“I will present you with a signed copy,” he announced as I almost clapped my hands with delight. If there was any opportunity for me to return to contemporary times with that book tucked securely beneath my arm, I would give it a try.
Colonel Gracie would go on to write another book, The Truth about the Titanic, in his role as one of the survivors. His story was remarkable since he actually went down with the ship and managed to find his way to an overturned lifeboat. Sadly, he wouldn’t live to see his last book published as his health failed before the tome was released.
I found myself liking this man as he began to ramble on about his book on the war, since he’d found a fan in me, despite my sex. Too many people found his stories to be filled with excessively eye popping details, but his ebullient nature could not be ignored. Per stories that emerged after the sinking, he served as an escort for several unaccompanied ladies on board and almost ran himself ragged making certain their needs were met, offering a strong arm to propel them along as needed. Kipp was gazing at him, head tilted to the side as he figured out what made Gracie, well, uh, Gracie. In the past, Kipp only did a deep dive when we were encountering a difficult person with a complex history, but now he almost did such a thing reflexively, and I suddenly realized it was instinctual on his part and that I shouldn’t discourage him. Silently, I made a mental note to self to give Kipp a wider berth.
“And I note you are without an escort Miss Keaton,” Gracie was saying, shaking me from my reverie about Kipp. This very nice man was preparing to add me to his little collection of women to place under a protective arm. He was sweet and exceedingly likeable, despite his tedious rambling on about the war that would make the faint of heart crave a stiff drink of some alcoholic beverage. I was the exception to the rule, and in me he’d found his soul mate, since I knew as many details as did he and maybe a few more that had escaped his notice.
“Oh, no, Colonel,” I replied, trying not to flutter my eyelashes as Kipp rolled his eyes at me in disgust. “My brother, Peter, is elsewhere on board. And in any case, I have my Kipp.” I reached over to stroke Kipp’s broad back, his auburn fur bristling in the cool Atlantic breeze. Off in the distance what seemed to be a cloud dispersed before I realized it was a flock of gulls caught in midflight, their wings reflecting both the blue sky as well as the gray of the ocean.
“And a fine dog he is,” Gracie replied, reaching over to thump Kipp’s sides so vigorously that Kipp’s teeth chattered slightly. “I have a dog at home named Buster,” he added wistfully. “He’s an old hound that I used to take hunting, but unfortunately he no longer can go the distance.” He sighed, his face growing sad. “He has the will but not the legs.”
“Why do humans think we like our sides pounded?” Kipp grumbled, rolling his shoulders to stretch out accumulated tension. “How would he like it if I grabbed him and shook him until he fell over?” Kipp glanced up at me. “And if I ever have a son, I won’t call him Buster.”
Ignoring Kipp’s whine fest, I remained quiet, giving Gracie the opportunity to reflect over lost times. He, too, was growing older, just like his beloved hound. We actually spent quite a while there, resting in the deck chairs, watching people stroll past as well as gazing at the white tops of small waves created by the dark waters of the Atlantic, only to dissipate into fading patches of foam. Colonel Gracie rose once to carefully place a rug across my lap for warmth before allowing himself to be still. A steward brought us a couple of hot lemonades as Gracie plucked details about the war from my head. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he’d only found a few men who could match his knowledge, and here was I, a member of the fair and delicate sex, who could ramble on about the wisdom of certain artillery placements with confidence. His curiosity and delight at discovering a fellow student of the American Civil War over rode his chauvinism. And as to the latter, I held no grudge. He was an example of the culture of the day, and I made it a practice to avoid judging people by the contemporary mores with which I lived. It goes without saying to mention I’d seen a lot of change in the world since 1604. After our little break with Gracie ended, Kipp and I managed to find our way back to the parlor suite. Peter and Elani had arrived before us and were bursting with interesting observations.
“We actually ran into Littleton in the library,” Peter began, his eyes rounded with excitement. For a moment his voice sounded oddly high pitched before he cleared his throat and continued with his tale. “I managed to engage him, just for a few minutes, over a book he selected.” I tried not to smile at his intensity as Peter glanced at Elani. “At first the steward didn’t seem to want to let Elani in, but I mentioned we were special guests of Mr. Morgan and had been led to believe it would be permitted, so she got to stay with me.”
“So, what did you get from Littleton?” Kipp asked.
“He’s not very sociable…somehow he is simultaneously angry and depressed,” Elani replied. “I wonder if the death of his wife was the critical factor that propelled him to consider placing a bomb, hoping to cause such a tragedy.” She shook her head. “He has managed to let long standing anger over inequities in the social system convince him that he’s right and the system is wrong.”
Peter nodded his head at Elani’s assessment. “He probably won’t allow us to engage with him to any degree, given his insular temperament. So we will watch him from a distance and monitor his thoughts. In any case, he won’t do anything until the sinking, so we will ramp up our surveillance at that time.
“Littleton wants to explode the bomb on the last day of the voyage, within sight of New York,” Peter continued. “It will be a symbolic gesture in his eyes. Actually, I don’t think he really wants to kill a bunch of innocent people, although he finds the first class passengers to be wealthy degenerates. But he realizes any bomb explosion will affect the steerage folks, and he doesn’t want that on his conscience. He’s hoping to sink her close enough that there can be a rescue of the passengers.”
“What was he reading?” I asked, not certain why I was curious.
“The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins,” Peter replied. “Why?”
“Just wondering.” I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s a complex book with lots of moving parts.”
Beckoning at Peter and Elani to follow, I retreated to the red bedroom so plush and opulent that I felt a slight pang of guilt as I sat at the vanity to work on my hair which had become windswept after my time on deck with the Colonel. We only had a few minutes to prepare before tea with Thomas Andrews. Yes, obviously meeting these historical figures changed the timeline of history to a degree, but that was always the case. Leave as little a footprint as possible was our doctrine.
“I’m planning on going to the First Class Smoking Lounge tonight after dinner, hoping I can catch Littleton there,” Peter remarked as he leaned over my shoulder to check his reflection as he straightened his tie. Our initial hesitancy and discomfort with one another had diminished, and he was more like a kid brother than a work acquaintance. I wish I could have said the same for poor Kipp and Elani…the tension between those two never let up. “In his thoughts, I caught the notion that he, perversely, wants to observe the most decadent part of the ship, and he believes that to be the First Class Smoking Lounge where all the rich men gather to play cards, smoke and drink as they manipulate the world like a gigantic chessboard.” Peter stood straight and lightly fingered the watch chain that stretched across his weskit. “I think he is trying to justify his impending actions.”
“Good plan,” I agreed. “Hopefully, Elani can stay with you.” I looked at her and winked.
“Oh, he won’t get away from me easily,” she assured me with a wag of her brush-like tail.
My hair was contained, Peter’s tie was straight; however, Kipp’s fur had become windblown from our time outside on deck, so I held up the comb with a mock threatening gesture. Despite my caution, the comb tangled in a knot on Kipp’s back, and, in turn, he showed every tooth in his head in a mock growl.
“Oh, cut
it out, Kipp,” I said, working more gently with the comb. “We’re going to have tea with Thomas Andrews, and we must look our best!”
Glancing up at the mirror, I caught a glimpse of the treasured pearl necklace bestowed upon me by Harrow; the patina of the strand reflected the warmth of my skin tone. My fingers lightly grazed the round objects, savoring the cool, organic sensation against my flesh, as I treated them like worry beads to soothe my soul. As I stared at my image, I realized there was no time for self-indulgent reflection.
It was time for tea.
Chapter 20
“Mr. Andrews, I cannot even feel the motion of the ship!” I exclaimed, honestly delighted with the effortless labor of the enormous ocean liner. She moved with the grace of a whale, cutting through the water with such streamlined ease that she left an almost imperceptible wake trailing behind, highlighted by the colors of the evening sun settling into the dips and curves of the water. It seemed as if an artist had taken a paint brush and filled the troughs and crests in the dark water with the hues of twilight.
At thirty nine, Andrews had accomplished much more than others his age and had done so by learning the jobs of everyone involved in the construction of a ship. Smart, I thought…his approach and attitude earned the respect of the laborers and thus ensured a superior outcome. His state room on the A Deck was comfortable but not excessively opulent in the style of our parlor suite. Fortunately, Andrews liked dogs and had extended the tea invitation to Kipp and Elani as well as Peter and me.
Andrews smiled, pleased at my compliment as to the steadiness of the Titanic. She was the culmination of all his knowledge and teased the problem solving side of his nature. His mind, although curious and open to us, was spinning with ideas he’d gathered during less than two days voyage. Next on the drawing board was the Gigantic, which would take the information gained from the Oceanic and Titanic and create a vessel even more spectacular, if that were possible.
“I already see room for improvements,” he finally confessed, ducking his head as he made the admission. “I think that perhaps we could use part of the Reading and Writing Lounge on this deck and convert the space into more first class staterooms,” he said, casually floating the idea to see what I would say since the change would affect the ladies on board. I noticed he had an endearing habit of tapping his right forefinger on the top of the table as his mind was busy problem solving and creating.
“I haven’t actually been in that room,” I confessed, taking care to replace the china cup on the plate where a sugar dusted tea cake rested. The tea service, white with the red White Star Line logo, filled me with bittersweet feelings. Some of that china would be recovered intact from the ocean floor one day for modern day morbid curiosity to be served by its display. At his raised eyebrows, I continued and explained, “Kipp was with me, and I didn’t think he would be permitted. But I did take a peek inside from the doorway, and it is a lovely room.” As I chatted I recalled women sitting in upholstered chairs casually placed around tables; the windows, stretching from floor to ceiling, were filled with panes set in a checkerboard pattern, and the flavor was of a pleasant country sitting room. Huge palms were nestled in the corners while ornate cornice work decorated the walls and ceiling from which crystal light fixtures imperceptibly swayed with the motion of the ship. “It seemed well utilized and popular,” I added hopefully. For some reason that eluded me, I wanted Andrews to be completely happy with his creation.
“Well, I thought that since the Palm Courts seems to already be well frequented and there also is the Library for gathering, that the Reading and Writing Lounge would not be missed.” Andrews smiled at me. “But, since you seem so fond of it, Miss Keaton, I may have to reconsider and not make any rash choices.” I appreciated his gentle play as he delicately spared my feelings, none of which was necessary. He was truly a gentleman of the times.
As Peter led Andrews into a long, exhaustive interrogation about the engines, both the two reciprocating and the center low pressure turbine, I glanced at Kipp, who was resting in his Sphinx pose, eyes closed, head nodding as if he were asleep. But he wasn’t.
“A remarkable man,” Kipp observed. “Very confident but lacking arrogance, which is an interesting combination. He likes people and is gratified when people enjoy and appreciate his creation.” Kipp’s eyes snapped open. “But nothing is good enough, and he will make changes until he finds perfection.”
“You know, you aren’t the only people on board with dogs,” Andrews was saying. “Several dogs are housed in the kennel, and I have it by solid sources that some of the other first class passengers keep their dogs in their rooms.” He laughed. “I know Mr. Astor will not be parted from his dear Kitty. The story is that she became lost while he was traveling in Egypt, and he was frantic to find her. He almost lost his connection to get to Cherbourg in time to sail over the loss of Kitty.” He leaned forward, eyebrows arched, to offer me more tea, which I politely declined. “And near the galley, there is a cat named Jenny who was brought aboard with her litter of kittens so they can chase the invisible rats that are supposed to inhabit all ships.” Andrews’ lips drew down at the thought of vermin on his ship. There were stories of rats on the Titanic, but Andrews wouldn’t accept that notion unless one ran up and bit him. “And Mrs. Wright purchased some prize roosters and hens during her trip abroad. So if you hear crowing, you’ll know the source and not question your hearing or your sanity.”
“And who do you leave behind, sir, during this voyage?” I asked, my query probably too bold for the day but not caring.
“My wife, Helen, and our lovely daughter who is only a little tot,” he replied, his voice softening. A shadow passed over his face as his large hands fumbled with the delicate tea cup. “I miss Elba already, although it has only been a few days,” he added, using his nickname for Elizabeth, his only child. Glancing at me, his lips tightened for a second; he was not a man given to emotional outbursts.
I’d seen a picture of him and his family standing outdoors in front of a long, framed window. He was dressed in a suit, holding Elba, who looked as if her hair had been slicked down with a dampened comb for the photograph. His wife was smiling, her shoulder politely nestled against the body of her husband. I had to wonder, despite the brave smile on her face, if she was as unhappy with the size of her hat as was I with mine.
We managed to pass the time pleasantly, chatting mostly about our observations of the ship. He did seem curious as to how we became acquainted with Morgan, so we explained the web of lies that passed as our story. I, on occasion, felt a pang of guilt over the deceptive nature of my relationship with humans, and I did so with Andrews. A steward discretely peeked in to make certain there were adequate refreshments before disappearing again like a phantom in the mist.
“Mr. Morgan is an interesting man,” Andrews remarked in the manner of someone making a carefully neutral comment. “He is very bright, and although not brought up around the ship building business, he catches on effortlessly.”
“I’m led to understand his businesses are quite diverse,” Peter replied. “To be honest, Mr. Morgan was doing a favor for our uncle, who is a friend of his. We barely made his acquaintance, and he was merely trying to help us get home.”
Andrews’ shoulders relaxed a little as he realized he didn’t need to be so guarded with us. For all he knew, we didn’t care for Morgan and had no dog in the hunt. Andrews’ main beef was that the people who controlled the purse strings would often manipulate the budget in such a way that went against the grain of the designer. But to date his worries had been unfounded, and his reality with Morgan was that the ship pretty much had come together as envisioned. There was the redesign of the bulkheads to accommodate additional passenger space, but that would not affect the ship, from his way of thinking, since there were watertight doors in case of emergency. The changes were approved by Ismay, and Andrews’ feeble attempts to dissuade him were not effective.
“And I’m afraid we might have displaced Mr
. Ismay,” Peter added, hoping to pull out Andrews in some discrete gossip. Of course, we could follow his thoughts, unexpressed or not, so he could hide nothing.
“I shouldn’t fret over that,” he said, smiling broadly. “Mr. Ismay would want any passengers to be well treated, so I’m certain he welcomes you aboard.”
That wasn’t exactly what he was thinking, but he was trying to be personable and diplomatic. He understood the way of the world, and there was always a bigger, badder dog in the yard. Andrews was evolved sufficiently to be happy with his place in life and just focus on his job. True, when others made changes to his vision, it rankled, but it was the same with most businesses that such might occur. In the end, his worst enemy was neither Ismay nor Morgan…it was his own unrelenting perfectionism.
After tea was concluded, we decided to once again prowl the Boat Deck as well as the Promenade Deck and make our way from one end of the first class promenade to the other. Honestly, we needed the physical exertion, especially the lupines. Their metabolism was notched at a higher rate than ours, and their need for exercise was greater. The brightness of the sun outside caused us to take a minute for our eyes to adjust, and we stood blinking, like moles exposed to the light for the first time. Kipp and Elani, although not on leashes, stuck to our sides like leeches, so as not to incur the criticism of any passengers or crew. A man was walking towards us, his stride long and purposeful; it was not difficult to recognize Captain Smith. As he approached, he glanced at our odd party and paused, nodding his head. At just over medium height with a barrel chest across which his white uniform jacket was neatly buttoned, he had a carefully trimmed white beard, eyes that squinted half shut against the sun, and a naturally booming voice that he had to restrain for polite conversation.
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 22