Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  “My name is Johnny Matson,” he said proudly, and stuck his hand out, but when neither of the ladies deigned to shake it he quickly withdrew it. “I’m here interviewing the passengers, you know, in case the Germans make good on their threat.”

  “We have nothing to say about it,” Brooke snapped. “It’s very rude of you to ask. Are you trying to frighten everyone?”

  “Hold your horses. It’s Miss Sydney Sinclair I was interested in. I was down at the rally last weekend, you see, and I saw what happened. What you did. Quite impressive.” He chuckled. Sydney and Brooke did not. He stopped. “Care to comment on it?”

  Sydney was mortified and she could almost feel the arctic chill from Brooke’s stare. This man had single-handedly brought all their bad feelings to the forefront once again.

  “No I wouldn’t,” she said firmly.

  “You sailing to get away from the scandal?” he persisted.

  “There is no scandal,” she stated as placidly as possible.

  He whistled. “Well, Miss Sinclair, I beg to differ. One of society’s youngest and brightest debutantes getting down and dirty with the suffragettes? Birth control, no less. That could be front-page news just as much as the Lusitania. How about you give me an exclusive?”

  “Get out of here!” Brooke shouted, and stepped closer, towering over him.

  “I can write a story about you too,” he said to Brooke to appease her. “About your upcoming wedding to Sir Eddie.” Brooke inhaled sharply at “Eddie.” Matson smiled. “Our readers love a romance. In fact I can run the two pieces side by side. ‘The Sinclair Girls: Sugar and Spice.’”

  “Did you not understand me? Or do I have to call a police officer?”

  “I can take a hint.” He backed away and doffed his hat. “Bon voyage.”

  When he was out of sight Sydney let herself exhale. But her relief was short-lived.

  “This is exactly what I was afraid of. You and your politics getting in the way,” Brooke said, her voice not its usual singsong flute, but deep and hollow, like a gun barrel. “If that man writes such nonsense, what will Edward think?”

  “Be reasonable, Brooke. Had the man and his photographer snapped you getting out of the car a few minutes ago you would not be as upset as you are now. Besides, even if he did write about me, by the time the story made it to England you would be married.” At least she hoped that was the case. There was always the chance that some enterprising newspaperman would see fit to send the story over the wire to print in a local paper before they even reached England. “I think you’re overreacting. If he loves you he won’t care about your ‘wild’ sister,” Sydney insisted.

  “What makes you think he loves me?” Brooke asked bluntly. “My marriage isn’t based on feelings as you well know. If something scandalous happens it could ruin everything. My reputation is very much tied to yours. It’s only by our discretion and sheer luck that Edward hasn’t learned the truth about your incident with the policeman.”

  Mr. Garrett had paid off the various newspaper editors to prevent the story from hitting the pages. It had been costly too as there were more than a few very striking photographs of Sydney in handcuffs. Strangely Edward hadn’t brought up the subject of her arrest since the party. She supposed that was one of the advantages of so-called good breeding. Though she suspected his silence on the matter was more about his wanting to keep his hands in the Sinclair purse than gallantry. She noticed Sarah standing off to the side chatting with a handsome young man in a Cunard uniform. Being a member of the working class had merit, such as freedom to socialize with whomever one pleased.

  “Now I must meet Edward on board,” Brooke said. “You make your way to our Regal Suite. It’s on B Deck, the Promenade Deck on the starboard side. Sarah will take care of the bags. I can’t bear to look at you a moment longer.”

  Sydney flinched like she’d been slapped by her sister’s gold kid glove. It was the final indignity and more than she could take. “If you’re that worried about my presence upsetting Edward’s opinion of you, then why don’t I travel separately? I can book myself into third class and save you the humiliation of my views,” Sydney stated.

  Brooke’s face was red as though her cheeks were on fire. “Don’t be ridiculous. All I’m asking is that you stop being a stupid headstrong girl for the next two weeks. Is that too much to ask?”

  Sydney felt the sting of another imagined slap across her cheek. She was old enough, and had her own fortune; she didn’t need to succumb to Brooke’s wishes. Her sister belonged in a world that was fading from fashion only she was too immersed in it to see it. The European penchant for titles and class was on the edge of collapse; the war was going to see to that. Spending one’s life consumed by place settings, dress designs and social registers was not the real world for most women, certainly not when choices were finally opening up.

  “It is too much to ask.” Sydney turned to the porter. “There’s been a mistake. I’ve been booked in first class but I want to travel third. Those top two cases belong to me. Please find another porter to escort me to the ticket desk so I can straighten this out.”

  The porter nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  She turned back to Brooke. “There. It’s done. I will be a threat no longer.”

  “Third? Why not second?” Brooke asked sarcastically.

  “Because third is the farthest away I can get from you,” she said, and turned away, hurt.

  A second porter arrived and took Sydney’s monogrammed cases from one trolley and placed them on another. Everything in order, she marched away from Brooke, fully expecting her sister to come to her senses and call her back. She was quite sure this would happen. Beneath the curved archway she went, the smell of the Hudson River filling her nostrils with dread. Alone inside the pier shed she began to panic. With each step drawing her nearer to the ticket counter she strained her ears to listen for Brooke’s voice but no words came her way; instead the hectic drone of the crowd enveloped her until she was standing in the third class line.

  “Anyone waiting to purchase a ticket?” a Cunard employee barked into the mass. Sydney raised her hand like a schoolgirl.

  “Very well, come with me.” The Cunard man escorted her away from the line of people waiting to board the ship and to a ticket agent. She presented her first class ticket.

  “The first class entrance is down yonder,” the man said, and pointed.

  “I want to exchange this for third class,” she said.

  He looked at her as though she were mad. “I can’t refund your money,” he said brusquely.

  Sydney exhaled loudly. “Then sell me a third class fare. You can do that, can’t you?”

  The man didn’t answer. He scanned his booking sheet. “We’re fairly booked. Not many cancellations despite the German warning.”

  She nodded. What was the German navy compared to the wrath of Brooke?

  “I will have one ticket please.”

  The transaction complete, she and the porter went to the back of the third class line as it inched along toward the gangway where Cunard officers were checking each passenger’s identification and inspecting luggage. She stared at the first class entrance that was orderly and far less crowded. I will make the best of this. At last she emerged from the shed and was able to take in the sheer majesty of the Lusitania once more. She smiled up at her. You look like a headstrong girl too. I think we will get along just fine.

  Edward

  Edward had reluctantly agreed to meet Brooke on board the ship rather than going around to collect and escort her, as a proper fiancé should do. Perhaps it was her American independence. That was certainly the case with her sister, Sydney. He had spent far too much time thinking about her since that night at the Plaza. She had what his mother would call “wild spirit.” He wondered how his mother would react to learning her newest relation was an American outlaw. It made him laugh. The papers had been surprisingly quiet about the alleged arrest of the younger Sinclair girl. He pledged to be equa
lly silent on the matter, especially when it came to describing Sydney to his mother. For certain, his future sister-in-law was beautiful and opinionated. Her comments regarding Georgina were especially pointed. Harsh. And he hadn’t stopped thinking about what Sydney had said ever since. Lady Northbrook would be sickened by the idea of her daughter living as Sydney seemed hell-bent on doing. He hadn’t broached the topic with Brooke either. It was best to pretend it hadn’t happened and assume that she would be able to control Sydney, at least until the wedding was over and the latter was safely back in New York.

  Edward was relieved when the taxi deposited him outside the Cunard entrance at Chelsea Piers, having fought its way through the crowd. As he stepped down from the cab he drew his coat tighter and adjusted his hat. The drizzle had turned to rain and the wind had picked up speed. There were few things more unsettling than to begin a transatlantic crossing a drenched man with a bare head. Maxwell supervised the porter with the luggage before taking his place behind him.

  Once set to move onward Edward and Maxwell watched in amazement, their sensibilities under attack from all angles as the throngs of people crashed into one another with excitement, their words loud and indecipherable.

  “It’s quite the sight, isn’t it, sir?” Maxwell said, a note of caution in his voice.

  Edward gave a disapproving nod. “What in the devil is this about?”

  Edward and Maxwell pushed their way through the crowd to the archway. A smallish man in a bowler hat thrust a camera in front of Edward and snapped his picture. Before Edward could react the man smirked. “Well, if anything happens, we’ve got your photo!” Then he disappeared into the crowd.

  Maxwell very nearly tore after the man, but Edward called him back to his senses. “Let him go,” Edward said. “We have more important things to attend to.”

  “Very right, sir,” Maxwell said, and straightened his jacket.

  “Are you sailing on the Lusitania?” It was a reporter who asked.

  Maxwell shoved himself between them. “Get away, you!”

  The reporter shrugged him off. “I’m Johnny Matson, writing for the Post. You’re Sir Edward Thorpe-Tracey, the English aristo. I just spoke to your fiancée, Brooke Sinclair, and her sister.”

  “Is this about my engagement, then?” Edward asked impatiently. He now understood why Brooke had asked to meet him on board. What a circus the pier had turned into. It was perhaps proof that his future wife was going to be thoughtful and considerate of such things and this pleased him.

  Matson rolled his eyes. “Yeah, your wedding has practically caused a riot,” he said sarcastically. “But no, Your Highness, this ruckus is about the last voyage of the Lusitania and I’m a newspaperman, so sue me.”

  “What in heaven’s name is that supposed to mean?” Edward demanded.

  Matson smiled in mock shock. “This, Your Highness.” He held out the clipping of the warning from the morning paper.

  Edward snatched it away. He read the notice quickly, then passed it along to Maxwell. “Is that what all this fuss is about?” Edward asked Matson as he eyed the swelling crowd.

  Maxwell, now a shade or two paler than usual, handed the paper back to the reporter.

  “Sure is. People love a tragedy, especially a shipwreck,” Matson said with a grin. “I was here three years ago when the Titanic survivors came in. You couldn’t stop the crowds then either.” He shrugged but was quickly losing interest in Edward. “So you got anything to say? Any last words for your loved ones in case this steel lady becomes your coffin?”

  Edward glared at the man. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  A wall of noise erupted nearby as the crush of people parted. Edward watched as a tall and exceptionally well-dressed and elegant man stepped out of a private car. He was wearing a pinstriped suit with a pink carnation in his lapel and had a trail of servants, including his valet, behind him bearing luggage.

  Suddenly Matson grew as excited as the rest of the horde. “That’s Alfred Vanderbilt! Gotta run!” he said to Edward before getting swallowed by the swarm.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Vanderbilt, sir?” Maxwell inquired.

  “I have not had the pleasure.” Edward smiled slightly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man. To have his wealth was to be free. Free to do whatever you wanted and with whomever you wanted. It was not the sort of freedom that Edward had ever known and he was instantly jealous at the sight of it being flaunted so flagrantly and in such excellently tailored clothes. He forced himself to look away and to face Maxwell, a far less intimidating soul. “But I shall seek him out on board. Brooke is well acquainted with him. He was unable to make our party last weekend. I understand he is a fine horseman too.”

  “Then you will have much in common,” Maxwell said encouragingly.

  It wasn’t long after boarding that Edward saw Alfred Vanderbilt again. He was standing on deck posing for photographers with two other men. The first Edward knew as the Lusitania’s captain William Turner, an imposing man he had had the experience of dining with on his voyage to New York. Turner was no gentleman, but a hardened sailor from the old school, and took no pleasure in socializing with passengers. Edward found him gruff but capable. The other man was shorter and rotund, very animated and stood with a cane. The way the reporters were fawning he must have been of some importance. Edward passed by without anyone’s notice and made his way to his cabin on the starboard side.

  The Grand Entrance, with its elegant Corinthian columns, wrought-iron elevators, plush carpets and marble fireplace, was the conduit to everywhere else that mattered on the Lusitania. Edward watched Brooke enter the space, her trim figure encased in bright yellow like a canary. Her arrival caused a stir amongst the other passengers and she basked in the adoration. He did not. But he smiled when she kissed his cheek.

  “This ship is like a floating palace,” Brooke gushed. “As fancy as the Plaza.”

  “It is all that,” he admitted. “Where is Sydney?”

  “She’s got a headache,” she answered. “Confined to the suite already. Poor poodle.” Brooke frowned playfully.

  “Is this the same kind of headache she had prior to our engagement party?” he asked, and watched Brooke’s throat as she swallowed. He shouldn’t tease her; he would get to the bottom of their charade soon enough. “I’m playing with you.” Brooke smiled with relief. “Does she get them often?”

  He began to walk, his hands clasped behind his back. Brooke glided at his side, gawking at everything and everyone like she’d never been out in society before.

  “Did I say headache? I mean seasickness,” Brooke said breezily.

  “That is serious,” he said mockingly. “Sydney must have a very sensitive constitution if she can get seasick without yet being on the sea.”

  Brooke smiled and fidgeted with her hair. “Let’s not talk about my sister. Let’s walk toward the front of the ship and wave at people on the pier.”

  Sydney

  The tugboat pulled away from the Lusitania, leaving her pointed downstream on the North River and headed to open water. The mountainous shards of concrete, steel and glass silhouettes that formed the Manhattan skyline began to fade from view like a mirage. Soon it would vanish from sight entirely. A booming sound signalled the start of the engine turbines roaring into service deep within the ship’s core, sending a series of vibrations rippling upward. The ship’s foghorn blared a farewell to New York. But it was also a sonorous announcement to the encroaching seas that she was coming.

  Four levels below the first class Promenade and one level above the cargo hold and engine rooms was F Deck, which housed the baggage room, storage shelves, mailroom, food and wine cold stores as well as many crew cabins. F Deck was not by any means a glamorous counterpart to what existed several decks up. It was, however, where Sydney found herself after boarding the ship. For in addition to its other functions, F Deck also held several, but not all, of the third class accommodations.

  She appeared to be the only pers
on in her assigned cabin, for which she was thankful. The berth had one bunk bed and Sydney laid claim to the lower bunk just in case another passenger arrived before the ship sailed. She was thankful the space had a wash basin; she had read about the dormitory-like conditions of steerage on other ships, but clearly the Lusitania was much too grand for that. Still, it was a small room, much smaller than the ensuite bathroom of her Fifth Avenue home. Yet this will be my home for the next eight days. She felt a quiver of remorse that she’d taken things as far as she had.

  Sydney made her way to the Saloon Deck and the third class dining hall near the bow. It lacked opulence to be sure. The furniture was sturdy and solid with tables and chairs made from polished pine. It looks designed to withstand a military invasion. An upright piano took pride of place at one end. Passengers were milling about hoping for an early snack. She took the staircase to the Shelter Deck, one above the dining saloon where she discovered the men’s smoking room on the port side. She peered inside long enough to note yet more polished pine but withdrew swiftly upon receiving the glares of several men offended by her presence. Exactly what I aim to change! Not that smelling cigars and brandy was so important to the battle of the sexes. She walked to the starboard side where the third class ladies’ room lay out before her. Let me guess, she wondered, will there be polished pine? She opened the door and swept in.

  “Ah! Pine it is,” she said gaily. A handful of women stared up at her, puzzled by her outburst. She quickly exited the ladies’ room and proceeded to stroll along the third class Promenade, which was partially enclosed.

  Continuing to walk along the Shelter Deck she watched children run and play as small gatherings of men smoked and spoke loudly of the German threat. There seemed to be more than a few single woman travellers too. One older woman had broken out her knitting and seemed content to let the afternoon pass by using her progress to mark the passage of time.

  There seemed to be none of the illicit strangers or dirty immigrants that she had been told were common in steerage. The diseases and filth she’d read were found amongst the lower classes seemed ludicrous. There was nothing to fear. These people were no different than she was. She tried to imagine her friends’ faces if they could see her now. They wouldn’t be caught dead in third class. It made her smile.