Duke of a Gilded Age

by S. G. Rogers

  Mrs. Stenger blanched. “Iceberg Alley?”

  “Aye. Pieces o’ ice break off the glaciers on the west coast of Greenland and drift south with the current into shipping lanes. It can be tricky to navigate through an ice field safely.”

  “I’d like to see an iceberg,” Wesley said. “They must be magnificent.”

  “Icebergs can be so astonishing and strange, I’ve oft wondered if God and the devil don’t take turns carving ’em,” Mr. Duncan replied. “I’ve seen mountains o’ ice as tall as the smokestacks on this ship, and so varied in shape, no two look alike.”

  “You make them sound beautiful,” Wesley said.

  “Beautiful, aye, but wicked dangerous. What shows on the surface is but a wee part o’ the mass, and therein lies the rub. Many a ship has skirted by an innocent-looking lump o’ ice, while the devil peels back her keel under water with his savage, wicked claws.”

  “Mr. Duncan, all this talk of icebergs is making me uneasy,” Lady Frederic said.

  “You need not be concerned overmuch, milady,” he said. “Most likely ’tis too late in the season for any real danger from ice.”

  Lady Frederic relaxed. “That’s a relief.”

  “Of course, nothing is for certain except uncertainty. And as Mr. Ley pointed out, there are many fishing vessels to be found in the Grand Banks. At almost twenty knots, the City of New York can’t be turned as if she were a mare. If one o’ these vessels should happen to cross our bow on a foggy night…well, I need say no more,” Mr. Duncan said.

  Lady Frederic exchanged an alarmed glance with Mrs. Stenger. Both women flagged down the waiter at the same time.

  “Please bring me another glass of white wine,” Lady Frederic said.

  “I’ll have one too,” Mrs. Stenger said. “If we’re to collide with icebergs and fishing boats, a few glasses of wine will numb the terror quite nicely.”

  Wesley hid his mirth behind a napkin.

  Mr. Ley cleared his throat. “A glass of wine all around wouldn’t go amiss.” He paused. “Actually, make mine a scotch.”

  After dinner, Mr. Ley begged off chess to retire to his cabin.

  “I’m afraid scotch and chess don’t mix,” he said. “I shall retain my dignity and play again another day—assuming the ship is not struck by a parade of horribles in the night.”

  Wesley chuckled. “I attended a Horribles Parade in Brooklyn last July Fourth. Although there were a great many floats, none of them were icebergs.”

  Mr. Ley laughed so hard at Wesley’s joke that tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. “Very good, my boy. Either that was very witty or I’ve had far too much to drink.”

  Still laughing, the old man ambled off. Stephen appeared at Wesley’s elbow.

  “For a moment I thought the fellow was having a fit,” he murmured. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. It was just a joke about an iceberg.”

  “Hmm. It must’ve been a good one.”

  Louise bounded over. “Annabelle taught us to play whist. Why don’t you boys play a game of cards too?”

  “I can’t play whist,” Stephen said.

  “The only card game I know is solitaire,” Wesley said.

  When Belle arrived shortly thereafter with Eva, Stacy, Carl, and Horatio, Wesley had a sudden flash of inspiration. “I have an idea. Let’s swap players. Carl, Horatio, and I claim Miss Oakhurst for our whist instructor, while you ladies teach Stephen.”

  “What an excellent notion,” Stacy said. “You can be my partner, Mr. Van Eyck.”

  Outmaneuvered, Stephen could only smile. “I’d be honored, Miss Egermann.”

  The group trooped upstairs to the library, where Wesley spent a very pleasant evening learning the game of whist. Every so often, Stephen shot him a baleful look from across the room, which Wesley answered with a delighted grin.

  The next two days passed without incident, although occasional sightings of what Mr. Finnegan called bergy bits brought passengers running to the promenade deck rail for a glimpse. The elephant-sized lumps of ice were floating in the ocean like gigantic hailstones, but never came close enough to the ship to pose any danger. Clear, warm weather was the rule, and the seas remained calm enough that only a very few sensitive individuals were plagued with continued seasickness.

  Never before had Belle been in such amiable company. Pleasant and diverting shipboard activities presented themselves at every turn, and she was getting along with everyone famously. Most importantly, she and Wesley had settled into a comfortable relationship, with nary a disagreeable moment. True to her word, Louise had not said anything more about Belle’s feelings, and Belle had managed to occupy herself so thoroughly she didn’t have time to dwell on them. Although she couldn’t pretend her contentment would last forever, she was determined to enjoy it as long as possible.

  The dance club continued to make progress on the quadrille, practicing it so frequently that even Carl and Louise became familiar with the parts and movements.

  “As long as I watch the head couple, I know what to do,” Louise said.

  “If we’re to arrive in Liverpool Saturday, we really have only two days left for dance club meetings,” Belle said. “Would anyone like to learn the polka tomorrow?”

  Eva and Stacy let out little exclamations of excitement.

  “Yes, please!” Louise said. “What fun!”

  “I’d love to learn the polka,” Wesley said.

  “Nothing would please me more,” Stephen said.

  “I’ll probably be just as good at the polka as I am with the waltz,” Carl said, deadpan.

  “And you, Mr. Egermann?” Belle asked.

  “I’m up to the task,” Horatio replied.

  “Cavendish, do you know any polka tunes?” Wesley asked.

  “A fair few, sir.” The valet played several spritely stanzas of Dvorak’s Polka in E major.

  “That makes me want to dance, even now!” Louise exclaimed.

  “It’s settled, then,” Belle said. “Tomorrow, we polka.”

  An open invitation appeared in the Wednesday morning Gazette inviting the saloon passengers to a concert in the second class dining hall. The D’Oyly Carte Opera Company was returning to England after a tour in the United States, and they were to present an evening of music from The Pirates of Penzance, complete with props and costumes. The news had created a general sense of excitement among the saloon passengers; Wesley was looking forward to it as well.

  After dinner, he escorted his mother downstairs for the concert. The dining hall in second class had no soaring dome or ceiling, but it was large, comfortable and well-appointed nonetheless. The concert proved so popular that Wesley and many other gentlemen were obliged to give up their seats to ladies and move to the back. He found himself standing next to Stephen. The air between them crackled with ill-disguised antagonism, interrupted only by a short welcoming speech given by the D’Oyly Carte Opera company tour manager, Mr. Nash.

  As the concert commenced, Wesley admired the Major General’s patter and chuckled throughout I am a Pirate King. Thereafter, a pretty soprano began to sing Poor Wand’ring One, and as she sang, the girl strolled to the back of the room. She continued to sing her song to Wesley, and although he was uncomfortable in the spotlight, he played along with good humor. Afterward, the ingénue gave him a kiss on the cheek, and the room burst into applause.

  Flustered, Wesley could scarcely listen to the company’s fine rendition of How Beautifully Blue the Sky. When the singers paused to change props, Stephen leaned over to needle him. “You really are an American devil, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your lady friend, the soprano.”

  “She’s not my lady friend, Stephen. I never saw her before in my life.”

  “Right you are. She just picked you out of a whole room of people at random?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Wesley fumed at Stephen’s insinuation. “Furthermore, people wo
uld more easily expect a string of lady friends from you, not me.”

  “I should thrash you for that.”

  Wesley shot him an angry glance. “I wouldn’t want you to muss your hair.”

  Stephen balled his fists. “See here—”

  Just then, Mr. Duncan brushed past on his way to the front of the dining hall. “Excuse me, everyone! Can I have your attention?”

  The chatter stopped.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Mr. Duncan said. “About an hour ago, we came across a steamer in distress.”

  The dining hall was immediately filled with a frightened din, which the Chief Officer tried to calm. “The City of New York is in no danger, I assure you! But our assistance has been requested, and Captain Howe is obliged to render aid. Does anyone here speak Italian?”

  Wesley glanced around, assuming someone fluent would respond. Nobody did, so he cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Duncan, I speak a very little. How can I help?”

  “Come with me, Your Grace. And to everyone else, please forgive the interruption. You may continue with the concert, if you like.”

  The Chief Officer escorted Wesley from the room, followed closely by Stephen.

  “What’s the situation, Mr. Duncan?” Wesley asked as they mounted the stairs.

  “I’m not entirely sure myself, Your Grace. A half hour ago, five crewmen rowed a longboat over from the Apollo, requesting our help. After they conferred with the captain, he sent me to find someone who speaks Italian. That’s all I know.”

  When Wesley emerged on deck, he saw the Apollo crewmen wearing cork jackets underneath Macintosh coats, huddled in conversation with Captain Howe.

  “Captain, His Grace speaks Italian,” Mr. Duncan said.

  Wesley hastened to clarify. “Only a little…a few words here and there. I’m not sure if I’m of any use at all.”

  “Son, we’ve canvassed everyone on the ship and you’re the best we’ve got,” Captain Howe replied. “The SS Apollo was en route to New York when she suffered an engine explosion. She’s hulled and taking on water. Captain Yarborough needs his passengers and crew to evacuate the ship as quickly as possible.”

  “How can I help?”

  “The saloon passengers apparently understand the situation full well, but the steerage passengers are another matter. They’re Italian immigrants, speak not a word of English, and are terrified out of their wits.”

  “The Apollo doesn’t have anybody on board who speaks Italian?” Wesley asked, incredulous.

  “The interpreter was killed in the blast.”

  Wesley grimaced. “All right. What would you like me to do?”

  “The Apollo crew will row you to their vessel. You must convince the Italians to evacuate the ship…women and children first.”

  Several passengers had followed Wesley from the concert and formed a crowd of curious onlookers. Lady Frederic pushed her way through in time to hear Captain Howe’s request.

  “No! A tiny rowboat in the Atlantic Ocean isn’t safe!” she exclaimed. “Captain, you’re asking too much.”

  Wesley gripped his mother by the arms. “If I don’t go, people may die.”

  “I won’t have you risk your life, Wesley. You’re all I have left.”

  “I wouldn’t be any kind of a man if I don’t do this.”

  “Milady, he’ll wear a cork jacket and carry a life buoy,” Captain Howe said. “And the longboat is quite seaworthy.”

  Stephen shouldered past Mr. Duncan. “I’ll go too.”

  “You don’t speak Italian,” Wesley said.

  “I studied Latin. How different can it be?” Stephen’s teeth gleamed in the lamplight. “Besides, if there are ladies to cajole, I’m just the person to do it.”

  “Now I’ve heard everything,” Wesley said.

  At that point, Cavendish stepped forward. “I volunteer as well.”

  Captain Howe held up his hand. “Mr. Van Eyck may be of some use. But as much as I laud your offer, Mr. Cavendish, this is no fit task for aught but the very young.”

  “When do we get started, Captain?” Wesley asked.

  “There’s no time to lose, lad.”

  As the cork jackets and life buoys were brought around, Mrs. Van Eyck arrived, and began to remonstrate with Stephen. Wesley suddenly noticed Belle standing nearby, her hazel eyes wide with fear. Before he could say anything, she threw herself into his arms. As they embraced, he could feel her trembling uncontrollably.

  “You’re cold,” he said.

  “No, I’m frightened.”

  “It’s going to be all right, you know.”

  “Just the same, I won’t rest until you return, safe and sound.” Belle kissed him on the cheek. “That’s a promise.”

  Mr. Duncan brought over a couple of cork jackets. While Wesley shrugged on his, Stephen took Belle’s hand. “I could very well perish out there,” he said.

  “Yes, I—”

  Without warning, Stephen pulled her into a kiss. Wesley had to restrain himself from dragging him back by the collar like a cur.

  “That’s enough, Stephen,” he said, tight-lipped. “It’s time to go.”

  Stephen released Belle, reluctantly.

  “Thank you, Miss Oakhurst,” he said. “Now I can die a happy man.”

  Mr. Duncan dropped a cork jacket over Stephen’s head, helped him tie it around his waist, and thrust a life buoy into his hand.

  “You’re all set, lads. Good luck to you.”

  Wesley and Stephen approached the winch that would lower them down the side of the ocean liner and into the waiting longboat.

  “You’ll pay dearly for that, Stephen,” Wesley muttered.

  “Come now, Wesley. You’re just angry you didn’t think of it first.”

  Although she was horribly embarrassed about Stephen’s kiss, she was too frightened for him and Wesley to do much of anything except stifle a rebuke. I’ll deal with Stephen later, she decided. And just when I thought he was acting like a gentleman! As the two young men disappeared over the side of the ship, Louise hugged Belle and sobbed. Over Louise’s shoulder, she caught Mrs. Van Eyck’s eye. Her face flooded with heat when she realized Stephen’s mother had seen the kiss. Blast Stephen! He’s put me in a horrible position! Instantly she regretted the thought. It sounded too much like a curse, and although she was furious with Stephen, she didn’t want anything to happen to him. Belle said a quick silent prayer for Wesley’s safe return…and slipped in a grudging word for Stephen as well. She pulled Louise toward the railing.

  “Come on, Louise. Let’s watch them as long as possible.”

  The bedraggled Apollo crew had already taken their places in the longboat by the time Wesley and Stephen were winched down. Once they were seated forward in the prow, the longboat’s oars were lowered into the water. As the boat moved off, Mr. Duncan came to stand next to Belle and Louise.

  “Those are two brave lads,” he said. “’Tis lucky we’re in the Grand Banks and not the Flemish Cap.”

  “Why is that, sir?” Belle asked.

  “The current moves in a clockwise direction in the Flemish Cap and we’d be further separated from the Apollo for certain.” He paused. “Of course, nothing is for certain except uncertainty.”

  Belle gulped. As she watched the longboat increase its distance from the City of New York, she knew one thing at least was certain: Wesley Parker and Stephen Van Eyck had just placed themselves in mortal danger and she’d never been so afraid for anyone in her life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Optimism

  WAVES LAPPED UP AGAINST THE SIDE of the wooden longboat, spraying frigid saltwater onto the men inside. The heat left Wesley’s body so quickly, he longed to row with the crew to stay warm. Stephen, who was sitting on the bench next to him, must have felt the same way. He nudged Wesley with an elbow and pointed to a pair of long oars at their feet.

  “Let’s do it,” Wesley said.

  They turned around until they were facing the City of New York, lung
ed for the oars, fitted them into the oarlocks, and began to row in concert with the crew. As the blood flowed into his muscles, Wesley’s misery was only slightly alleviated. Nevertheless, the exercise took his mind off the fact he was in a small boat in the midst of a vast, pitiless ocean. The unrelieved blackness that stretched out on all sides made Wesley feel small and insignificant. He gritted his teeth against the maelstrom of fear that threatened to paralyze his thoughts. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the rapidly retreating City of New York.

  The Apollo was at a far greater distance than she’d looked from the deck of the huge ocean liner. Worse, the waves of the Atlantic slowed the longboat’s progress. The better part of an hour passed before they reached their destination. By then, Wesley was at once clammy with sweat and chilled to the core. His fingers were seemingly frozen to the oar’s handles, but he peeled them free to climb the rope ladder onto the three-masted, single-screw ship. His muscles were so logy that his progress was slow. When he finally set foot on deck, a blanket was thrown over his shoulders and a mug of hot coffee was thrust into his hands. Stephen staggered on board a few moments later and was similarly greeted. The ship’s captain emerged from the bridge to welcome the new arrivals.

  “Thank you for coming. My name is Captain Yarborough, and I welcome you aboard the Apollo.”

  To Wesley’s humiliation, his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. “W-Wesley P-Parker, D-Duke of M-Mansbury.”

  Stephen fared little better. “S-Stephen V-Van Eyck.”

  The captain ushered them below deck and into the first class dining hall, where the acrid smell of smoke from the boiler room explosion immediately assailed Wesley’s nostrils and stung his eyes. The room, filled with almost one hundred fifty well-dressed people, was perhaps one-third the size of the saloon on the City of New York. Passengers, their faces twisted with fear, rushed forward to pepper the new arrivals with questions and demands for help. Wesley noticed one bejeweled lady held a barking Yorkshire terrier.