Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  “Happiness? Is that what she’s after? I’d say it was status and notoriety. She has always courted attention. And now she will have more than enough. Brooke Sinclair, the last of America’s Dollar Princesses,” he said. “In your mother’s day it was practically common for New York’s first families to marry off their daughters to Englishmen in need of money. I thought that time had passed. I was wrong.”

  Sydney understood what Garrett was implying. Brooke’s marriage might be considered somewhat gauche. All the young ladies who ran in the Sinclairs’ circle were raised to be above whispers and sideways glances, yet each of them lived to hear and speak such things about one another. This love of gossip began when they were very young, their drive to tittle-tattle fed by a natural competitiveness formed during horse shows, tennis matches and piano recitals. During these pursuits there was always one girl who stood out by being the prettiest, cleverest, most accomplished at whichever activity her parents had insisted she develop an expertise in. For such a girl it went one of two ways. Either she was admired (often due to her wealth) and imitated by the others, or she was secretly ridiculed owing to the petty jealousies of her competitive peers. Sydney knew that she and her sister were initially granted immunity from this social skewering because of their dead mother. Sympathy trickled down from their friends’ parents rendering any whispering about them in “poor taste.” But as the group of contemporaries grew into sparkling debutantes and later were shipped off to college—Smith, Bryn Mawr, Radcliffe, Vassar—their critiques of one another morphed from how one sat a hunter to how much attention one received at a ball (and more to the point, why) to how far one went with a beau or what’s more, how many beaux one had.

  At this juncture in their young lives, the Sinclair sisters’ immunity was revoked for different reasons. Both were Vassar girls but their characters had developed distinctly. Brooke required that any girl who wished to remain in her inner cabal be appropriately deferential—she was simply accustomed to being treated with kid gloves. Most devoted followers of fashionable people (particularly the fashionable people themselves) knew that she was the sort of girl who wished only the best for her friends, as long as their best didn’t outdo her own. Fortunately for her temperament, the Sinclair wealth was such that it was a rare occurrence for another girl to have or do something better than what Brooke had or did. Marrying a future earl was one step further to cementing this status.

  Once Augustus Sinclair passed away the young men of New York had rallied around the sisters and offered their help, the use of their servants or motorcars and one had even offered his hand (on separate occasions to both sisters, which made the offer easy to turn down). But when Brooke learned of her closest friend Lillian Crane (one of a dozen such closest friends) sailing to England to land a title it was as though angels (or her mother) were speaking to her from heaven. It made perfect sense. There was even talk that several of the spurned young men the young women had left behind were placing wagers on what title each girl would wind up with. Though in the end, Miss Crane had returned home empty-handed (which her mother blamed on her thin lips). But Brooke had become engaged to the most attractive, kind and respected, and yes, nearly bankrupt, young aristocrat who was presented to her. All New York agreed: What was her money for if not to help her marry the best sort of man?

  Sydney, in contrast, wasn’t exactly a loner, but she didn’t thrive on the company of her peers either. She was more inclined to have tea with a Vassar professor than with another student, or to attend a lecture in Greenwich Village rather than a dance on the Upper East Side. Then there was the matter of her political views. Views she never hid from society. Again, the Sinclair fortune was a sort of talisman against being outcast for having opinions and activities that weren’t acceptable. Instead her kind looked upon her with sympathy and even pity, for it was obvious to everyone that Sydney’s wayward interests had grown out of not having a mother, and having a father who was too busy to notice his youngest daughter’s inclinations. Or if he did, he didn’t have the strength (poor man) to rein her in.

  It was accepted that the sisters were polar opposites, yet after their father passed and they were able to think (and spend) independently both were uniformly admired, feared and criticized in equal measure. Still, it must be said that no one in New York had the poor sense to be on the “outs” with either. One never knew when a Sinclair would be needed.

  Sydney stood up and focused her gaze on her guardian. “Enough, Mr. Garrett. You’ve said your piece. We both agree that Brooke isn’t being very prudent. But what’s done is done. She’s engaged to this Edward person and that’s that. No matter how much we might dislike the idea of him or his classist attitude, he will be my brother-in-law and he will spend my sister’s money any damn way he pleases.”

  They both chose silence as their next retort. Mr. Garrett sulking. Sydney knowing that everything he said about Brooke and Edward was completely true.

  “And when is the wedding?” he asked, seemingly resigned to his fate of not protecting the Sinclair girls from ruination of either the financial or moral kind.

  Sydney crossed the room to the window once more. She opened the drapes and peered outside. On the street below she watched her sister getting out of a motorcar, her arms burdened with packages. Sydney closed the drapes.

  “The fifteenth of May. We are to set sail on the first.”

  The sound of the front door opening, the servants scurrying and the unmistakable flutey voice of Brooke drifted up to them. Mr. Garrett stood and moved to the door of the sitting room. “I can arrange passage,” he said glumly, a defeated man.

  Sydney shook her head. “Edward has seen to it already. We sail on the Lusitania on the first of May.”

  Old Mr. Garrett had best watch his tongue. The nerve! Complaining about my engagement behind my back,” Brooke snapped.

  Sydney sat on the bed and watched as her sister stomped around her bedroom, furious and indignant.

  “He’s looking out for us. It’s his job.”

  Brooke tore open one of the many packages she had brought home. Inside was a silk dress the colour of amber with delicate pale pink roses embroidered on the neckline. The elegant beauty of the garment immediately soothed her mood and she smiled, holding the dress up to her.

  “What do you think?” she asked, Mr. Garrett forgotten.

  Sydney smiled. A pretty dress could always be counted on to improve her sister’s mood. “It’s lovely.”

  “Glad to hear it. I bought it for you,” Brooke said as she laid the dress over Sydney’s lap. “It’s time you stopped wearing dark things. Our mourning period has been over for nearly a month. And I thought the colour suited your hair.”

  Sydney touched the dress, ran the silk through her fingers. It felt cool and decadent. She touched several honey-hued strands of hair that fell about her face, framing it in soft swirls. The dress did suit her; even she knew that. She adored dressing up in elegant clothes like any woman. But fashion no longer had a place in the world she wanted to inhabit. Her future lay in practical shades of black, ivory and grey, like the typeset print of a newspaper, direct, no-nonsense, right and wrong.

  “Thank you, but you know I won’t wear it.” She carefully placed the dress beside her on the bed and regarded it as though it were a mounted butterfly in a museum.

  Brooke smiled. “Darling, I know you miss our father but you have to live your life.” She sat down beside Sydney, carefully moving the new dress aside as she did so.

  “It’s not about Father,” Sydney said. “I miss him, of course. But I do not worry about being alone. You have to not mind me so much. Once you are married, you will be on the other side of the Atlantic and I will lead my life my way.”

  Brooke sighed. “Not more of that New Woman business. I thought we had agreed it was a fleeting interest. When are you going to grow up?”

  Sydney was the indignant one now. “We had no such agreement. Women’s rights are a very grown-up cause. And I wish you and
everyone else would let me be.” She inhaled slowly, resolved to calm herself. An argument would not be won on this topic. And given that she had her own fortune, there was nothing her sister could do. But if only Brooke could see things as she did.

  “I do not need the vote,” Brooke announced as if reading her sister’s mind. “That’s what my husband will be for.”

  Clearly Brooke would never see things as she did. Despite a forced calmness, Sydney’s heart was beating so hard she worried she might burst out of her corset, or more likely faint. She must look into one of those new brassieres; a woman’s freedom could begin with her undergarments, couldn’t it? She slowed her breathing and smiled. “You could try to understand me a little better.”

  Brooke was staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have criticized you. But I do worry about you. What sort of life can you have marching in protests and making people uncomfortable with your independent ideas?” she asked. “Will you at least reconsider moving to England with me? With your beauty you would be the belle of any English ball. We could have so much fun. And if I can’t find you a duke or baronet to marry I can at least buy you any horse you want.”

  Sydney giggled. She couldn’t help it. Brooke’s solution to everything was a purchase and she knew her weakness for horses too.

  “I have my own money, I can buy myself a hunter.”

  “Oh but the finest hunters are in England. Even you must admit that.”

  “I’m perfectly happy with an American Thoroughbred. And besides, what would I do in England? They are at war and I’m afraid women aren’t much use in a war.”

  Brooke’s expression turned serious. “I hate this war already and we’re not even in it. What it’s done to English society. Most of its men have joined up and no doubt most will die and for what? Because some silly archduke got his brains splattered all over Sarajevo.”

  “Another reason for you to postpone the wedding until it’s all over. When peace comes then you can celebrate victory alongside your newfound countrymen and women,” Sydney pleaded, but it was futile.

  “How many times must we go over this? Edward is to be given a commission as a lieutenant and will ship out to France in June. That’s why the wedding must take place as soon as possible.” She forced a smile.

  “So you’ll get the title even if he’s killed?” Sydney asked dryly. She saw at once her words had stung Brooke.

  “Don’t be mean. And yes, as his widow I think I would. Besides, I like Edward and don’t want anything to happen to him.”

  Sydney bit her tongue. Who wants to only “like” her husband?

  Brooke took her silence for acquiescence and smiled sweetly like she’d won the argument. “Let’s not have war talk here. Not now.” She stroked the gown lovingly. “If you won’t wear the dress then I’ll give it away to a more appreciative girl.”

  Sydney looked at the silky confection on the bed. It would make her sister happy and she hated to argue especially when soon they’d be living apart with the whole of the Atlantic between them. “No. I’ll keep it. I’m sure one day it will be exactly what I need.”

  FEBRUARY 12

  Isabel

  The winter gloom clung to the windows like a slimy film. Outside, the panes were edged with soot-tinged snow, while inside condensation beaded down the glass and formed small pools on the wooden ledge. Alastair Denniston wiped a window with the sleeve of his jacket, leaving a wide streak to peer through. There wasn’t much to look at. The desolate courtyard was flanked on all sides by Admiralty buildings and contained several tracks of footprints but no evidence of who had made them. Night was falling and there was still so much to do. With the outdoors providing little distraction he turned back to the room.

  Several feet from the window the code breakers of Room 40 sat together around the larger of the desks. A couple of them had cigarettes dangling from their mouths, the smoke settling into a silvery-blue halo above their heads. With the encroaching darkness the room retained a yellow glow from the lamps, making their faces appear jaundiced. The men were exhausted. Many eyes were traced with dark circles. One man rested his head on top of the table, another had the nerve to put his feet on the same table, not bothering to clear a space but dirtying several piles of paper with the bottoms of his boots. And yet, despite, or perhaps because of the state of weariness, an argument raged on. Isabel, Dorothy and the other girls tried not to look like they were listening but one by one they stopped their work, riveted to the conversation.

  “We can’t have another Dogger Bank. The admirals already thought we were a useless lot before that.”

  “How were we to know it would turn out that way? I’m a German teacher not a naval officer.”

  “We did our part. The rest is up to them.”

  “Exactly. The problem is with how they dispense our work. It isn’t given directly to the men out on the ships, is it? We give it to Hope who gives it to Hall who gives it to Oliver, then it’s on to Fisher and Churchill. It’s them who directs the navy.”

  “They misinterpreted the transcripts, the bloody fools. I heard that Jellicoe wanted to send the entire Grand Fleet but Oliver and Fisher said no, so only Beatty went with a few destroyers and one squadron to meet the whole of the German Fleet.”

  “He’s right. That fiasco wasn’t on our heads.”

  Denniston pulled out a chair and rested one foot on it. “It wasn’t their entire fleet. And our boys still managed to sink a German ship,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “We suffered few casualties and lost no ships. I’d say we can claim the Battle of Dogger Bank a win for the British.” The other men looked to him as though his words were the final thoughts on the matter.

  Isabel sat organizing her desk like it was a battle plan. In her month on the job she had learned much about the men in Room 40. For one thing, they were nearly all civilians. The common denominator was that they could speak, write and read German. In fact linguistics and an ability to understand the Germans’ way of thinking was as crucial to the cause as deciphering code. Dorothy had told her that Denniston was a German-language instructor and had studied on the continent, which explained why he had asked her if she spoke it. The other men were Fleet Paymaster Rotter, the naval officer, Norton, who had grown less caustic with her over time, Anstie, Curtis, Parish, Laurence, Bullough, Montgomery, Lord Herschell, who was a baron and, of course, Henry Phillipson. He was the only man in Room 40 she called by his Christian name. Henry seemed younger and more naïve than the others and she liked that in him. He always had a smile and an offer to help the secretaries when he wasn’t busy. But he seemed partial to Isabel. Not in a romantic sense—she wouldn’t allow that anyway—it was more brotherly. No matter her personal rapport with one or the other, all these men relied on her. Isabel had proven herself to be accurate, swift and clever, even catching the occasional error in the transcripts.

  Who knew such clerical skills would be the turning point in her life? In Oxford they had seemed a silly waste of time. The house where Mr. Chambers lived and where she worked was on Banbury Road near the old parsonage in the city centre. He was an attractive man of about thirty-five and seemed to take a particular interest in Isabel. He would often smile at her and ask if she’d read the papers and if she had, what she thought about the news. It was enormously flattering, especially given the boyish grins that accompanied his inquiries. He made her blush often.

  And as if she wasn’t busy enough keeping the house clean for him and his wife and wee boy, he had insisted on expanding her talents. ‘The world is changing, Isabel. You’ll waste your life as a maid unless you do something about it.’ He’d said it many times until she relented. Part of her hesitation had been Mrs. Chambers. She was an imposing woman who stood nearly six feet tall and therefore towered over her husband who was only of average height. She lived to entertain the various professors and administrators from the university. Playing social hostess to the Oxford intelligentsia gave her distinction. Allowed her to rise above her station. T
hat’s what the lady of the house had written to her sister (Isabel had only glanced at the letter, honestly). She disdained the hoi polloi though. Once a young tutor had shown up at one of her dinners without a proper invitation, which was of course very poor form of him, but she had dressed him down in front of the other guests, including a visiting dignitary from Cambridge, and it was Isabel’s firm belief that this showed even poorer form on the part of Mrs. Chambers. Yet it proved that she was not to be trifled with. And for Isabel to take a typing and shorthand course in the evenings was reckless in this regard. Should she have been discovered by Mrs. Chambers, there would have been hell to pay: a severe reprimand—“Such an indecent activity for a girl in my employ”—if not outright dismissal. In hindsight that would have been far more desirable than what eventually transpired. Oh well, it didn’t do her any good to dwell.

  She hadn’t known what lay in store for her at Room 40. But now she wanted to learn to decipher code. As well as her rudimentary knowledge of Morse code she had a knack for seeing patterns in things—numbers, letters, the design in a Persian rug or floor tiles—and she saw patterns in the ciphered transcripts that Rotter and the others were decoding. She only had to find a way to spend more time with the codebooks and she could teach herself. Then she’d be indispensable.

  “Isabel, type this up for me.”

  It was Rotter. “Of course,” she said, and inserted a clean sheet of paper into her Underwood. Violet, Joan and Dorothy came back to life as well and stood admiring Isabel’s typing skills, which had become legendary.

  “She sounds like a machine-gun operator,” Violet quipped.

  “I’ve heard slower tap dancers in the West End,” said Joan, impressed.

  “I wonder if she can play ragtime?” Dorothy giggled.