Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  Since the letter incident Isabel had been more frequently in Churchill’s company, acting as a runner between his office and Room 40. These notes were not confidential and she would see his trademark red pen scribbled across transcripts with such directives as Watch this carefully.

  She had to trust that despite the contents of the letter, Churchill would protect the Lusitania and alert Cunard and its captain of the U-20 heading toward the Irish Sea.

  Isabel lit a cigarette. She had joined the men in smoking and drinking whisky. She told Dorothy it was due to the stress of her work and all the extra hours she spent learning codes, but that was only part of it; in truth she enjoyed both vices immensely. If she was to be honest it wasn’t only her job that pushed her to indulge in bad habits. It was Mildred. They ignored each other. Or more accurately, Isabel ignored Mildred but they couldn’t avoid each other altogether. Isabel gave Mildred the cold shoulder whenever she entered with tea and sandwiches, though it was possible that this approach was doing more harm than good. Earlier on Mildred had made a few attempts at conversation but Isabel had turned her back, refusing to engage her. This had caused the girl some embarrassment. Dorothy had asked Isabel why she was so rude to the tea girl. Having Dorothy disapprove was very unsettling. She didn’t dare explain to Dorothy why she disliked Mildred so much. She had made a feeble excuse about being too caught up in her work to have time to chat. When Dorothy had pointed out that Isabel chatted with the Room 40 staff constantly, she had accused Isabel of being a snob. It was a ridiculous accusation. But she had no rebuttal. Mildred had no right to be there. The Admiralty was Isabel’s world. Her job. Her second chance.

  These days Mildred scarcely looked at Isabel. To further complicate matters and force Isabel to reach for yet another cigarette was the fact that Mildred was stepping out with Henry. He hadn’t even told her himself; Dorothy had run into them one night at the Coach & Horses. Their romance complicated things in Isabel’s mind. She had lost sleep and her closeness with Henry had dropped off. The thought of the two of them sitting cozy in some pub was terrifying. What if Mildred told Henry the truth about Oxford? Surely that would ruin all she’d built in Room 40. And conversely, what if Henry told Mildred about the letter? She shook such a thought from her head. Surely she could trust Henry about that?

  MAY 1

  Sydney

  It was the mob that caught Sydney’s eye. Then came the sound. The racket reached through the motorcar and shook her. All over the sidewalk, spilling onto the street, men and women clamoured and shouted with the heady gaiety of a carnival. Yet the manner with which the crowd parted for the vehicle and gaped at its occupants had the predatory air of a Tudor execution. Sydney was startled by this unexpected commotion at the pier.

  “Were there this many people when you sailed last fall?” Sydney posed the question to Brooke who was seated beside her.

  “It’s possible that a lot of them have come to see us off. After all, Edward is who he is. What he is,” she answered eagerly, her eyes roaming the scene outside the car window; she had a way of appraising people like she was examining jewels for imperfections.

  “And you’re you,” Sydney answered, with a slight tinge of sarcasm. She was still smarting from their terse exchange after the engagement dinner a week ago. They had done their best to make polite conversation ever since but the truth was they were both angry as hell. Any words beyond a cursory How are you this morning? or What time is the dress fitting? resulted in bickering. The voyage was either going to smooth things or increase the tension. No matter which way it went, it wasn’t a journey that Sydney was looking forward to. Though in the case of the present crowd she had to admit there was a real chance that Brooke was right that her wedding would attract a lot of attention. Edward was travelling in a separate motorcar, coming directly from his room at the Plaza. Brooke had arranged to meet him on board at the ship’s Grand Entrance. It now seemed a wise choice. They’d never find him in this fray.

  Sydney furrowed her brow. Hordes of New Yorkers waiting on a drizzly morning to catch sight of her sister and her sister’s fiancé gave Brooke’s obsession with her sailing outfit credence. Sydney recounted the dozen dresses that had proven inadequate that morning. Her own trunks packed the evening prior, she had quietly observed Brooke fuss and fret over colour and texture. The winner was a sunflower-yellow silk dress with matching cape and feathered hat that coordinated identically with the paint of the motorcar, virtually guaranteeing maximum visibility on the pier. Sydney ran her hands over her own charcoal skirt and removed her gaze from the dazzling sun seated beside her.

  “I wonder how many of the newspapers sent reporters?” Brooke asked.

  “I’m sure they all did,” Sydney answered. “All the papers have reporters on the docks. After all, there is a war on and this is a British ship heading into the war zone.”

  Brooke patted her skirt so hard it rustled. “But we’re in America and we are not at war,” she said. “People are tired of reading about death and politics. A society wedding is a happy diversion. It only makes sense that the papers would send reporters to get pre-wedding quotes from Edward and me,” Brooke continued.

  Sydney watched as Brooke wrinkled her nose at the unidentifiable faces. She knew what her sister was thinking: the crowd was too unseemly to be here for her. Too restless and vulgar. Not the send-off her sort would stage.

  “I can’t imagine what’s got them so worked up,” Sydney said as the car pushed through the thickening crowd. She fought the bubbling sense of alarm rising from her stomach. She had had enough of rowdy gatherings. How quickly a crowd could turn on itself, even turn violent. She looked to the front passenger seat at Mr. Garrett, his face buried in the dailies, oblivious to all but the latest news on the stock exchange. She guessed that he was avoiding being drawn into their conversation by pretending not to hear their “lady chatter,” as he referred to it.

  “Mr. Garrett?” Sydney asked directly. The older man started at the sound of his name. He twisted around and peered over the top of his spectacles at his beautiful young charges in the back seat.

  “Yes, Sydney?”

  “Why are there so many people at the pier? Surely they can’t all be passengers?”

  Mr. Garrett surveyed the scene unfolding outside. He smiled. “There’s always a fuss when the Lusitania is in port. You see those archways?” he asked, and pointed upward to the immense steel archways. “That’s the Chelsea Piers, which White Star and Cunard call home whenever their ships are in port. They’re the work of architects Warren and Wetmore, the very same firm responsible for the new Grand Central Terminal on Forty-Second Street,” Garrett explained.

  Sydney had read several articles on the building of the new train station; it was the subject at many parties she had attended, though often brought up solely by male guests who were taken aback by her interest in such matters. Indeed both structures had the world talking of their opulence and efficiency, and local denizens debating if they were indeed everything expected of them and more, for to be considered a success in New York anything or anyone must be more. What was beyond debate was that the piers and the train station were the hubs of America’s East Coast and, for many, the doorsteps into Manhattan, where residents and visitors alike could begin their love affair or their heartbreak with the city. “But don’t you feel that the designs are too much of a tribute to old Europe?” Sydney asked, amused by the look of amazement on Garrett’s face. “I would have thought that as a young country we’d be anxious to build more modern buildings?”

  Her opinions always mildly shocked Garrett, who chose to ignore her this time. The car continued its push through the chaos. “See how close you can get the car to the porter’s station,” Garrett ordered the driver.

  Sydney watched, fascinated, as the crowd let them pass. The motorcar drew in behind a long line of taxicabs and horse-drawn carriages whose passengers barked at porters to take care with their luggage. Sydney waited for the driver to open her door; thro
ugh the fray she caught sight of a moderately dressed woman hurrying a young girl of about ten years through the mass of people. The woman was quite stout, with thick ringlet curls that would better suit her child. But the girl was dressed very well. A gold ribbon tied deep brown hair that shone like mink. The woman must be her nanny. She watched them vanish beneath the archway.

  The driver opened the door. Sydney saw immediately that within the swarm of people were a slew of reporters and photographers guarding the entrance to the pier, a fact not lost on Brooke whose face lit up as though she had swallowed a sunbeam.

  “I knew they’d want a photo,” she gushed. “How do I look, Sydney? Be honest. These photos will appear all over the world.”

  Sydney studied her sister. It was a handsome face with a sharp nose and square jawline, dark hair and pale blue eyes that compelled everyone to stare; her relationship to their father could not be denied. Sydney took her features from their mother: upturned nose, heart-shaped face, lips like a Christmas bow and just as red, and the honey-blond hair that seemed the perfect accompaniment to her hazel eyes. She was the duplicate of Constance Sinclair; photographs and one imposing portrait enforced this view, as did the voiced opinions of her parents’ friends. Many had come frequently after Constance’s passing but gradually retreated into their own lives, leaving their father and a succession of nannies to raise the two girls.

  “Why are you looking at me? Is it my hair?” Brooke demanded.

  “You’re beautiful,” Sydney said simply, causing her sister to grab her hand with delight.

  “Thank you, darling. Well, I best not keep them waiting,” she said with a pout. “Now you get out first and stand over on the sidewalk so the cameras have full view of my dress and the car.”

  “But it’s raining. Surely you want the driver to shield you with an umbrella?”

  “It’s a lovely mist! Besides, an umbrella would cover me too much. Now be a dear and step away.”

  Sydney sighed; the single moment of kindness between them was washed away as swiftly as the rain fell. She stepped onto the pavement. The drizzle flecked her face and she wiped her cheek as she took a few steps and stood where Mr. Garrett was waiting impatiently.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked her, a hint of exhilaration in his voice.

  Sydney was so occupied with the mob and Brooke’s frippery that she hadn’t noticed. At his prompting she turned her attention from the sideshow on the street and at last saw her. The four black funnels that rose above the pier shed, the white bridge and decks that gleamed against the grey skies, the black hull with its sharp bow that curved to the heavens. Launched in 1906, she was immense and exuded strength and marvel but also grace and beauty. The Lusitania was like a goddess come down from Olympus. A glorious example of engineering and glamour united into one perfect object.

  “Gorgeous,” Sydney breathed, a wide smile brightening her complexion. “Such a marvellous and modern machine.”

  “She’s more than a machine. The Lusitania is very much a woman—beautiful, comforting and temperamental,” Mr. Garrett said as he scanned the crowd, as though seeing them for the first time. “This is quite a ruckus even for a celebrity like the Lusy. Let me see if I can find out what’s behind it.”

  Sydney watched him disappear into the thick of it. The crowd had increased tenfold since their arrival. There must be a thousand. She caught sight of several people waving newspapers about, pointing and gawking at something in its pages and speaking animatedly to one another. She turned back to find Brooke had at last alighted from the automobile and stood posing, as though she were waiting for a curtain call.

  “My, what a lovely day for a voyage,” Brooke exclaimed good-naturedly to the crowd. She was perched on the vehicle’s running board, a golden statue, arms stretched out, her biggest and brightest smile, putting on a show for the audience. But no one took notice of her. Whatever had gotten the crowd worked up it wasn’t her sister’s upcoming marriage. Sydney felt embarrassed for her. But Brooke appeared unfazed and strolled to her sister’s side like they were on a Sunday picnic in Central Park. Sydney saw that the maid Sarah had arrived with the luggage in a separate car. Sarah was the same age as her, and had been with them only a short time.

  “My, there are a lot of people here,” Brooke said, loud enough to be heard above the din.

  “They’ve come to see the doomed liner,” a man tossed off ominously as he passed by.

  Sydney shuddered. “Why would he say such a thing?”

  “Don’t pay him any attention,” another man’s voice said assertively. The man who spoke was a member of the Cunard staff. “The British Admiralty will take mighty good care of the ship. We will be escorted through the war zone by navy cruisers.”

  “That’s very reassuring. Thank you.” Sydney smiled even though she felt anything but reassured. The Cunard staffer nodded politely before hurrying toward the ship. As they stood on the sidewalk other bits of conversation floated by: “The kaiser wouldn’t dare!” . . . “I told my husband we are not boarding come hell or high water. And in this case it may be both.” . . . “Damnable scare tactics. They underestimate the English.”

  When Sydney turned to her sister she could see from Brooke’s expression that she’d heard it all too. Then Mr. Garrett was back, his face as white as the New York Times he held in his hands.

  “This is what’s turned the pier into a madhouse.” His tone struck the same serious note that he normally reserved for high finance. “I didn’t see it when I was reading the financial news this morning.”

  “What is it?” Brooke asked.

  “It’s a notice from the Germany Embassy.” He unfolded the paper and held it out so both women could read it. At the top of the page was the Cunard advertisement for the Lusitania, giving the date of departure: Saturday, May 1, 1915, at ten a.m. Directly below was something else entirely.

  NOTICE! Travellers intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing in the war zone on the ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk.

  IMPERIAL GERMAN EMBASSY

  Washington, D.C., April 22, 1915

  “My God,” Brooke said.

  “Are they intending to sink her?” Sydney asked as Mr. Garrett composed himself. He never enjoyed managing female hysteria.

  “I’m sure it’s military posturing, my dear. The Imperial German Navy has more sense than to target a civilian passenger ship, especially, I might add, one that is carrying so many prominent Americans.”

  His words were enough to mollify Brooke who turned her attention to adjusting her wrap.

  “Should we sail on another ship?” Sydney asked, still distressed.

  “Don’t be silly,” Brooke said. “You heard Mr. Garrett. It’s just a German ploy.”

  “You’ll have an escort of several of the Royal Navy’s best battleships,” Mr. Garrett explained soothingly. “I wish I was sailing with you. It’s quite an exciting time to be on the North Atlantic. Enjoy the adventure,” he said, and touched Sydney’s shoulder gently.

  “Very well, Mr. Garrett,” Brooke said, not seeming to care if she ever set eyes on him again. “You’ve done a fine job for us over the years. I thank you. We thank you.”

  “You’re still managing me,” Sydney interjected. Mr. Garrett smiled at her.

  “Indeed I am,” he said. “I will be here to greet you upon your return. Safe travels!” With that he disappeared into the swelling crowd, one more black bowler bobbing amongst the many that clotted the pier.

  Sydney watched him go. “Do you think he’s glad to be rid of us?” She was surprised by a wave of sadness over the banker’s departure. He had been
a steady presence since her father’s passing.

  Brooke evidently shared no such sentiment. “Sydney, let’s quit this dawdling. We must find Edward,” Brooke said urgently as she began to make her way toward the pier. “Sarah, make sure the porter is especially careful with the green trunk. It has my wedding clothes in it.”

  Sydney followed as Sarah trudged along with a porter behind her, his trolley stacked as high as his head. “Yes, Miss,” answered Sarah.

  Brooke placed a comforting hand on Sydney’s arm. “Now let’s get a copy of the passenger list as soon as we board. I want to see who we might know and who we want to know.”

  Sydney smiled and shook her head. Not even the German Imperial Navy could squash Brooke’s anticipation of a grand social event. She kept her head low as she moved closer to the throng of reporters at the gate. She imagined the German threat made good copy. The papers were full of the war, even more so since February when Germany announced it would no longer stop and search an enemy ship before blowing it to smithereens. She imagined that a boatload of English and American passengers sailing through the war zone after the printed warning was the human-interest story to end all human-interest stories.

  “Miss Sinclair?”

  It was a booming voice, difficult to ignore but the sisters tried.

  “Miss Sinclair?” the man shouted, and stepped directly in Sydney’s path. Sydney stopped and stared at the reporter with his pad and paper held ominously.

  “Are you speaking to me, sir?” she asked cautiously.

  “I thought it was you,” he said with a wry smile. “You probably don’t remember me.”

  “Should I?” she asked, certain she’d never laid eyes on the man in her life. Oh, wait . . . Brooke had heard the man call her name as well and was glaring at the reporter as though he were a beggar. “And who are you?” Brooke asked. Sydney wished she hadn’t.