The Second Mrs. Astor(67)
Mark Fortune smiled, obviously relieved at the turn of conversation. “No, Mrs. Brown, you’re not crazy, and no, they don’t. There’s a foursome of prized breeders, roosters and hens, crated and housed by the galley. One of the passengers picked them up in France. Worth a pretty penny, from what I understand, and the lady means to take them back to her estate . . .”
Madeleine gazed down at the coq au vin that had been placed before her, fragrant and steaming. Her stomach rumbled.
But she could not stop thinking about what Alice had said, the open boat, the sea. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the lifeboat from the Noma struggling to reach the stranded men of the Zingara, that small shell of wood pitching against the blackened waves.
She looked up and out the windows lining the walls, at the belt of stars caught behind the leaded glass: cold and remote, white as ice.
CHAPTER 23
It was an uncanny dreamworld aboard that ship nearly from the beginning, growing stronger as the days went on. Time seemed suspended; the hours uncounted. There was everything to do and, at the same time, absolutely nothing. You could pace along the decks, compose letters in the reading and writing room, splash around in the swimming bath, or steam yourself like a lobster in the Turkish baths. You could play squash, or chess, or dominoes, or draughts, and there were nearly always card games going on wherever I looked, usually bridge or whist. Charlotte Cardeza’s son hosted poker games on the private promenade deck of their suite, raucous affairs that included (from what I understand) a great deal of drinking and smoking, even by the ladies.
(Your father went once. The stakes were a dollar a chip, and he won rather a lot. The cardsharps were not pleased, and after that, they didn’t invite him back.)
You could have a meal at practically any time of the day or night, breakfast, luncheon, tea in your rooms, tea in the Palm Court & Veranda Café, the lounge. Dinners of ten scrumptious courses, the most luscious dishes you ever tasted, followed by coffee and port.
Out of boredom, I guess, or just because they could, someone began a betting pool on the number of nautical miles covered by the ship each day, and a good many of the passengers became involved in it. There was always a surge of interest every afternoon outside the Purser’s Office when the miles from the previous day were posted. People were happy when Titanic’s daily tally bested that of the Olympic for the same run.
Everyone expected Titanic to be the faster ship, and she was.
Your father got his tour with Bruce Ismay. I declined to go. As he came back grimed with grease and soot—the tour had included the boiler rooms and the engine rooms—it was not a decision I regretted.
At six o’clock, the ship’s bugler would play a tune to let us know it was time to dress for dinner. At seven, he reappeared, playing “The Roast Beef of Old England” to let us know it was time to eat.
Titanic was a ship full of sheep, ready to be herded. You hardly had to think about anything at all. All you had to do was enjoy your captivity, and have faith that everything would be well.
Friday, April 12, 1912
Aboard Titanic
Nurse Endres agreed, with trepidation, to a visit to the Turkish baths. The weather had dawned uncertain, with layers of gunmetal clouds blowing in and out, trailing needles of rain. Madeleine had hoped to walk the boat deck with Jack and Kitty, but the rain was slanting cold, the kind designed, according to Jack, to soak through coats and scarves and hats and steal into your heart and lungs.
Thus Carrie had advised against it, and Jack had agreed, and Madeleine was outnumbered.
He went to the Purser’s Office to purchase two tickets to the baths instead, handing them over with a bow.
“It’s reserved for the ladies in the morning, gents in the afternoon,” he said. “So you’ll need to be there within the hour.”
“But—the Turkish baths, sir?” Carrie had said, with more than a hint of dismay. “Is it decent?”
Madeleine tapped the paper tickets against her palm. “Let’s go find out.”
*
The entrance to the baths was on F deck, far lower into the belly of the ship than Madeleine had been before. Down here, she had a much clearer sense of the rhythm of the engines, a constant drumbeat vibrating through the walls and floor. Any trace of natural light, of the rain or clouds, had disappeared; it truly was like being swallowed by a great mechanical beast. But the bath complex itself was extravagant enough, with subdued lighting and a fantastical, Moorish theme. The bath attendant, a slender young woman with downcast eyes, handed them both thick white towels, and directed them to the changing rooms.
“We are to disrobe?” Carrie asked.
“Yes, ma’am, if you please. Right through there, at the end of the cooling room. I will wait out here until you need me.”
Carrie said nothing, clutching her towels to her chest, but the look she threw Madeleine was scandalized.
The cooling room, center of the complex, was something to behold. Long and exotic, it had a deeply recessed, blood-red ceiling supported by intricately engraved wooden pillars. Glassy green-and-blue tiled mosaics alternated with fretted wooden screens affixed along the walls. Bronze lanterns glowed from above; metal domes that looked like halved, gilded onions topped the doorways. The chaise lounges were teak and gilt, covered in cream and red pillows and cushions.
The overall effect was one of being cloistered inside in a feverishly contrived harem. All that was missing was the scent of cumin and turmeric peppering the air, and the call to prayers from minarets beyond the screens.