Tip of the Iceberg Page 5

  An immaculately dressed waiter escorted the couple to one of these alcoves with a large circular table laid with the finest china and sparkling silver tableware. Even William, with his privileged upbringing, couldn’t help but feel impressed, whereas Bridget, with her more sheltered background, was in complete awe and just kept gawping at the expensive oak furniture and fine linen tablecloths. A couple had already taken their seats on the far side of the table and the gentleman rose politely as she and William took theirs. Bridget nodded politely, responding to his act of chivalry.

  “Allow me to introduce myself?” The man spoke with an educated Boston accent which Bridget recognised from her childhood, before her parents sent her off to expensive European schools and an even more expensive English finishing school. “I am Benjamin Guggenheim and this ...” he bowed towards the lady seated next to him, “is my companion, Madame Aubart.”

  “Good Evening Mr. Guggenheim. I am Captain William Grafton and this is my wife, Bridget. May I say how honoured we are to meet you; your reputation crossed the Atlantic well in advance of your good self.” William smiled at Madame Aubart and added, “And what a delightful companion you have chosen to travel home with.”

  “I understand, from the London gossip rags, that you two only recently married. Is that correct, my dear?” Guggenheim spoke directly to Bridget to the obvious annoyance of William.

  “That is correct, Mr. Guggenheim.”

  “Then let me order champagne to celebrate the joyous union." Then added in a conspiratorial tone, “If I am not mistaken by your accent, although you do hide it well, Mrs. Grafton, you are also from the colonies ... Boston, maybe?”

  Bridget leant forward with a smile, and joining his conspiracy replied, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Guggenheim threw his head back and laughed loudly, disturbing some of the other diners seated around them; not that he appeared to care. “Excellent. You have chosen well there, William. You don’t mind if we drop the stuffy formalities, do you? She will serve you well as a wife, and I fear become quite a pain in the ass, as brash young American women can be. And I, for one, would not have them any different.” He raised his finger to attract a nearby waiter’s attention and curtly ordered two bottles of the ship’s finest champagne.

  Although William leant in close to his wife, his hand gently caressing her back while he whispered quietly in her ear, Madame Aubart noticed Bridget looked uncomfortable, even pained. She decided to say nothing, choosing instead to place her hand in the billionaire’s lap. A gentle reminder that, although a beautiful young society girl may look appealing in the dining room, when it came to the bedroom, or the veranda of their exclusive Parisian hotel, it was experience that counted. She felt Benjamin respond and removed her hand giving him an innocent smile, confident she’d got her point across.

  “Well, Madame Grafton,” Madame Aubart’s English was perfect, although she deliberately kept a sultry French accent, believing it gave her an air of continental mystery, which proved popular with rich American men. “I do believe the gentlemen will begin to talk business and politics if we do not establish some ground rules. So I propose we ban both subjects until after dinner when you boys may retire to some smoky backroom to bore each other to death.” She paused, allowing the gentlemen a moment to digest her words, then just as William was about to respond, she continued, “And if you do not adhere ...” she looked uncertainly across the table at Bridget, “is that the right word? Adhere?” Then, buoyed on by Bridget’s polite nod of confirmation, she continued, “Oui, yes. If you do not adhere to our proposal, and either by accident or deliberate intent, venture forth on such a conversation then, as punishment, you’ll have to take us dancing. There will be no adjourning to the library for a cigar.”

  “Madame! I am deeply saddened you could even suggest we would not wish to take you dancing. How can dancing with a beautiful woman be a punishment?” Guggenheim feigned outrage and, becoming animated, threw his napkin to the floor in a theatrical gesture before folding his arms across his chest like a recalcitrant child, much to both William and Bridget’s amusement.

  Bridget winced as she laughed, the lesions on her back bearing testament to William’s skill with a horsewhip. He’d already warned her about the consequences of becoming too familiar with the debonair billionaire. The outwardly loving caress on her back, while he whispered in her ear, had been far from caring. The pressure he applied to the wounds, while not excessive, was enough to cause her discomfort, and his words contained a thinly veiled threat. Bridget was sure Madame Aubart had noticed her discomfort and was now discreetly trying to lead the conversation, allowing Bridget time to compose herself.

  During their light-hearted conversation, the champagne had arrived and Guggenheim insisted on proposing a toast to the happy couple, wishing them good health and a long, happy marriage. When she raised her glass to accept the other couple’s good wishes, Bridget felt the constricting tug of the linen dressing applied by Esme earlier and hoped no one noticed her smile was one of irony, not happiness.

  As they retook their seats, the Captain and his party joined them at the table. Captain Smith wore his full dress uniform and oozed the kind of authority that put people at their ease. He politely introduced himself to William and Bridget in a soft, yet confident, voice before greeting Guggenheim like an old friend. He checked the champagne bottle to ensure he’d ordered something palatable, because as he put it, “An American wouldn’t know the difference between a fine wine and dirty bathwater.” The two men laughed as they shook hands before Captain Smith introduced the rest of his party.

  “This fine fellow is,” he pointed to a middle-aged man with an unimpressive handlebar moustache standing slightly aloof from proceedings, “Mr. Bruce Ismay. He is the managing director of The White Star Line and the man who, for the next few weeks at least, pays my wages. And the gentleman to my left will no doubt captain this ship himself in a few years, but for now, he is the ship’s Sixth Officer, Mr. Moody.” The men all exchanged cordial handshakes as Guggenheim introduced Madame Aubart and Captain and Mrs. Grafton before everybody took their seat. The young officer, Mr. Moody, appeared taken aback by Captain Smith’s approval and couldn’t help but smile the entire way through dinner, but more than held his own with the social elite assembled at the table.

  Throughout dinner, both William and his newfound friend, Mr. Guggenheim asked questions about the Titanic and her capabilities. These were answered enthusiastically by the ship’s officers, and when questions involved financial matters, less enthusiastically by Mr. Ismay. Bridget thought he appeared shy and uneasy in the presence of such confident traveling companions. On one occasion, Madame Aubart jokingly chided Guggenheim for sailing too close to the wind about a question on the politics of shipbuilding and the struggle to command the North Atlantic route. Her intervention prompted an intrigued Captain Smith to ask about the lady’s proposal regarding after-dinner dancing. When supplied with the details, he told her that if the gentlemen chose to abandon such beautiful women, then they must suffer the consequences.

  He added, “I’m sure any one of the ship’s officers would be honoured to escort them in a dance.” At this, Officer Moody stole a furtive glance at Bridget, briefly catching her eye, before hurriedly looking away. It was a moment Bridget hoped had gone unnoticed by William who was busy trying to ingratiate himself with Mr. Guggenheim’s wealth.

  The evening ended with Captain Smith regaling the table with stories from his distinguished career. Being a self-effacing man, he described his forty years at sea as ‘wholly uneventful,’ but his natural humour and well-practiced delivery did entertain his guests well past the sumptuous cheese board served with finely blended coffee.

  Despite the quality of the evening’s revelry, Bridget was glad when William stood, announcing, “I regret to break up such an interesting gathering, but it has been a fulfilling, yet ultimately tiring, day. Therefore, I think it time Bridget and I retire for the night. Thank you for such
a wonderful evening. I’m sure I speak for my wife when I say that we look forward to our next meeting.”

  He took Bridget by the arm, escorting her through the half-empty dining room, many of the guests having long since left it in search of alternative entertainment or simply to take a stroll on the promenade. From the painful way he gripped her elbow, Bridget knew she’d somehow displeased him, and for Bridget that rounded the evening off perfectly.

  Ten

  Patrick breakfasted alone at the smartly laid table in a suit he had borrowed from Bernard. It was not usual for him to dress so smartly for breakfast, but then the second class dining saloon on the Titanic was not his usual breakfast haunt. Bernard had insisted he go to breakfast looking presentable, proclaiming, “Image is everything, dear boy.” The shirt’s over-starched collar caused his neck to itch, despite him being able to run his fingers around its inside, while the trousers were so big, the belt he’d borrowed with them stretched almost twice around his waist.

  Patrick took a quick look around the room, checking nobody was watching, before deftly flicking the thick pork sausage off his plate and into his waiting napkin. This he folded casually before placing it in one of the cavernous pockets of Bernard’s trousers. Patrick tried to look nonchalant as he finished his second cup of tea in one navvy-like swig before rising from the table.

  He had arranged to meet Bernard on deck for a midmorning coffee, while they were at anchor off Queenstown Harbour, so he could say a final farewell to the old country, and to the old Patrick McGowan. By early afternoon, the Titanic would have weighed anchor and headed for the open sea and New York.

  But now, he had a far more pressing engagement. He needed to check on Pandora. He had elected not to tell Bernard about his furry companion, at least not for now, as he wasn’t sure how the older man might react. If he reported Patrick, which Patrick thought unlikely, because of their having only met twenty-four hours ago, then both he and Pandora would be put ashore at Queenstown. This would scupper his plans of welcoming a new life before he had a chance to say a fond farewell to the old one.

  Patrick entered the sparsely furnished cabin and tossed his jacket onto his bunk before sitting on the hard bench occupying the opposite wall. He was pleased by Bernard’s absence, he either had not yet returned from breakfast or had already left to take a constitutional stroll on deck before their planned meeting. Taking advantage of Bernard’s absence, Patrick retrieved the battered valise from its hiding place under the bench, sliding it out into the middle of the narrow cabin. He fished the napkin containing the breakfast sausage from the depths of his pocket, placing it beside him on the bench, before fumbling with the valise’s brass catch.

  Finally working the catch open, Patrick heard a soft whimper from within the coarse fabric’s interior. Cautiously, he pulled the bag open just enough to peer inside. Pandora was curled in a tight ball at the bottom of the bag, her sad looking brown eyes staring inquisitively up at him. Making what he hoped were reassuring noises, he broke off a small piece of sausage, dropping it into the bag. Pandora cowered deeper into the dark interior, her eyes wide with terror, her lips drawn back to reveal razor-like teeth and a particularly vicious-looking set of canine fangs.

  “It’s alright, Pandora. I’ve brought food,” he gently dropped another, this time smaller, piece of meat into the bag’s depths.

  The tiny monkey tried to appear even smaller by curling her tail tightly around her body and hunkering down into the valise’s darkest corner. She ignored the meat, her eyes remaining fixed on the bag’s narrow opening. After a few minutes of gentle coaxing, all of which was to no avail, Patrick admitted defeat.

  “Alright Pandora, have it your way. But I’ll leave the meat in the bag in case you’re just being shy.” Patrick refastened the valise and gently slid it back under the bench.

  Patrick, aware of his own discomfort in the oversized, borrowed suit, took a few minutes to change back into his own clothes, taking time to carefully place Bernard’s suit back in the compact cupboard they shared. He checked his pocket-watch, realising it was already gone eleven, before quickly brushing his hair and charging out of the cabin.

  Officer Moody had just left the bridge in the capable hands of First Officer Murdoch following his two-hour watch. The Titanic was riding at anchor two miles offshore, her mighty bows turned into the brisk south-westerly wind. It would fall to Murdoch to notify the Captain when the last of the passengers embarked and the barge had safely returned to shore, taking with it the well-wishers and hawkers that came aboard to sell fine lace, fresh fruit, and general knickknacks. On the Captain’s command, he would then weigh anchor and set a course across the Atlantic.

  Moody felt a pang of jealousy. How he would have loved to tell his grandchildren stories of how he sailed the mighty Titanic out into the open sea on her maiden voyage. But Moody, a patient, level-headed man, was smart enough to know he was still young, his time would come.

  Officer Moody made his way towards the first class promenade. It was White Star’s policy that officers, while not on watch, should be visible about the ship, especially in the first class areas. It helped to reassure the passengers, giving them a sense of security. It also allowed passengers to ask many and varied questions about the voyage and the ship’s progress, and therefore he had developed a brisk, but unhurried, walk that deterred all but the most ardent of passengers. He smiled politely and returned the passengers’ greetings with a slight touch to the peak of his cap, a movement he had practiced in the mirror for several hours to ensure it portrayed the correct gravitas.

  Moody walked almost the entire promenade during which he helped two elderly ladies position their deck chairs and explained to an obnoxious young boy and his stern-faced nanny which side of the ship was port and which was starboard. Moody then left the promenade, descending two decks to the first class dining saloon, where he spent some time conversing with the passengers who had decided to take an early lunch. Spotting William seated at a table on his own, he approached the educated, military man, “Good morning, Captain Grafton. So good to see you again so soon.”

  “Officer Moody?” William Grafton greeted the young officer with a forced smile. “I trust you slept well? I was sorry we could not stay for a dance, but Mrs. Grafton felt tired. A combination of fine food and sea air, I expect. Not to mention the fine champagne,” William gave a polite but, Moody thought, hollow laugh.

  “I retired early myself, Captain Grafton. I was due to take the morning watch.” Moody replied, aware that William wasn’t really listening, his attention focused on the door as if waiting for somebody. With a little more excitement in his voice than was necessary, he continued, “Will Mrs. Grafton be joining you for lunch?”

  “No, she will not!” William replied curtly. Then, realising his rudeness, he added in a softer, calmer tone, “I’m afraid she felt a little out of sorts this morning. I think, regretfully, she enjoyed herself a little too much last night and is suffering the consequences today.”

  Moody was taken aback by his own feelings of disappointment at this news and wondered whether his impromptu stroll had, in fact, subconsciously brought him to the dining saloon with the intent of seeing Mrs. Grafton. He also sensed that William’s words contained a carefully disguised, almost sinister, message, certainly his demeanour appeared hostile.

  The rising tension between the two men eased abruptly as Benjamin Guggenheim walked into the saloon. William rose from his seat, and without bothering to even look at Moody, asked with a dismissive tone, “Would you be so good to invite Mr. Guggenheim to have lunch with me?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Captain Grafton.” As he gladly hurried away to intercept the billionaire before a steward could seat him at another table, Moody added under his breath, “But not, I sense, for Mr. Guggenheim.”

  The gregarious American greeted him with a warm smile, “Mr. Moody, how are you this fine day?” His handshake was firm and genuine, his left hand lightly touched Moody’s elbow adding vig
our to the perceived friendship.

  “I’m well, thank you, Mr. Guggenheim. I have a message from Captain Grafton for you.” He began to signal towards the now vacant chair at William’s table.

  Guggenheim interrupted him, a comical look of panic on his face, “Please do not tell me he has invited me to join him for lunch.”

  Moody tried hard to mask his smile, and choosing his words carefully, replied, “I’m delighted to inform you he has, Sir, yes.”

  Guggenheim gave a resigned sigh and smiled in William’s direction before whispering just loud enough for Moody to hear, “He’s an odious little man. I only spoke with him because I had the misfortune to sit at the same table, and his delightful wife is a fellow American.” He took half a step towards William’s table then, almost as an afterthought, turned and added with a wink. “Such a pity you didn’t get to dance with her, maybe an agreeable young man like yourself could make her see the error of her ways.” Then he was gone.

  Momentarily flustered, Moody couldn’t reply; a tingling feeling of warmth spread through his cheeks, and into his earlobes. For a brief moment, he thought he should follow the American, reprimanding him for his inappropriate comment. After all, Bridget was a married woman with a reputation to protect ... Bridget, he had thought of her as Bridget. Not as Mrs. Grafton. Now it was he who was being inappropriate, but he did have to agree with Guggenheim on one thing. Captain Grafton was indeed an odious little man and Bridget deserved so much better.

  Moody checked his pocket watch and saw he had just enough time to get something to eat before he was expected to welcome the new passengers on board. As he negotiated a path through the saloon, he tried in vain to get the image of Bridget’s soft cornflower blue eyes and slightly crooked smile from his mind. He resolved that politely avoiding the fair Mrs. Grafton for the rest of the voyage would be the best course of action for all concerned.