Tip of the Iceberg Read online

  Esme pulled open her cabin door, surprising Mable, one of the other maids, who was about to knock, her fist poised just inches from Esme’s nose. A startled look flashed across her baby-faced complexion then, sheepishly, she lowered her fist and stood with her hands clasped firmly together in front of her starched pinafore, her weight rocking nervously from one foot to the other.

  “What is it, Mable?” Esme couldn’t disguise her irritation as she pushed past the younger woman, firmly shutting the door behind her.

  “I ... I’m truly sorry, Miss Esme,” stammered Mable. Since she had stood up to the matriarchal Miss Wilson, Esme had gained a level of respect from the other, particularly younger, housekeeping staff that was more usually reserved for the ship’s upper class passengers.

  “Why are you sorry?” Esme asked as she hastened along the corridor with an out of breath Mable struggling to keep up. Sensing the younger woman’s distress at the pace she had set, Esme slowed a little adding in a more compassionate tone, “I can’t stop. I’m fuckin’ late, and the Old Dragon is lookin’ for an excuse to burn me.” At this, Mable stopped suddenly in the middle of the passageway. Esme, glancing over her shoulder, discovered her young escort on the verge of tears.

  Mable gave an apologetic shrug as she blurted, “It was the Old Dragon what sent me. She told me to fetch you ‘cos you’d crossed the line.” If she said anymore, a wailing sob drowned out her words as the tears flowed unchecked down her rosé-mottled and rather chubby cheeks.

  Mable’s words opened a bleak, despondent chasm deep in Esme’s soul. She felt all her hopes and dreams, the new life for her and Charlotte, her dead father’s unspoken pride, her fantasy of marrying a rich, handsome officer, all of it, just sliding away, replaced by gut-wrenching despair. She felt sick. Her legs, no longer able to support her, buckled at the knees and she stumbled forward, clutching Mable’s arm to prevent her from crashing to the floor.

  “Sweet Jesus! Are you alright, Miss Esme?" She detected the concern in Mable’s voice, and possibly a touch of panic. “Would you like me to get anyone for you, a doctor, maybe?”

  Esme forced a smile, but even she knew it was hollow and meaningless. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just came over a little queer for a moment, that’s all. I’ll be right as rain in no time at all, you’ll see.” She filled her lungs and forced the air out slowly, allowing her cheeks to puff out. Once she regained her composure, at least enough to put on a brave face for the shell-shocked Mable, she turned and strode off with a confident air. But inside, she felt empty, devoid of emotion. Like she stood on the edge of a precipice with nowhere to turn, condemned to take that final step certain in the knowledge she would soon plummet into the abyss.

  Mable had taken a few faltering strides in pursuit of her, but Esme waved her away, not in the mood for company. The quicker she could get this over and done the better, as far as she was concerned. Why drag it out? She had ordained her own demise, written it herself, in a heated moment of petulance on that first day, and none of Mrs. Grafton’s influential friends would be able to save her. A stupid little girl from Southampton who, dazzled by the opulence and wealth surrounding her, elevated herself above her station, and she felt, was about to be unceremoniously booted out of the Promised Land.

  Five minutes later, and with much trepidation, Esme knocked on the door of Miss Wilson’s small office just off the main pantry. She waited patiently for a moment and was just about to knock again when the head housekeeper’s dry croaky voice bade her, “Come in.”

  For once, Esme did as instructed and pushed open the door to find Miss Wilson seated in a worn leather chair. She wore thin, wire-rimmed spectacles, which perched on the end of her nose as if defying gravity, and a navy blue dress, fastened at the neck and held in place by a small, understated lace scarf. She was reading as Esme entered the room and continued to do so, pointedly Esme felt, ignoring her presence.

  Finally, Miss Wilson placed the papers down on the desktop with meticulous attention to detail and then looked up. Esme felt the woman’s cold steely-grey eyes examine her. As if dissatisfied with her discovery, Miss Wilson sighed deeply. “Well, Miss Jackson, as I feared, it did not take very long for you to sully your reputation and worth with us. Not only were you insolent beyond belief at the embarkation meeting, but now it seems, you have become too familiar with the ship’s guests.”

  Esme opened her mouth to offer some form of rebuttal, but Miss Wilson’s glare told her there was more to come, so she shut it again. “I refer, of course, to your friendship, although I use the term in its loosest possible sense, with Mrs. Grafton. It has come to my attention that you have spent quite some time with her discussing her marriage while, it seems, trying to seduce Captain Grafton.”

  Esme remained quiet, too stunned to even deny the allegation. She stared back incredulously at Miss Wilson, who met her stare with a satisfied smirk and at that point, she realized the truth didn’t matter to the craggy old housekeeper. She’d set her mind to dismissing Esme the moment they first crossed swords and this accusation was just the ammunition she needed.

  Miss Wilson removed her glasses and settled back in her chair. She was obviously enjoying the moment intent on savouring every last second of Esme’s dismissal. “I suppose one ought to congratulate you on making it all the way to Friday. Your parents must be so proud.” The sarcasm in her voice was beginning to anger Esme, and she knew it. “I will have to find a suitable replacement; although, with White Star’s insistence on employing common harlots from the dockside, that shouldn’t be too taxing. Girls like you are ten-a-penny.”

  The blood pounded in Esme’s ears, and her fists were balled up so tight her knuckles had turned white, but Esme was determined not to rise to the old woman’s taunts. It was all she could do not to dive across the pompous bitch’s desk and pummel her sanctimonious face. She forced herself to relax, focusing her thoughts on New York, as she mentally pried her fingers open. Esme became so engrossed in her thoughts, conjuring up images of skyscrapers, cranes, and the welcoming figure of the Statue of Liberty, that she barely heard Miss Wilson terminate her employment, effective on their arrival pier-side in New York where she must disembark. Miss Wilson’s voice droned on about the company’s expectation that she will continue with her duties in a more fitting manner until formally dismissed, eventually asking Esme to show herself out. Before she knew it, Esme stood outside the pantry, her dreams crushed.

  It was then the emotion welled up inside her, and she felt the telltale sting of salty tears in the corners of her eyes. She hurried through the pantry, which buzzed with activity as maids, waiters, and cooks prepared for the busy morning ahead, her hands covering her face, masking her distress. She vaguely remembered hearing Miss Wilson warn her about returning to the first class staterooms, saying they would assign her alternative duties, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t possibly get in any more trouble. Besides, what could they do? Throw her overboard?

  The heels of her boots rapped out a steady beat as she strode purposefully along the narrow passageway linking the pantry to the first class quarters. The tears she had held back in the presence of the Old Dragon, now streamed unchecked, blurring her vision and stinging her cheeks. She rounded a corner and, paying little attention to where she was going, collided full tilt with the ship’s doctor heading in the opposite direction on his way to breakfast.

  Doctor Sampson was a stout middle-aged man with a balding pate and a voracious appetite, both for exquisite dining and attractive women. It was rumoured, while on his previous commission, he got the ship’s nurse in trouble and then, in the back room of an Irish tavern, performed illegal surgery to absolve his own indiscretion. It was a rumour he fiercely denied, but the young woman in question never reported for duty again.

  “Whoa! Steady on there, missy. You need to pay more attention to where you’re going.” The soft Irish lilt gave his voice a lightness that was incongruous with a man of his girth.

  Esme mumbled an apology and tried to side
step the doctor’s large frame, but seeing her red-rimmed eyes and the distressed look on her face, he moved to block her path. He smiled broadly, a boyish twinkle dancing in his eyes as he spoke, “Why missy, whatever is troubling that pretty, young head of yours?” His hand lightly brushed her chin and gently lifted her head so his eyes stared down into hers.

  “It’s nothing, Sir. I was just given some upsetting news, that’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have duties to perform.” Esme kept the remark vague, believing the ship’s doctor would care little for her plight, even siding with Miss Wilson, and she didn’t care for another lecture.

  Doctor Sampson held his ground, his eyes searching her face for clues to her distress. “Is it bad news from home?”

  She responded with the briefest shake of her head, hoping it would satisfy his curiosity and he would step aside.

  Doctor Sampson paused for a moment but didn’t move from her path, then asked, “Has the Old Dragon given you one of her ‘England expects’ speeches she’s so renowned for?”

  This time she looked away, her jaw quivering as she fought back a renewed torrent of tears. She felt embarrassed at crying in front of an officer, it only served to distress her further. She tried edging past him, but his hand found hers, holding her back.

  “Did the sour-faced bitch call you a whore then sack you?” The doctor, having discovered the cause of her unhappiness, pushed home his advantage. The only response Esme could muster was a timid half-nod before the dam burst and, letting loose a despondent wail, she allowed the tears to wet her cheeks again.

  “I’m s ... sorry,” she sniffed as she fumbled in her pinafore for a handkerchief.

  “That’s quite alright, my dear. She can be a very scary woman, but her bark is worse than her bite. I’m sure, with the right amount of charm and cajolery I could persuade my dear colleague to rethink her decision.”

  Esme dabbed her face with the screwed up handkerchief and tried to smile. “Thank you for being so kind, but I don’t think any amount of charm, and whatever else you said, will change her mind. She appeared certain of her bite.”

  Doctor Sampson laughed aloud. “I’m so sorry, I do not mean to laugh at your expense, but you are such a delightful creature.” He paused briefly, then closed in for the kill. “Perhaps I could have a word with her on your behalf, that is, if you would like me to?”

  Esme looked up at the doctor with a coy smile. He still had hold of her hand, their bodies, due in part to the narrowness of the corridor, were a little closer than would be acceptable in normal society. “I don’t believe, not for one moment, you would do that for me, not without getting something in return.”

  The doctor’s confident expression flickered for the briefest of moments and then returned with another of his broad smiles. “I fear I may have met my Waterloo. Here I am, believing I’m luring you into my net, while all along it was you who controlled the line.”

  “But the facts remain, I will be put ashore in New York, and you would like to study ... what is it you doctors study?”

  “Anatomy?” The doctor offered helpfully.

  “Yes, that’s it. And you would like to study my anatomy,” she finished, forcing a faint smile that brightened her tear-stained features.

  “So, miss, do we have an understanding?” The doctor could hardly contain his excitement at the prospect of exploring the young chambermaid’s voluptuous curves.

  “We do,” she whispered. “But with one condition. You speak to Miss Wilson and get my job back before Sunday evening. I believe I have some free time then.” With that, she withdrew her hand from his with another coy smile.

  The doctor stepped aside to allow her to pass, whispering as she did so, “I fear it is I that now has cause to fear the Old Dragon’s bite.”

  Esme walked away, a smile briefly dancing on her lips as she thought of Doctor Sampson trying to charm Miss Wilson, but quickly vanished with the self-abhorrent anguish she felt as she considered her deal with the devil.

  Seventeen

  The early morning sunlight crept slowly into the spacious suite, gently waking Bridget with its persistence. The warm rays prising their way under her swollen eyelids until she finally relented and rolled onto her back before pulling herself into a sitting position. She gently plumped her soft pillows, taking special care not to wake William, before settling back against the headboard.

  The morning’s first wave of nausea swept over her and she rubbed her silk covered bump tenderly. Fleetingly, she considered rushing to the bathroom, but before she could even reach for the edge of the top sheet, the feeling rolled away as quickly as it had arrived. Experience had taught her it would be back. Like the waves on a beach, it would keep washing in, each wave stronger than the last until, inevitably it would overwhelm her.

  She yawned, taking a deep lung full of air and winced as the pain tore through the thin scars and thicker bruising on her back, the result of William’s drunken handiwork. He had been too inebriated to effectively wield his riding crop, resorting to slapping her with his bare fists, beating her repeatedly as she cowered against the bed. Somehow, she had managed to half-stagger, half-crawl to the relative safety of the bathroom, where she had locked the door until, cursing her like a common navvy, William stumbled from the room. She took the opportunity to change quickly into her nightgown and climb into bed, believing William would inevitably return too drunk even to walk. She pretended to be asleep when he did finally return, pointedly ignoring his incoherent mumblings, as he quickly passed out on top of the eiderdown still fully clothed, having been able to remove only one of his shoes.

  Looking across at her husband’s sleeping form, she noticed he had not managed to finish undressing during the night. She briefly considered removing his other shoe at least, but another wave of biliousness put a stop to her deliberations, and forced her up from the bed, with one hand covering her mouth as she dashed to the bathroom. Bridget tried frantically to gather her flowing nightdress in her other fist so as not to vomit down the intricate embroidery forming the exquisite garment’s loose bodice.

  As she returned from an uncomfortable few minutes of stomach twisting retching, gently dabbing her face with one of the ship’s fluffy white towels, she found William lying on his side, head propped up on one arm. He glared at her as she approached the bed, and she forced a smile, “Good morning, darling. I hope I didn’t wake you?”

  “As a matter of fact, you did!” His voice was gruff and a little croaky. William cleared his throat with a polite cough then added in a more conciliatory tone. “But that’s not your fault. It must be damned beastly waking up feeling so sick every morning.” He paused, letting the words hang in the silence, then asked in a quiet, yet menacing voice, “And it is every morning, isn’t it my dear?”

  Bridget felt her blood run cold. Had he guessed, or was she reading more into his words?

  Not waiting for an answer, he rose from the bed and casually wandered into the bathroom, stretching out his sleepy shoulder muscles as he walked. He didn’t bother to shut the door, a trait he knew annoyed Bridget who thought it uncouth and common, while he emptied his bulging bladder.

  Deciding to ride it out, hoping he was simply making an observation about the state of her health, she ignored his question, deliberately steering the conversation back towards his behaviour. “I wish you would be so good as to close the door when you do that.”

  In the bathroom, William mimicked her admonishment silently into the mirror as he rinsed his hands, then said aloud, “I wish you’d close your fucking legs, you cheap whore!” He strode out of the bathroom, revelling in the stunned look on his wife’s face. “You see, I know your dirty little secret. Did you think you could keep it from me, convince me that little bastard is the fruit of my loins?” When Bridget offered no response to his accusation, he shouted in her face, so close she felt droplets of his spittle strike her cheek.

  “Well?”

  “You have me at a disadvantage as I have no idea what you
are talking about, but I do know this is no way to speak to your wife.” Bridget felt the blood flushing her cheeks. Her anger and surprise at the coarseness of his insulting revelation paled into insignificance at the fear that gripped her chest and knotted her bowel. She had felt his wrath several times over the last few days and was aware of his abilities. If he could beat her for perceived, minor indiscretions, what would he do for this? He detested the idea of having a child, he’d made that abundantly clear, let alone another man’s child.

  “A lady would not carry another man’s bastard offspring up the aisle,” said William beginning to remove the creased trousers he’d worn to bed. “I am glad that you at least have the decency not to insult me by denying the pregnancy, but I am none the wiser about the father’s identity. Perhaps we could discuss that over breakfast?”

  Bridget stared at her husband as he selected an expensive cashmere suit. She’d expected him to take the riding crop to her bare flesh, not talk about discussing the situation over breakfast like it was an irritation, and nothing more. After an apprehensive pause, she asked in a soft voice, “You want me to go with you to breakfast?” His behaviour confused her and she felt the need to remind him of his daily routine. “You’re always so insistent on dining alone at the breakfast table.”

  “I do.” William chuckled softly. “Ironic choice of words, they sound so hollow now. I want you to accompany me to breakfast for two reasons. First, in case we should have a chance meeting with Mr. Guggenheim. He likes you and your presence might help cement a favourable relationship. Second, I wish to preserve, at least the pretence, of a happy marriage. I absolutely refuse to be the subject of society scandal and a figure of derision within my own home. So if you would be so good as to get dressed?” He phrased his last statement as a question but left Bridget in no doubt it was an order she best not disobey.

  William gathered the clothes he had chosen to wear and strode resolutely from the suite’s boudoir into the larger reception room, where he proceeded to dress. As he pulled the door closed behind him, he remembered how long she had kept him waiting at the hotel before they walked down to the docks, so he added firmly, “Do not dawdle. Otherwise, we shall miss breakfast altogether.”