On a Cold Dark Sea(34)
“Are you from the Titanic?”
“One hundred dollars from the New York World for an exclusive!”
“C’mon, jump off, we’ll pick you up. Easiest money you’ll ever make!”
The thought of jumping made Charlotte feel queasy, but she didn’t turn away. There was something captivating about the men’s brashness. Ever since the sinking, Charlotte had felt paralyzed, breathing and eating by rote, barely speaking. The passengers on the Carpathia had been kind, offering their cabins and extra clothes with expressions of hushed concern. To Charlotte, they seemed like angels, creatures who meant well but weren’t quite real. She heard herself referred to as a survivor and thought the term particularly apt. All she’d done was not die. Her thoughts, her emotions, her aspirations—all had been frozen by what she’d endured.
Now, looking out at the newspapermen, Charlotte began to thaw. This was America, vigorous and undaunted, even in the face of tragedy. She didn’t want to talk to the reporters—she didn’t want to talk about the Titanic, ever—but she admired the fervor that propelled them out on such a wretched night. How thrilling it must be, rushing to the scene of dramatic events, never knowing what the next day would bring. Charlotte wished, achingly, that she could see the world through their eager, curious eyes.
As the ship drew closer to the Cunard pier, Charlotte saw that a crowd had gathered. In every direction, as far as she could see, spectators were huddled, their faces sheltered by dark umbrellas. She hadn’t realized until then that the Titanic’s loss had reverberated across the continents, and the Carpathia’s arrival gave tens of thousands of New Yorkers an opportunity to demonstrate their anguish. When Charlotte walked down the tunnel-like gangway into the pier’s reception area, she felt assaulted by the lights and shouts of people searching for loved ones. A steward had told her there was a ladies’ charity that would assist anyone who wasn’t being met, and Charlotte nodded gratefully when an officious middle-aged woman asked if she needed help. She was offered coffee, then escorted into a room filled with donated clothing. Charlotte took a simple wool dress and a pair of stockings as other newly widowed women looked through the piles for suitable mourning clothes; there wasn’t nearly enough black. The women were then taken to taxicabs and driven to the hotels where they’d stay until further travel arrangements could be made.
Charlotte tried to see something of the city as they sped along the soggy streets, but all they seemed to pass were blurry lamps and darkened shop windows, men and women scurrying as raincoats flapped at their calves. When the taxi stopped at the Hotel Montreal, a knot of men in rumpled suits crowded around the car.
“Titanic survivor? Titanic survivor?”
“Any English ladies? The Record will pay for your story.”
Charlotte recognized the accent instantly: a south Londoner who’d learned to put a polish on his words. She turned away from the voice—she hadn’t seen the man’s face—and hurried into the comforting warmth of the lobby, where a line of bellhops and maids were waiting with expressions of curious anticipation. Charlotte joined a group of fellow survivors, feeling disconcertingly like an animal on display at the zoo. She heard a woman admonish her young daughter, “Don’t tell anyone you were on the Titanic.”
An exhausted, apologetic representative of the White Star Line informed them that all passengers were to remain in New York for the time being, on orders of the United States Congress. The government would be making an investigation into the sinking, and potential witnesses must be available for questioning. The man led them to understand, in a roundabout way, that it was unlikely they’d be called in; the testimony of second-class widows wasn’t nearly as important as that of the surviving officers and well-known first-class passengers. In the meantime, their room and board would be paid for, as would their train fare if they planned to travel on. Those who wished to return to England would be booked on the next White Star liner.
And that’s what she would do, Charlotte decided with weary acceptance. What choice did she have? There was nothing for her in New York, not without Reg. She couldn’t run a swindle on her own in a town she didn’t know, and her craving for adventure had withered in the middle of the Atlantic. Her aunt would take her in, and she could join her brothers in the country. She’d never wanted a rural life, but it was the only place she could imagine starting over.
The Titanic widows breakfasted together the following morning, with most agreeing it would be best to stay indoors, away from questions and stares. The rain had let up, and sunlight gleamed through the dining-room windows. Charlotte didn’t want to stay cooped up in the hotel’s velvet-hushed rooms; she wanted to be outside, an anonymous figure in the bustling crowds. If this was the only time she’d be in New York, she might as well see something of it.
Two reporters were leaning against the side of the building, talking, when Charlotte came out the front door. She recognized the taller one’s voice; it was the Englishman from the Record. Fair-haired and spindly, he straightened up when he saw her.
“You’re a long way from home,” Charlotte said, allowing her childhood accent to come to the fore.
The reporter’s expression shifted from mild to intense interest. “I could say the same for you, madam.”
The other man—American—blurted out, “Are you one of the Titanic ladies?”