted to seek. She had missed Celia and her mother dearly.
“How was your honeymoon?” asked Cecilia, and Georgiana noticed, suddenly, there was something different about her sister. No one else appeared to observe it (though Cecilia and Georgiana had always been closer than most sisters, bonding over their mutual dislike for Eliana), but she saw it; the small, red glow on both her cheeks, ever-present, as if her body heat was slightly elevated; the twinkle in her blue eyes, as if she shared a secret; the way she moved, as if she were floating.
Much the way Georgiana had been after she had met William.
Georgiana was well aware that, despite constant correspondence, Cecilia had yet to develop any romantic feelings for her beau, and from Cecilia’s last letter – Georgiana had received it in Cherbourg – it appeared she was still desperate to have the arrangement annulled. As a result, she was increasingly curious at what had struck her sister’s fancy.
Or rather, who, because it sure wasn’t Thomas.
“It was rather charmed, I must say,” said William, and Georgiana squeezed his hand gently.
“Yes, well.”
“Albert,” Eleonora said, her voice sharp, with a sure warning tone.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Yes, but we all know what you wanted to say, and that’s the same thing.”
Albert didn’t respond, and Georgiana could almost feel her husband’s despair radiating off him. William was a good, kind, loving man; he truly wanted to be accepted by Georgiana’s family. He’d almost refused to marry Georgiana, especially when there was talk of disinheritance, terrified of separating his wife from her family, no matter how much he loved her. He had cried, saying he did not know if he could bear Georgiana’s unhappiness, and that he worried she would grow to resent him in time. Georgiana, however, had remained steadfast in her resolution that William was the man she was destined to marry, and she refused to be persuaded otherwise. William was the only man that genuinely understood Georgiana; in her entire life, she’d been paraded as the “grand beauty” who would “achieve greatness” within her family.
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