Chapter 15 #2
“There. That’s our best bet.” He pointed to the doors leading inside to the entrance hall containing the grand staircase and elevators.
“A Deck, amidships, just outside. Just past those doors. It’ll be important to get outside as quickly as you can.
Don’t linger inside, even if it feels safer, because it won’t be.
We’ll say this side for now, port, but if it’s impassible for some reason, or underwater, head to the same set of doors on the starboard side, and we’ll meet there instead. ”
“All right,” she said softly.
“Grab your lifebelt before, if you can. There’ll be a scramble for the lifeboats. If I’m not there within five minutes of your arrival, get in one and don’t get out of it, no matter what anyone tells you. Only get out if they point a gun at you.”
“Well,” she said lightly, “I brought my own. If someone points a gun at me, they’re in for rather a surprise.”
He didn’t smile, as she hoped he might. “The pearly pistol? Like Inez’s?”
“Years ago she made me promise to take it with me whenever I travel into the unknown.”
“Did she? Rather surprising, since she won’t even touch hers.”
“To be honest, she was never keen on the idea of owning a gun, but at this point, I consider mine something of a lucky charm.”
“Good,” he said, serious. “Good.”
“Listen, can we bring Charles Frohman into this? This plan of ours? He’s got a bad knee and might need help into a boat.”
“He’s aboard too? Of course.”
“I’ll tell him.”
From the bow of the ship, the fog was sweeping toward them again, a wall of gray, shadows moving through it, indistinct. She turned around and faced the Atlantic, keeping it in sight as long as she could before it was erased, too.
George covered her gloved hand with his own, his palm pressing hers against the rail. She couldn’t feel the wet through her glove, only the cold.
HER INVITATION TO the captain’s table arrived that afternoon, delivered to her door by a smartly uniformed officer in a navy jacket and gold braid who took off his cap and handed her the card with a brief incline of his head.
Miss Marguerite L. Jolivet is cordially invited to share this evening’s meal at the table of Captain William T. Turner, main dining saloon, seven o’clock, répondez s’il vous pla?t …
“I would be delighted,” she told the officer, who nodded again and thanked her before replacing his cap and leaving.
ELEANOR ARRIVED AT six to help her dress.
Rita had had to send for her trunks after all, having found nothing quite fine enough in the suitcase, only a couple of tailor-made day dresses and various underthings.
But in the second trunk—what a squeeze to get it in the cabin!
—she discovered that her maid back home had been thinking ahead to more formal evenings.
In that trunk were the gowns of silk and satin and delicate lace, slippers and heels, everything carefully stored, wrapped in tissue paper and scented with sachets filled with dried lilac.
She chose a Parisian concoction of mulberry taffeta and black tulle, a collar of diamonds, black satin gloves. A pair of crescent-moon diamond clips in her hair, done up in curls. Charles wanted her to sparkle this evening, and she didn’t plan to disappoint.
“You’re very good at this,” Rita observed, following the stewardess’s deft movements in the mirror fixed above the marble basin, how her fingers shaped the curls just exactly, pinning them in place.
“Thank you, miss. I’ve been practicing. I plan to be a proper lady’s maid after this. After my contract with Cunard is up.”
A touch of cosmetics that Rita applied herself, just a suggestion of powder and lip rouge, faint kohl around the eyes, and she was done. She stood, tugging up her gloves, then turned to face her stewardess.
“What do you think? Will I do for the Captain’s Dinner?”
Eleanor stepped back, her eyes shining. “You look just as glamorous as in your moving pictures, I swear. You look a real star.”
CAPTAIN TURNER WAS, by all accounts, a gruff soul, tanned and craggy, with sharp pale eyes and a decided dearth of humor.
More than accomplished at his job when it came to any aspect of his ship or crew—indeed, he was known to be the best captain employed by the Cunard Line—William Turner was far less polished when it came to interacting with his paying customers.
For a single evening of the voyage, Turner maintained the tradition of dining with a select number of first-class passengers in the main saloon, because it was tradition, and he was a man who respected both ceremony and convention.
But the fact that he usually took his meals alone in his quarters spoke volumes about his preferences.
It was up to Staff Captain Jock Anderson, second in command, younger and much more jovial, to provide the charm at the table.
He told wry, amusing anecdotes of life at sea and of unusual customs at exotic ports.
He knew how to flatter the ladies and gentlemen alike, asking all the right questions and always paying close attention to the answers.
“And you, sir,” he said, with a friendly look toward Alfred Vanderbilt, brown-haired and dapper in his white tie and tails, a dainty pink carnation, his signature boutonnière, a small flourish of color against his lapel. “What inspires you to travel to England, if I may inquire?”
Vanderbilt smiled. Rita, seated next to him, saw at once how easy it would be to succumb to such a smile, modest yet sincere.
“The war,” he said simply. “Actually, the war, and the International Horse Show Association. There’s a board meeting coming up, and I’m the director.
But mainly I’m going to finalize arrangements for a donation to the Red Cross, a fleet of automobiles.
Ambulances, armored lorries and touring cars, anything that could be of use. ”
“How noble of you,” said the pretty redhead sitting across from him, completely without irony. Josephine Brandell, another of Charles Frohman’s fosterlings, on her way to fame.
Rita knew her, or knew of her. As a teen, the girl had landed a few minor roles in Broadway musicals, but eventually, at Charles’s prodding, found her footing as an opera singer.
When they’d shaken hands as they were introduced, Josephine had mentioned that she’d seen Miss Jolivet in When Knights Were Bold (You were magnetic!), and Rita had replied that she’d seen Miss Brandell in The Belle of Brittany (You sing so beautifully!).
Then Rita had said Please call me Rita just as Josephine said Please call me Jenny, and they’d both laughed.
“Oh, no, Miss Brandell,” Vanderbilt said now.
“Thank you, but it’s not noble, not really.
I’m just thinking ahead. Any little contribution, any little anything to help out, to shorten the conflict.
War benefits only power mongers and madmen, and you can’t count on either of those sort for mercy in the end.
It’s the rest of us who must manage the ruin of it all.
If I can send autos now to stop a shortage later, to save lives, I don’t know why I wouldn’t. ”
“Hear, hear,” said Anderson, raising his glass.
“I must agree with Jenny,” Rita said, raising hers as well. “It is noble of you, as well as pragmatic.”
At the head of the table, Captain Turner was slicing his tournedos à la bordelaise.
He spoke without looking up. “It is the lack of foresight regarding the practicalities of war that sinks nations. A lack of automobiles leads to the lack of reliable supply chains. The lack of supply chains leads to disadvantaged soldiers. Disadvantaged soldiers lead to defeat.”
“And yet,” pointed out a man with a pageboy haircut, a Mr. Hubbard, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, “it is an American supplying the autos.”
The staff captain jumped in. “Ah, but we British are nothing if not practical. If Mr. Vanderbilt finds himself burdened with an excess of autos, why then, it behooves us to take them off his hands!”
Beneath the strains of the five-piece orchestra, a round of laughter took the table.
The Lusy’s first-class dining saloon was advertised as the most unique and beautiful restaurant afloat, and Rita thought it likely true.
Certainly she’d never seen anything fancier aboard a ship, or even in a hotel.
The dining area was double-tiered, taking up two levels, with a wide oval well in the middle topped by a gilt-and-plaster dome stretching to a third level high above, everything supported by an array of white marble columns crowned with more gold.
The captain’s table was in the center of the lower chamber, right beneath the dome.
If she looked straight up (she did so only once, very subtly; she was not that gauche), Rita had a dizzying view of the frescoes of cherubs and clouds decorating it, the ornate friezes of garlands and medallions, and the carved, grinning faces ringing the rim along the base that she thought might be gods or mythical beasts.
The lower part of the restaurant was the larger space, with mahogany walls inset with mirrors, leaded-glass windows throughout.
It offered the traditional prix fixe menu, but in the smaller chamber upstairs, one could order off the sumptuous à la carte menu.
Rita didn’t know if the captain and his guests were being served from the same menu as the other tables around them or not, but the food was undeniably plentiful and exquisite.
Those tournedos of beef in that rich, red wine sauce.
Fresh oysters on beds of chipped ice. Caramelized shallots and carrots with tarragon.
Sole meunière, soused salmon, Virginia ham, jacket potatoes, roasted chicken and duckling.
Beef ribs, sea bass, mutton chops. New peas, green corn, boiled rice.
She could scarcely finish one dish before another was placed before her. They were on only the fifth course, and she was already picking at her food because she was so full. She began to smile apologetically at her waiter when he had to take away her plates still half full.
He was an older gentleman, deferential, who only looked back at her with a mournful expression that said, Yes, of course, what is there to do?
The saloon could seat over four hundred, although she noticed that tonight not every table was occupied. Perhaps it had something to do with turbulent seas. The staff captain assured everyone they were in for calmer weather soon, possibly as early as tomorrow morning.
“Excellent news,” commented Charles, as the orchestra began a new piece, one of Dvo?ák’s lilting nocturnes. “Some blue sky would be most welcome.”
“The better to see them coming,” Mr. Hubbard said.
Captain Turner shot him a glance, returned to his meal.
The long-bearded gentleman at Rita’s other elbow, a Mr. Kessler (as he shook her hand he introduced himself as “The Champagne King,” but she wasn’t sure if the sobriquet represented his high-end frolics or else his business) lifted a forkful of peas and said, conversationally, “I was told that Lusitania’s cat abandoned ship just before we departed.
A pity! I like cats. Seems like every good ship should have one. What was its name?”
Turner’s face went blank, his knife and fork paused over his plate.
“Dowie,” Staff Captain Anderson supplied. “Our feline mascot. Yes, I suppose she decided to live out her ninth life amid the bright lights of New York City. It was shame to lose her. She was an excellent mouser.” He caught himself. “Not that Lusitania has any mice!”
“Perhaps they all left with the cat,” said Vanderbilt, and for some reason, everyone laughed.
But Mr. Hubbard—an author, Rita remembered now, some controversial author—was not finished. “Mr. Vanderbilt, sir. I heard a rumor that you received a telegram after you boarded yesterday.”
“I received a stack of them, sir. Seems I’m a fairly popular fellow, Lord knows why.”
“Yes,” Hubbard went on, cutting off the chuckles, “but this one surely sticks in your memory. It warned you that the Lusitania was doomed. To get off at once before she departed. I believe it was signed ‘Morte’?”
For a moment, there was only shocked silence at the table.
Around them, other conversations ebbed and flowed, punctuated with laughter, with the clinking of silverware against china plates.
That nocturne, rising into a sweet crescendo.
Then Jenny whispered, “Oh, my,” and the captain released an impatient breath.
Alfred Vanderbilt had barely tilted his head, like a hunting dog noting a soundless whistle.
The saloon’s padded chairs swiveled but were bolted firmly to the deck; he couldn’t physically push his back, although it appeared he wanted to.
Instead, he only sat there and regarded the other man with a flat expression.
“You seem to know a great deal about it.”
“Only rumors.”
“It was a joke, merely. And a poor one at that.”
“Rumors serve no one but fools,” growled the captain.
He replaced his utensils to the table, the four rows of gold wire lace on his cuffs gleaming; four rows of gold denoting his outstanding leadership, his outstanding service to the line.
He picked up his water goblet and glared at each of them in turn.
Behind him, a waiter in white gloves deftly removed his empty plate, signaling to another server behind him to begin the next course.
“Look around you, sir,” said Captain Turner to Mr. Hubbard. “Look at all these good people who chose to sail with us, rumors be damned. The fact is, this ship can’t be caught by a U-boat. It hasn’t yet, and it never will. The Huns have nothing on us, and well they know it.”