Chapter 16 #2
“No, we are. Even with just the other three boiler rooms in operation, and based on the daily betting pool for our miles, I’d say we’ve been cruising at about an average speed of twenty knots on the open sea. The U-boats have never sunk a ship going faster than fourteen.”
Jenny said, nervous, “Perhaps the captain will speed us up when we’re closer to shore, though.”
“No doubt.”
A gaggle of children thundered past in pinafores and short pants, shrieking with laughter, none older than seven, two harried stewardesses hurrying after them. Three more stewardess followed at a much more leisurely pace, pushing perambulators.
“So many little ones aboard,” Jenny observed, tendrils of hair blowing along her cheek.
She pushed them back with two fingers, a stage gesture, unaware, one Rita instantly recognized: keeping the fingers together in twos or threes so they wouldn’t remind the audience of cat claws or spider legs.
“More than usual, I think. More than I’ve seen before on a crossing. ”
“I heard someone mention they’re mostly Canadian families heading to Great Britain, not just England but Scotland and Wales. Wives with their husbands gone off to the fight, returning home with their youngsters, likely to their parents.”
The children began marking out a game of hopscotch not far off, drawing chalk along the deck in wild, happy lines.
“Surely Canada is safer,” Jenny fretted.
Rita shook her head. “I don’t know that anywhere is safe.”
“Except here,” said George heartily, after a moment. “We are safe here, ladies. Blessed with food and warmth, with sun and sky. Blessed with a staunch ship and fine company. This is a charmed day.”
AND HE WAS right, it was a charmed day. It was, in fact, the second-to-last of the charmed days.
THE CHILDREN HAD their hopscotch. The adults resorted to only slightly less rambunctious deck games to pass the hours: shuffleboard, quoits, a daily race of egg-and-spoon, followed by one of potato sacks.
There was a medicine ball as well, most popular among the brawny set.
Winners were awarded small tin pins of the ship, proudly worn for at least an hour or so after the victory.
Nothing could convince her to hop in a dusty burlap sack across the deck, not in her heels and fine gowns, and not with any shred of dignity.
But Rita joined the egg-and-spoon race, her right hand gathering up her skirts and underskirts, her left holding the spoon and its precious cargo.
Years of dance training for the stage had taught her how to move smoothly, how to keep her knees bent and her balance even while walking quickly.
She lined up with the other hopefuls in their fashionable hats and coats and the steward barked, Ready-Set-Go!
She took off at once, knowing not to look at the egg, to trust her gait to keep it steady and focus only on the finish line.
She beat George by two feet and Jenny by six, but surprisingly it was Alfred Vanderbilt, in his trim suit and polished shoes, who nearly won, only dropping his egg right at the end, a messy splat, his cheeks red with laughter.
Rita accepted her pin of the Lusy with a grin, panting a little, holding it up high above her head as everyone around them clapped.
She asked Mr. Vanderbilt at dinner that night if he’d dropped his egg on purpose to let her win, and he laughed once more and said that, alas, no, he wasn’t that much of a gentleman. He was hoping to win the pin to give to his children when he returned home.
Rita smiled, fished it from her reticule and gave it to him, agreeing that it would make a fine souvenir for his sons.
THURSDAY DAWNED AS clear and fine as the previous few days had, no chop to the ocean, no clouds.
It was to be their last day in safe waters; they were now nearing the war-zone boundary fronting the Celtic Sea, closing in on Ireland’s hilly southern coast. Passengers awoke to the fact that the lifeboats had been swung out early that morning to hang over the sides of the ship, many with their canvas covers removed.
Swaying and creaking gently from their falls, they looked ready to drop into the ocean at any moment.
Just a precaution, they were told by passing officers and stewards, when pressed. Standard procedure, nothing of concern.
Rita took a stroll by herself outside after breakfast, joining a host of strangers.
She noticed the change in position of the lifeboats, but everyone around her seemed more excited about searching the horizon for the destroyers that would escort them inland.
A few of the gentlemen began placing wagers on exactly which ships the Admiralty would assign them, perhaps the Moorsom or the Laertes—or even one of the four superdreadnoughts, maybe the Orion or the Conqueror, the most valued warships in all the fleet.
Surely the Lusitania and her many souls aboard deserved nothing but the best.
But that horizon remained flat and empty. Rita searched for ships, for sirens, and only managed to strain her eyes.
THAT AFTERNOON, CHARLES invited everyone he knew, and some he didn’t, to his suite for a soirée, calling it a So Long, It’s Been Swell!
party. It had to be during the day because that evening, after dinner, all the elegant people would put down their napkins and put on their gloves and traipse from D or C Deck up to A, to the first-class lounge, for the traditional voyage fundraiser benefiting the Seamen’s Charities: a passenger talent concert, volunteers needed.
Staff Captain Anderson, dropping by the party, smilingly and charmingly backed Rita into a corner as Charles’s phonograph filled the suite with ragtime.
“Won’t you grace us with a little something tonight, Miss Jolivet,” he entreated her. “A bit of Shakespeare or something? Even something modern, if you like! A speech from one of your photoplays! That would be splendid, I’m sure.”
“Oh,” she hedged, “I don’t think so. Would it really be fair to everyone else?”
“Fair?”
“What if there’s some ambitious young lady out there hoping to perform her own Juliet tonight, or Delight Warren? I’d never want to outshine someone like that. Not for this, such a worthy cause.”
“I fear Miss Jolivet’s talents are trademarked and copyrighted,” Charles declared, coming up to pass her a cocktail, liquid amber on ice with a single spiral of orange peel dangling from the rim.
“By me, I might add. Let her sit in the audience for a change and enjoy the shining performances of our other friends.”
The staff captain forced a smile. “By all means. I must admit, Miss Brandell told me nearly the same thing.”
“Disappointing, to be sure.” Charles took him by the arm, leading him amiably away from Rita, still with that limp. “But if it helps take some of the sting out of it, I promise all three of us will empty our wallets this evening for the charities, down to every last penny.”
Rita watched them go. She tried the cocktail in relief—something with bourbon in it, something sweetish and a hair too strong—and before she knew it, it was half gone. She looked down at her glass in surprise; when she looked up again, George was at her elbow.
“Hullo,” he said.
“Hullo. You’re looking very chic.” And he was, a smart suit she hadn’t seen before, a fresh haircut and shave.
George gave a nod to a man standing across the room. “I was able to obtain a coveted appointment with Mr. Gadd over there, the finest barber on the seven seas.”
Rita looked at the man, unremarkable but for a luxuriant nut-brown mustache that caught the light. He was engaged in ardent conversation with Mr. Kessler, the Champagne King, who kept tugging at his beard.
“I do love how Charles loves everyone.”
“Americans are a democratic sort, my dear. We know in our bones that anyone can rise up from nothing to become something, with enough luck and gumption. Charles has made it his business to recognize a true talent when he comes across one. Mr. Gadd is famous enough to pick and choose his customers as he pleases. If it’s a game of democracy versus aristocracy, in his case, democracy has won.
He’ll turn away princes and all the Four Hundred if he’s already promised his appointments to his peers.
Charles was canny to invite him. No doubt it’ll shoot him to the top of the list on the voyage home. ”
“Well, as I said, you look quite fetching. Better watch out for Miss Brandell. She’s already half in love with you.”
“My heart,” George said, “cannot be ensnared, as it no longer resides in my chest, but rather your sister’s.”
Rita tried not to laugh, she really did, but in the end she had to give in. “Sorry! I’m sorry! It’s the booze, I swear. I have such a gruesome turn of mind these days!”
He ran a hand along his chin. “I guess it wasn’t as graceful out loud as it sounded in my head. But you know what I mean.”
“I do.” She leaned close, feeling the heat of the bourbon thrumming through her veins. “You know, Inez once said something quite like it to me, right before you wed. She said—oh, what was it exactly? She said that she was at home in your heart.”
He flashed a smile. “Did she indeed? She’s always been a better bard than I.”
And with that smile, abashed and direct at once, Rita sobered some. She gazed at him and thought, They’re really in love.
And then, with a pang she couldn’t help: How lucky they are.
How lucky they are to have found their perfect union, a love that asks no questions and demands no answers, but only is.
At home in his heart. What would that even feel like?
Across the parlor, someone changed the record; the conversation around them peaked and fell. Someone dropped a glass, a sharp shatter against the floor, and everyone laughed.
Rita drained the last of her cocktail, set it on a side table.
“Let’s dance, shall we? ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ is perfect for the Turkey Trot, and I’m rather good at it. You can teach it to Inez.”
“Brave girl! I’ll try not to trot on your toes.”