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.
II. Just another Wonder of the World
The news came to us in Paris that my first grandchild, little Lawrence Jr., was ill. The telegram did not say how ill, and my daughter Helen protested that with the baby's mother and maternal grandmother watching out for him, there was no need for us to rush home. "He's ill enough for them to wire the news all the way from Kansas City," I pointed out, and booked passage for us both on the next cross-Atlantic liner. It just happened to be the brand spanking new, talk of the town, "unsinkable" RMS Titanic.
Helen and I were concluding a lengthy world tour with John Jacob Astor IV and his wife Madeleine. The Astors were heading back to New York on Titanic. Helen and I had originally planned to part ways with them in Paris, and visit some friends of Helen's in England. At the last minute, and to many futile protests from me, Helen decided to keep to those plans. I would sail alone.
The six-hour train ride from Paris to Cherbourg was abuzz with talk of Titanic's awe-inspiring length and tonnage, the swimming baths and the a la carte restaurant, her stability and, of course, her great speed. Imagine everyone's chagrin when, upon our arrival at the docks, we were told that the "ship of dreams" was running late from a mishap at Southampton that morning!
While the first- and second-class passengers-to-be grumbled about possibly missing dinner aboard, I looked over at the steerage passengers' separate dock. Women in plain skirts and frayed shawls corralled wide-eyed children. Their men stared in utter confusion, as a uniformed fellow repeatedly shouted instructions, in English, through a megaphone emblazoned with the White Star Line insignia.
"Sir!" I called across the gap between the docks. "Do you need an interpreter? Sir!" I may not have had a megaphone, but I still made myself heard. Some of the passengers on the other dock had already turned to stare. But the man with the megaphone ignored me. Finally, I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted in French, then German, then Russian, then Italian: "The ship is running a little late, don't worry, just wait here." Smiles and nods from the working class folk before me; whispers and smirks from the well-to-do folk behind me.
"Molly?" Maddie Astor came up and put her hand on my elbow. "What on earth are you doing?"
"Puttin my language skills to good use, darlin."
"But shouldn't we just let the White Star men do their jobs?" she giggled nervously.
Maddie's husband J.J. approached. "She would, if she couldn't do their jobs better than they themselves. Isn't that right, Molly?" he teased.
I had known the Astor family for some years. J.J. was a good man, bright and hardworking. We couldn't see eye to eye on politics to save our lives, but he respected my opinions; that was rare in those days.
J.J.'s divorce and hasty remarriage last year had caused quite a stir, especially since Maddie was thirty years his junior. The poisonous tongues of high society gossipers forced them to take an extended vacation until things simmered down. It was a scenario that I was all too personally familiar with. But unlike Mr. Brown and me in 1903, the Astors were now returning Stateside with a little one on the way. I pitied poor Maddie. The travel itself was hard enough, but to think of the venom that would be dispelled on her over her "condition" when she got home!
You see, I always thought a snakepit was a fitting metaphor for the claustrophobic, poisonous environment of wealthy social circles. Sometimes the only way to avoid getting bitten was by staying perfectly still, making no false moves. I suppose it's my Western upbringing that inspired the comparison, but I digress.
By 5:00 we boarded the SS Nomadic, the tender that would take us out to the grand liner. I recall a short, middle-aged man who dropped an artist's portfolio while boarding. His papers scattered in the wind, and he scrambled to catch them all before they tumbled into the sea. Perhaps because he appeared to be second class rather than first, no one else stepped forward to help him.
I began grabbing for papers. I was surprised to recognize the Arabesque arched doorways, the circle of lion statues spitting water, the myrtle hedges and the long, narrow pool… "Are these of the Alhambra?" I wondered aloud.
"They sure are!" The artist shook my hand as he tucked papers back into his portfolio. "Samuel Ward Stanton," he introduced himself. "I'm creating a mural of the palace for the SS Washington Irving."
"Well it oughta be an impressive mural; your drawings are very accurate," I said, handing him the pages I had collected. "Margaret Brown."
"Thank you, Mrs. Brown. …Have you seen the Alhambra in person?"
"I have! I was there a few years ago with my daughter." We boarded while chatting about the exquisite Moorish palace, nestled between the snow-capped Sierra Nevadas and the beautiful university town of Granada, Spain…
The Alhambra, the Taj Mahal, the Pyramids at Giza, the Coliseum, the Eiffel Tower… These sites fascinated me, but wasn't a single human soul more valuable than all these cold monuments of metal and stone? I was not impressed by those who hid their true affections behind gala chatter about wonders of the world. Why did we spend so little time talking about our friends and family? Why did seemingly everyone boarding Titanic know about my J.J.'s "striking it rich," but no one seemed truly concerned for why I had joined this voyage alone and at the last minute?
Outwardly, I expressed all the zeal and wit expected of a "cultured" woman. Inside, I was empty.
First- and second-class stood together for once, waiting in anticipation on Nomadic's promenade. Titanic was approaching. The great ship's silhouette extended some sixty feet high into the golden sunset, her four funnels even higher. The light through her portholes glimmered like sequins on a black dress. The behemoth drew closer, until she blocked all else from view.
I stood beside Maddie Astor, who marveled: "It's beautiful, Molly… But I can't really tell that it's longer than any of the other grand liners I've seen. Is it really bigger than the Mauretania?"
"Only by about a hundred feet," I informed her, chuckling. "But that's enough that the men won't shut up about it. You know how they get about size."
She was blank. "What do you mean?"
I sighed. "Never mind."
You could say I was less impressed with Titanic than most. As we finally prepared to board, I thought to myself, Just another wonder of the world.
(line)
My stateroom on B deck had a spacious armoire, a sitting area by the window, and a four-poster bed with an electric heater at its foot. The creamy new wallpaper had an elegant, gilded swirl pattern. The doorframes and paneling were finely polished oak, as was the bedframe. The rest of the furniture was mahogany, upholstered in creamy fabric that matched the walls. The bedclothes were ruby red, matching the carpet that was so brand spanking new that you could still smell the factory.
This place was as nice as my usual room at the Ritz-Carlton in New York! I felt a heady enticement to relax for the rest of the evening with a good book and a glass of brandy, but I had to check in at the Astors' suite. Maddie was suffering from motion sickness, and had taken nothing but seltzer water on the train and the Nomadic. As Titanic was motionless thus far, this would be a good opportunity to get some food in her.
I tipped my steward, and was almost out the door when two more came in, carrying a covered canvas. "Ya'll work fast!" I marveled. I had bought several paintings in Paris, and requested that one in particular be brought out of storage and up to my stateroom during the voyage. "Just leave the Abbéma on the bed, please. Gently. I'll call for someone to help me put it up later."
J.J. and the Astors' servants were glad to see me, and approved of my mission. "The dining saloon's closed by now," a White Star steward informed us as he brought the Astors' dog, Kitty, into the suite in a gilded carrier. "But the a la carte restaurant is still open."
You hear all the time from Titanic survivors that they had trouble finding their way around, because the ship was just that big and dazzling. Maybe I just have an extra keen sense of direction, but that always seemed silly to me. There were complimentary ship's guidebooks in our staterooms, for heaven's sake! The restaurant was aft on A deck, and the Astors' suite was practically at the foot of the Grand Staircase, on C deck. So Maddie and I walked up two flights of stairs and headed towards the back of the boat. There wasn't much to it, really.
Admittedly, I did have to kind of pull Maddie along. She kept stopping to stare at the gilded inlay in the Grand Staircase banisters, or at the huge wrought iron and glass dome that topped the Staircase above boat deck. When we passed the same scene again in miniature, at the aft Grand Staircase, she declared, "Oh, Molly, this place is like heaven!"
We paid the young cashier girl and entered the restaurant. Warm lighting, light wicker furniture, and climbing vines gave the place a cozy feel, even with the inky night looming beyond the panoramic windows. The ship was as motionless as if we were on solid ground; I assumed they hadn't lifted anchor yet. The restaurant was less than half-full, and rather quiet, the perfect place to try and get Maddie eating.
We were seated and munching on breadsticks when two men briskly walked in. One was in a steward's uniform; the other wore a fine tuxedo with long tails, and carried a small, black notebook.
"I'm sorry to keep you away from dinner, sir…"
"Oh, not at all, Mr. Martin. Now let's see about that troublesome fan…"
The steward fetched a ladder as the gentleman placed his notebook on an empty table, then climbed towards the ceiling fan with a screwdriver between his teeth. They talked the whole time. Curiosity got the better of me; I listened carefully, trying to locate their accents.
Not so much because my parents were both born in Ireland, but because of my involvement in immigrants' charities in Colorado, I can pinpoint the different Irish brogues pretty precisely. It's an interesting talent, if only occasionally useful. These two were both from Ulster- or what we call Northern Ireland, today. The steward sounded like he was pure Belfast, born and raised. The gentleman's accent had refined overtones that hinted at a "country home" upbringing, some miles outside the great industrial city.
Maddie was intrigued by them, too. "Do you know who that is?" she whispered, nodding towards the gentleman's turned back.
"Darlin, I haven't a clue."
"He's dressed like a first-class passenger, but he's acting like crew… Which do you think he is?"
I shrugged. Just then, the gentleman finished his work and stepped down off the ladder. As he shook hands with the steward, I noticed he stood half a foot taller than the other man. "Let's ask him," I muttered to Maddie. "Um, excuse me, sir!"
He turned around, his expression intent. "Can I help you, madam?" he asked, not unkindly. He had a straight nose and firm chin, broad shoulders, and wavy, gray-flecked brown hair. This one was certainly easy on the eyes!
"Did ya eat supper yet?" I asked.
He relaxed, and chuckled with surprise. I realized he'd expected a complaint rather than an invitation! "Bout half of it, actually, before I was called away." He picked up that little notebook of his. "First by a malfunctioning grill press, then by the swimming baths, then by this ceiling fan…"
"Well, ya wanna top off with us?" I offered.
"It'd be my pleasure." He came up to our table in a few long, easy strides.
I held out my hand, palm sideways rather than palm down, for a handshake and not a kiss. I was pleased when he noted and followed my unspoken wishes; many gentlemen in those days would have twisted my hand around to kiss it anyway. "I'm Margaret Brown."
Maddie held out her hand for a kiss, and he obliged. "Madeleine Astor."
"Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Astor, pleasure to meet ye both." He sat and placed his notebook on his lap. "I'm Thomas Andrews."
"So whaddaya do for a livin, Mr. Andrews?" I asked. It seemed a polite way to get at our question of whether he was passenger or crew.
"I build ships," he answered simply, tearing hungrily into a breadstick. Men as tall and vigorous as him don't usually take kindly to skipping half of dinner.
"Oh really! Did ya build this one?" I teased.
His brown eyes were warm and honest as he answered me:
"Why yes, Mrs. Brown, I suppose ye could say that I did."
(line)
A/N: Yes, Margaret Brown spoke at least a little of all those languages (and she was fluent in French.) Yes, Samuel Ward Stanton was a real second-class passenger, and I portrayed his current project when boarding Titanic accurately. No clue whether Margaret Brown ever really went to the Alhambra, but it's very possible, and I've been there and loved it, so I put it in! :-)