Chapter 14 #2
The Cunard man was right; he had to be. There was no genuine peril, just nerves, just rumors. Just that ruddy notice in the papers, a slap of German bravado, no doubt meant to rattle everyone’s bones.
The man was still speaking, but his eyes were scanning the mob. “I fear the time is getting on, though. May I conduct you to the saloon-class line? Just this way, if you please.”
Rita followed them, keeping a wary eye on that gangplank.
According to her corsage watch, ten o’clock had come and gone and she’d heard no All ashore!
gongs ringing out. Droves of people still milled about, groups of families or friends laughing, pointing at the ship, her impressive four funnels and steep, towering sides that loomed seven stories above them.
The colorful alphabet flags strung from her masts that snapped in the breeze.
Instead of the usual red-and-black Cunard bands, the funnels were now painted entirely black, along with most of the rest of the ship. Only the topsides remained white. Even the enormous gold lettering along the stern, LUSITANIA, LIVERPOOL, was covered in black paint.
Fat plumes of smoke puffed lazily from three of those four funnels, rolling up toward the clouds. No one seemed in any particular hurry to board the ship, and the ship seemed in no particular hurry to leave.
Trailing behind the lady in the hat, Rita began inching her way up the gangplank, toward the open doors of the Shelter Deck, her valise and suitcase in hand.
She hadn’t bothered bringing her maid, not on such short notice.
She’d be assigned a stewardess for her stateroom anyway, so no sense in upending anyone else’s life but her own for this trip.
The wind gusted, tearing at her hat and hems. Stories below her, the murky waters of the Hudson River splashed and hissed against wooden pilings and the bottom of the ship.
Safe as houses. They had to be, because the Lusy was her key to reaching Alfred in time, and, by God, she was going to reach him in time.
ONCE ABOARD—ONCE PAST the youngish, russet-haired officer who welcomed her and checked his paperwork and informed her very courteously that the grand staircase was just over there, Miss Jaw-liv-it, one level down for cabin D-15, and the electric lifts were just there as well, if she preferred—Rita took a deep, relieved breath.
She’d never been on the Lusitania before, but she had traveled more than once on the Mauretania, her sister ship, now commandeered by the Royal Navy.
The layout was familiar. She didn’t need the officer’s gesture toward the stairs or the pair of elevators with their elaborate filigreed grills, which had clusters of passengers waiting before them anyway, every bench nearby occupied. She’d take the stairs.
It seemed the interior of the ship was hardly less crowded than the pier.
People were schooling like fish, masses of them pooling here and there, clogging doorways and hallways, discussing the Italian walnut paneling, the gold-leaf trim work, the dense jade carpeting and fluted columns, the double-tiered dining saloon and stained-glass ceilings.
It was all so familiar that Rita found herself relaxing into the promise of the Lusitania’s elegance, of its assurance of wealth and stability, where nothing untoward could possibly occur.
Nothing could pierce this bubble of luxury, because every inch of it had been designed and constructed to safeguard some of the most powerful people in the world.
And for a while, six days (more or less), Rita would be safeguarded amongst them.
The grand staircase was a sweeping span of hand-carved banisters and balusters inset with panels of sinuous iron scroll-work that turned and turned, hugging the elevators humming up and down the hollow core of its center.
It cut from the top of the steamer all the way down to the bottom level of cabins, but she only had to descend a single level to reach the Upper Deck, where D-15 was located, slightly forward, not far from the walls shielding the second funnel vent but very far from the propellers.
She always booked a stateroom amidships, the better to manage the roll.
Yet because she’d taken so long to decide upon the Lusitania, tossing and turning in her bed last night, she’d had to accept whatever first-class cabin was still available at the last minute.
D-15 was in the middle of the ship, at least, but it was an inside room.
A solitary bed, nightstand, wardrobe, basin, chair and sofa.
No portholes. No ocean view, no fresh air. She had no one to blame but herself.
Even so, the cabin echoed the same bountiful opulence as the rest of the saloon-class section of the liner.
The bed was brass with a sea-green satin duvet and crisp clean linens.
The walls were papered in moiré silk the pinky-coral color of seashells; narrow strips of gilded crown molding traced the outlines of the ceiling.
The sconces were brass again with silk shades, and the sofa was upholstered in teal jacquard, dark yellow tassels dangling from the cushion corners like miniature lions’ tails.
The wardrobe was tall and polished to a sheen; a discreet sign fixed to the wall beside it mentioned that her Boddy’s Patented Life Jacket was stored on its uppermost shelf.
A vase of fresh flowers sat upon the nightstand, cut-crystal and peonies in extravagant bloom taking up half the surface.
She set down her suitcase and valise with a sigh.
No view, no cold briny air, but it would do.
Honestly, she longed for a nap, and she had to admit that the bed looked plush and inviting.
There was still so much to do, however, unpacking her essentials, taking her spare jewelry to the purser’s office, wherever that was.
Securing a table in the dining saloon. Wondering if, before all that, she should send for at least one of her two trunks, since the suitcase had been filled with great haste only an hour and a half before by her maid, and Rita honestly didn’t know what was in it.
At least the trunks had been packed and locked last night.
Probably she should send for her trunks. One of them. Both? Where would they fit?
Someone knocked on the door. A stewardess in a black dress and white apron waited for Rita’s Come in, then slipped inside.
She looked to be in her early twenties, not much younger than Rita herself, with flaxen hair (much like Rita’s costar back in London so many years ago, back in that terrible, terrible show), but also soft brown eyes and a friendly smile.
The maid dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, Miss Jolivet. I’m Eleanor. I’ll be taking care of you for the voyage. Do you have everything you need?”
Rita was mildly surprised to hear the girl pronounce her surname correctly, in the French style. She wondered where she’d learned it.
“Hello, Eleanor, happy to meet you. I was just thinking about unpacking. I was in such a rush this morning, and I’m not certain what all I have here with me. I’m afraid I might need my trunks from storage.”
“Of course,” said the stewardess. “I can send word at once.”
“Well, let’s see what we have here first. Perhaps I’m fine for a day or so.”
“Yes, miss.”
Rita checked the gold watch pinned to her bodice. “It’s almost 10:30. Do you have any idea why we haven’t departed yet?”
“Yes, miss. We’re taking on passengers and crew from the Cameronia, and they’re still coming aboard.”
“The Cameronia? Why? Is something amiss with their ship?”
“Only that it seems the Admiralty needs it more than the Anchor Line do. They requisitioned it for the troops this morning, miss, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “No warning at all for those paying passengers, all set to sail.”
“Gracious!”
Eleanor moved to the suitcase, hefted it to the foot of the bed, and thumbed open the locks. “I’m sure they’ll finish boarding soon, and we’ll be on our way.”
Rita watched, unsettled, as the maid began to unpack, opening the wardrobe and its drawers, hanging and folding and sorting again, as slowly the empty spaces filled with Rita’s pale dangling lingerie, laden with ribbons and lace, gossamer as ghosts.
She glanced at her watch again. “I thought I’d pop down to the purser’s while I can. Or maybe it’s up? I’m not sure yet.”
“It’s up two flights, miss, just to the Promenade Deck. I can take care of sorting all of this for you while you’re gone, if you like. Then when you get back, you can see what’s what.”
“You’re a treasure. Thank you.”
Rita adjusted her hat, found her jewelry case in the valise, and moved to the door. As her fingers closed over the latch, Eleanor spoke again, her voice coming shyer than the brisk, professional tone she’d used before. More uncertain.
“Miss Jolivet? I—I’m so sorry, but I just have to ask. Please don’t be offended. I swear, all the other girls begged me to ask.”
Rita turned. “Yes?”
Eleanor’s cheeks were rosy as apples. She was pressed against the bed, her hands squeezed along her middle, her expression clearly torn.
“Yes?” Rita tried again, very gentle.
She blurted, “Is House Peters really as handsome as he is in all the moving pictures?”
Rita eased open the door, smiling at this familiar territory. “Even more so, believe me. And he smells like spearmint and leather, like a cowboy, like a man. It’s quite delicious. Almost makes you swoon. I had to hold my breath against it every time we kissed.”
“Oh,” whispered the stewardess, both hands now clasped atop her heart, as if to keep that beating muscle firmly trapped inside the confines of her chest.