by Kim Izzo
“You don’t say?” Sydney asked. She wanted to be interested but all she could think about was getting as far away from this famous room as possible before someone recognized her. But Walter wouldn’t be deterred.
“The chairs swivel and are covered in velvet. The whole place is in colours of ivory and gold.” He shook his head in amazement. “I got to get inside the first class areas. Just to see.”
She smiled. He was passionate about décor, that was certain. It would be easy to take him where he wanted to go; all she had to do was present her first class ticket.
“The upper level seats 321 passengers, the lower 143,” he continued.
“I’m sure if you ask they will let you have a look,” she suggested.
Walter made a face. “Unlikely. But maybe once we’re in Liverpool and the swells have disembarked.”
She laughed. “And you do this decorating work in England?”
He shook his head. “In Lowell. It’s outside Boston,” he continued. “But I’m going home to join up.”
“That’s brave of you,” she said, sensing his thoughts had drifted away from the inner lives of the wealthy to more meaningful matters. “When you could have waited out the war in America.”
They walked through the door into the third class entrance and she shivered at the sudden warmth.
“My family has fought in every war as far back as anyone can remember,” Walter explained. “My older brothers, Herbert and Francis, are already on the front. I had a letter from Herbert before I sailed. It’s my duty as an Englishman and as a Dawson.”
When they reached the staircase Sydney held out her hand again. “Nice to meet you, Walter. Have a lovely voyage.”
“The Lusitania isn’t that big.” He grinned, the glint having returned. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”
She took the steps nearly two at a time. She wanted to change her clothes and get a hot bath to take the chill off. But mostly she wanted to put some distance between herself and her sister. Walter wanted to get an inside look at rich folk, her rich folk. Yet those people didn’t seem any more like her than Walter did. Maybe she didn’t belong anywhere.
Isabel
There was a newsstand down the street from the boarding house. The newsagent was an old man who was nearly deaf, so that when he shouted the headlines loud enough that he could hear himself it would often cause passersby to jump out of their skins, a fact that he learned to enjoy, particularly at the expense of young ladies. But when he spotted Isabel moving toward him, her shoulders slightly slumped, with a stern expression, he kept quiet. When she arrived to buy a paper he smiled; his mouth was missing several teeth and the few that remained were stained a nutty brown from tobacco.
“Miss Isabel!” he shouted. “Lovely to have a weekend off. You enjoying it so far?”
Isabel couldn’t manage a smile. “Not exactly.”
The man was undeterred. “On your way to meet your beau? ’Tis Sunday afternoon—romantic, ain’t it?”
“I don’t have a beau.”
He seemed disappointed to learn this. “N’ver mind. You’ll meet the right chap soon enough.”
Isabel was content to let him think her sour mood was due to a lack of romance. She paid him for the Times. She didn’t want to return to the boarding house. The other girls would be lolling about on their day off and would be chattering about boys and other nonsense. None of them knew what sort of job she had but they were accustomed to her not joining in on their conversations. How different from her time with Mr. Chamberses’ when she would delight in lengthy discourse.
It was an evening at the end of last August when Isabel carried a silver tray with a crystal whisky decanter and three glasses into the Chamberses’ parlour. The third glass struck her as odd since there were only two gentlemen to serve. It was a room that Mrs. Chambers had spent an extraordinary sum decorating. Velvet brocade and satin stripe, maroon and gold, cherry and mahogany, altogether the parlour was warm and welcoming if not altogether too much. There was even a palm tree in one corner to evoke the tropics. Isabel always thought it an odd touch in a room that otherwise brought to mind a brothel. Not that she’d ever seen one with her own eyes. But she’d read novels and seen enough illustrations in magazines to guess that if Mrs. Chambers ever wanted a career as a madam she had the knack for ensuring the right atmosphere.
“Thank you, Isabel.” Mr. Chambers smiled at her. She smiled back. He was a very attractive man. All the servant girls thought so. He did seem to like her particularly, showing deference to her by giving her the newspaper to read when he was finished, asking about her family and education. She placed the tray on the table.
“Shall I pour, sir?”
“Indeed.” It was the other gentleman who spoke, a Mr. Leslie Lambert, who was a writer. He and Mr. Chambers were friends and shared the unusual hobby of intercepting wireless transmissions from their home stations. Isabel poured the drink. “I’ve got another story for you to read, Isabel.”
“I very much enjoyed the last three, Mr. Lambert.” She wasn’t just being kind; the stories that he wrote were full of intrigue and suspense. Far from the Jane Austen novels she loved, his were tales of crime and ghosts. Her mother wouldn’t have approved, but Isabel omitted such things from her letters home.
“I’m going to teach Isabel Morse code,” Mr. Chambers announced. “I’ve enrolled her in a night course on typing and shorthand too. With this war we’ll need all the able bodies we can get. Especially with so many men signing up.”
She stood blinking. This was news to her. Mr. Lambert laughed good-naturedly. “Don’t look so frightened, Isabel. It’s not a punishment.”
“I’d be honoured to learn,” Isabel said as she looked at Mr. Chambers. “I want to be useful.”
“Then you shall,” he said. “My wife will be away next month for an entire fortnight. That will be our chance.”
Lambert put his tumbler down empty. Isabel leaped to refill it. “Only finish pouring my drink if you give yourself one too,” he said, and looked to Chambers for affirmation.
Isabel froze. “Go on, Isabel, that third glass is for you. You’re done for the day. Mrs. Chambers is in London until tomorrow. Have a seat and join us. I know how interested you are in hearing about what’s going on with the war.”
Isabel didn’t need convincing. She poured the whisky and sat across the room, so as not to appear forward, and sipped the drink. She’d never had whisky before. It was a man’s drink. But it didn’t take more than a few sips before she realized she’d been missing it her whole life. The men went on to discuss the war, going into details that she didn’t understand. She asked the occasional question and they took patience explaining it to her. Then their conversation diverted back to their wireless work. They spoke about secret codes and systems of encryption. It was like they were speaking a foreign language. To Isabel it was the start of her education though she didn’t know it at the time.
Mr. Chambers had honoured his promises from that night. He took time to teach Isabel rudimentary Morse code, emphasizing that she memorize the sounds rather than the dots and dashes. She loved learning. It made her feel like she was one of the Oxford students getting private tutorials. At night she would lie in bed and imagine one day reading engineering at the university—a girl among men, their equal in intellect if not opportunity.
But there was more to their time together and thinking of it now pained Isabel. The first time Mr. Chambers, George, kissed her had been after one of their study sessions. His wife was away again visiting a friend in Bristol, which had allowed him and Isabel an especially late evening. It was nearly midnight when he offered her a drink.
“I shouldn’t,” she told him. “I must be up early to start my chores.”
The way he looked at her made her self-conscious and she stood up from the desk to leave him alone in his study. She was nearly at the door when he grabbed her and spun her around, holding her tightly in his arms.
“I
sabel, you must know how I feel about you by now?” he had said, and stroked her face. His touch was so gentle and soft. “You’re as beautiful as you are intelligent.”
Never before had anyone, not even her mother, told her such things. A man of his stature fussing over the likes of her? It was thrilling. He was thrilling. “You flatter me, Mr. Chamber—” she began but he cut her off.
“Call me George,” he said, and without another word kissed her on the lips. The kiss was only the beginning . . . If I had been as intelligent as he said then I would have resisted.
Isabel had decided that night that she was in love with George Chambers and he did nothing to discourage her. They became lovers and spent many a night tucked away in the spare bedroom. It was a small bed made of dark polished wood; its covering wasn’t glamorous, as one might expect for an illicit tryst, but of white cotton patterned with yellow roses and a lace frill around its edges. But it was a room that Mrs. Chambers never bothered with because it was on the topmost floor, across from George’s office, and the narrow staircase made her nervous for there was no handrail and she was a large woman. After their lovemaking Isabel would lie in George’s arms and they would discuss her studies, the war and his promise to one day leave his wife and marry her. I was a fool to believe him.
Their time in Oxford seemed long ago as Isabel sat on a bench in a park to read the paper. The sun was warm and the air fragrant with spring blossoms and wet grass. It was a happy day for most and she watched young children playing on the lawns, their mothers minding them nearby. A few couples strolled hand in hand. She envied them a little.
The paper was full of coverage of the war. More details were emerging on the mustard gas used by the Germans. She read about the Battle of St. Julien where Canadian troops had held off the enemy until reinforcements arrived, battling through despite machine-gun fire and the poisoned air, vomiting from it and using muddied handkerchiefs to breathe through it, their guns jamming at nearly every turn. It was terrible. In the end the Canadians won but paid the price; more than two thousand of them had perished.
Isabel sometimes had to force herself to read these stories. But it was necessary fuel to keep her and the others motivated to work day and night. She turned the page. It was full of advertisements for ladies’ fashions, but at the bottom corner was a notice. Normally she didn’t pay attention to advertisements but this one screamed for attention despite its small size. It announced that yesterday, May 1, 1915, the RMS Lusitania had sailed from New York, headed to Liverpool, scheduled to arrive on May 8. This wasn’t news to Isabel. But it was an alarming reminder. Rotter had told her that the right people would be told about the position of U-20. The men know what to do better than me. She repeated these words over and over in her mind but it was no use. She folded up the paper and threw it away.
Sydney
She passed the entire afternoon reading over the women’s movement literature she’d brought with her—pamphlets printed by several of the groups she had joined as well as articles torn from magazines and newspapers. She had also packed a couple of samples of newly designed prophylactics—risky contraband to be sure—to deliver to Margaret Sanger’s group when she went to London after the wedding. It was comforting to immerse herself in this work. This is my life, my new life. Then it occurred to her. Why wait to return to New York to spread the word of Margaret Sanger? There was something she could do about her work right now on this ship.
The third class ladies’ lounge was nearly filled to capacity with women old and young seeking a refuge from the rain and wind. Sydney’s entrance drew only cursory glances. But it was as good a start as any.
“Dear ladies,” she began, but when no one noticed her standing by the door she repeated her words more loudly. “Dear ladies! May I have your attention?”
It worked. The women were staring at her with a mixture of annoyance and alarm. Sydney swallowed. “I wanted to see if anyone here was interested in learning about the work of Margaret Sanger?”
She waited for a show of hands, an affirming nod, anything but the bemused silent audience before her. Undeterred, Sydney continued without the encouragement of her fellow passengers. “Margaret Sanger, as some of you may know, is an advocate of birth control. And as we are sequestered here in a so-called room for ladies, I feel we can take advantage of our joint seclusion from men and discuss the future of our sex.”
They started leaving one by one. Filing past Sydney and out the door with dirty glances and derisive clucking beneath their breath. One woman firmly gripping the hand of her young daughter “accidentally” kicked Sydney’s shin as she passed by. For her part Sydney was unmoved by their protests and focused on the handful of women who remained.
“There’s a movement in America and in England that seeks to educate women on sex and birth control and I have literature here for any of you who wish to know more. And I can tell you what I’ve seen at abortion clinics in New York and it’s not the conditions we’d wish on our daughters.”
That seemed the last straw for within moments she stood alone in the ladies’ lounge, the fistful of pamphlets at her side.
“Excuse me, Miss?”
She turned around and saw a stern-looking steward standing in the doorway. Oh bother.
“Yes?” she asked calmly.
“We’ve had complaints from some of the other passengers that you have been”—the steward hesitated as though his next words might pain him—“you have been talking about inappropriate things.”
“Filth! That’s what she’s been spreading!” The voice came from the passageway. Sydney looked over the steward’s shoulder and found a small woman about the same age as herself standing there, arms folded. “Filth and lies. She’s a bad influence.”
“I did not lie,” Sydney argued.
“I suggest we leave the ladies’ lounge now,” the steward suggested. “Let me escort you to your berth.”
The woman looked pleased with herself. Sydney set her jaw and didn’t budge. “I’m no liar and I’m not spreading filth. You, sir, may also wish to learn about contraception to prevent unwanted babies.”
“That’s it, Miss,” the steward said, and grabbed her arm, sending the pamphlets scattering to the floor.
“Unhand me,” she snapped, and freed herself to pick them up. “I’ll leave but I don’t need an escort.”
Sydney gathered her papers and walked out the door. The woman sneered at her as she passed by. “Just because we’re booked in third don’t mean we have to put up with the likes of her. We’re people too!”
The steward kept pace behind her as she moved along the deck. His presence irritated her. She wasn’t accustomed to being asked to leave anywhere and the experience was humiliating but at the same time it strengthened her resolve. These women needed to learn the truth about their bodies.
She walked by the locked Bostwick gate, just behind the second funnel and forward of the first class entrance where she and Walter had been only a few hours earlier. All she had to do was present her first class ticket and she’d be admitted. She wondered what her sister would think if she presented her pamphlets to the first class ladies. She stopped and looked through the metal gate.
“Move along, Miss,” the steward said in an official and annoyed tone.
It was then that she saw Alfred Vanderbilt walking down the steps on the other side. She considered running away but it was too late. He’d seen her.
“Good heavens, Sydney!” Alfred shouted, and ran to the gate, trying to open it. He shouted at the astonished steward, “Unlock this at once. This is Sydney Sinclair. She and her sister are sailing in the Regal Suite.”
The steward panicked and began to fumble for the keys.
“No, don’t bother,” she said, and smiled at Alfred. “Didn’t Brooke tell you? I bought a third class ticket.”
Alfred was taken aback. “You did what?”
She laughed. “You heard me correctly. I thought it would be fun,” she said. “Instead I managed to em
pty the ladies’ lounge and get escorted here by this charming steward.”
Alfred looked past her and glared at the man who withered under the scrutiny.
“What happened?”
“Oh you know me. I was trying to educate women,” she answered.
“Let me guess.” He grinned. “Your political views upset the ladies?”
She showed him the pamphlets. He glanced at them only briefly.
“Ah, Sydney. At least you didn’t get arrested this time,” he said warmly.
“You heard about that?” she asked. Of course he had.
“Are you sure you won’t join me for dinner this evening?” he asked, politely dropping the matter.
She shook her head. “Thank you, Alfred. But I prefer to stay here.”
“As you wish,” he said. “Although I wager you will be the one who receives an education.”
He walked away and she turned and smiled at the steward.
“I’m sure you—you can find your own way from here,” he stammered.
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
Edward
Lunch in the first class saloon was a lively affair. The air was buzzing with the latest chatter, which of course was dominated by the war and submarines. The threat had become somewhat of a hobby to pass the time. The tables for the first seating were nearly full when Edward saw Alfred Vanderbilt arrive, search the room and make a beeline for him and Brooke. Edward rose to greet him.
“Brooke,” Alfred said with a grin, after a nod for Edward.
She was elated that he had selected them as luncheon companions. “So lovely to see you, Alfred. Have you enjoyed the voyage so far?”
Edward shook hands with Alfred just as the soup course—tomato bisque—was being served from a large white porcelain tureen. He sat down and was content to eat his soup and quietly observe Alfred as he chatted to Brooke.