by Hazel Gaynor
After getting hopelessly lost, for which I blamed Clara, we enlisted the help of a steward to direct us to our stateroom. The long passageways were elegantly decorated with sconces along the walls in the style of Art Deco and plush carpeting. Seascapes and other nautical art hung from a gilded picture rail. Clara stopped to study the paintings, drawn to pictures as naturally as I was drawn to words and stories. As she clutched Edward’s parcel to her chest, I wondered what particular story might be revealed from the contents inside.
At last, we reached our stateroom. It was similarly decorated with luxurious carpets and rugs, rich mahogany paneling, and two large beds made up with silk sheets and colorful bedspreads. We hadn’t shared a room since we were little girls, giggling in the dark about Father’s stern words over supper, and planning our futures in whispered secrets, imagining the house we would live in together because we couldn’t imagine spending a moment apart.
“Will it do?” I teased as I threw my smaller bag, and myself, onto one of the beds. Violet had spared no expense. I already felt a million miles away from my small Manhattan apartment.
“It’s beautiful,” Clara replied as she reappeared from inspecting the en suite bathroom and ran her hand over the smooth bedspread. “It’s still a shame it has to be on the water. They say the Atlantic is a mile deep in places.”
“Well, it would be difficult to see Europe if we stayed anchored beside the pier.” I opened my suitcase, tossed everything onto the bed, put my toiletries on the dressing table, and set a stack of the morning’s newspapers on the writing desk to read later. “Why do you always think something bad is going to happen? Try to relax and enjoy yourself. For once.”
Clara glanced at my side of the room and exhaled an exasperated breath. “We’ve been here three minutes and you’ve already made the room look as if it has been ransacked. I might like to put my toiletries on the dressing table, too.”
I knew my disorganized clutter bothered her, and always had, but I didn’t intend to waste a minute of precious time aboard this amazing vessel putting everything neatly away. She’d have to learn to live with it.
“Move things around, if you must,” I said as I stretched out on the bed and placed my hands behind my head. It really was exceptionally comfortable.
After watching Clara rearrange her potions and powders for a good ten minutes, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I leaped up from the bed, stuffed my journal, pens, and Violet’s notebook into my handbag, and grabbed my coat. “I’m going up to watch our departure,” I said. “Are you coming?”
Clara glanced at the unopened parcel from Edward that sat on the end of her bed. “I’ll follow you up in a bit,” she replied. “You go ahead.”
So, she was waiting for me to leave, for some privacy.
I didn’t bother to hide a knowing smile as I left her alone and made my way back along the corridors and up several stairwells until I found the exit to the sun deck. Crowds of passengers were already gathered around the ornate iron railings, ready to wave a final farewell to loved ones and well-wishers. I savored the buzz of anticipation, the anxious glances at pocket watches and wristwatches. Everyone was eager to set sail and yet there was the inevitable pang of leaving loved ones, and the sense of trepidation that always accompanies the start of a new journey. My thoughts turned to Violet. This was her last wish, but I still felt torn by going so far away when all I truly wanted was to stay close to her.
I held my hand to my head to save my hat from the breeze. Just as I was beginning to feel a little chilly, the ship’s whistle signaled our leaving, the anchor was lifted, and slowly, gracefully, Queen Mary slipped her moorings. My stomach dipped in excitement. At last, we were on our way.
“I guess there’s no going back now, is there.” Clara’s voice came from behind me.
I glanced to my right as she joined me at the railing. “Nope. You’re stuck with me, Sis.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said as she gripped the railing tightly. She tilted her head back, her face open to the cold breeze.
“And I really wish you wouldn’t nag me all the time, but here we are.”
Clara looked down at the water, before wincing and turning away. “I think I’ll take a walk inside, see what all the fuss is about. Apparently there’s a tennis court somewhere, and Turkish baths.”
“You go on. I’m going to stay up here and write a little while everything is fresh in my mind. I’ll meet you at lunch.”
That was the partial truth, anyway. I already felt the urge to write, to capture the sense of departure on the page, but I also wanted to explore the ship on my own. We might be traveling together, but we didn’t have to spend every moment together. I knew we both preferred it that way.
Before long, New York faded from view, the familiar skyline steadily shrinking to nothing more than a stack of gray blocks tumbling into the sea. I scribbled a few lines in my journal. I planned to document every interesting thing I saw on our trip, and to capture every farewell and arrival along the way. As for articles, I already had a few ideas brewing: Women traveling alone. Following in Nellie Bly’s footsteps. How Europe was coping with the rise of dictatorships. This was a chance to write about something that I couldn’t do justice to from New York, a chance to really get under the skin of a place, to experience things firsthand, just like Nellie had always tried to do. First and foremost, we were making this journey for Violet, but I couldn’t deny the fact that it was also an opportunity to write something powerful, to really kick-start my career. The New York Times, New York Post, Cosmopolitan . . . they all awaited. I lit a cigarette and let a determined smile linger at my lips.
Settling in one of the many deck chairs, and grateful for the wool blanket I draped over my knees, I pulled Violet’s notebook from my bag, and ran my hands over the faded ink on the first few pages. She’d carefully documented each step of Nellie’s race around the world, every stage of the journey meticulously dated and labeled alongside a newspaper clipping.
Departure on a steamer from New York—November 14, 1889
Halfway around the world—December 19, 1889
Triumphant final train ride into Jersey City—January 25, 1890
She’d even included a blank coupon from the New York World’s guessing competition. I smiled at the image of a young woman lassoing the globe. How apt for an adventurer like Auntie Nellie, and now I would follow suit. Turning the page, I saw that Violet had also copied snippets of Nellie’s writings from her trip:
My head felt dizzy and my heart felt as if it would burst. Only seventy-five days! Yes, but it seemed an age and the world lost its roundness and seemed a long distance with no end, and—well, I never turn back. . . . “I am off,” I thought sadly, “and shall I ever get back?”
I became lost in Nellie’s words, her bold voice speaking to me as clearly as if she were standing beside me, encouraging me in her forthright way. Get on with it, Maddie. If you don’t write it, you can be sure as hell somebody else will.
She was right. It was time to get on with it, time to become the journalist I really wanted to be.
Clara
Edward’s arrival at the dockside had come as such a shock that the contents of his gift—the most beautiful set of Winsor & Newton watercolor paints and brushes—did nothing to calm my emotions. But it was the accompanying letter that surprised me the most.
Glad to have a few moments alone in our cabin and away from Madeleine’s prying eyes, I read his words over and over, my hands shaking as I tried to come to terms with his honesty, his passion, and his intent.
I find myself unable to imagine the weeks passing without our usual lessons and laughter. Your going away has made me realize how much I enjoy your company, Clara, and I will miss you terribly. Which is why I have settled on attending the exhibition in Venice after all, despite Annabel’s lingering resentment about my career, and my desire to see it grow. Perhaps we were always meant to be in Venice at the same time? Perhaps fate, and your dear
grandmother, have intervened! The truth is that life with Annabel lately feels like sitting at an old canvas, a tired thing to be reused over and over. When I’m with you, there is only purity and newness and such wonderful possibility.
I have included, below, the address of the hotel I’ll be staying at while I’m in Venice. It would make me so happy to hear from you while I’m there.
I didn’t know what to think, what to do. I was marrying Charles in a matter of months. There could never be anything more than a mutual love of art between Edward and me. Could there?
A knock at the door disturbed me.
Quickly, I put the paints and brushes on the writing table and pushed the letter among the pile of newspapers Madeleine had infuriatingly left lying around. Flustered, I opened the door to a stewardess carrying an enormous bouquet of white roses.
“For you, Miss Sommers,” she said as she bustled inside, filled a vase with water in the bathroom, and proceeded to arrange the roses. “Someone must be missing you already, and we’ve only just departed!”
“Gosh. There are a lot,” I replied as I gazed at the obscene amount of flowers. I was a little embarrassed by the extravagance and waited patiently for her to finish her job and leave. “Here,” I said, pulling a stem from the vase and handing it to her.
“Oh, I couldn’t, miss.”
“I insist. I’m not exactly going to notice one less, am I?”
Muttering a thank you, she took the stem and left with a smile on her face.
My smile, meanwhile, dissolved as soon as she closed the door behind her. I knew the roses were from Charles even before I picked up the accompanying note. Darling Clara. Have a wonderful trip. I will be thinking of you.
I’d never told him I didn’t care for roses, and he’d always assumed that, like most women, they were a favorite. As I stared at the impressive display, and Edward’s thoughtful art supplies beside them, it struck me that I preferred the wrong man’s gift.
Overwhelmed by the heady perfume of the flowers, and by an overwhelming sense of guilt, I left the cabin in a hurry.
* * *
THE ILLUSTRIOUS Queen Mary, the pride of the Cunard-White Star Line, was enormous and I found myself tiring as I ascended yet another sweeping staircase. It would have been easier to take one of the many elevators, but I didn’t trust them, so I continued my exploration without their assistance.
Options for entertainment, exercise, and dining on board were seemingly endless, the deck plans dizzying in their detail of indoor swimming pools, beauty salons, libraries and public rooms, outdoor paddle tennis courts, and dog kennels. The dining room for first-class passengers was three stories in height. It was almost inconceivable to think that such a construction was possible on a liner, floating on the ocean. I gave myself an ache in my neck from staring up at the columns and decorative ceilings.
Having explored as much as I wished to for the time being, I began to make my way back to the cabin, pausing briefly to admire the art in the observation lounge. I wasn’t familiar with the work of the artist but recognized the style as Cubism. I admired the abstract imagery and the unusual use of texture and color. It was a technique I hadn’t attempted yet, and I wondered if I might try it once we arrived in Paris.
In the weeks after Violet had announced her plan for our trip, she’d talked a lot about the great works of the Renaissance and Impressionist masters I would see. She knew that the prospect of seeing Canaletto’s views of Venice and Degas’s beautiful ballet dancers might just make up for the fact that I would have to spend time with Madeleine, and time away from Charles. “Imagine seeing some of the most famous paintings in the world! I don’t know many artists who would turn down such an opportunity.” While she had diminished in height over the years, Violet certainly hadn’t lost any of her powers of persuasion.
I continued on to the first-class restaurant but stopped as my attention was drawn to an enormous painting titled Birds of the Old World. It depicted peacocks in the most glorious colors, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Something about their beauty and freedom spoke to me.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Startled by the voice at my shoulder, I turned to see an elderly gentleman admiring the painting beside me.
“Yes. It’s striking,” I agreed. “The use of color is so interesting.”
He studied me with narrowed eyes. “You must be an artist.”
I nodded. “Trying to be. I’m hoping to find inspiration from the masters in Paris and Venice.”
“I envy you,” he said with a sigh. “I’m afraid my journey isn’t quite so romantic.”
“Oh?”
“I’m returning to my family in Austria, but I’m not entirely sure what I’ll discover when I get there.” He pointed to his skullcap. “My religion is not tolerated there as it once was.”
“Ah.” I fidgeted with my hands, unsure of what to say. “I’m afraid I don’t know too much about it, only what I hear from my sister. She’s a journalist, of sorts. She’s been following the rise of the Nazi Party. She rather obsesses about it.”
He smiled thinly and rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “She is right to be informed. With knowledge comes power.”
“Well, when it comes to my sister, knowledge more often comes with trouble.”
He chuckled softly. “Sisters, huh. No greater friends or more loathsome enemies!” He held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss . . .”
“Sommers,” I replied, shaking his hand.
“I hope you and your sister can enjoy your travels safely.” He pulled a prayer book from his coat pocket. “I will include you both in my prayers. The Queen Mary is the first liner to have a Jewish prayer room, a stance by the shipping line against anti-Semitism in Nazi Germany. Let’s hope others will follow.”
He tipped his hat and bid me farewell. As I watched him walk away with the assistance of his cane, I worried anew about traveling through Europe when it was clearly heading in the direction of another war. I decided to share my concerns with Madeleine over dinner, even though I disliked talking to her about politics and there was very little we could do about it now that we were already en route.
The motion of the ship, while minimal, was enough to make me unsteady on my feet and I braced myself against this wall and that wall as I made my way back to our stateroom, only to discover that I was on the wrong side of the ship.
A young steward, whom I stopped to ask for assistance, looked amused as he explained that I was on the starboard side of the vessel.
“Your cabin is port side aft, miss.” He threw nautical terms at me as if I were a sailor and had any idea what he was talking about. “Would you like me to escort you?”
I assured him I was perfectly capable of finding my own way, but quickly regretted my decision as I took another wrong turn and found myself back at the observation deck in front of the birds again.
Tired of getting lost, I ordered a ginger ale to help settle the queasiness that had come on suddenly, took a seat beside the window, and thought again about Edward’s letter and his planned visit to Venice. Would it be improper for us to meet? We were simply two friends visiting a couple of art galleries, that was all. What harm would there be in that?
As my thoughts wandered, I gazed at the painting and the sense of freedom among the birds, and I wondered if Madeleine was right in what she’d said about us being free for once, at liberty to go where we liked and do as we pleased. Perhaps I should embrace it while I had the chance, before I became Mrs. Charles Hancock, and the duties of marriage and motherhood closed around me. Violet and Mother both said my doubts were perfectly normal and that all brides-to-be felt that way. Despite my apprehension, I was very fond of Charles. He had his faults, certainly, but I wasn’t without fault myself, and I’d never want for anything with him as my husband. Besides, it was too late to start second-guessing myself with the wedding already planned and the invitations sent.
Like the Queen Mary conveying me across the ocean, s
ome things, once set in motion, were very difficult to stop.
Maddie
After a few hours, we’d sailed far out to sea, and my grumbling stomach reminded me I needed lunch. I closed Violet’s notebook, careful to mark my place, and returned to our cabin to stow my things and collect Clara before heading to the restaurant. But Clara wasn’t in our cabin. She’d probably gone to chastise one of the stewardesses, or to complain about bed linens. She was such a nag. The fact that I found her endless complaining amusing seemed to irritate her all the more.
Without Clara casting a critical eye over my every move, I looked around our room properly, pulling open all the drawers and cabinets to see what was what. Her pressed clothing hung from hangers or sat in neat folds in the drawers, and her makeup creams and powders were arranged in a perfect row on the vanity. Of course they were. I pushed one out of line to see if she would notice and walked to the desk to store my writing things in the drawer. As I pulled it open, I was surprised to see Auntie Nellie’s old pocket watch beside Clara’s lace handkerchiefs.
What was Clara doing with Auntie Nellie’s pocket watch? I picked it up and read the inscription: Never turn back. November 14, 1889. Violet must have given it to Clara the same way she’d given me Nellie’s copy of Around the World in Eighty Days. Still, I felt a pang of jealousy. Why would she give it to Clara rather than me, the one who admired Nellie most? Clara didn’t even like Nellie very much. She’d always found her brash and intimidating. Frowning, I returned the watch to the drawer and made a mental note to ask Clara about it later.
As I straightened, I noticed the package from Edward had been opened, the contents lying loosely on the desk, the brown paper and string crumpled in the wastebasket. It was unlike Clara to leave her things lying about in this way. She must have been interrupted by a stewardess, or perhaps realized lunch was being served and left in a rush.