The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  5

  It was Sunday morning and May had heard there was a church service taking place somewhere on the upper decks. She asked a steward exactly where it was being held.

  ‘It’s only for First and Second Class passengers, ma’am,’ he said, eyeing her up and down.

  ‘Well, I am Church of England so where do I worship then?’ she replied, refusing to be cowed by his abrupt manner.

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ he sighed. ‘Wait here.’

  She was feeling brighter now she’d got used to the pitch of the ship, and Joe had told her to go and have some time to herself while he looked after Ellen. She looked respectable enough, spruced up in her Sunday best. Why shouldn’t she be in church along with the best of them?

  Judging by the to-ing and fro-ing, her request had caused a bit of a fuss, but eventually a steward escorted her upstairs, unlocking some screens onto the upper decks to let her into the holy of holies. ‘You were right, ma’am. The service is for everyone.’

  No odours of stew, gravy or stale sweat clouded the air here. Instead, May smelled the wafting perfume of fresh arum lilies, carnations and cigar smoke, and felt the thickest of rich-patterned carpets at her feet. She was underdressed and self-conscious, but no one seemed even to notice her as they promenaded around the decks. The steward pressed her on apace until they came to a sumptuous dining saloon with leather chairs in rows and a rostrum at the far end.

  ‘Stay in these back rows, please, madam. They are reserved for visitors.’ By that May knew he meant the steerage passengers, and she was relieved to see she was not the only brave soul to venture forth into this strange uncharted territory. In fact there were rows of visitors, and sitting next to her was another woman wearing a dowdy coat and plain hat. Soon the room filled up with the rich and famous, according to her neighbour, who, by her own admission, was here only to gawp and gossip.

  ‘Are you here to see how the other half live then? Just look at those hats. I bet each one of them would cost our men a year’s wages? Still, they do put on a show for us; they say the richest men in the world are on board, Astor, the Guggenheims . . . and I bet some of them fancy women aren’t their wives. I saw one carrying a dog with a diamond collar, I ask you.’ She rattled off who they all were and who was related to whom; names that meant nothing to May.

  Then the captain arrived along with several members of the crew armed with hymn sheets, which were passed along the rows. He led them through a simple service that wouldn’t offend anyone. The singing was polite and muted, but May loved a good hymn and when it came to ‘O God, our help in ages past’ she couldn’t help but sing out, her strong soprano voice betraying her enthusiasm until people turned round to see where the noise was coming from. She blushed and lowered her voice.

  She sneaked a closer look at Captain Smith. He was older than she expected, with his silver hair and portly figure. May couldn’t help but think about the congregation gathering back at her parish church in Deane. Another wave of panic flooded her at the thought of them all in church without her. Here she was, a stranger among strangers in a steel ship at the mercy of the waves. Tomorrow the girls from the mill would be lining up at their machines for the new week without her. Would any of them miss her?

  Still, it was her chance to glimpse into a world where passengers wore furs, exquisite hats, velvet coats and fine leather boots. A restless pampered toddler, dressed in silks and swansdown, was whisked away by her maidservant. May was glad she hadn’t brought Ellen, not least because her homespun clothes would have looked shabby in contrast. Alone, there was time to drink in her surroundings and gaze on the congregation at leisure.

  She had never seen such sumptuous rooms. The wall panelling was decorated with beautifully carved flowers and leaves. Joe would know how it was done. And above her head electric domes of light hung from ceilings of ornate white plasterwork.

  No wonder there were stewards at each door to make sure the likes of her were promptly escorted back to their rightful deck. They might all be equal under the Lord, she smiled ruefully, but on board this British ship it was everyone in their proper station. She was honoured just to be in the same room as these grand people, if only for a few minutes. She didn’t mind being set apart. It was only right and proper. These gentlefolk had paid much more for their tickets so they deserved all this finery. It was a different world up here in First Class. Would America be as class bound or was it truly the land of the free?

  Celeste attended morning service in the First Class dining room. She caught glimpses of the famous in their seats at the front: wealthy American hostesses from Boston and Philadelphia; the cream of New York society, the Astors, Guggenheims, Wideners; Walter Douglas, founder of the Quaker Oats factory, a familiar face from the pages of Akron’s Beacon Journal, returning from Paris with his wife. Some of the wealthiest men in the world were aboard. Grover would be impressed by her fellow passengers. It was more like a ballroom than a church assembly. The captain did his best using the ship’s order of service sheets to cater for a broad church sort of worship but it made her feel even more homesick.

  She couldn’t help but think of the vaulting roof of Lichfield Cathedral, the peal of its bells ringing through the morning air, the organ’s great basso profundo, the parade of choirboys in their white and scarlet robes and the dean in his gold vestments.

  This service was perfectly acceptable, though. At least they’d allowed other classes of passenger to attend. She’d heard one young woman singing her heart out in the back row, in tune and on time, although she’d made a quick diminuendo when she realized this was no Evangelical Revival tent but a polite token to Sunday worship. At the end of the service, the back rows were rushed out from view as if their presence would somehow offend the sensibilities of the First Class passengers. Pity, Celeste smiled; she would like to have had a good look at the girl with the golden voice and thank her for raising the quality of their singing, if only for a few verses. She looked like a nice woman.

  It was proving to be a long voyage with only Mrs Grant for company, and a novel about a young girl struggling to fit into New York society at the turn of the new century was hardly cheering reading.

  If only there were some like minds to talk to over the dining table, not the usual mixture of wealthy travellers reliving their exotic adventures in Europe, dropping names like croutons into their soup, or Ada Grant chattering on about her relatives and their children.

  Celeste wondered what it was like for that girl with the lovely voice down below in steerage, and was glad she had managed to cross the golden gates into this pampered cocoon. What must she make of all this luxury and privilege that was making Celeste feel so uncomfortable? It was all too much on this ship so aptly named Titanic. Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy the experience of being cosseted? Why did she feel so uneasy?

  ‘So what’s it like up there in the gods?’ Joe asked over lunch, slurping his soup with gusto.

  ‘Another world. You’ve never seen the like: acres of thick carpets – it was like walking on air – and the women dressed like mannequins in a shop window, weighed down with so many pearls and gems. But they can’t sing for toffee.’

  Joe grinned. ‘I bet you showed them how.’

  ‘I tried but I got stared at and so I shut up. I enjoyed it, though, seeing how the other half lives. We got a bum’s rush as soon as it was over, though, in case we ran off with the silver. I’m glad I’m back down here.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Don’t want you getting no fancy ideas. It might be a log cabin for us when we get out west.’

  ‘At least we’ll all be equal out there. How do folks get to be so rich that they can spend thousands on a ticket? I’m sure they’re no happier than us. There was one poor widow all in black who looked as if she was about to burst into tears any minute and she wasn’t a day older than me. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. You won’t ditch me for some rich American fancy woman, will you?’

  Joe grabbed h
er hand, laughing. ‘I don’t know where you think all this stuff up, May. You and me are stuck together like glue, and that’s a promise. We’ll never be apart. Not until our dying day.’

  6

  For Celeste it was proving to be an uneventful Sunday. She was feeling squeamish and picked at her luncheon while old Mrs Grant struggled with fearful indigestion. In her mind Celeste was preparing herself for the rigours of her marriage and duties in Akron. The thought filled her with dread. There was only Roddy’s welcome to look forward to.

  She spent the afternoon listening to the orchestra, promenading the decks for fresh air before it was time to prepare for yet another dress parade in the dining room.

  She was still wearing her mother’s black silk two-piece with the jet-beaded collar and cuffs. It smelled of home and Father’s pipe smoke. Who was there here to notice that she was wearing the same dress each evening? She was in mourning, after all; it was hardly a time to be the belle of the ball. Defiant though she felt, faced with all the fuss of dining rituals, she did make a valiant effort to dress her hair without the aid of a lady’s maid or stewardess. The damp air had turned the loose ends into a frizz of curls.

  She still wasn’t hungry but listened to the restful serenades and waltzes, music designed to instil a sense of calm. The livelier numbers would be reserved for the dancing later.

  The orchestra lifted her mood until she saw the menu presented so beautifully before them, and her heart sank. No one could eat ten courses, though Mrs Grant made a valiant attempt to work her way through each one. She would undoubtedly suffer again later, Celeste grimaced. She settled for the Consommé Olga, the poached salmon with mousseline sauce, the sauté of chicken, but couldn’t face the entrée of lamb, beef or duckling. She skipped the Punch Romaine, tasted the roast squab and cold asparagus vinaigrette but the pâté de foie gras defeated her. There was just room left for the peaches in Chartreuse jelly. She resolutely stuck to water, refusing any of the wines chosen for each course. Rich wine went to her head and made her weepy.

  Grover would have insisted she had his money’s worth but Grover wasn’t here, she thought defiantly.

  By ten o’clock Mrs Grant was half asleep and Celeste amused herself listening to the chatter and laughter around her, the clink of glasses, savouring the noise before another night descended and she’d be alone with her increasingly dark thoughts. The glitter of diamonds flashing in the lamplight, the scent of Parisian perfume, the shimmer of silk and feathers was a feast for the eyes. Everyone around her looked so relaxed and glamorous but Celeste could take no pleasure in this ambience. Her heart was not in the First Class dining room, with its gilded opulence and Louis Seize décor, but was yearning for what she had left behind.

  She’d had enough of sitting with Mrs Grant, who was hard of hearing and wanted to regale her with gossip.

  ‘It’s like a club, you know; they all gather in Paris, Cairo . . . wherever. Captain Smith is their favourite so that’s why they’re all here now. They only travel on his ship. He’s never had an accident . . .’

  ‘What about the incident before we left Southampton?’ Celeste asked.

  ‘There you see, it didn’t turn into anything and that’s because Captain Smith is so lucky.’

  There was no use arguing, and Celeste was horribly bored, trying not to yawn. Once again it annoyed her that she – a respectable married woman – was unable to sit alone. She didn’t want any unnecessary attention from some of the single men who were ogling her table with interest. They’d gathered a coterie of giggling females to their side but still had time to give her the glad eye, mourning or not. She’d have to fend them off for three more nights.

  When Celeste returned to her cabin, a stewardess came to help her undress. She laughed when Celeste clutched her full stomach and groaned.

  ‘You’ve not seen anything yet, madam. We’re coming to the “Devils Hole” where the icebergs float and the water boils.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me that!’ Celeste said laughing. ‘I’ll never sleep now.’

  ‘You will, I assure you – there’s nothing like a rich meal, fresh air and Mr Hartley’s band music in your ears to send you off.’

  Celeste did indeed nod off but woke about midnight, her stomach protesting at her gluttony. She felt a small shudder, a shake, a jerk, enough for her crystal water jug to rattle and her tumbler to slide along the mahogany surface. Then the engine seemed to judder to a stop like a train pulling into a station. Was she still dreaming? She turned back, irritable at being woken, and drifted back to sleep. Suddenly there were noises in the corridor, not party revellers but the sound of rapid footfall, and the echoing bangs of doors opening and closing in haste. Instantly she was wide awake, alert to trouble.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she called out, wrapping her Japanese silk kimono over her nightdress as she opened the door. She was thinking about deaf Mrs Grant down the corridor. Did she know what was happening?

  ‘The ship’s hit an iceberg,’ someone called across.

  ‘No! Not at all . . . no panic,’ the same stewardess who had helped her undress hours before called. ‘There’s nothing to be alarmed about but we would like you all to make your way up on deck as a precaution. Wrap up warmly, please, and take your life jacket too. I’ll assist you if you are unable to reach.’

  Celeste threw on her black jacket, tugged her skirt over her nightdress, found her thick coat and her fur tippet, and pulled on her boots. Without thinking, she took her purse, a photo of Roddy and the rings Grover had given her. Everything else could wait for her return.

  She followed a line of hastily dressed passengers, wondering where they were being led. She’d felt nothing at all to suggest a crash, but suddenly the corridors were lined with stewards checking them over and pointing the way to the boat deck. What on earth was going on? Why were they disturbing them in the middle of the night? She felt her stomach lurch with fear. Could the unthinkable possibly be true? Was this just a safety drill or something much more serious?

  7

  May had never spent such a jolly Sunday night. Her feet had tapped to the music in the saloon, accordions, banjos, the clatter of clogs and boots on the wooden floor, couples spinning around in foreign dances, while children slid across the floor like they did in any church hall, getting in everyone’s way.

  She and Joe took a stroll on deck before bed to look at the stars but it was too chilly to stay out long, especially with a sleeping baby over Joe’s shoulder.

  ‘What a stretch of stars! Look, Orion’s Belt,’ Joe said, pointing to a shape of twinkling stars. ‘And there’s the North Star, the sailor’s special compass point. You feeling a bit more relaxed now, my love?’

  ‘A bit, but let’s turn in. Another night can be ticked off,’ May replied. She couldn’t wait to be back on dry land. If she never sailed again, it would be too soon.

  ‘I don’t want to forget a minute of this journey. Who’d have thought it, you and me on the high seas? I don’t regret it for all the tea in China.’

  ‘I hope we don’t regret it,’ she replied darkly.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you having second thoughts about leaving?’

  ‘Of course not . . . but a week at sea. It’s too long, too cold and too far from land.’ There was no use pretending she wasn’t still feeling nervous. She knew the worst part of the voyage was to come. In the bar, there had been talk of icebergs and waves as high as church steeples. Wild talk, fuelled by drink, May knew, but she couldn’t help but think there must be a grain of truth in the tall tales.

  ‘Where’s your sense of adventure? Don’t be such a wet blanket.’

  ‘I’m sorry but it’s how I feel,’ she said, close to tears now. ‘Don’t laugh at me. I can’t help it.’

  ‘I know, and I love you just the same for being a worrywart,’ Joe said, hugging her and stroking her cheek. ‘You are cold. Sorry, love. Let’s go down and I’ll warm you up good and proper.’ They both laughed.

  ‘N
one of your sauce, young man, I’m a respectable married woman, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘And I’m a married man, so that’s all right then.’

  May slept deeply, sated from lovemaking, fresh air and rich food, and Ellen continued to sleep soundly in her cot even when May was woken by noises in the corridor outside. Doors were banging; then there was a knock on their own door. Joe got up to open it and May’s anxiey only increased when he took his time returning.

  ‘What’s going on? Is it drunks?’ she called out. ‘I’ll give ’em what for if they wake the baby!’

  ‘Nowt . . . just something about a bit of a bump with ice. We’ve all got to get dressed and put on life jackets . . . just in case,’ Joe assured her. ‘Better wrap up warm, love. It’ll be parky up there.’

  ‘What time is it? I didn’t feel anything, did you?’ she said, struggling to her feet, aware the floor wasn’t quite level. ‘What are they playing at, messing us about like this?’

  ‘Just get dressed and do as you’re told. Get Ellen togged up well. Can’t have her getting a chill now, can we?’ His voice was calm but May sensed Joe was rattled.

  May grabbed everything she could lay her hands on, pulling on a cardigan, jacket and a warm skirt over her nightgown. Struggling into her boots, and tying up her hair, she shoved on her bonnet. She wasn’t going to get her best straw wet. They’d soon be back down.

  ‘Have you got our money, Joe?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s all in my wallet together with the ticket and George’s address. Follow me and don’t let me out of your sight. It’s probably just a practice drill.’

  They tried not to wake Ellen but she stirred and cried as they piled on her clothes. May’s heart was thumping. What if this wasn’t a drill? What if it was for real?

  In the corridor it was bedlam. People were yelling in a babble of foreign tongues, shoving and pushing forward. The ship lurched forward again and everyone screamed. They were going in the wrong direction, surely? May had memorized her bearings and knew that to get up on deck they must turn the other way. She pushed against the crowd but it was no use. They were forced along with everyone else and found themselves lined up in one of the dining rooms where everyone was checked for life jackets.