by Ash Hartwell
“What did you do that for?” William asked, rubbing his injured nipple ruefully.
“You have always told me pain is an aphrodisiac. I wondered if it would be the same if you were the one experiencing the pain.” She lifted the silk sheets and peered at his naked body. With another little giggle, she answered her own question. “It would appear not.”
“I would love to teach you the error of your ways, Violet my dear, but I must return to my cabin and prepare for dinner. It is important I keep up the pretence of a happy marriage, as even in these enlightened times, many people find it distasteful doing business with a known philanderer.”
William swung his legs out of bed and walked naked to the bathroom, something he had never done in front of his wife. There he relieved himself before splashing refreshingly cold water on his face.
When he returned to the bedroom, Violet had moved to the dressing table where she sat admiring her naked breasts and delicately pulling a brush through her tousled hair. She had a nonchalant, almost distant look in her eyes as she asked softly, “Will the baby change anything between us?”
Shocked, William stopped picking up his clothes and slowly turned to stare at his young mistress. He tried to gather his thoughts, to formulate an appropriate response, but it was like his mind had shattered; the ideas, opinions, and values that together formed his ability to produce reasoned, coherent thoughts were nothing but broken fragments, scattered across his psyche.
After several seconds of catatonic stupor, he finally uttered, “Baby? What baby?” His thoughts rushing back, fighting to reform inside his head; a dozen voices, all clambering for attention.
“Your baby,” replied Violet innocently. Secretly, William’s obvious discomfort pleased her. It meant, just as she’d suspected, he hadn’t known about Bridget’s pregnancy. She knew William detested children as they had talked about it on several occasions. He viewed them as nothing more than parasites, eating into their parents’ wealth and giving nothing in return. ‘Let the poor have children; they have nothing to lose,’ had become his mantra on the subject.
“You ... are ... with child?” William asked slowly, his finger pointing vaguely at the slight paunch of Violet’s alabaster-white stomach.
“Me? No, perish the thought.” She added an almost imperceptible shudder for dramatic effect, carefully ensuring it was not too subtle for William to notice. He had never been good at understanding the subtleties of feminine body language. “Mistress Grafton. She is the one carrying your child!” Violet brought her hand to her mouth with a soft gasp, adding in an incredulous tone, “Surely you knew? I’m so sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn.”
William sat on the bed with the look of a prisoner listening to the judge sentencing him to hang. His normally ramrod straight back and military bearing had, for the moment, deserted him, leaving him hunched and withdrawn. He wore a stunned, almost blank, expression on his pale, blood-drained face as he wrestled with the news of his impending fatherhood.
“Bridget! Mrs. Grafton ... is pregnant? Are you sure?”
William stared at Violet quizzically, the intensity of his gaze scaring her. She could see his confusion of earlier turning to anger; his eyes had darkened, his jaw hardening to the point it could have been hewn from granite. Suddenly, conscious of her own nakedness, she reached for the silk gown she had discarded so seductively only an hour or so before and slipped it on, covering her own vulnerability.
She was beginning to wish she had kept quiet and not tried forcing his hand. What did she expect would happen? Was he going to abandon his wife and unborn child for her, a mere chambermaid in his employ? Even if they did share certain interests in the boudoir, it would be social suicide for a man of his position. Violet suddenly realized his question hadn’t been rhetorical, he still stared at her, expecting an answer from her.
“I ... I saw the bump myself, and sh ... she has suffered from sickness in the morning.” Violet stammered as she sought the correct response, thinking it prudent not to mention the conversations she and Mrs. Grafton had shared on the subject. She did not want William thinking she had been in some small way disloyal to him, she had witnessed firsthand the bruises he had inflicted on his wife’s fair skin and did not want the same happening to her, at least not out of anger.
Without warning, William sprang into action. Almost jumping from the bed, he gathered his clothes from all four corners of the exquisitely furnished bedroom before quickly dressing in silence. Violet watched him without further comment until he’d laced up his shoes and downed the last of the Scotch he had poured himself on entering the suite.
“Are you all right, my love?” She ventured, tentatively, regretting the words even as they left her mouth.
William stared at her for a moment with a look of contemptuous disdain then, slamming down the empty glass, he stormed from the room. Violet jumped as the thick oak door slammed shut behind him. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever see him again. Flinging herself angrily onto her unmade bed, she sobbed into the pillows that still bore the musky scent of his cologne.
Fourteen
In the musky darkness of the valise’s interior, Pandora lay shivering, her bushy tail curled tightly around her fragile little body. Each minor convulsion rippling through her caused the tip of her tail to flick uncontrollably, but she wasn’t cold. She felt frightened, but that wasn’t the cause of her uncontrolled shivering.
No, Pandora understood the shivering was a physiological response to the raging heat threatening to consume her from within.
It flowed through her tiny body like molten rock, scorching her internal organs and boiling her brain in its own fluid, causing a savage combination of searing pain and mind-bending confusion. She could only think of the emptiness, and the emptiness she felt wasn’t through lack of food. She had devoured the sausage Patrick had given to her earlier. This emptiness ran deeper than that, much deeper. It was a craving, an insatiable desire for fresh meat.
Pandora craved fresh, raw meat.
Every fibre in her frail body screamed at her to sate her hunger. She needed to feed, to hunt, to kill. And Pandora needed to do it soon.
A soft knock on the door disturbed Captain Smith in the middle of the chief engineer’s report. They were never exciting at the best of times, but this one was particularly boring with the only highlight, if he could call it that, being the small fire still smouldering in the starboard coal store. As a result, Smith welcomed the disturbance.
“Enter!” Captain Smith raised his voice and lowered his tone to give the word a suitable amount of authority. After a moment of hesitation during which Smith considered repeating his command, the door swung open and Bruce Ismay, the chairman of White Star, entered the room followed by Thomas Andrews, the ship’s architect. Captain Smith felt ill-at-ease with the intrusion when he realized who his visitors were and immediately felt his authority to command the vessel was going to be tested.
“Good evening, E. J., Mr. Andrews and I were on our way to enjoy an aperitif before joining Sir and Lady Duff-Gordon and the Countess of Rothes for dinner and thought it might be an excellent idea to garner your assessment of our progress, as I’m sure the topic will arise.”
Mr. Ismay spoke with the same assured arrogance of privilege and wealth that had led the English to build an Empire that spanned the globe. He was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it, even from the Captain of the world’s largest ocean liner.
“I’m certain you will make sure it does,” replied Captain Smith dryly.
He was well aware of the importance of this voyage to his employers. They had invested heavily in Titanic to make it the largest and most luxurious vessel ever to put to sea, and they needed this first voyage to be an unequivocal success. “I am reviewing the reports now and so far, except for the smouldering coal store, everything is progressing exactly as expected.”
Captain Smith handed the chief engineer’s report to Ismay, who glanced at it with seemingly little unde
rstanding of the nautical parlance and engineering configurations it contained.
After taking a brief moment to feign interest in the document, Mr. Ismay handed it back to the Captain muttering a perfunctorily, “Excellent.”
An awkward moment of hesitation followed, during which the ship’s owner looked at Andrews for support. Then, no doubt buoyed by the architect’s presence, Mr. Ismay continued in his usual, more confident air. “I understand the engines are not yet running at their full capacity. Is there a reason for this?”
Captain Smith fought the urge to let out an exasperated sigh. He knew his visitors were keen to make New York on Tuesday evening as opposed to the scheduled Wednesday morning. The early arrival of the Titanic would mean the most luxurious method of crossing the Atlantic was also the fastest, and more conveniently, would also make the morning editions of the New York papers. Both Ismay and Andrews were aware of Captain Smith’s opposition to pushing the engines too soon. Even the rich and powerful Bruce Ismay didn’t have the authority to order his captain to increase speed, and as this was Smith’s last trip before retirement, he didn’t feel the need to acquiesce to the chairman’s wishes.
In the tone a schoolmaster might use to explain a simple problem to the class dunce, Captain Smith offered his reply. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Ismay. The engines are not yet running at full capacity; however, we have been running at 70rpm which allows the Titanic to sail at exceptionally good speeds, often in excess of 21 knots. Meaning we could cover as much as 480 nautical miles in the day, and that’s in less than ideal weather. Tomorrow the weather forecast is for calmer conditions, and if that holds true we will increase the speed to 72rpm following the officers’ noon briefing. But please note, I’m responsible for this vessel and the lives of everyone aboard; if I have to slow or alter course for safety reasons, then I will. We don’t want to throw a propeller shaft or risk a collision because we were going too fast to alter course, do we?” Captain Smith cocked his eyebrow as he turned the final sentence into a question, almost daring his visitors to disagree with him.
Boxed into a corner, Ismay reluctantly found himself agreeing with the captain’s assertion that the vessel’s safety was of paramount concern. He congratulated Captain Smith on his diligence and for making such excellent time between Southampton and Cherbourg then looked, awkwardly, to Andrews to continue the conversation.
“I agree the safety of the passengers and crew is of the utmost importance, as proved by the ship’s revolutionary design which makes her almost unsinkable. It would take an unfortunate series of events to breach enough compartments to actually sink this immensely strong, well-engineered piece of British industrial ingenuity.” Andrews spoke in the quiet easy manner of a man who had total confidence in his design and the men who’d laboured night and day to make it a reality.
Andrews paused for a moment to allow Captain Smith to understand fully the implication of his words. Then, like a defence barrister about to blow a hole in the prosecution’s supposedly watertight case, he continued. “It’s this design and superior engineering that makes the Titanic, not only the safest vessel to cross the Atlantic, but also the fastest. She can withstand everything the North Atlantic route can throw at her and still make good time. I admire your sense of caution, Captain. It is a commendable trait in someone who holds other people’s lives in their hands; however, this ship is capable of so much more. Speaking as one of those people whose life you commendably hold so dear, I think you should throw caution to the wind. After all, the kudos of reaching New York early would be a glorious end to your illustrious career.” Andrews, who’d become more animated the longer he spoke, opened the door and left the room, as if signalling to the others that the decision was made.
Captain Smith was first to break the awkward silence Andrews’ departure had left in its wake. “I will not allow myself to be bullied into making a rash decision, Bruce. You’ve known me long enough to understand that.”
“Yes, I do, E. J. I also know you are not one to shirk a challenge, and reaching New York on Tuesday night is definitely a challenge, but you do whatever you think is right. This vessel is certainly magnificent; she will have other chances to be fast.” With that, Ismay stepped through the door in pursuit of Andrews and a long overdue aperitif.
Captain Smith studied the reports on his desk thoughtfully for a while. Then, making a mental note to check the iceberg reports with the duty officer before turning in for the night and to have someone inspect the damage caused by the smouldering coal store fire, he dressed for dinner. There was no way he was going to even consider throwing caution to the wind on an empty stomach.
Fifteen
William’s mood hadn’t improved by the time he reached his own stateroom. His confused thoughts had tumbled and twirled around inside his fractured mind. He detested children and the idea of having one of his own simply abhorred him. How could Bridget have let this happen? He’d enjoyed the company of many women while studying at Cambridge and again later serving first Queen, and then King, and country in the colonies. Not to mention most of the scullery maids his parents, and later he, himself had employed and, to his knowledge, not one got pregnant. In fact, he had even begun to doubt the fact he could father a child.
What if he couldn’t? What if Bridget was carrying the bastard offspring of another man, after all, how well did he know her? She was young and beautiful—much the only reason he’d married her, that and her influential Boston connections—and she undoubtedly attracted the attention of other men. He had witnessed that himself, both on their way to the port and only last night at dinner. It was obvious both Guggenheim and that jumped up serving boy, Moody, were both besotted with her. William noticed this was something she did little to discourage. If she was pregnant from another lover and it should somehow become public knowledge in London society, then the scandal would do him great harm, if not completely ruin him.
He crashed recklessly through the door, pushing it open so violently it swung inward and bounced back off the small Queen Anne styled reception table, catching him on the elbow. He swore loudly as the pain exploded in the sensitive joint before shooting down into his fingers with a tingling jolt that left his forearm in a strange juxtaposition of searing pain and total paralysis. Storming through the suit’s antechamber into the bedroom, his right hand clutching his left elbow as he tried in vain to get any sensation in his lower arm that wasn’t agonizing pain, he found Bridget. She sat at the dressing table with the pretty chambermaid, Esme, who had shown them to their cabin when they’d boarded, in close attendance. His dramatic entrance had obviously surprised them, and William was convinced in his own mind of his wife’s attempt to undermine the servant’s respect for authority by engaging her in common, idle gossip.
“My dear, whatever is the matter? You came in here as if the devil himself were chasing you.” William did not respond to his wife’s greeting, choosing instead to direct a thundersome glare at Esme.
“Leave us!” William almost spat the words in her face.
Esme held her ground defiantly. She had handled far rougher, far drunker characters while pulling pints in the Belvedere Arms, and she wasn’t about to leave Bridget at the mercy of this cowardly bully.
“I said, leave us!” William repeated, this time shouting into the young woman’s face. His voice rose to a crescendo, his face turning an interesting shade of puce as the veins in his neck throbbed with anger. This was exactly the disrespect you deserved when you fraternized with the help; they get above their station and became insolent and unruly. He would have to do something about that.
William lurched menacingly towards Esme, his hand raised as if ready to strike; his sheer physical size forcing Esme to take a few steps backwards. His warm breath bore the distinctive sickly-sweet smell of alcohol and the smoky, almost flowery aroma of burning opium, scented his clothes. Both of these were common and familiar smells to the former barkeep.
Esme realized with horror Captain Grafton was f
ar too drunk to exercise restraint, even to a woman, and briefly wished she had taken the opportunity to slip away at his first command. All she managed to do by spurning the chance to leave was antagonize the beast. She might as well have jabbed a large stick into the heart of a bee’s nest. She was dreadfully aware she had only succeeded in making Bridget’s predicament far worse than it already was.
“Go!” Bridget’s shrill voice cut through Esme’s thoughts, spurring her into action. Esme ducked nimbly past William and darted to the door. Once there, Esme paused to look back at her new friend with anguished concern, but Bridget waved an arm signalling her to leave. “Just go! I’ll be fine.”
Even as Esme ran from the room, pulling the suite’s main door shut behind her, both women knew Bridget wouldn’t be fine.
Sixteen
Much of the ship’s vast bulk was still shrouded in darkness as Esme fastened her pinafore before carefully pinning her cap in place. She stole a quick glance in the tiny mirror provided and decided it would have to do. She was already two minutes late reporting for duty, and the grisly Miss Wilson had, on several occasions, already made plain the consequences of tardiness. The head housekeeper already had a beady eye focused on her following their less than cordial meeting on the day of sailing. On several occasions since that first, and so far, only direct meeting, Esme had experienced the strange feeling of being watched, only to look up and discover Miss Wilson’s shrivelled features observing her from afar.