II. Open Sea, Narrow People
Disclaimer: I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's Titanic first, historical fact second. See References for more information.
Credit to the film: Dialogue from "She is the largest moving object…" to "Is he a passenger?" are from Cameron's Titanic, as well as "Take her to sea, Mr. Murdoch; let's stretch her legs" and "I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!"
(line)
Thursday, 11 April, 1912
My dearest Nellie,
J.P. Morgan cancelled at the last minute; his associate, J. Bruce Ismay did not. I trust you know how I feel about this. In general, however, the passengers are quite pleasant, and so complimentary that it is almost embarrassing.
You already know who's who in first class, of course, so I won't bore you with too many details. I will say the rumours are true; Caledon Hockley does travel with a valet, a dreadfully dour one retired from Scotland Yard. Also, while Margaret Brown is quite outspoken, she is not as unmannered as the rumour mills would have us believe. She listens to others, which is a rare skill in high society these days. When we met at dinner yesterday, she quickly observed not only that my origins are in Ireland, but in County Down particularly! Apparently she is quite involved in charities for the Irish immigrants to America, and has an ear for accents.
Speaking of Ireland, it was good to see her again today, however briefly. Queenstown was far more energetic than Cherbourg. It was like Southampton all over again, only smaller and with tenders. The third class decks will never sound the same again after today! I worked in the mailroom this evening and could hear the lively jigs playing, even from that distance.
I am more determined than ever that you and Elba should accompany me on my next cross-Atlantic business trip, if only so you can feel this thrill of the open sea, this wide-open opportunity, that I can scarcely put into words.
I am forever thinking of you both, my dear. Send Elba her daddy's love.
Yours,
Tommie
(line)
"Take her to sea, Mr. Murdoch; let's stretch her legs."
Captain Smith was in fine form today, in a jet-black jacket with two neat rows of gold buttons, and a brand-new captain's cap perched jauntily atop his white hair. His posture was even more regal than usual, and there was an extra spring in his step as he and First Officer Murdoch headed their separate ways. He gave a hearty nod towards Thomas as they crossed paths on the bridge. The captain was headed for the helm; Thomas, for the view.
They'd shrugged off the gray skies that clung to them in all three harbors. Now, the horizon in all directions shone in robin's egg blue, darkening up and up to navy at the sky's zenith, marked only with the occasional fragile wisp of cirrus clouds. The steady, gentle wind was cool and pure, with only a tinge of sea salt smell, and none of the industrial odors of port.
Passengers were coming out to enjoy the glorious weather. Ladies strolled and chatted, parents taught their children the fine points of spinning yo-yos and tops. Two young men, likely third-class passengers judging by their attire, darted into view and up to the bow. They pointed eagerly down at the water, then out at the limitless view ahead. Though too far away to catch the rest of their conversation, Thomas did hear the fairer-haired of the two shout, "I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!" and whoop for joy. Thomas couldn't help but grin at the spectacle.
Until he noticed the lad's feet were balanced on the lowest rung of the deck railing. His center of gravity was above the highest rung and, therefore, one false move could send him toppling into the ocean. For heaven's sake! Were people really so reckless? Thomas started towards the stairs, to go down and ask the lads to step back, when he heard a brash American drawl from just below his shoulder:
"Just takin it in, Mr. Andrews?"
Margaret Brown had appeared beside him on the deck. He nodded in greeting and then glanced again at the bow. The lad's feet were firmly back on deck. Good.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Brown." He turned his attention to her more fully. The short, plump, middle-aged "new money" socialite was dressed to the nines and wearing a feathered hat that, if anything, was wider and more ostentatious than the one she had on when they met yesterday.
"I guess when everything's finally come together, you gotta just stand back and appreciate the finished product for a little while?"
"For a moment, yes," he agreed. Then, remembering something she mentioned at dinner the night before, he asked, "Is that how you felt when the cathedral in Denver was finished last year?"
She smiled, and didn't cover her smile bashfully like many first-class ladies. "Sorta. But I just raised a buncha money for 'em. It's not like I actually helped build the thing." Before Thomas could think of an appropriate reply to such a bold compliment, Mrs. Brown added, "I'm off to a luncheon with some masters of the universe, care to join me?"
"It'd be my pleasure, Mrs. Brown." They set off down the promenade together. She continued to lavish him in praise:
"Ya know, it's a great idea, havin those sliding glass windows on the A-deck promenade. Makes my morning exercise walk a lot less windy!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Brown."
"And swimming baths on a ship… What'll ya think of next?" she asked playfully.
He felt a bit sheepish. "Well, those we've had on every ship since the Adriatic, but I'm glad you've enjoyed them, Mrs. Brown."
"Well aren't you just the picture of politeness!" she shook her head in amusement. "Call me Molly."
"Thank you, Molly. Call me Thomas." He thought of Molly's famous, casual warmth, not to mention what his full first name would sound like in her drawl, and added: "Or Tom, if it suits you."
"Thanks, Tom. Hey," she continued, "The Café Parisian, that's another good one. Gives us late eaters a chance to get a full meal when the saloon's not open."
"That's the idea," he replied pleasantly. "Though I take no credit for that one. The café was all Mr. J. Bruce Ismay's doing."
"Well, what a coincidence!" she beamed as they approached the restaurant's sliding doors. "Mr. Ismay's joinin us for luncheon!"
Thomas felt a bit trapped then. The chairman of the White Star Line was not at the top of his list of preferred mealtime company. To hear Ismay preen in the smoking room every evening would be punishment enough on this journey.
Molly led the way to a table for six. Thomas pulled out his notebook as he sat down. Before he might forget, he jotted, Add more warning signs on the deck railings, particularly at the bow. Noticing how warm it was in the cafe, he added, Café Parisian's windows could create greenhouse effect, especially in summer- consider more ceiling fans or trellises.
"Ah, Mr. Andrews, good to see you again!"
Thomas looked up, and stood to shake hands. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hockley." Caledon Hockley was a handsome, dark-haired man of about thirty. The only son of an American steel magnate, he rivaled J.J. Astor for the title of richest man aboard. Thomas had met him yesterday morning; there had been a concern about the color of the deck chairs in Hockley's private promenade. Thomas had not, however, met the two elegantly dressed, redheaded women now flanking the wealthy businessman.
"May I introduce Mrs. Ruth DeWitt Bukater, my future mother-in-law," Hockley gestured to the shorter and elder of the two ladies, who looked rather lacy and conservative. She was perhaps only a few years older than Thomas, but her face was careworn. "Ruth, this fine gentleman is Thomas Andrews, Titanic's chief architect."
"Pleasure to meet you, madam," said Thomas.
Ruth's penciled eyebrows arched when she heard his faint brogue. She extended her gloved hand for a gentlemanly kiss. As Thomas obliged, she gave him a cool-sounding, "Charmed, Mr. Andrews, I'm sure."
"And this," Hockley beamed, putting his arm around the younger woman, "is my lovely little wife-to-be, Rose DeWitt Bukater."
"Pleasure to meet you, Rose." As they repeated the greeting ritual, Thomas privately marveled at Rose's beauty. He wasn't the type to ogle women. But the sight of this young woman was like the sight of a rainbow, or a flower of her namesake unexpectedly encountered on a vine against a drab stone wall: a surprising glimpse of pure beauty. Rose was curvy, fashionably dressed, and could not have been older than twenty. She had wide green eyes, lustrous auburn hair, and the features and complexion of a porcelain doll.
"I hope we're not interrupting you, sir." Rose ventured a glance at Thomas's notebook, still open on the table. Even her voice was quite becoming: a melodic alto, her accent clear and not too beholden to either side of the Atlantic.
Before Thomas could answer, a booming, bragging Englishman's voice cut in with the reply: "It's impossible not to interrupt Thomas Andrews; the man is constantly planning improvements for Titanic and her sister ships!"
Thomas instinctively reached down and shut his notebook, lest Ismay either criticize or praise his notes in front of the passengers. J. Bruce Ismay was a stout, mustachioed man ten years Thomas's senior. He moved with the sure strides of an athlete, but his physique was past its prime. He was perpetually slightly jaundiced in appearance… and perpetually smug. It was hard for Thomas to remember a time when he didn't dislike him.
The introductions started all over again: between Hockley's party and Ismay, between Hockley's party and Molly, between Ismay and Molly. The stewards brought them all drinks and breadsticks in the meantime. They took their seats, and Ismay began the conversation right where it left off. Incidentally, it was his favorite topic: maritime boasting!
"I trust you are all enjoying your voyage aboard Titanic thus far. She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history." Ismay paused for emphasis. "And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up." A gesture and a nod towards Thomas, as if to say, Your turn.
Thomas fiddled with his notebook, bashful. The easiest way out of this would be to inflate Ismay's own ego. "Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's." The Englishman nodded approvingly. Thomas continued, "He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is!" Despite himself, he'd gotten caught up in talking about the ship of dreams. He slapped the table for emphasis. "Willed into solid reality."
"Here, here!"
As the stewards took their meal orders, Molly joked about the sexism of calling ships "she," and the DeWitt Bukater women had a quiet disagreement over Rose lighting a cigarette. Hockley intervened, not only snubbing out the cigarette but even ordering his fiancee's meal for her. Leave it to Molly to then say what the rest of them were thinking:
"You gonna cut her meat for her too, Cal?"
Then she eased the tension the same way Thomas had minutes earlier. She turned the attention on Ismay, who was always ready to bask in it.
"Hey, uh, who thought of the name Titanic?" She gave Thomas a knowing look, then turned to Ismay with a broad grin. "Was it you, Bruce?"
Ismay puffed himself up in his wicker chair. "Yes, actually." Thomas and Molly shared a quiet chuckle, which Ismay either missed or deliberately ignored. "I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength."
Rose interrupted, "Do you know of a Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you."
Ruth chastised her daughter instantly, but Thomas could scarcely contain his laughter. He could only imagine what Rose would say if she knew of Ismay's original name for the third Olympic liner! Rose skulked off in a swish of fine silk and adolescent indignation, causing Ismay to shift in his chair and Ruth to give them all a prim, but strained apology.
"She's a pistol, Cal," Molly remarked. Coming from her, it sounded like a true compliment. "Hope you can handle her!"
"Well I may have to start minding what she reads from now on, won't I, Mrs. Brown?"
Thomas was sitting beside Molly, and he noticed her physically tense at Hockley's remark. He couldn't really blame her. A well-bred woman didn't work; she socialized, entertained others, and perhaps gave public support to charities if it suited her. What access would she have to the wider world, without free reign to read the works of the day?
"Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?" Ismay asked.
Open mouth, insert foot. "Erm… no, I don't believe he is…" Thomas muttered.
Molly ran damage control. "So, Tom," she asked lightly, "you got a family waitin for ya back in Ireland?"
Ismay pounced again. "Mr. Andrews's uncle, Lord William Pirrie, is one of the owners of Harland & Wolff shipbuilding company, where Andrews himself is Managing Director. His father is a member of the Privy Council of Ireland. His elder brother-"
Thomas interrupted before Molly would have asked about Ismay cutting his meat for him. "Why yes, Molly, I do. My wife, Helen, is in my humble opinion the brightest, loveliest woman in all of Ireland. And we have a baby daughter, Elba, turned a year old this past November."
Ismay harrumphed. "Really, Andrews! How is it we've worked together all this time and I never knew you had a daughter?"
His reply was cool. "Well, since Elba has yet to attain prominence in business or politics…"
"I bet she's a real cutie, Tom," Molly interrupted.
A nice move on Molly's part. Not that the other half of their luncheon party was particularly interested; Hockley had stalked off to retrieve his fiancée from the promenade, while Ruth stared anxiously after them both.
Thomas leaned back in his chair and smiled at Molly. "She's the prettiest babe in all the world, Molly, I can assure you."
"What did you say you call her?" Ismay asked. He still looked peeved at Thomas's remark about societal prominence. "Elna, was it?"
"Elba."
"Elba," he smirked. "How curious! Is that some sort of Irish name?"
"It's only a nickname, an acronym of her initials," Thomas replied. "Her full name is Elizabeth Law Barber Andrews." To himself, he added: Is that civilized and British-sounding enough for you, Mr. Ismay?
The stewards arrived with the main course, just as Hockley returned with a more subdued young Rose. The way this luncheon was going, Thomas found himself looking forward the relative tranquility of the engine rooms.
As if reading his mind, Molly turned to him and muttered, "Never a dull moment, huh, Tom?"
