He had counted.
Tonight, he was doing his best not to count, but the splash, splash, splash was in its twenties, and try as he might, he could not block it.
He looked up at the crescent moon, half-covered in the same fog that swirled the Mackay-Bennett and easily hid the smaller growlers, waiting patiently to take their next victim, should another be so foolish to push through; the twinkling stars rained down.
He tried to focus on the stars, the heaven that He had created in all His miraculous work, and imagine that that was where these people were, now they were receiving their Christian burial. He hated the thought that they may have been forced in some sort of purgatory, but he had very little understanding of what happened when one’s body was not found. The kind Reverend Hind had assured him that God saw all, and any soul destined for heaven would make it, and Howard wished it so.
Howard tried to focus on the fact that he had been one of the men that had recovered John Jacob Astor’s body; he had not known it at first, not recognised the man, expecting him to be another body – albeit, a rich one. Astor’s body, like the hundreds around him, was floating peacefully in his lifejacket, both arms extended upwards, as if he had been reaching for something or someone when he had passed. Part of the man’s face was swollen, where something – possibly even his life vest – had hit him in the jaw. Perhaps he had hit debris before he had jumped from the ship. The injury was minor, however, and they’d brought him aboard; the embalmer said it would be easy for a mortician to use makeup to conceal the small damage. As both the Captain and the embalmer had decided, those who were obvious first-class passengers – those that mattered not to God, but to men – were given preferential embalming procedures and a cask coffin where they were placed on ice. It wasn’t until they had begun undressing the man, attending to his valuables, ensuring that the man could be adequately identified, did Snow notice that Body #124 was Astor’s by the initials embroidered in his coat. He wore a blue serge suit, with his matching handkerchief sewn with ‘A.V’, and ‘J.J.A’ was on the back collar of his brown flannel shirt. Astor also had, with him, a gold watch studded with diamonds – Howard had never seen a diamond before – had stopped at 3.20. Howard wondered if the diamonds protected the watch; every other victim’s watch he’d recovered had stopped at 2.10. Astor also wore a diamond ring with three stones, had £225 pounds; $2440 in US currency (more than every man on board the Mackay-Bennett would earn in a lifetime), as well as gold and silver pieces. There would be money for the finder’s fee, as Vincent Astor had promised, but to Howard, it was blood money, and he had no interest in the claim of it.
Nearly half an hour had passed, and Howard was still listening to the splash, splash, splashing.
Chapter Fifty-One
Saturday, April 13th, 1912
Georgiana
Georgiana pressed her fingers to her stomach; after last night’s fainting spell, she wondered if she may be pregnant. She could not remember when she’d last had her monthlies; she knew they had come to her in February, but it was hard to remember when. February was such an annoying, short, half-month; she wondered why it existed at all, and was having difficulty to remember when, exactly, her courses had fallen in March. Jessop will know, Georgiana calmed herself. She always knows.
The idea of being with child made her heart flutter, and she envisioned a small boy or girl growing inside her uterus. She had always wanted to be a mother; she loved Lady Primrose and Master Albert like they were her own, and with Eliana’s behaviour of late, she imagined more than her sister did.
Georgiana knew Eliana was a snake, a wretched plague sore, but she could not believe she would sink to such levels to punish their youngest sister for Georgiana’s indiscretions. Cecilia was the only innocent among their family, and she had thought she knew Eliana better than that. She supposed not; it was a shame one could not trust blood. Georgiana had learnt, painfully, that blood was often the first to turn its back on the victim.
Part of her wouldn’t necessarily mind if her monthlies came; it would mean another month of her being all William’s, soaking up his body like he was made for her.
But part of her was beginning to long for what was missing, the babe in her womb.
Despite her anger at Eliana, Georgiana decided to accompany her to the doctor’s suite, where she was to meet the surgeon, a Dr William O’Loughlin. Eliana had agreed, not because she was concerned that her sister had fainted – she was certain Eliana had thought she had done so out of attention – but so that she could scold her sister into acting like a blasted human being, instead of a Medusa. Perhaps Georgiana would say that – that if Eliana kept acting the way she was, she’d be alone, unwanted, and perhaps she’d end up in a place like Bedlam, hidden away so no one could seek her hideous face. A taunt like that would scratch at Eliana, and she would rise to the bait. Perhaps Georgiana could make her see that her behaviour was hurting Cecilia, and she did not want to hurt her sister. Everyone was fond of Cecilia; she had a look about her that made you want to comfort her, risk everything for her.
Georgiana had had a quiet breakfast with William, with neither speaking as they ate their omelettes in the Café. There was little to be said after last night’s exhibition, and there was more than one person who appeared to whisper whenever one of the Gresham party approached. Georgiana and William had managed to hide from any unwanted attention by dining away from her family.
Now, she walked toward her sister’s suite, and knocked once on the door. “Eliana? It’s me. I’ll take you down now.” She made sure it was a statement; she wasn’t going to waste her breath on her sister. If Eliana wasn’t ready, she could damn well go herself.
“I’ll be a moment, Georgie darling –”
“No,” Georgiana called through the door. “You’re ready now, and we head off now, or you go by yourself.”
She heard the rustling of a few things, and Eliana cursing Georgiana’s name – funny how she was no longer Georgie darling – and her sister burst open the door. Georgiana realised for the first time Eliana had gained weight in her face, her cheeks plumper than usual.
“You’re impatient.”
“You’re a cold-hearted bitch.”
“What did you say to me?”
“I thought we were stating the obvious.”
“You called me a bitch.”
“Only because it’s true. Don’t forget, I also said cold-hearted. I can’t believe the damn nerve you had to do the things you did. First, there was Thursday night, but then Friday? Don’t you know that I see right through you?”
As they approached the elevator foyer, she asked the bellhop for instructions to the doctor’s room, and he took them down, before directing them eagerly. Usually, there was a vast line up for passengers eager to use the elevators, most, despite being wealthier than God, had never experienced such a lavish luxury. Even Georgiana could count on one hand the few times she’d experienced the ride, and the Titanic’s were neatly fitted, with green cushioned seats, allowing women to sit if needed.
“Leave me be. I’m unwell, I’ve told you.”
“Like anyone cares,” snapped Georgiana. “Everyone heard you, Eliana. If Celia’s ruined because of you, I swear on God himself, I will never speak to you again.”
“Cecilia won’t be ruined,” Eliana said impatiently. “She’ll be fine, just as you were.”
“You don’t know that!” shouted Georgiana. “William loved me, you wretched fool. He offered me marriage, Eliana. Safety and security came with marrying a Viscount. More decent parents would’ve been pleased with such a match. Even if I had been disowned, William still wanted me. What if the Vanderbilts hear of this, and decide they don’t want tainted goods? By God, Eliana, you said she’d kissed the man! What if Henry doesn’t want her? Or he’s not as kind as he seems? What if he’s the type of man who has a wife at home, and only we don’t know it yet because he doesn’t belong in any of our social circles? What if you’ve left her with a man that won’t
care for her once we’ve docked Wednesday, and the Vanderbilts see her as spoiled goods?”
“She probably did kiss him! It’s not like she’d be the first of us, either!” Eliana retorted, though her reply was weaker this time. “It’s not like none of us have ever had a first kiss before a first love before, Georgiana.”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “But it’s our secret, is it not? It’s no one’s business if she’s had one kiss or none; but if the ship knows, you can rest assured the Vanderbilts know. They’ve many friends. The Astors are fond of them, you know. One of the cousins was meant to be here, but cancelled at the last moment.”
Eliana nibbled her lip. “Do you really think I’ve ruined her?”
“Pray you haven’t,” snarled Georgiana. “It’s the talk of the ship already. Did the wine dull your senses this morning when you went to eat? There’s looks everywhere we go. People say your name, Eliana, and they say it with distaste. They’re watching Celia now, seeing if the rumours her dear sister shouted were true. They’re wondering if she’s a common whore, a slut who gives it up for the first man she encounters — a woman who’s unfaithful to her betrothed. A woman with no worth or meaning in a world where we have so very little of both, and you, her sister, may have robbed her of her future. I hope you’re happy, you guileless wench.”
Eliana gaped at her, her face falling in pallor. “That won’t happen,” she said firmly, though Georgiana could tell her words had gotten to her sister. “It’s not true, what I said. I haven’t even seen her with Henry. But I don’t have to. It’s the way she talks about him. You know it, too. You’re not angry because you think I lied to spite you; you’re angry because it’s true. And if it’s true, people will talk, because they’ll see it, too. It won’t be my fault if Celia’s ruined. She knows what’s at risk. She should, after you.”
“Like I said, a cold-hearted bitch,” Georgiana smiled. They had reached the doctor’s suite; an older man, easily in his 50s or 60s, smiled down upon them. He had a thick white moustache, and his hair was so grey it appeared almost white. He was much older than Dr Simpson, who had attended to Georgiana last night.
“Good morning, My Ladies,” the doctor smiled. “I’m Dr O’Loughlin. Which one of you would be Lady Eliana?”
“I am,” Eliana repeated, and for the first time, Georgiana noticed that she was anxious.
“What would appear to be the matter, My Lady? It says here you had a fainting spell last night, in the privacy of your suite, and that you’ve been unwell for the entire voyage thus far. Is any of this common for you?” Georgiana was surprised. Her sister hadn’t mentioned her fainting spell.
Did she lie, because I fainted myself? But still, that didn’t seem like Eliana. Eliana craved attention; she’d have wanted a scene. She wouldn’t have wished it merely scribbled on a doctor’s pad, so there must be some truth to her complaint.
Eliana shook her head. “No; but I’ve been suffering from a touch of the mal de mer since boarding. I haven’t felt pleasant since Wednesday, at least.”
The doctor smiled easily as he took her heartbeat. “Mmm, I suspect you have. Have you noticed anything else, like weight gain?”
Eliana flushed, and Georgiana smirked. “A little; I’ve had to let my corsets go a touch the past few nights. But the food onboard is heavy. I plan to tighten my corsets once we’ve docked, of course.”
The doctor smiled wider. “I’m sure it is. That is, for a woman in your delicate condition.”
“Delicate condition?” queried Georgiana, frowning.
“Yes,” he beamed. “By the sound of your baby’s heartbeat, you’re likely four months along. Congratulations, Lady Eliana.”
Georgiana closed her eyes and prayed to God to forgive her for her un-Christian thoughts as she cursed her sister’s timing.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Saturday, April 13th, 1912
Bride
Harold Bride rubbed his eyes; Jack and he had been working all but non-stop, and yet they were still behind. More and more ships around them messaged about the growlers and icebergs they’d seen; some even mentioned slowing for the night.
However, none of the messages had been marked with the code to send to Captain Smith, and the men had already updated the Captain. Regardless, as the messages had started coming in higher numbers, Bride would make sure that he took one of the coordinates to the Bridge. The Captain might wish to adjust the ship’s course again, making sure that they were currently on a safe route.
“I swear, McElroy is trying to kill us,” muttered Jack, as the purser delivered more messages through the tubing mechanism.
“It’s not his fault,” said Bride, yawning. “It’s these damned passengers. Half of these grams are useless, if you ask me. They’re sending them because they bloody well can, the rich toffs.”
“Those rich toffs keep us paid, Harry,” Jack replied, and Bride didn’t argue because it was more than sure and certain.
“Still,” he said. “This one says, ‘There are rumours we may arrive Tuesday, not Wednesday. Will keep posted.’ All them extra words, Jack – this is a pretty pound, and for what? The newspaper’s will be saying the same; Cape Race intercepts all these messages. If we’re to arrive early, we’ll be the first to know. I wonder who’s starting all these rumours about an early arrival.”
Jack shrugged. “Who knows? It’s probably just that chat amongst the first-class lads. One will want to pretend he knows something, or maybe he heard Ismay or Andrews speaking, and passed it on.”
Bride nodded. He knew how rich men liked to feel important.
He set the telegram aside, ready to deliver to the Bridge later that day.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Saturday, April 13th, 1912
Claire
Adene had organised to take the girls – who, to Claire’s delight, had become fast friends – for breakfast; she had not heard Nora talk so much as she did to Isla and Abigail. Claire would have felt as if she were being an imposition had it not been for the fact that Adene was happier whilst with task, she would have protested. The only real downtime Adene seemed to seek was for her nightly bath, which she often left for around eleven.
Today, Adene had promised she would keep the children away until ten, when she would put them down for their nap before luncheon. She wanted Claire to have opportunity to go on a date with Cillian, openly encouraging the blossoming romance. Claire wished she had the money to have more than two dresses she owned as she changed into her light pink one. The other was for travelling, though Adene had lent her a third, pale blue dress, that she was planning to wear for Sunday Mass.
Claire was waiting for Cillian’s knock – he would promise to come for her, and they would walk together to the galley – as she sat eagerly on her bed. He had kissed her while they’d danced last night, for all the world to see. She’d known she’d loved Cillian since she was but eight, and she had prayed for the days when he would see her, want her, love her. As they’d danced in the common room to the band’s music, Claire had fallen more and more deeply in love. Dancing, it seemed, was the fastest way to fall in love, if one sought it. There was nothing like touching another person intimately, moving to the music, hushed whispers in ears, that made a person susceptible.
Cillian had then asked if he could call on her for breakfast, to which she had readily agreed. If Claire had her way, she would marry Cillian, sure he was meant to be the love of her life. Her Ma and Da had been fortunate to marry for love, and Claire, the only one of her six siblings left living, intended to marry for her heart. She had learnt, long before her seventeenth birthday, that happiness must be seized. God spoke to them in whispers, His voice in the wind, in the ocean, in music. He was everywhere, and she felt His presence last night, telling her that her love was fated.
The door rapped thrice before Cillian announced himself. Claire eagerly threw open her cabin door, and she noticed that he’d tried to wash his unruly, curly reddish-brown hair. It had mostly fla
ttened, frizzed in places, but the bulk of his curls were weighed down by water. Claire beamed at the effort he made; he had not cared to make himself look proper for the girls he’d courted back home, but he had for her.
“Claire,” he said, lending his arm. Claire took it, smiling.
“You’re being rather proper,” she said.
“There innit another option, is there?” he asked, and when Claire opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, he shook his head to silence her. “When you find the girl you want to marry, you need to make sure she knows you’re worth marrying.”
Claire’s heart caught. “It’s a sin to lie,” she whispered.
“It isn’t a lie, Claire Bear,” he said, smiling down upon her. “You felt it, too, before your parents asked me to leave. You felt the tug.”
Claire had, though she hadn’t realised he had felt what she had. He hadn’t realised he’d longed for her while she pined for him.
“You – you’ve dated others, before,” Claire objected, trying to ground herself. She couldn’t afford to let her heart run away with her; she had no sisters to talk sense into her. A kiss, a fantasy, was one thing. This was reality, and she had to be sure and certain Cillian meant what he said. Men said plenty of things to kiss unsuspecting young girls; they did not always mean it.
“Claire, you were a wee girl then. You were a sweet girl, but you were a girl. A man does not find interest in girls. I fell in love with you, while staying, just before the war. I told you, I spoke oft with Paddy. He knew of my plans, my intentions.”
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