X. Day of Rest
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.
No disrespect intended to the memory of the real J. Bruce Ismay. This story is fictional and is not intended to imply the real man would have stooped this low. See ch. 6 disclaimer for more details.
A/N: I'm a little paranoid about readers thinking that Ismay's accusing Thomas of being diseased, so I just wanted to clarify that he uses the word "choleric" in the sense of the classical Greek humors, where "choleric" essentially means restless and irritable.
(line)
A memory: Tuesday, 2 April, 1912
"A pity the sea trials were postponed," Thomas muttered as he and his valet brought his luggage out to the motorcar. The air was moist and still in the predawn. "Now we're up before the larks, and with one day fewer in which to get everything done…"
"Indeed, sir," the valet agreed as they wrestled a heavy trunk into the boot of the motorcar. "But I daresay an extra night at home was of some comfort to you."
In the light from the sconces by the front door, Thomas saw his servant, usually well-mannered, wink at him. "James!" he laughed. "Really, now!" He felt a warm flush creep over his face. It was true; Helen didn't sleep in her own room last night. Thomas and Helen had both known what they wanted. They craved each other in advance, well aware of the full month of solitude ahead. There was an earnestness to their desire; it felt like their honeymoon all over again…
In the restful lull afterwards, he had kissed her in secret places and whispered: Come with me… I know it's too late this time… But next time. Please.
Thomas and Helen's handful of household staff were assembling by the entryway for the formal send-off, though it seemed a bit absurd at 4:30 in the morning. Some of them were falling asleep against the front porch's Greco Roman columns. Thomas gave Helen a peck on the cheek, public and polite. Her deep blue eyes smoldered with a desire for more, mixed with unanswered, fearful questions. I know you're frightened of the sea, dear. So am I sometimes. He cupped her smooth, pale cheek in his hand.
The nanny appeared in the doorway with Elba in her arms. "She was up anyway," she hastily explained.
Without a word, Thomas extended his arms. At sixteen months, Elba knew the routine. The sturdy toddler readily balanced herself against his side. He kissed her feathery light brown hair. "Be a dear for Mummy, sweetheart." It was the same thing he told her before leaving for work each morning. She giggled and gently placed her little hands up around his shoulders.
The nanny cooed, "Now say goodbye to Daddy, love. He's going away on his big ship and won't be back for a long time." Elba's nanny (like the rest of the world) was only excited about Titanic, but it was tactless, really. Thomas had hoped to leave without causing any fuss for his little girl. But now, Elba's arms tightened around him. She began to whimper. He moved to hand her off to Helen.
"Go with Mummy, sweetheart-"
"Nooo…"
"Elba." Helen's voice trembled. "It's alright, dear, now come along-"
"Nooo!" she wailed. Both Helen and the nanny had to work to pull her away. None of the staff were asleep now; they smiled, waved and called goodbye with exaggerated cheer. As Thomas walked backwards to the motorcar, he responded just as gaily, hoping to calm Elba down. Her little face was still red and tear-streaked as the car pulled away.
They crested a hill and saw the lights of Belfast spread before them. Titanic rested in the nocturnal dark of the River Lagan, just out of sight for now. When the sun came up, she would cast her slanted shadow over half a dozen working-class city blocks.
Thomas swallowed a lump in his throat. I hope that was the hardest part of this journey.
(line)
Before he was held up in London on business, J. P. Morgan had booked one of the richest suites aboard; only Caledon Hockley's compared in size and decadence. The suite had two bedrooms, a sitting room, a private bath, and a private promenade deck. In Morgan's absence, J. Bruce Ismay had moved into the suite- alone.
"Have a seat, Thomas." Ismay gestured toward a pair of plush Victorian armchairs arranged before the sitting room window, and Thomas sat down. As the afternoon sun sank low before the bow, their view of the northwest sky streaked from pale gold on the left, then to white, then to pale blues, darkening to cobalt on the right. Ismay turned on a Tiffany lamp before sitting in the other chair.
The end table between them was strewn with note paper. More embellishment of W.S. logo on wardrobe hangers, read one line of Ismay's lacy scrawl. Another, More flower boxes in the private promenades? Thomas smiled to himself. Perhaps, behind closed doors, he and J. Bruce Ismay weren't so different after all.
What Ismay said next, however, killed any affection Thomas may have had for the man. "I know where you were headed just now, Thomas. I do hope you remember our discussion yesterday. We are not slowing down."
"Apparently not," Thomas retorted. His voice grew louder with each word. "I hear we're speeding up!"
"Thomas-"
"This is madness, Bruce!" He pounded his fist against the end table. "Running 23 knots through the worst ice fields in decades, on a maiden voyage with lost binoculars? It's suicide, so it is!"
"Do you question the Captain's judgment?" Ismay snarled.
"No!" Thomas stood abruptly. He spoke quieter, but no less forcefully, glaring at the seated Englishman. "I question yours. Stop pretending to be an innocent passenger, Bruce. You've clearly been twisting Smith's arm; I wouldn't be surprised if some of the passengers have noticed! I just can't understand why you're so desperate for more headlines, that you're willing to be reckless with the ship itself." Thomas gestured wildly as his voice grew louder again. "You're the world-renowned White Star Line, for Christ's sake! These cheap press gimmicks should be beneath you!" His chest was heaving as he fell silent, scowling at the businessman.
A vein was throbbing at Ismay's temple. He returned Thomas's livid stare, then got up and retrieved a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece of his private fireplace. He didn't offer one to Thomas. He's quiet, Thomas observed. What does he have up his sleeve?
"Strange how you should question my judgment, Thomas." Ismay flicked his lighter, feigning nonchalance. "When you're the one who's been unusually choleric on this voyage." He blew smoke. "Honestly, you weren't at all like this on the Olympic. I don't know what's gotten into you. First there was the coal fire, and I still don't know what you had against Hockley last night in the smoking room, but be thankful I stopped you." He shook his head in exasperation. "Strike a man that powerful and you'll never work again. And then, there's this whole business with Mrs. Brown…"
Thomas's heart sank. "You heard about last night?"
Ismay's eyes widened. He was seized with laughter so suddenly that he coughed on his cigarette smoke. "So it's true?"
It took Ismay a good thirty seconds to stifle his laughter, while Thomas shifted uneasily on the plush carpet.
"Well, everyone knows about Spicer Lovejoy spotting her below decks, and then I saw you chasing her after the Divine Service, so I thought I'd test the waters… But you really went down there with her?" He guffawed openly. "Oh, this is priceless! Honestly, Thomas, you could do much better than her if you wanted some indiscretions below decks!" He waved his cigarette about with an air of dalliance. "You're still in your prime, old boy! There are much younger, finer women aboard who would be happy to give you whatever your little wifey in Belfast denies you."
Oh God. Helen! Thomas shook his head slowly, fearfully."Mr. Ismay, you-" he stammered. "You don't understand. I- I would never-"
Ismay held up his hand to stop him. "Come now, Thomas!" He grinned wickedly. "It's natural after a man's been married a few years! I honestly couldn't care less… Unless I believe it's a symptom of poor judgment in general, in which case, I'm afraid I may have to inform the captain." He shrugged. "And from there, well, I can't control who says what to whom, you understand…"
Neither man harbored pretensions that this was anything besides pure and simple blackmail. For a moment, they were both silent. Thomas was torn. He couldn't let Ismay run the ship unchecked; the man had just moved beyond desperate to Machiavellian. But last night had already tarnished poor Maggie; Thomas would be devastated if it hurt Helen, too. If he could only ensure Ismay's silence, then he could work out a way to approach Smith without his knowledge…
"I understand, Mr. Ismay."
Ismay nodded slowly in approval. "Good." His tone was suddenly warm again, almost paternal. "Now, forget about ice floes and coal fires, Thomas, and give your troubled mind a little reprieve this evening." He chuckled. "It is the Lord's day of rest, after all."
(line)
Thomas stood on the portside A-deck promenade, and watched the cloudless sky wash seamlessly from blue, to white, to the golden prelude of another flawless sunset. He shivered and turned around, noticing that he was the only one standing out here. The temperature had dropped drastically this afternoon. Even on an enclosed promenade with a glass heater, the chill was apparent. Thomas huddled in his suit coat as he walked inside.
He arrived a few minutes late to dinner. Maggie was seated with the Astors. Thomas had taken several meals with the three of them. Young Madeleine was a dear, sweet woman who thought the world of Maggie. J.J. could be a bit pretentious, but was benevolent enough for a man of his great wealth. The couple would act as a buffer between poor Maggie and the vicious gossipers. Thomas thought of taking shelter with them as well, but then he remembered Maggie's words earlier today: Don't follow me. He nodded politely to J.J. and carried on.
He passed a round table seating a dozen of the ship's most glamorous passengers. Thomas saw many of the same guests from the dinner party Jack attended on Friday, though Hockley and the DeWitt Bukaters were conspicuously absent. As stewards snuck champagne and caviar in by the passengers' elbows, the wealthy diners passed a slip of paper around the table.
"I say, Bruce, is it serious?"
Ismay held his head high and straightened his bow tie. "Not at all," he replied to Colonel Gracie. "It's mostly a pretext for sending a message to Titanic." A smile played beneath his slick mustache."And possibly having the honor of her sending one back!"
The table erupted in laughter. Their plaything was yet another ice warning! Why the hell did Smith give him that? In that moment, neither concerns for his career, nor love of Titanic herself, stopped Thomas from lunging forward and grabbing Ismay by the tuxedo lapels. Only the thought of Helen stopped him. Her smile, her embrace, her gentle humor, her keen mind… and above all, her loyalty.
Thomas sat alone at a small table, in a corner by the pantry entrance. To give any onlookers an excuse for his solitude, he pulled out his notebook and pretended to be hard at work. But he didn't know what to do next. Should he distract himself with the usual, miscellaneous needed improvements? Should he plan when and where to speak with Captain Smith? Should he draft the telegram he would send tomorrow, explaining to J. P. Morgan why he was ordering more lifeboats without Mr. Ismay's permission? Perhaps he should even write a note of apology to Rose DeWitt Bukater for his words to her today…
The steward came and went with seltzer water, breadsticks, hors d'oeuvres, cream of barley soup, salmon with mousseline sauce... None of it seemed appetizing tonight. Suddenly, Thomas thought he heard faint voices coming from the direction of the pantry, joined in a hymn. A beautiful old Irish hymn, at that.
Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art…
Thomas sighed and leaned his forehead against his hand. His silver-tinged locks were reverting to their natural, improper wave. And now I'm hearing things. That's just grand!
"The second-class saloon, sir," the steward explained when he saw Thomas peering tired-eyed into the pantry. "One of the second-class passengers is a minister, and he's leading a sort of impromptu hymn sing." He took the plate of salmon which, like everything else tonight, was going cold half-uneaten. "Shall I bring out the filet mignon, sir?"
"No thank you, Mr. Bristow." Suddenly purposeful, Thomas stood up and closed his notebook. "I'm afraid I'm not very peckish this evening, but do send my compliments to the chef."
(line)
There had to be quite a crowd for the singing to be heard as far away as the first class saloon. Sure enough, Thomas arrived to find nearly two hundred people seated in the upholstered swiveling chairs flanking the long, plain tables. Some were still eating dessert as the stewards cleared away the remnants of dinner. A bearded, middle-aged man played the upright piano near the fore of the large room. He was just finishing "Be Thou My Vision." As Thomas walked in, he lent his firm tenor voice to the final strain:
High King of heaven, whatever befall,
Still be my vision, O ruler of all.
He took a seat on the edge of the crowd. A young couple nearby passed him a hymnal. The man was tall and ruddy; the woman had a pretty smile and hair dark as a raven's wing. She extended her hand- for a shake. The only first class woman on this voyage who had Thomas shake her hand, rather than kiss it, was Maggie.
"I'm Jane, and this here's Sam." She was American.
He shook her hand, and then his. "I'm Thomas. Pleasure to meet ye both." Jane smiled and turned pink at Thomas's lilting accent.
"He takes requests," Sam offered helpfully, as the minister struck up a tune that Thomas did not know. He listened for the refrain, then searched for the words in his hymnal, but to no avail. He noticed that only about one in ten people in the crowd had a hymnal at all, and their covers came in all different colors and boasted the names of different denominations. Impromptu, indeed! Thomas had to sit this one out and listen:
His oath, His covenant and blood
Support me in the whelming flood…
Not all of the song transitions were seamless. Sometimes a song ended and five different ones were immediately requested; sometimes there was a two-minute pause before someone thought of another tune. With the lack of hymnals, people would sometimes sing or hum a few lines and demand of the crowd around them, "What's that one called again? You've heard that one, right?" Between Lutherans and Episcopalians, Catholics and Presbyterians, there were differences in familiarity with the songs, which verses were included, or their page numbers in the hymnals. But all of it was handled with easy conversation and gentle laughter.
Except for the occasional smile in greeting, the other passengers let Thomas keep to himself. He saw some of them take note of his fine attire, but no one seemed to recognize him, or whisper about him amongst their companions. He was allowed to simply be. His mind finally began to rest.
"One more and we should all get to bed," said the minister at the piano. Thomas took out his pocket watch. 9:55. They ended with the traditional final hymn at sea, "Eternal Father, Strong to Save." Thomas closed his eyes and prayed as the others sang.
Eternal Father, strong to save
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep;
Oh hear us when we cry to Thee
For those who peril on the sea!...
(line)
Thomas returned to his stateroom, shrugged out of his suit coat, and requested a steward turn up the heater a bit and bring him a glass of red wine. He wrote his daily note to Nellie, then spread some blueprints and planning books across his desk.
He could work undisturbed for the rest of the night. Stateroom A-36 was a comfortably large cabin with a private bath. It was situated many yards aft of the other A-deck accommodations, tucked into a corner of the aft Grand Staircase entryway. Thomas's name did appear on the "cave list" given to first-class passengers upon boarding, but his stateroom number did not. While the crew could find him easily, few socialites aboard even knew that this room existed.
He really ought to spend more time in here during the rest of the voyage…
He had been at work for over an hour, (though it felt like five minutes,) when the wine in the glass at his elbow began to ripple. He looked up at the beaded chandelier above his desk. The beads were dancing in place. Strange, how little things like standing liquid and hanging beads could detect a disturbance more easily than a man himself. I hope there's no trouble with the ship, Thomas thought, his brow furrowed. Then the shaking stopped, and the blueprints caught his attention again: Well, if there is, I'm sure they'll send for me.
There was a knock on the door a few moments later. Thomas answered to find a nervous young steward. "The captain needs you on the bridge, sir, immediately." With that he scampered off. Rather unprofessional, that one, Thomas scoffed. …I wonder what has him so upset?
The question to himself was a bit startling. Before heading quickly down the corridor, Thomas rolled up some of the main blueprints, donned his suit coat again…
And his overcoat.
(line)
A/N: Yes, "Alias" fans, I made the steward's name Bristow on purpose. :-D But no, I didn't make it up! I found a website with a full list of Titanic crew, and there was a first-class saloon steward named Harold Bristow, from Kent, England. Like our dear Thomas, he perished in the sinking at the age of 39. (Sam and Jane on the other hand, I just made up- lazy me!)