Bride was earnestly surprised he’d managed to wrangle such a job on the maiden voyage, especially as he looked a good five years younger than he was, and was frequently mistaken for a boy of sixteen, as opposed to a man grown. It wasn’t his fault – he was scrawny, and he hadn’t yet managed to develop the ability to grow facial hair, something that seemed to come so quickly to many of the crew members, particularly the officers, who frequently modelled their appearance after the late King. Jack did not share Bride’s fate; he was handsome, tall with dark hair, and he frequently talked about the girls he’d wooed with his dazzling green eyes. Bride listened with longing to Jack’s stories, wishing he had stories to tell of women he’d wooed.
Much to Bride’s relief, he got along quite well with Jack from the get-go, which was essential when sorting through the massive pile of Marconi messages that required sending by the ship’s passengers. Each day, the Chief Purser McElroy would ensure the first-class passenger’s (a service reserved for only first-class; though Bride doubted those even in second could afford to send a Marconigram, and those in third would be paying a similar price to send a gram as they had to board the bloody ship) messages were safely delivered through the sealed vacuum system, giving them top priority. As the Marconi operators did not work for the White Star Line, but for the Marconi Wireless Company, their obligations remained with those that sought to purchase their services. Phillips and Bride frequently broke up their shifts – it had been Jack’s idea – to ensure they were both had adequate sleep, but Bride would be lying if he said they weren’t already behind. He didn’t have Phillips’ dedication or tenacity, either; the reason Jack was beside him was because he’d forfeited his break, in order to help shuffle through the pile of messages so the pair wouldn’t lag too far behind. Phillips frequently worked double shifts, trying to sort through all the messages that required transmitting when the ship was in range, as well as messages that were regularly coming through, and stray transmissions as operators conversed with each other.
Currently, Bride was listening to the familiar tap, tap, tap in his headpiece, and realised it was another report of growlers and icebergs. There’d been a lot of talk across the wireless, with many of the operators – during their “breaks” from sending messages, they’d talk to other operators in the near vicinity – conversing about how there was more ice than usual this April, with many of their captains choosing to halt for the night while visibility was low, while Phillips and Bride smugly cheered about how these weren’t problems they had to worry about.
There wasn’t anything that could sink the Titanic.
Not man.
Not nature.
Not God himself.
And certainly not a goddamn iceberg.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thursday, April 11th, 1912
Hazel
Hazel was helping herself to a light snack in the First-Class Servants’ Lounge when she was approached by a petite red-head stewardess wearing the White Star Line’s custom black-and-white dress uniform. She recognised the young servant girl as one of the servants who’d been directly assigned to the Parlour Suites the Gresham family occupied. Though she wasn’t by sure and certain, she had thought it possible that one of the girls had requested her services. She’d remembered Albert discussing it the night prior, while she was undressing her Ladyship. “Miss?” she asked, peering up at Hazel, as if uncertain. Hazel wasn’t sure if the girl was unsure about Hazel, or the entire situation. The girl, whose frighteningly loud voice, gravelly likely from Colic as a child, did not match her stature, was peering oddly up at Hazel. It was a voice better suited for a boy, though Hazel found the girl’s baritone pitch oddly melancholic.
“Hazel,” she said, smiling softly. “Hazel Wilson, which is Miss Wilson to you. Can I help you?”
“Oh, thank goodness it’s you,” she breathed. “Oh, my stars, I was so worried I would strike up conversation with the wrong lady, and make a right fool of myself. Though, I’m worried I’ve done just the thing, not knowin’ your proper name and all, Haz – Miss Wilson.”
Hazel frowned. The young girl was talkative, and she spoke with portent. She wasn’t sure if she cared for it.
“The young one, Cecilia –”
“Lady Cecilia,” Hazel corrected, out of habit. It was customary for all of nobility to be greeted by their titles. Even amongst friends and trusted companions, formalities were still often used to an extent, though she noticed that many of the Americans did not seem to care for the British titles. Jealousy, most like, Hazel was sure and certain.
“Sorry, Miss Wilson.” The girl looked genuinely abashed, and Hazel resented that she’d been so curt. She hated that she could be so easily vexed, especially since they’d departed from the Gresham Estate.
“Go on,” Hazel relented, sipping her sweetened tea. The tea leaves, even for the servants, was similar to the aromas of those she’d drink if she were at home. Hazel was astounded at how the White Star Line had seemed to spare no expense; everything was glistening new. And she’d never eaten off such fine, bone-white china; somehow, it made the experience onboard the ship even more divine.
It also helped Hazel focus on what she hadn’t left behind, when she’d boarded the ship with Her Lady.
“Lady Cecilia’s requested me, for the journey,” she breathed, and Hazel could tell the girl wanted reassurance. Probably assurance that Lady Cecilia wouldn’t cost her her position, which was by and for a fair anxiety, as the youngest sister was spoiling for a fuss. Oh, heavens child, do you not know how lucky you have it? Still, Hazel could not help but detest the idea that a child she’d spent her entire life all but raising would be married off to an American, where they’d likely not see her again for many years. Lady Cecilia would become her husband’s possession; and America seemed to detest suffragettes more than the British did. That was another thing that annoyed Hazel about Americans; they always said things with such grandiosity, but rarely followed through. They preached a new haven, but they only wanted selected immigrants, and they preferred their women to be silent ornaments, designed to please on sight. Would the young Vanderbilt treat her Lady Cecilia so? As if she were an ornament, a possession, not as a person?
“That will be lovely,” Hazel said, this time smiling brightly, her smile reaching her eyes. “Lady Cecilia’s been quite lonely, ever since Lady Georgiana departed on her honeymoon, and I do not believe things have improved for her. I know she’s finding this passage difficult itself, too. She is reluctant to accept her father’s will.”
“She said as much,” the girl’s face brightened, and Hazel realised she had never introduced herself – though she hadn’t bothered to ask her name.
“Really. What’s your name, child?”
“Aiobheen O’Flanaghan, ma’am,” the young girl responded.
“Well, O’Flanaghan, I’m glad you’ll be at Lady Cecilia’s side for the journey. Since she lost Mary Davies, her maid, she’s been ever so solemn. I am hoping Lady Georgiana’s resurgence will brighten her spirits. Lady Georgiana is sweet with her sister; the two are closer than any sisters I’ve ever laid eyes upon.”
“She doesn’t appear terribly pleased about her circumstances,” Aiobheen confided. “She seems terribly unhappy.” Aiobheen’s unspoken question hung in the air.
“She does, but that’s information you’d best keep to yourself,” warned Hazel, darting a glance around the room to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “There’s plenty of people here that are living beyond their means, Miss O’Flanaghan, I’ll trust you to know that. Knowing she was unhappy could prove useful to some, if they’ve a mind to it. No; you’re Lady Cecilia’s secret-keeper now, even once this journey ends. Her secrets are yours, and both shall be taken to the grave.”
“Of course, Miss Wilson,” the young girl replied, looking horrified. “’Tis the same for any passenger. I would not betray Lady Cecilia’s confidence for all the world.”
“Lady Cecilia is not just any passenger,” re
torted Hazel. It felt pretentious to say, but it was true. The Greshams weren’t just an average family. There were few that could compete with the wealth of the Greshams; even less that could match their nobility, even on this ship, the millionaire’s ship, a ship more luxurious than anything she’d experienced as a servant. There was plenty of food offered already – more than she’d have in breaks while serving the Greshams. She worked shorter hours than the White Star Line employees too; she had long learnt the stewardesses worked seventeen-hour shifts, at every passenger’s beck-and-call. The servants travelling with the Greshams were instructed to be certain places at certain times, and available for all dress changes, but were allowed more freedom to relax than they normally would be. In some ways, it was like a paid vacation, and Hazel relished it. Not rising until six in the morning on a mattress made of feathers was more than she could’ve imagined, even as a long-standing, well-esteemed servant of the Greshams.
“I have no intention of betraying her, Miss,” and Hazel noticed that she dropped her ‘gs’ and lost her ‘hs’. “If that be what’s making you fret. No; she’s a sweet girl, and I made an open vow in the presence of God that I would assist her.” Hazel frowned; it was an odd thing for the girl to state, but she obviously taking her job seriously. Maybe she wants me to notice her, wondered Hazel. Perhaps she was looking to add a reference to her working history.
“I’m glad,” Hazel replied, not sure of what else to say.
“No, Miss Wilson, I simply just wanted to understand some of the family dynamics, so that I may keep up with Lady Cecilia throughout the journey. I don’t want to be wondering who everyone is whilst she’s referencing them. Especially as” – she turned, lowering her voice – “I’ve heard that Lady Eliana is a little interesting.”
Hazel snorted. “Why is it that everyone uses the word ‘interesting’ when what they really mean is ‘this is horrible, please remove it from my sight’?”
It was Aiobheen’s turn to laugh. Hazel, despite herself, found her instantly taking a liking to the young maid; the girl’s laugh was raucous, rousing deep from her belly, enhancing her homely beauty.
Sounds of bells rang out, and Aiobheen rolled her large brown eyes. “That’d be me, Miss. Lots of passengers to assist, I have,” she said, though she smiled. “It’ll be a few less, now that Lady Cecilia’s requested me. It’s nice, thinking I impressed her so.”
“I am glad you did. She deserves someone to confide in. She has many trials ahead of her.”
Hazel watched as Aiobheen disappeared through the wooden door, before she turned back, returning to her black tea and her novel, Anne of Green Gables.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thursday, 11th April, 1912
Adene
Adene had taken her excited daughter – who had woken Adene up at four-thirty in the morning because she “needed to go pee” – to a breakfast buffet that was more wonderful than any she’d ever seen. There was porridge, smoked herrings, jacket potatoes, eggs and ham, bread and butter, assorted condiments and tea and coffee. She was amazed at how much food the ship continued to offer, especially the likes of the steerage passengers; if she and Isla were eating like this in third, what must the second-class passengers eat, she mused?
She filled her daughter’s plate with ham and eggs, and fresh bread and butter. She filled her own with the same, but added smoked herrings, and marmalade to her bread, as well as butter. She fixed herself a sweet, hot black tea, and her and Isla found a seat in one of the free wooden spots on the extended bench tables, which were filling quickly. Isla ate eagerly; however, Adene, who’d been forfeiting some of her food in the months prior to the voyage so that Isla would not starve, savoured every bite of her meal. It reminded her of the hot Sunday breakfasts she used to cook before her husband’s untimely demise; once in a blue moon, he’d buy Adene anchovies. He detested them, but Adene relished their saltiness. They were too expensive to be a feature of every breakfast, but every now and then, he would splurge just for her, and she would crush them onto her toast, browned over the fireplace.
The fishy, saltiness from the smoked herrings brought tears to her eyes as a montage of memories flitted through her mind; she ducked her head, lowering it close to her food, so that no one could spy on her distress; the Lebanese family who’d briefly introduced themselves as they sat down were quibbling between them, taking no notice of Adene’s suffering. She had not expected the taste of the smoked herrings would bring back her memories of him so fiercely, but they surrounded her, choking her.
Everything about him was still familiar, and if Adene dared to close her eyes, she could imagine him sitting beside her, laughing with her, holding her hand and teasing Isla. They wouldn’t be in third class, either, as Robert’s income would have been able to afford them a basic second-class berth, though they’d be happy regardless, even if they had to be confined to steerage. Adene could not help but imagine how Robert would tease her overwhelming desire to bathe every day – “It’s almost un-English!” – and they would kiss, laugh, tell stories, and make love every night, not because that’s what they did every night before, but because Adene suddenly realised how important it was now she was without her husband.
Adene shuddered as the memories of his touch filled her mind. He was gentle, which had been something she’d welcomed more than she’d cared to admit. She’d heard too many harrowing stories of young girls, like her, marrying men that turned out to be the very devil himself.
Adene hadn’t been one of those cursed women, and in many ways, she now wished she was, so that she didn’t miss her husband so very much. Some women barely contained their pleasure when their husbands passed; though, those were women who frequently had privileges Adene could not dream of. Still, she did not believe she could be so heartless as to celebrate her husband’s passing, no matter how little she cared for the man.
In the next few hours, they were due to arrive in Queenstown; the ship was likely to dock before eleven, or at least that had been the chatter. There, she’d hoped that she would be able to make a new acquaintance, and, with a bit of luck, her melancholy might evaporate into something considerably merrier.
And perhaps she’d go to sleep, for just one night, not thinking of his lips brushing against hers, his hands on her waist as they swayed, his hands in her tangled hair, his face, staring lovingly into hers.
Perhaps she’d sleep soundly for once, secure in the knowledge that, for the first time since her husband’s death, she would not be alone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thursday, 11th April, 1912
Georgiana
Georgiana and William, woken by their lady’s maid and valet respectively, had readied themselves for their morning breakfast with the Astors and Maggie Brown, as they had promised they would the night before. The five of them had made fast friends; Maggie had joined the ship after a sudden death in her family, desperate to return home, and had been delighted to travel with the Astors, who did not find her vulgar and uncouth, like so many of the other passengers who could barely conceal their disdain. The Astors, to Georgiana’s dismay, were openly attracting whispers of their impropriety, something which she appalled. Georgiana welcomed Maggie’s quick wit, though she knew her father would not.
While Georgiana and William were familiar with Jack Astor – it was impossible to travel in certain circles without knowing the truly prosperous; they’d only heard of Madeleine Talamage via the uncomplimentary comments that had been made in several tabloids, disparaging the pair’s union. Madeleine, already four months pregnant, confided in Georgiana that they’d extended their honeymoon in the hopes that tensions would be eased when they arrived home, especially now that she was with child. “It’s hard with Vincent, you see,” Madeleine had confided in Georgiana, the day before, as they dined at a small Parisian café. “Vince is closer to my age than I am to Jack’s, and I don’t think he’s terribly pleased at the idea of my becoming his step-mother, even if his own is terribly wicked. I a
m aware of what everyone says, too; that everyone must assume it’s money I married Jack for, even though the very thought of it is absurd. I may be wealthy in my own right, with the Talamages securing a respectable name, but I am but a woman, and surely you must know the rules are very different for us than they are for men.” Georgiana understood that all too well. She understood that she was still a commodity, and would remain so for some time, even if she were married.
Celia, her baby sister, was learning just how valuable a commodity their father found his daughters.
“But none of that matters,” Madeleine cried, “it doesn’t matter that Jack didn’t love his first wife, and it doesn’t matter that he is my very heart and soul, that I love him more than I do myself. Still, they judge. Still, they whisper and talk, even among. Yet, without him, I feel like I would cease to exist. I am certain I would crave the life of a hermit, unable to find such a man again, forever searching for the blessed happiness we share. Lady Georgiana, I speak to you with such portentous manner because I am certain you understand of what I speak: You could live a thousand lifetimes, and not find someone who loves and understands you so, as Jack and William do. We are blessed by God, are we not?”
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