Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  And now here he was, the reception nearly over and dinner soon to be served in the Grand Ballroom and he had yet to lay eyes on her. Was she really such a troll? He began to imagine Brooke was hiding something. Perhaps Sydney was the family idiot or was disfigured or obese. Or more likely, Sydney disapproved of the marriage and was boycotting all this fuss and bother. He told himself that such thoughts were lunacy: he was reacting to being very tired after the long voyage.

  “It’s such a shame your sister is so delayed,” he whispered to Brooke between endless introductions to her friends and acquaintances.

  “Isn’t it, though? She can’t help these migraines,” Brooke said.

  Edward saw her look at Mr. Garrett, who stood nearby. Edward had met with him that afternoon to discuss Brooke’s fortune being signed over to him pending the marriage. The older man had been very clear that he was no fan of the scheme. Edward had been gracious as he listened to Mr. Garrett lecture him on the importance of preserving wealth and investing properly and not spending the Sinclair fortune on anything as ridiculous as maintaining a pile of stone such as Rathfon Hall. Edward didn’t appreciate the man’s attitude, even if he understood it. And now, seeing him and Brooke exchange looks, like they were co-conspirators, made him uncomfortable.

  “This must be Edward!” The loud woman shouting at him was festooned with feathers and diamonds like an ornate rooster.

  “Emily, darling,” Brooke cooed, and tugged his arm. He bowed and took Emily’s hand. The women began to chatter about some nonsense involving the hotel décor when out of the corner of his eye Edward spotted the loveliest girl he had ever seen. She was tall and regal, her elegance in manner and adornment stood heads above the other creatures in the room. Then she smiled at someone and it lit her face with such warmth that he couldn’t help but smile himself. He was unaware that he was just standing there, staring and smiling, and had ceased to participate in the décor conversation until he felt Brooke yank his arm.

  “Ah, it looks like my sister is feeling better,” she purred, and to his amazement—and alarm—led him in the direction of the young woman, who, upon seeing them, projected her smile onto him. As they approached he was drawn to her full lips and to her eyes, which were not the pale icy blue of her sister’s. Indeed once he was standing face to face with Sydney he saw that her eyes were a fetching shade of hazel, a further touch of warmth that nature had bestowed on her. The two women bore little resemblance to each other.

  “Mr. Thorpe-Tracey, at last we meet,” Sydney said, and took his hand. To his surprise, and apparently hers, he bowed and kissed it, eliciting uncomfortable laughter from both women. “My, Brooke, you didn’t tell me how charming your fiancé is.”

  Brooke gave a thin smile, her blue eyes glistening like the ice that had seeped into her tone. “I thought such things would be trivial to you, my darling. So glad your headache is gone.”

  “Yes, no more pain at all,” answered Sydney.

  He picked up on the tension at once. “I’m afraid charm is not my forte,” Edward said cheerfully. The sound of his voice caused the women to stop glaring at each other and look at him instead. For a moment he was a trapped mouse between two lynxes. “I’m rather shy. But good manners always win the day.” He smiled though his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

  “Don’t be absurd, Edward.” Brooke laughed artificially.

  “And how do you find New York so far?” Sydney asked him. “Do you mind if I call you Edward?”

  “Please do. And I hardly know yet,” he said, getting the feeling she wasn’t really interested in his opinion. “This hotel is lovely.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “Though it must seem rather small compared to Rathfon Hall.”

  Brooke laughed again. “She’s teasing you, Edward. Sydney, perhaps you and I should go see about the first course? You don’t mind, darling?”

  He couldn’t fail to notice Sydney’s well-arched brow and the slightest flare of her nostrils as Brooke took her arm. They hadn’t gotten far when . . .

  “I see you’re no longer in handcuffs, Sydney.” It was Thomas Van Buren. Edward had met him earlier and thought him a simpleton with too much money. Sydney smiled as Brooke scowled at Thomas, who continued on like he was telling a very amusing story. “My driver happened to be near the police station when you were being taken inside.”

  Edward stood paralyzed with shock, certain this was more incomprehensible American humour. He expected Sydney to respond in the only way a young woman of her class should, with cool denial or a lighthearted laugh. Instead . . .

  “What of it?” she asked.

  Edward felt his eyebrows fly upward. “I thought you had a headache?”

  Sydney and Brooke looked about the room, everywhere and anywhere but at him. He’d been had. It seemed that women the world over were incapable of telling the truth. Thomas grinned as he backed away from the fire he’d set. “I seem to have let the cat out of the bag. Beg your pardon,” he said, and returned to the party.

  Sydney turned to Edward. “It was all a misunderstanding. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must check on the first course.”

  He was astounded by her lack of apology, contrition or any justifiable explanation. He had never known any man, let alone a woman, to dismiss such a social blot as an arrest so blithely, and while wearing evening dress. Edward was beyond astounded. He was in awe.

  “Sydney is rather different from you,” he said to Brooke, understatedly, as Sydney’s lithe figure disappeared into the throng of guests. He was desperate to know the truth but at this moment he didn’t trust Brooke to speak honestly. He had learned patience as a boy and knew when it was time to step back. The return voyage would give him enough time to unearth the mystery of Sydney Sinclair’s arrest on his own time, in his own way.

  “She is rather different from most young ladies,” Brooke admitted. “We used to be close when we were little. The death of our mother hit her especially hard because she was so young. When we grew up we developed separate interests; hers are not to everyone’s taste. But we have an understanding.”

  “What sort?”

  “That we will never understand each other.” Brooke smiled and placed her hand on his arm and led him into the ballroom.

  Sydney

  Dinner was an eternity. She had performed the part of the dutiful sister. Brooke had seen to it that the hotel had gone all out with the meal—five courses including the oysters—and they must have emptied a dozen bottles of champagne. But now the baked Alaska sat on its dessert plate melting into a mess of sodden meringue. Sydney felt sick. The headache that Brooke had invented seemed to be taking hold for real. She touched the back of her head where the stone had hit; there was a sizeable bump.

  She observed Edward across the table during the meal. He wasn’t what she expected. He had a pleasant face. It was perhaps a bit long to be considered classically handsome and with a jaw that jutted out a bit more than it should. His dark hair was thick and had a slight cowlick in front. But the whole of him was attractive. She had presumed him to be polite, well-mannered and dressed in well-tailored clothes and he was all of those things. He was of course educated and had read all the books one would expect a lord-in-waiting to have read.

  But when the dinner conversation inevitably turned to the European war, he had spoken about the politics of it with such passion and authority that the other men at the table seemed like fools next to him, their American isolationism a quaint yet dangerous idea when set against the terror of Germany and Austria and the impact a victory for the kaiser would have, even for the United States.

  “You must have heard about the German warning that they may sink any ship in the North Sea?” one of the men asked Edward.

  “Of course. All of England read about the threat back in February and about the American response. Your president Wilson all but threatened the Germans should they attack an American vessel or should any Americans lose their lives,” Edward said. “If I recall, his exact words wer
e that the United States would hold the Germans to ‘strict accountability’ if such a ‘deplorable situation’ should arise.”

  “Well, another British merchant ship was sunk last week by a submarine. Over a hundred people died,” the other man said. “One of them was an American. But did Washington declare war? No! So you see, Edward, we are not the solution to your country’s problems. Europe must stand on its own feet if it’s to survive.”

  Everyone at the table looked on in silence. The guest was clearly trying to provoke Edward. Brooke fiddled with the last of her baked Alaska, trying to hide her desire to pounce on the man. Sydney knew that the man, a Mr. Curry, was apt to drink too much and talk even more when out in public. “That man on the ship took his life in his hands, sailing a British ship through a war zone,” Sydney spoke up, aware that as she did everyone stared at her, yet only Edward seemed interested in her opinion. “Why would our president send troops to defend the foolish actions of one man?”

  She reached for her water goblet. Edward was smiling at her. “Indeed he would not. I dare say it will take more than that unfortunate incident to bring your country into the fight. But I hope that one day they will join in.”

  Sydney kept her gaze firmly fixed on Edward. “We are a brave country, Edward. When and if we feel it’s the right thing to do, you will see Americans on the battlefield.” They continued to look at each other despite the uneasy silence that followed their exchange. Mercifully, Mr. Curry was distracted by the sudden appearance of port.

  Had the conversation drifted to more innocuous topics the evening would have been considered a success. So it wasn’t her fault that Edward chose to continue down another path.

  “Do all American women converse so readily about the war and politics?” Edward asked casually. “On my journey here, I read about your Margaret Sanger, who fled to England after jumping bail on obscenity charges.”

  Brooke glowered at Sydney. Like she had somehow willed him to say Mrs. Sanger’s name. “That vulgar woman,” Brooke said to appease Edward. “It’s good she’s left America.”

  “Yes, but now England has to cope with her,” Edward said with a smile.

  Dutiful sister was one thing, but Sydney couldn’t resist making a calmly spoken observation; no one could object to that. “It seems to me, and perhaps you can clarify the matter, Edward,” she began, knowing her sister’s wide-eyed stare was intended to get her to shut her mouth, “that England must be very progressive if Mrs. Sanger thought it the place to escape? Are women free to choose in your part of the world?”

  The way Brooke clasped the dessert fork Sydney thought she was going to stab her any moment. Edward, however, seemed reasonably unshaken by her question.

  “London has its liberal factions,” he agreed. “And I am certain that many English girls who find themselves in unfortunate circumstances do find solutions there. But as far as what Mrs. Sanger teaches, I am only too glad that my sister is confined to the country.”

  Sydney felt her temperature rise. The arrogance. The chauvinism. “Brooke told me that your sister is bound to a wheelchair?”

  “She is.”

  “And yet you wish her confined to a rural existence as well? Is that some sort of aristocratic banishment?”

  “Sydney!” Brooke snapped.

  She had gone too far. The other guests stared at their plates. She could see that Edward’s respect for her opinion had melted faster than the baked Alaska. “My apologies, Edward. I was only trying to suggest that modern views on women’s roles in our society would benefit all women. Even those with challenges such as your sister’s can still lead a fulfilling life.”

  “Lady Georgina will be fulfilled playing aunt to our children,” Brooke said with a tight smile.

  “I meant that in a city such as London she could find a job that suits her, be independent,” Sydney continued. “I didn’t mean to suggest she march with Margaret Sanger.”

  “No,” Edward said brusquely. “Marching isn’t possible for her.”

  Sydney wilted. Edward continued to finish his dessert as he began a chat with his neighbour about the quality of fox hunting in Westchester.

  Brooke set her jaw. “Thank you, Sydney. You can always be counted on for lively words.”

  The sisters sat in the back seat of the motorcar on the way home. Even though it was after midnight the air was warm and light, though the same could not be said of the air between them.

  “I know you think everyone is interested in what you have to say,” Brooke said. “But in truth you embarrass yourself.”

  “You mean I embarrass you,” Sydney said, and stared out the car window at the streets, the yellow light from the lamps streaming past.

  Brooke squeezed Sydney’s hand. It was meant to be conciliatory but it pinched. “I know my engagement must be difficult for you to understand. But the marriage will make me happy.”

  Sydney wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure about that? Edward seems so serious.”

  Her sister laughed. “That he is. I suppose we didn’t talk much about the war and politics when I was in England. It was all dances and parties. Reality wasn’t part of the routine.”

  “And now?” Sydney implored her.

  Brooke bit her lip. “How can anyone know that for certain?”

  “It’s not too late to call it off.”

  Brooke’s eyes narrowed as though Sydney’s words were an insult. Sydney knew the look well. Despite the moment of warmth between them, her words had angered Brooke all over again. Not that that stopped her.

  “You really have no more ambition than to have a title and live in England like a fairy-tale princess?” Sydney asked. “Our father would be livid.”

  “Not this again,” Brooke said impatiently. “Father would have hated it, but our mother would have adored it.” Sydney softened at the mention of their mother. Brooke stared down at her gloves. “Besides, I am twenty-six. It’s time for me to get married, I won’t risk easing into old-maid territory. And I’ve decided to marry Edward,” Brooke said. “And until I do you are going to promise he never finds out about your hobby.”

  “Hobby?” Sydney objected.

  “Yes, hobby. It’s a controversial one but it’s a hobby. He’s not to know until after the wedding, if ever.”

  “I can’t hide who I am. And I won’t,” Sydney said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Brooke said, and turned away to stare out her side of the car. “We sail in a week and I am going to insist you keep away from Edward until we board.”

  “And then what? Lock me up in the brig?”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Brooke said.

  APRIL 30

  Isabel

  Room 40 was in a state of heightened awareness. Captain Hall had been working closely with Lieutenant Colonel Drake who operated MI5, the domestic Intelligence agency, and together they had made the Germans aware of a plan—through a deliberate and elaborate web of espionage—for the British to invade the northernmost part of Germany, known as Schleswig-Holstein. The plan was entirely false but the hope was that it would draw German forces out of France. But to keep up the ruse the Admiralty had halted shipping traffic across the channel on April 19. On April 25 the code breakers intercepted a message that several U-boats were to be deployed to patrol the waters with the goal to attack transports, merchant ships and warships should this attack take place.

  Isabel had watched the plan unfold with a mix of awe and fear. The German Admiralty, known as the Admiralstab, had continued to broadcast the schedule of the Lusitania to its navy since March. There had been no incidents to raise her concern but each time the Lusitania sailed out of port Isabel kept a keen eye on the incoming messages for any mention of the ocean liner. Ever since she had transcribed the ship’s name on the target list she felt responsible for it. Isabel knew that was a silly notion, yet it haunted her that the British Admiralty knew what those men, women and children who booked passage on the Lusitania didn’t—that the enemy was targeting th
e ship and would attack it if given the chance, with no concern for the innocent souls on board, and that Churchill would use it to lure the Americans into the conflict. Somehow in Isabel’s mind she thought that if she intercepted a message at the right time then she could prevent tragedy. What was the purpose of breaking codes if they couldn’t be used to save lives? And tomorrow the Lusitania was to sail from New York once again. This made the repeated messages from the German submarine U-20, reporting its coordinates throughout the day as it sailed across the North Sea, impossible to hear without her raising the alarm to someone.

  “The U-20 has transmitted its location at least ten times so far,” Isabel whispered to Rotter. He studied the latest message she had given him. “Its commander has been ordered to the Irish Sea.”

  Room 40 had intercepted orders sent to the submarines a few days earlier, including this specific directive to the U-20, which was commanded by a Captain Walther Schwieger, who was in charge when the U-20 fired at a hospital ship in January. He missed but it gave him the reputation as a brute, although according to British Intelligence, Schwieger was a career seaman who was popular with his crew and came from a well-to-do family in Berlin.

  Rotter placed a rudimentary map of the British and Irish coastline in front of them. “Depending on his speed he could be in the Irish Sea in a matter of days.”

  “Exactly,” Isabel said. “As will the Lusitania.”

  Since starting her job Isabel had learned that Room 40 had amassed knowledge of each German flotilla, including submarines, knowing their location and state of readiness, and when a vessel left port and where it was going thanks to these incessant broadcasts by the German coastal stations. But unfortunately U-boats couldn’t transmit past a certain point at sea and they would literally vanish for days. It was then anyone’s guess, including the Germans’, what their exact location was, beyond a general area.

  Due to the Admiralty’s desire for complete secrecy, the men of Room 40 were further thwarted by not being allowed to keep a chart of British and Allied warships, so there could be no precise way of knowing what ship could intersect with what threat. It was all up to Oliver, Fisher and Churchill ultimately.