Seven Days in May

by Kim Izzo

  Sydney watched a young couple at the railing gazing at the New York skyline. The woman was simply dressed but even with her modest clothes it was easy to see she possessed a voluptuous figure. Her hair was pinned up loosely in the Gibson girl style that had been the height of popularity a few years before. She gazed at her companion with such affection it gave Sydney pause. He was attired in a suit of cheap wool and his brown herringbone-tweed cap appeared as though it had seen more than its share of seasons. Yet he bore the confidence of an elder statesman who owned things—railways and oil fields—the type of man who belonged in her father’s class. Perhaps it was love. Sydney could find no other excuse for the couple’s obvious state of contentment and she noted dryly how different they seemed compared to Edward and Brooke. Now there was a man who puzzled her. There was something about him that she couldn’t pin down. Partly it was the way he looked at her, as if she were a painting he was thinking of buying. Partly it was how he had listened to her at the engagement dinner when the other men seemed poised to dismiss her opinions. He asked what she thought and paid attention to her words—at least until the subject of women’s rights came up.

  Sydney continued her walk until she reached a locked Bostwick gate and was prevented from going farther. She spotted a seaman on the other side and beckoned him to her. Reluctantly he marched over.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he said politely.

  “What is this gate about?” she asked.

  The seaman grinned. “It’s to keep third class in its section of the ship, ma’am. Third class aren’t allowed above C Deck, which is where we is,” he explained, then looked her up and down. She followed his gaze, which roamed over her simple but well-cut dress sewn out of an expensive silk-and-cotton weave. No doubt he could also smell her Guerlain perfume—Vere Novo—the same fragrance her mother had worn. It was from Paris and one of Sydney’s few extravagances. “Are you on the wrong deck? You need me to escort you out of here?”

  She smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

  His expression said he didn’t agree but he tipped his hat and walked away. Sydney removed her tickets from her little purse and held them in her hand, first and third. Opposites. She stuffed them back inside and retreated along the third class Promenade to the staircase and down the countless steps to F Deck. She would be fit as a racehorse after this crossing. She had nearly made it to her cabin when a scuffle of footsteps and a shrill voice made her stop.

  “Hannah! Where are you, child?” The shrillness grew louder. “Hannah!”

  Then Sydney saw with some surprise the stout woman with the ringlets she had seen on the pier, now scampering toward the baggage room.

  “Do you need help?” Sydney asked. “Are you looking for your charge?”

  The woman, huffing loudly from exertion, swivelled on her sensible shoes and glared at Sydney.

  “My charge? I’m looking for my daughter. She’s run off,” the woman snapped, then eyed Sydney carefully, assessing her like the seaman had done moments earlier. Then without a further word she brushed by and clambered up the stairs.

  Sydney continued on. She had turned the final corner to her cabin when she nearly fell over something. Recovering just in time she saw that the object was a little girl squatting on the floor.

  “Good gracious!” Sydney remarked. Then straightening herself she smiled. “Are you Hannah?”

  The girl with the dark mink hair smiled up at her. She was a beautiful child. Sydney found it difficult to believe she was the offspring of that coarse woman.

  The girl nodded. “My mother wants me to play piano. I don’t want to.”

  “I see,” Sydney said, and knelt down so she could meet her gaze. “I don’t think you ought to be playing now anyway. The ship has just set sail. It will be dinnertime soon.”

  The girl shook her head fiercely. “Not now, not ever. I don’t want to play piano. I want to sing and dance.”

  Sydney studied her face; the young girl was very serious and determined. “That is a problem,” she admitted with a smile. The girl nodded emphatically. Sydney stood up and offered Hannah her hand. Reluctantly the girl took it and together they climbed up the flights of steps and back to the Shelter Deck to search for her mother. The wind had picked up so that the drizzle blew in their faces.

  “I’ve found her,” Sydney called out when she saw the mother stomping about, checking under blankets and deck chairs.

  “Hannah!” the woman shouted at the sight of her child. She rushed over and snatched her from Sydney as though she was in the hands of a convict. “Where did you get to? Annoying this nice lady?” The woman smiled at Sydney. “Apologies if she did.”

  Hannah remained mute. “She was in the passageway. I believe she was lost and was frantically looking for you,” Sydney offered. Hannah stared at her, thoroughly impressed.

  The mother’s eyes narrowed. “Is that true, child?”

  Hannah nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

  The mother exhaled. “Thank you. I’m Gladys MacGregor. You’ve met Hannah. We live in Brooklyn.”

  “I’m Sydney. Sydney Sinclair.”

  “That’s a boy’s name.” Hannah giggled.

  “Don’t be rude,” Gladys snapped.

  Sydney only laughed. “You’re right, Hannah. It was my mother’s surname before she married my father,” she explained. “I think they hoped I’d be a son.”

  “Well, it is unusual. Nice to meet you, Sydney,” Gladys said, and held out her hand, giving her the once-over again. They shook hands. “Time to get changed, Hannah. She has to practise her piano.”

  Hannah gazed up at Sydney, resigned to her fate, and followed her mother back into the ship. Sydney grinned and moved to the railing, taking in the disappearing skyline of New York.

  Edward

  As Brooke walked along the deck Edward was aware he cut a grim figure by her side. Now that the start of the return trip was here it pierced him like a bayonet. In eight days he would be home and then the wedding would take place. This voyage was the last of his bachelor days. His final moments of freedom and possibility. There was no denying he had made his bed and for the good of his family he would lie in it. Besides, there was always the possibility of dying on the battlefield to save him from a loveless marriage. Even if he were to perish in the trenches his family would still benefit from the Sinclair fortune and that was of some comfort. Brooke reached for his arm. He stared down at her hand; her touch felt foreign and limp.

  “This Promenade is divine,” she cooed. “It’s a seaworthy Peacock Walk.”

  “A what?” Edward asked, having never heard the phrase before in his life.

  “A public place where you stroll in your best dress and everyone can see you head to toe, silly,” she explained, exasperated.

  “You mean like a—a parade?” he stammered.

  “I hope I’ve packed enough clothes,” she said, not listening to him.

  Edward examined her face hoping to see even the slightest hint of true attachment. He found only respectful deference.

  They passed a group of men singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which delighted Brooke. “How lovely to hear an American song on a British ship,” she exclaimed.

  “I’m happy you’re pleased,” he said, though in fact he much preferred “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” which the orchestra was playing so beautifully up on the Boat Deck.

  Edward’s attention was diverted by the sight of Alfred Vanderbilt strolling toward them with the same large man walking with a cane that Edward had seen posing for photos with Captain Turner. The pang of jealousy he’d experienced earlier rushed back. Vanderbilt was rich beyond imagination and handsome too but the money and good looks belied the darkness beneath the finely cut pinstriped suit and carnation. Edward knew the facts and the rumours and didn’t bother to separate the two. Vanderbilt’s first marriage to Elsie French had broken off due to his affair with a married woman, Agnes O’Brien Ruiz, who was the wife of a diplomat. T
he scandal shook all of East Coast society and when it wouldn’t abate, the poor woman had committed suicide. The newspapers were full of the story for months. Alfred had sought asylum in London for a time, and after his return to the United States, eventually he remarried. A lovely American woman named Margaret Emerson. Even though the events had occurred a few years prior they were of such a scandalous nature as to leave unimaginable scars—emotional and social. He must be in constant torment, thought Edward. Brooke apparently didn’t share his view of Vanderbilt’s secret suffering for she smiled brightly and extended her hand in greeting.

  “Alfred, mon cher,” she said cheerily.

  Vanderbilt returned her smile with a shine as blinding as her own. “Brooke, a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Alfred, may I present my fiancé, Edward Thorpe-Tracey,” she said proudly. “The future earl of Northbrook.” Edward extended his hand and the men shook. He thought he caught a trace of disapproval in Vanderbilt’s eye. Not all men of character have your millions, Edward wanted to say but every drop of blue blood in his veins ensured such an outburst would never occur. Vanderbilt smiled politely. “My apologies that I wasn’t able to attend your engagement party last Sunday. Mr. Thorpe-Tracey, it’s a pleasure. I’ve heard much about you, of course.”

  “Oh call him Edward,” Brooke said with a light laugh.

  Edward shifted his weight from foot to foot. “As I’ve heard of you—”

  “I’m afraid the Vanderbilts do get their fair share of press,” Vanderbilt injected, his face the picture of calm assurance. He then turned to the larger man with the bushy eyebrows. “May I introduce Mr. Charles Frohman,” Vanderbilt said.

  Brooke lit up once more. “I know who you are,” she said excitedly. The man blushed slightly at her eagerness. “Edward, darling, Mr. Frohman is a theatrical producer. He produced Peter Pan. Isn’t that divine?”

  Edward extended his hand.

  “Guilty,” Frohman said with a chuckle, and shook Edward’s hand.

  “I saw a production in London,” Edward said. He had taken Georgina to the West End play not long after her accident and the fantasy had raised her spirits immensely. “It was delightful.”

  “Good to hear,” Frohman said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m travelling with friends and I must go find them. It’s almost cocktail hour.”

  “Oh but you must tell us who your friends are,” Brooke insisted. “Anyone famous?”

  “Brooke.” Edward attempted to chastise her but she was having none of it.

  “Don’t worry, Edward, Americans aren’t as fussy about simple questions as your people are,” she explained, and laughed.

  Vanderbilt looked uncomfortable. But Frohman was accustomed to female fans gushing over actors and actresses; his business depended on it.

  “That’s the truth,” he said with a grin. “To answer your question, Miss Sinclair, my friends are George Vernon, Charles Klein the playwright and Rita Jolivet the actress.”

  Brooke closed her eyes a moment at the thought. “Rita Jolivet. I adore her! Will you introduce me?” she pleaded with a flirtatious tilt of the head.

  Edward watched, slightly mortified. An actress and a playwright. Artists were to be admired and their work enjoyed but the notion of socializing with them seemed impossible to fathom. He looked to Vanderbilt for a shared sense of dismay but found none.

  “Of course I will,” Frohman said good-naturedly. “We’ll be in the lounge before dinner. Come find us then.” With a tip of his hat the man left them.

  Brooke turned to Vanderbilt. “And will we have the pleasure of your company at dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid I’ve made plans with another acquaintance,” he said, then seeing her disappointment he added, “Another night for sure. By the way, where is Sydney? I thought she was sailing with you?”

  “Of course she is. I wouldn’t get married without my sister to stand up for me,” she said.

  “Splendid. I look forward to seeing her too,” he said cheerfully. “She’s always game for lively conversation.”

  Edward couldn’t tell if this was meant to be flattering or not. But Brooke seemed satisfied. “You know Sydney,” she said with a laugh before changing the subject. “What part of the ship are you staying in, Alfred?” she asked. His attempt to answer was cut off by Brooke’s enthusiasm. “Let me guess. It’s the other Regal Suite, isn’t it? I bet you’re the one to blame for reserving the port side too, you devil. I was desperate for it. You know it’s decorated just like the Petit Trianon at Versailles.” At this she turned to Edward and said as an informative aside, “Marie Antoinette used it to escape the drudgery of the royal court.”

  Edward was astonished that she would think he wouldn’t know his European history. He had gone to Cambridge! His baffled expression was not lost on Vanderbilt who obviously was trying to conceal a laugh.

  “I’m afraid you can’t blame me for that,” he said, straight-faced. “I’m in a Parlour Suite on this deck, starboard side.”

  It was Brooke’s turn to appear astonished. She recovered enough to say, “Well, then we are neighbours as I have the Regal Suite on the starboard side.”

  Vanderbilt nodded politely. Edward could practically feel the man squirming to leave their company.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check in with my valet,” Vanderbilt said, and with a slight bow strolled back in the direction he had come from.

  His abrupt departure made Edward wonder if he should be insulted. He didn’t really blame him. A lengthy discourse on one’s cabin décor was tiresome for even the most indulgent man. For her part, Brooke appeared not to have noticed.

  “This promises to be an unforgettable voyage,” she said. “I think I will go rest before dinner. I want to look my best when we make our debut in the dining saloon.”

  “I will see you to your stateroom,” Edward said, relieved to have the last of the afternoon to himself.

  Edward had been given a tour of the starboard side Regal Suite on his voyage over. It had been unoccupied and he was delighted to see inside. It was opulent, despite lacking the Marie Antoinette flourish, and was outfitted with two bedrooms and its own dining room, parlour, bath and water closet. It was an ideal layout and space for the sisters, affording them privacy as well as being a physical embodiment of their standing in society, which was of particular importance to Brooke.

  They reached the Regal Suite and Edward grasped the door handle to open it for her, which seemed to alarm her.

  “Oh don’t bother,” she said, and tapped his hand until he let go. “No need to constantly fuss.”

  Edward was stunned. He wasn’t accustomed to being shooed away. Before he could respond Sarah opened the door unexpectedly, causing Brooke to lose her balance. But Edward grabbed her hand and righted her before she could tumble.

  “Sorry, Miss, I didn’t know you were out here,” Sarah said in alarm.

  “Why would you?” Brooke asked, her voice a sharp trill. Sarah seemed frozen to the floor. “Well, what are you doing? Have you finished unpacking already?” She looked down at what the girl was carrying and bit her lip. Wrapped in tissue paper was the amber silk gown that she’d bought for Sydney.

  “I’m taking this to Miss Sydney,” Sarah explained. “In case she needs it.”

  Edward tilted his head quizzically. “Taking it where?” he asked.

  Brooke glared at Sarah until the girl nearly shook with fright. “I meant I’m taking it to be steamed,” Sarah said breathlessly. “Miss Sydney is lying down and I thought it was good timing to leave her.”

  Brooke smiled, her lips pressing together grimly. “Why of course. Good idea, Sarah. Now off you go.”

  The maid darted past them and down the passageway. Brooke crossed the threshold and turned to Edward.

  “Now be off, please. We don’t want to wake up Sydney,” she said, and forced a wide smile. “Shall you fetch me at six o’clock?”

  “I will fetch both of you,” he answered.r />
  “That is if Sydney is up to making an appearance. She may prefer to take her meal in the stateroom,” Brooke cautioned.

  Edward’s raised eyebrow was the only detail that belied his trust. But he would be a cad to press the issue any further and he wanted to avoid being cast as a villain so early in their relationship.

  “Let’s hope for a speedy recovery from her seasickness,” he said kindly. “Have a good rest, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Edward,” she said, and gently closed the door on him.

  Isabel

  The wireless transmissions from U-20 had ceased. The submarine was out there, miles below the surface, slowly marauding its way toward the Irish Sea. There was no way anyone could know its exact whereabouts any longer. Isabel counted the cigarette butts in the ashtray beside her typewriter. Fifteen. It was scarcely noon. She had barely smoked two a day before coming to Room 40.

  She and Dorothy had gone to the picture show last night. Dorothy had insisted it would cheer her up. The screen stars smoked and drank a lot too. Only when they did it, it looked glamorous. Isabel hadn’t felt glamorous in a long time. Perhaps that was for the best.

  There was a birthday party tonight at the pub. Parish was the man of the hour. It would do her good to have a few drinks and laughs to celebrate. But Isabel was exhausted. She had been pulling sixteen- and eighteen-hour shifts. Denniston had ordered her to go home early to rest and not to return until Monday. But the impromptu birthday party had given him reason to relent. If it were up to Isabel she would skip the party and man Room 40 on her own. It was a ridiculous idea of course. What could she hope to achieve? The submarine was out of signal reach. The Lusitania was still thousands of nautical miles away. Tonight was one of the few nights she could relax and enjoy.