The Light in the Darkness 1

by Carla Louise Robinson

  The small reading table, where both Cecilia’s parents now lounged – her father, reading a newspaper he’d bought before boarding, and her mother, who was currently instructing her lady’s maid about what to hang in the built-in wardrobe; the fireplace – electric – was already flickering, emitting a warm glow that filled the room, and Cecilia couldn’t help but admire that Tudor-styled timber panelling of the outer deck, whose windows were closed, but the open curtains allowed a streaming ray of daylight to filter through, that led to her parents’ 50ft private promenade that came with their adjoining suites.

  Cecilia sat haughtily on her parents’ plush gold sitting room chaise, in part due to the whale-bone corset forcing her spine into an impossibly rigid position, and partly due to her annoyance at marrying a stranger. Her sister, Eliana, and her husband, George, had already retired to their suite, settling their children down before Eliana would change into a day dress for luncheon at one. Or rather, Cecilia thought, Eliana would charge the Nanny with the chore of feeding her children, citing a headache for her reason for rest.

  The same, of course, would be expected of Cecilia, who had already been instructed to don a beautiful dress suitable for an afternoon luncheon, though Cecilia thought the idea of changing her outfit multiple times exhausting. She supposed it wasn’t necessarily very different from being at home, where she could expect to change at least thrice daily, and sometimes double that on special occasions or formal dinners, which occurred more often than was reasonable. Cecilia, who could not deny her enjoy for her exquisite garments, felt the process unnecessarily exhausting, and her extensive wardrobe collection frequently reminded her of others who could not bear the expense for food, let alone afford to change their clothing multiple times a day, never wearing the same thing twice. Though, if she were fair, she felt similarly about the long list of expectations she was expected to abide by, though no one had provided a suitable reason beyond, “But that’s just the way things are done”. It was a poor excuse in Cecilia’s mind; and perhaps the very rationale that the people of Russia were no longer happy with the Tsar, especially since their humiliating defeat in the war. While no country ever took pleasure in losing a fight, the people of Russia frequently saw defeat as a personal humiliation. Nicholas II had already lost his people’s confidence and the people of Russia were incensed in what they believed to be their Tsar’s betrayals. While the Romanov family dined with an abundance of food they never finished, many Russians were left freezing in long winters, starving while the Tsar family held balls and served food that they would never consume, often giving scraps to the animals, forcefully reminding the people of Russia aware of where they placed in the order of things.

  “Mama, please,” implored Cecilia, not for the first time this morning. She’d told Eliana she was travelling with her to help with the children, knowing her sister would readily agree without question; however, it was for her own personal, selfish reasons she’d created the excuse. She simply wanted to be separated from her family after another disastrous quarrel that involved her father threatening to force her to marry Thomas even if he had to drag her down the aisle himself, and Cecilia threatening to kill herself if they compelled her. Her father had laughed, though his laugh hadn’t reached his grey-blue eyes, calling his daughter’s bluff, and her mother had pinched her small mouth – one that Cecilia had inherited – and rolled her eyes. “Must the betrothal be so soon after my official American debut? Can we not afford to wait? I mean, what even is the purpose of my debut if everyone already knows I’m to be engaged to Thomas? It’s preposterous, Mama. It’s the twentieth century, for golly’s sake! Women usually have the opportunity to wait until they are adults to marry, not while they’re still children. Both Georgiana and Eliana have husbands, and Eliana has an heir-apparent for both Estates. Georgiana will likely have an heir-presumptive sooner rather than later, which secures your fortune, Papa. What is the purpose of shipping me off to America? Is it so you don’t have to lay eyes on me, to rarely see me again? All in exchange for money we don’t need?”

  Cecilia watched her mother intently; Lady Eleonora had already shown signs of wavering, as she had done so for the past few months. After all, she had strongly hoped that all of her daughters would make agreeable matches on both sides, both in regard to contentment as well as the expected addition of prestige and finances that came with a family as old and steeped in regnal history as Cecilia’s. Her mother frequently boasted of her claim of being a descendant of the famed beauty Elizabeth Woodville, whose infamous marriage to King Edward IV had sparked several civil wars through an already broken and spurned England, with her daughter eventually succeeding her, marrying Henry Tudor after the fall of King Richard at Bosworth. Cecilia could no longer remember the exact familial connection, but it was irrelevant; most nobles within Britain were descendant from one King or Queen or another; it was the inevitable results of constant countless civil wars, in-breeding and marrying first cousins – a common trait among royalty. Several years before King Edward VII’s death, Eliana had been received at court by him; for a time, Edward VII had joined his brothers and sisters in ruling Germany and Russia. Cecilia wondered if they ever felt it bizarre that they were locked in quarrelsome battles when they were unified by blood.

  Cecilia also was aware that Lady Eleonora was not remotely pleased with her husband’s decision to have her youngest daughter – “My baby, Albert!” her mother had cried at the news – shipped off to “the Americas”, as if Cecilia was a worthless piece of chattel. If Cecilia was to remain in England, and her arrangement annulled, it would be her mother that would falter, not her father, and Cecilia planned to play to her mother’s weaknesses.

  While Eleonora was august with reminiscing her family’s regnal connections, Albert was a far more cautious man, weary of estates that had run afoul in the mid-to-late 1800’s, like George’s father’s had. Albert was a far more stern, conservative, calculating man, who was frequently shrewd, even when it came to his daughters. He was not a particularly handsome man, though he once might have been; his hair was mostly grey, and his steel grey-blue eyes had shrunken into his wrinkled face. Albert understood the meaning of the importance of money, as well as determined, efficient alliances, envisioning his family to be spread across the continents, as Queen Victoria had once done with her children.

  While Cecilia was aware that Albert did not wish any of his daughters to be unhappy, he frequently regaled to them about how, over time, he had come to love their mother, a notably handsome woman, who had now become his most cherished and beloved person, and the woman he professed to be the love of his life. Cecilia knew that her father had envisioned the same future for all his daughters, where they would grow to love their companions as he had, and he had been ropeable when Georgiana had defied him to marry William, a love connection she had made of her own, decimating her father’s plans to marry his second daughter off to a marquess or even a duke. Georgiana had been the apple of their father’s eye; she was undoubtedly one of the grandest beauties in the entire realm of England. Her hand in marriage was the goal of many of the men of polite society.

  Georgiana had large, doe-like dark-blue eyes that she’d inherited from their mother, that reminded Cecilia of the ocean at night. She had thick, long eyelashes that she’d inherited from their father, whose eyelashes resembled that of a horse’s and were an extremely feminine trait for a man such as her aging father, and while everyone sought after the thin, delicate lips of the sophisticated women of Europe, Georgiana’s were copious and sultry, turned almost downwards, as if in constant pout. Georgiana, unlike her sisters, had unusually white, straight teeth, that seemed to match the rest of her: In all of Georgiana’s nineteen years, Cecilia had never seen a blemish grace her sister’s porcelain face. Her lips were naturally a rose-blush colour, something Cecilia could only achieve by pinching her lips together, and although Cecilia was well aware that Georgiana graced her lips with a touch of pink lip stain, she had never had to undertake t
he same brutal beauty regime.

  And all of Georgiana’s glorious beauty didn’t begin to compare to her surprisingly kind and generous nature. While Eliana was steadfast and snobbish, and while Cecilia was spontaneous and fiery, Georgiana was easily pleased, habitually laughing gaily with friends and acquaintances alike. Georgiana understood Cecilia’s needs and motives, continually inspiring her to take her destiny into her own hands. Cecilia had missed her sister severely these past few months and was longing to see her again; she would know of and understand her sister’s pain, and perhaps even help her ease her burden throughout the ship’s week-long voyage.

  “I know seventeen is young, my dear, but you are now becoming an alluring young woman. You haven’t been a child for some time now, as you’ve reminded your mother and me repeatedly when discussing your keen interest in politics.” Albert shared a confessional look with his wife, before continuing, “You are the only unmarried daughter of the Earl of Gresham, a title that seems to attract several prominent American families, though none quite so illustrious as the Vanderbilt family. You’ve been pleased with the letters you have been exchanging with Thomas, yes?”

  “Yes,” admitted Cecilia reluctantly.

  Thomas William Cornelius Vanderbilt II wrote to Cecilia bimonthly, and they had early on exchanged pocket photos of each other.

  In the photo Cecilia had sent to Thomas, she was wearing a white and blue striped dress, with sleeves to her elbows, and white lace embroidered over her shoulders, before gathering in her favoured square neckline. She had been standing in her portrait, with a small, almost timid smile, her petite hands in tiny white lace gloves, clutching the long pearls that were adorning her neck; it had been a stance she’d made due to a nervous tick about having her portrait taken for the sole purpose of sending it to another man to admire, but had admittedly added unintentional flair, as if Cecilia had meant to pose, the way the models did so in the newspapers.

  Cecilia thought of her tea dress fondly; it was one of her less formal dresses, and was an excellent design custom made in Oxford Street at Lucille’s, yet it combined tasteful elegance with simple day wear and comfort, and she hoped that the photo, and her dress, would help reflect her personality to Thomas in a way her words otherwise might not.

  In the photo Thomas had sent Cecilia – which lay in one of her trunks; however, she wasn’t quite sure which one or where, though she imagined one of the many bustling maids or stewardesses would unpack it and place it on her vanity bureau – he had sat, his posture rigid, in a chair that, although Cecilia could not discern the colours, was ornately decorated, with a plush cushion fitted in for the seat.

  Thomas was dressed more formally than Cecilia had been – he was wearing an American suit and tie, fitted in, what Cecilia presumed to be, a custom-made dark grey coat, dark trousers, and matching tie. Cecilia had found his frame to be decidedly American, or, at best, British working class, though she supposed Thomas was wearing the latest fashions, and fashion wasn’t something she tended to judge someone on, having skirted many societal conventions herself.

  While Cecilia knew Thomas to be twenty-one, nearing twenty-two – older than her most recent brother-in-law – his clean-shaven face gave him the appearance that he was closer in age to Cecilia, which she found comforting: Unlike Austen’s musings, Cecilia fervently believed that she would desperately mind if her betrothed had warts and a leer, no matter how much money he earned.

  “Then, my dear, I simply don’t see the problem,” Albert responded, matter-of-factly, his head already immersed in his paper, the front page discussing the disparaging differences between the societal classes. Cecilia was astounded that the Titanic hadn’t made enough fanfare to be worthy of front-page news, but she supposed it was less of a surprise with the new technological age. So much had advanced so quickly – now, she couldn’t imagine life without a fridge or electricity.

  “But Papa!”

  “No.”

  “Albert, perhaps –”

  Her father did not even give his wife the decency of acknowledgement before saying, “I’ve said no, and that’s all that’s to be said on the subject for now. I am tired from the long journey, and a longer one awaits us still. Please retire to your room, Celia.”

  Cecilia shot her mother an ardent glance, desperate that she would intercede, but her mother’s lips were pursed tightly together, denoting that if she was to prove a keen ally to Cecilia’s concerns about being married to an acquaintance that was barely more than a stranger, she was not going to voice them now. Her father hadn’t just dismissed his daughter; he had denounced his wife.

  Cecilia stood, taking her dismissal in her stride. She reached for the door connecting to her bedroom, a part of her parents’ suite, before she heard her mother whisper, “And please make sure you’re dressed appropriately for luncheon, Cecilia.”

  Chapter Seven

  Saturday, 20th April, 1912

  Johanna

  Johanna shivered; it was a colder April than usual, and it felt to her as if the Bremem had passed through an unusually brisk segment of open ocean (she could almost taste the metallic taste sea ice left in her mouth) as the ship made its final leg of the journey from Germany to New York.

  Or as if the Bremem had passed through a graveyard, Johanna thought, this time shivering at the macabre thought, though it was the same thought that was lurking on every passenger’s mind.

  For several days, all anyone onboard the Bremem had talked of was the Titanic tragedy; passengers huddled together, talking in fevered whispers, as if death would come for them, too, if they spoke too loudly. Some spoke excitedly, as if relishing the Titanic’s sinking, taking an interest in the ghoulish wreck that the ship was vastly approaching. Johanna was travelling from Berlin to New York with her husband, Vasily. They had sailed to Germany, Johanna’s country of birth, to attend her younger sister’s wedding. It had been a lavish affair, and as it had been a decade since she had last seen her family, a welcome visit.

  While whispers of the Titanic’s demise had plagued the passengers since the early morning of Monday, 15th of April, the tenacity and tone had changed this morning. The Bremem, according to several of the other first-class passengers Johanna and Vasily had dined with at breakfast (they had dined on Bauernfrühstück, a favourite of Vasily’s), was incidentally sailing along the same trans-Atlantic route that the ill-fated Titanic had a few days prior – and there’d been rumours amongst some of the passengers that they would be reaching the debris site sometime in the early afternoon, which was why Johanna and Vasily were currently waiting on the Boat Deck.

  Vasily appeared to have a keen interest; another ship had already passed through the wreckage, and regaled frightful stories of passengers frozen in their nightclothes; something that Johanna could barely comprehend: After all, how could the safest, grandest ship in the world sink so quickly that so many passengers were unable to even change into proper nightwear? There had been several rumours, of course, about what had happened that fateful night, but everyone seemed to have a different story – including the papers, who’d initially printed that all passengers on board had been saved, a most grievous printing error. It appeared, in Vasily’s opinion, that everyone seemed to think something about the disaster, but no one seemed actually to know anything. Johanna had been married to Vasily for long enough to understand that he did not believe anything that came from another man’s mouth without first seeing it with his own eyes.

  Johanna couldn’t deny her own morbid curiosity, either; the stories had been scarce and unbearably implausible – especially on such a large, grand ship – and the only thing that she knew for sure, mostly from Vasily, who was not content without reading a newspaper every day, was that numerous reports conflicted both what had and hadn’t happened that night.

  Some had whispered that the officers had shot passengers, though Johanna wondered how anyone could possibly know such a thing; the Carpathia had only arrived in New York with the survivors late last nig
ht. Some had whispered that the men that had survived had dressed as women, stealing shawls to claim rightful seats of women and children. Many talked of Ismay’s survival and how it was a stain on what it meant to be both British and a member of polite society, though in Johanna’s opinion, Ismay’s lynching had far more to do with his Jewish heritage than likely any responsibility he held for the ship’s sinking. Johanna understood little about the passenger liner industry, but she was confident that a man that owned the White Star Line had different responsibilities than those that were charged with the safety regulations regarding the ship’s sailing abilities. The American papers had not even tried to hide their opening prejudice, depicting Ismay with comical features, many of which were stereotyped to “identify” Jews. Johanna and her husband had faced plenty of issues with the rise of anti-Semitism in America; plenty of hotels and restaurants refused service to Jewish people. If they had been able to afford the passage, Johanna and Vasily might have booked a second-class ticket; she had heard that the chef on board the Titanic even prepared kosher meals.

  The whispers were rising now, Johanna realised, among the other passengers that were clamouring on the Boat Deck, pushing against her and Vasily as they became aware that the captain had slowed the engines because of vast, imposing ice fields that had been ever-present, glistening like diamond jewels, waiting to claim another ship for a silent, watery grave. Johanna hugged her husband’s side tightly, clinging to him, whilst wondering why the other passengers weren’t nearly disturbed as her by the reported sightings of icebergs that had, only five days ago, sunk the world’s largest ocean liner.

  An ocean liner that was twice the size of the Bremem.

  The Bremem was a grand ship, and in Johanna’s opinion, a sturdy one, but it paled in comparison to vessels like the Olympic and the Titanic, which sported amenities Johanna had barely heard of. She wasn’t even sure what a Turkish Bath was, and she had never been swimming.