Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  Commander Hope held it in front of Denniston so he could read it. Denniston nodded that he’d finished reading it. But Isabel knew what the report said. She exchanged alarmed looks with Rotter.

  “Isabel, type up Mr. Rotter’s transcript and have it delivered to Captain Hall at once.” The commander held the paper out to her. Isabel jumped to her feet. This was as serious as she thought. Her decoding was accurate and what it revealed was horrifying.

  “Shouldn’t we alert Cunard, sir?” Rotter asked.

  “The right people will be alerted, Mr. Rotter, as usual.”

  The commander’s words didn’t seem to satisfy Rotter, who grabbed his jacket and cap and abruptly left the room. The rest of the team looked to the commander for direction.

  “Back at it, gentlemen. There’s a war on you know.”

  Isabel was shaking when she returned to her desk and sat down. She slipped a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter carriage, ready to type, and quickly glanced at Rotter’s handwriting. She always read the messages at least once before she typed them, that way there were no surprises and she could assure her accuracy. She saw once again the words she had decoded. She thought back to Churchill’s letter to Runciman. Perhaps the First Lord would get what he wished for.

  A sense of unease settled in the room. The usual chatter had ceased. Everyone was working in silence. Isabel caught Dorothy’s eye. Dorothy took the hint and moved to stand over her shoulder. Isabel’s fingers, normally so nimble as they punched the keys, were clumsy now and slipped, making at least three spelling errors. She ripped out the paper. Dorothy handed her a fresh page. Taking a deep breath Isabel slowed her keystrokes and her breathing and carefully typed out the message without a single mistake. It was a short transmission. Finished, she stared at the sentence that the Germans had broadcast to every submarine commander in their fleet. Then she looked up to Dorothy, whose own features were drawn and serious.

  Fast steamer Lusitania leaves Liverpool March 13.

  When she was done she rose from her desk. The hush in the room was startling. Her throat was so dry she swallowed. But with Rotter gone who else would speak up about it?

  “Commander Hope, sir?” Isabel said, her voice raspy. There wasn’t a set of eyes not turned her way, including those of the commander, who stood with Denniston. “She’s a passenger ship, sir,” Isabel pointed out needlessly. There had been no other civilian vessels on the Germans’ target lists that she knew of.

  The commander looked about to reprimand her but seeing how closely their exchange was being watched he took a great breath instead. “The Lusitania and her sister ship, the Mauretania, were built for peace and war,” Commander Hope explained. “The British Admiralty was heavily involved in the funding and design of the ships. Not only are they the most luxurious and safest transatlantic passenger liners in the world, they also have the capacity to become the fastest and most powerful armed cruisers in the war, should the need arise.” Commander Hope continued, “It’s no secret that the Lusitania has twelve gun mounts on her decks but so far she hasn’t been outfitted with actual guns.”

  “And given Germany’s policy of unrestricted submarine warfare,” Denniston added, “the Lusitania could be considered a proper military target.”

  Isabel looked down at the paper once again. If she didn’t know these facts she wagered few of the passengers did either. She looked to Dorothy and Violet; they didn’t seem any more reassured than she did.

  “Last summer while at sea she was painted battleship grey to hide her from the Germans,” Norton said. He looked at Isabel as he spoke. “Then the government decided that as a passenger ship she wasn’t in danger. Besides, she can outrun any submarine, so Cunard was instructed to return the Lusy to her company colours.”

  “But shouldn’t we tell Cunard then? As Mr. Rotter suggested?” Isabel asked. Even if what they said was true that didn’t mean the shipping company shouldn’t be told of the transcript.

  “The numbers speak for themselves,” said Commander Hope. “Where is the records book we keep about ship crossings?”

  Isabel was sure the men were glaring at her, thinking her silly. Yet the commander and Denniston seemed willing to explain things to her.

  “It’s here, sir,” Dorothy said. She grabbed a file from a drawer and handed it to him. The commander flipped through it as the rest of them waited for whatever it was he was going to say next. “Since the threat began in February, out of more than thirteen hundred ships leaving British ports, only eleven have been attacked and only seven have sunk,” he said with authority and a certain amount of patriotic pride. “And none of them could touch anywhere near the Lusitania’s speed of twenty-five knots. Submarines are slow things. They just can’t get to her.”

  APRIL 15

  Edward

  A heavy mist hung about Rathfon Hall like a soft blanket draped atop a sleeping giant’s back. It was the morning of Edward’s departure. The dreary weather wasn’t enough to postpone the journey or to prevent Lady Northbrook from seeing him off. Edward looked up from inspecting the automobile’s back seat, full of his trunks, to see his mother descend the stairs wearing a white fur stole as though she was going to a ball.

  “Mother, you didn’t need to come outside,” he scolded her softly, and kissed her cheek.

  “My dear boy, I wouldn’t let you leave on such a long voyage without at least one of your parents bidding you Godspeed,” she said with a small smile. “Though since you’re sailing on the Lusitania, speed you shall have.”

  “To think I shall be in New York on the twenty-fourth,” he marvelled. He looked at his mother. She was always so sad lately, as though the weight of the world not only rested on her shoulders but also within her soul. It was just a house, Rathfon Hall, but it meant everything to her and to him; it was a passion they shared, one of the few things they held in common. “I will return safe and sound with my bride-to-be,” he said.

  “Yes.” She sighed. She stroked the automobile’s hood. It was so smooth and polished, like a ballroom floor. “I’m so looking forward to having her live with us.”

  “Smile, Mama,” he said. This elicited an artificially wide smile from her but it would do.

  “Edward!” came a shout. It was Lady Georgina. The butler gently pushed the girl’s wheelchair outside so she could get close to her brother. Her red hair flowed over her shoulders and she wore no coat, too anxious not to miss Edward to bother with hairpins and warm garments.

  “Georgina, you will catch your death,” Lady Northbrook admonished her.

  Edward leaned down and they embraced. “I’ve made this for Brooke,” Georgina said, ignoring her mother, and held up an embroidered scarf. “I hope she will like it. She remarked on my needlepoint skills when she was here.”

  Edward smiled. “That is very kind of you. I’m sure she will adore it. Now promise me you will behave yourself while I am gone.”

  “I promise.” She giggled.

  “You’re my best girl. Always remember that.” He smiled and kissed the top of her head.

  This pleased Georgina, who clasped her hand inside her mother’s as they watched Edward and a groundsman start the motorcar. The engine turned over immediately, its sound a powerful purr that startled the birds enough that they fled to the nearby hedges. He climbed inside, Maxwell, his anxious-looking valet, beside him, and waved once more before driving off.

  Georgina and Lady Northbrook remained on the drive watching the silver automobile disappear into the fog.

  “I can’t wait for the wedding,” Georgina said. “It will be so glamorous and beautiful.”

  Lady Northbrook sniffed. “It will be an absurd extravagance.”

  “Oh, Mama, don’t be so negative. Who doesn’t love a wedding?”

  Lady Northbrook avoided looking at her daughter’s useless legs. What man would have a cripple as a wife? Especially when children weren’t possible. Yes, Edward’s wedding would be the only such event at Rathfon Hall for a generation, let Ge
orgina enjoy it.

  APRIL 25

  Sydney

  It had been a very good afternoon to start with. The placards had turned out exactly as planned. The slogan “No Gods, No Masters” was painted boldly and the wood the placards were affixed to was sufficiently lightweight for ease of carrying. The gathering had drawn much larger numbers than expected; many new faces joined the ranks of the movement and marched alongside and many more remained on the sidelines nervously observing. Then there were the men. And the police. Both appeared on high alert. It was a noisy affair. There was chanting. Shouting. And eventually the shrill call of a police siren.

  Sydney marched up and down Washington Square with the others, calling upon the state to allow a birth control clinic to operate legally in the city. I’m marching to make social change, she told herself, proud to be part of the demonstration. She believed vehemently that birth control was as much the key to women’s advancement as the right to vote was. It would give women freedom, help them escape poverty and control their health. It wasn’t enough to read about these theories in books and magazines; she had to put her own feet on the ground for the cause.

  But secretly, she found it thrilling. Nothing in her life before had made her feel this way. Dinner parties, balls, the opera and every other fashionable activity of her social sphere were pleasant enough pastimes yet they could also be dull. The only thing that came close to the exhilaration of taking part in this rally was when she galloped toward a jump on the hunt. Danger was a rush, an intoxication, a glorious sensation that made her feel vital and alive. Life should have more of this.

  “Shame! Shame!” came the call.

  Sydney was startled to see several women hissing at her. “Shame!” they repeated once they’d caught her eye, their faces contorted with hatred. She kept marching. I mustn’t engage such women. I must let the rally and the placards speak for me. But she was too proud, too sure of her beliefs to do anything but stare back at the hissing women, all of whom were of a certain class, namely hers. She observed that the poorer women who dotted the crowd stood silent as sentries.

  It was then that one of the protesters began to argue with a man in the crowd. Sydney wasn’t close enough to hear their words but she was well within range of the first stone that was thrown. It hit her square on the back of her head. She felt the sting of the blow and staggered more from shock than injury. She touched her velvet glove to her head and examined the tip. Blood. She looked up and saw one of the hissing women waving her fist. Another rock visible in her hand. The woman threw it toward Sydney but this time it missed and crashed to the ground. What happened next was a blur. The chanting had been abandoned in favour of outright shouting. More stones and other items were thrown at the women and the peaceful rally descended into madness. Sydney was shoved and she shoved back. Someone grabbed her hair and tore off her hat. The placard she was carrying was knocked from her hand and stomped on. When she bent down to pick it up someone kicked her to the ground. She might have been trampled in the rush if a large brutish police officer hadn’t seen her go down. Stupidly not recognizing her saviour in the moment, she slapped him; that ensured her ticket to the police station.

  The women from the rally were lined up at the police precinct like common criminals. The room where they were held smelled like sweat and urine and, strangely, of smoked meat. It was uncomfortable squatting on the floor like a child. It was the better part of two hours before Sydney was called into another space, a cramped room with several desks arranged in a line, each with a police officer manning it. The processing room they called it. She sat down where she was told and was asked to give her name and address.

  “Sydney Sinclair?” The police officer was a sergeant with a handlebar moustache and sideburns that could use a trim. “You’re father wasn’t—”

  “Yes, he was,” she answered swiftly. If her surname wasn’t enough to end this silliness than nothing was. The whole thing was ludicrous.

  “He died, what, a year ago?”

  “Fourteen months.”

  The sergeant examined Sydney’s face. She touched her cheek. How dreadful she must look. Hair askance, clothes torn and dirty. She assumed there was dried blood on her face to add to the picture. Thank heavens the sergeant knew who she was and was sympathetic.

  “Your father was a fine man. And I have no doubt that if he were still alive he would be very disappointed in you, Miss Sinclair.”

  That wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for. She sat as straight and high as she could on the wooden chair that was far lower than his. “I assure you, Sergeant, that my father allowed me to be independent.”

  He didn’t look up from his paperwork. “Did he allow you to spend the night in jail?” Sydney’s eyes widened. “That independent enough for you?” he said with a smirk.

  “You can’t be serious?” she asked. “I have to be at my sister’s engagement party at the Plaza this evening.” He gave her a look. “I’ve broken no laws. I’m sure you’re aware of the First Amendment, Sergeant. I was only exercising my rights.”

  “Was it your right to strike an officer?”

  Sydney looked down at her gloves. The index finger was stained with her blood. She was the one who had been hurt, not some tough-talking policeman who didn’t know to stay out of the way. “That was a mistake.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Looking around at the ashen faces of her fellow rabble-rousers she grew fearful that perhaps the sergeant was serious.

  “Okay, Miss Sinclair,” he said authoritatively as he put his pen down. She thought this meant he was finished with her so Sydney stood. “Sit down.” She sat.

  “You will have to miss the party,” he stated. “You can send a message if you like. But you’ll have to pay for it.”

  “Send for a messenger, please,” she said. “Then you will soon see that I won’t be staying the night.”

  He eyed her. “Money buys freedom, does it?”

  She didn’t dare answer him.

  When Mr. Garrett fetched Sydney from the police station he was already dressed in his evening clothes. She was out of jail but she felt like a prisoner nonetheless.

  “I have been resigned to your marching in protests, Sydney. But to strike a police officer?” Sydney made to answer but he waved her silent. “I’m taking you home to change. Your maid Sarah is there to help you with your hair and anything else you need.” He looked her over. “Perhaps a bath. Then you will arrive at the Plaza in time for dinner. You’ll be too late for the reception.”

  Sydney swallowed. “Was Brooke very angry when you told her what happened?”

  Mr. Garrett exhaled. “She was not happy. You’ve embarrassed her.”

  Sydney said nothing further. For the remainder of the drive she pictured Edward, the tall, thin and stiff-looking man from the photo Brooke had shown her, standing at the reception, impressing all their friends with his Englishness. She imagined him acting like a trained dog in a circus, dancing for his supper, performing Englishman tricks for Brooke’s fortune. Yes, missing such a spectacle was a disappointment.

  Edward

  The Plaza Hotel’s lobby was a crush of Manhattan’s finest young men and women come to meet the future Lord Northbrook. Edward knew he had been talked about incessantly before he’d even set foot on American soil, his title and family history dissected and his financial status analyzed by every single person whose hand he now shook. To his face at least the swarm of bejewelled ladies and gentlemen were polite, even deferential, their curiosity forcing any judgments to be concealed beneath their corsets and tailcoats.

  “Of course they are charming to you,” Brooke answered when he had remarked on this. “Every last one of them wants to be assured a weekend at Rathfon Hall.”

  He found her opinion of people harsh. Although this tendency seemed to spill into other areas, including him. Since his arrival yesterday their time together had been strained. He had talked about his voyage. She had asked after his family. He inquired after th
e wedding plans (as Georgina had instructed him to do, so he’d appear modern) and she had caught him up in every detail. She questioned him on Rathfon Hall and he obliged. Then they had run out of conversation. Was there really so little in common between them?

  He then asked about the guests for tonight’s engagement party—which was planned to be as ornate and elaborate as money (a lot of money) could buy—and Brooke had obliged, running through the guest list and going into intimate detail on every person’s financial status, their taste in fashion (or poor taste according to her) and any whiff of scandal that may have touched them. He heard every word she spoke but he didn’t really listen, his mind drifting to the news of the war he’d read on the ship’s papers and upon his arrival in New York. On April 22, mere days ago, the Germans had unleashed a new weapon on the battlefields of Ypres, Belgium—chlorine gas—a yellow cloud of poison that in forty-eight hours choked, tortured and killed thousands of British and Canadian troops. He knew no one in New York and initially turned to his fiancée to talk about these developments. She listened for a moment then quickly changed the subject back to the impropriety of one of her school friends.

  It occurred to him, over a luncheon at the Fifth Avenue brownstone, that in their twenty-four hours together, without the distraction of family and social engagements, he had learned the path their marriage would take. It wasn’t a path of twists and turns, of surprises and discoveries; it was straight and narrow and would run its unyielding, expected course through to its end.

  Yet despite all of this, there was one subject where he found Brooke remarkably silent: her own flesh and blood. It surprised him when Sydney wasn’t at the pier with Brooke to receive him. And Brooke’s dismissal of it was absurd. And at lunch today, the young lady was mysteriously absent. The sour-faced guardian-banker, Mr. Garrett, had also been oddly laconic on the matter and mumbled something about Sydney having a prior engagement.