The Captain's Daughter (3 page)

Celestine looked up through her black veil at the ship that would be taking her back to America. Her shoes felt like lead as she stepped along the First Class gangway, her brother storming ahead, dying to inspect the transatlantic liner from bow to stern.

‘Wait for me!’ she called.

Selwyn turned and grinned. ‘Come on, slow coach, I want to see what all the bally fuss is about this
Titanic
, and Father wants you to meet that old dear, the archdeacon’s aunt . . .’

‘My chaperone. Honestly, can’t a married woman be allowed on board without a guardian? I hope Mrs Grant isn’t as awful as the one I had coming over. She could see I was worried about Mama but she insisted on talking throughout the entire journey.’

‘Grover was quite insistent you were not to travel unaccompanied,’ Selwyn replied. ‘Though why he couldn’t accompany you himself beats me. We all wanted to meet little Roddy too. Poor Mama never got to see him . . .’

‘I know, but my husband’s a very busy man.’

‘It was your mother’s funeral, for pity’s sake! You could have done with some support on the journey over, especially in the circumstances.’ Selwyn was not one to mince his words. It was one of the things Celestine loved about him.

‘You’ve all looked after me so well. I’m fine. Of course, I’d like to have my own family around me but Grover said funerals are not for children.’

‘He could have made the effort, Sis.’

‘I know . . . it’s just . . .’ How could she explain that Grover didn’t take much interest in England or her family? He had his own parents close by and was insistent that Roddy’s routine must not be disturbed. Her only thought now was to return to her son and settle back into the daily routine, and to do that she must climb onto this monster whale’s back to go west, home to Akron, Ohio.

Selwyn helped her settle herself into her cabin, making sure she could spread herself out and not be disturbed. If the voyage were as bad as her crossing five weeks ago, she was in for a painful time and would spend most of it in her cabin.

Because of a coal strike that had caused disruption to shipping schedules, she’d been given an alternative berth on the
Titanic
for her return to New York. She ought to be thrilled to be on its maiden voyage with all the razzmatazz in Southampton, but her heart was heavy to be leaving her family behind. She wondered when she would see them again. If she would ever see her father again. He’d looked so frail, so broken after her mother’s death.

The First Class apartments were on the upper decks; state rooms and private cabins were connected by corridors laid with thick, plush carpets. Her cabin was well lit with electric lamps, and she had a brass-railed bed with sumptuous soft linens and an eiderdown. The walls were lined with panels of flock wallpaper like a fine hotel room, and fresh flowers everywhere; the scents of hothouse lilies, freesias and jasmine barely disguised the odour of newly decorated paintwork. There were even excellent stewardesses at her beck and call with the push of a button on the wall. If only she could get away from the smell of paint and glue, which made her feel queasy. It was a pity her sea legs were so poor. Sea travel was a luxurious business these days.

They met up with the elderly widow Mrs Grant at the top of the grand staircase by the wonderful carved clock. Selwyn stood to admire the elegant sweep of the stairs and the great latticed glass dome, which allowed light to shine down the carved oak balustrades. ‘Not one for sliding down, Sis?’ he smiled. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Ada Grant was going out to visit her sister in Pennsylvania for the summer. There wasn’t time to get very well acquainted before the whistle blew, but Celeste promised to take tea with her later.

It was time for Selwyn to leave the ship but Celeste clutched his hand. Tears welled and she clung to him. ‘I wish I could stay longer.’

‘Steady on, old girl. Mama’s at peace now.’

How she wanted to cry out to him, finally to tell him the truth. ‘I know and I must return. Roddy needs me but . . . You will look after Papa for me.’ She felt sick to her stomach, knowing that her bereaved father and two brothers thought her so fortunate to be married to a wealthy businessman with a darling little boy and a lovely house. They knew only what she wanted them to know. She couldn’t let them worry.

‘Goodbye and good luck.’ Selwyn hugged her.
‘Bon voyage
and all that, and don’t leave it so long next time. Roddy will be in long pants before we get to meet him.’ With that he was gone, striding down the corridor and off the ship.

Celestine looked after him, bereft. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so entirely alone.

What she needed now was fresh air and one last lingering look at the dockside. She must take her leave of her country. ‘Be British and stomach your sorrow,’ she chided herself, thinking of her father’s words when he’d caught her crying in her room the evening before. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him the real reason for her tears.

Wrapping herself in her new black coat and pinning the black hat and veil firmly over her face, she made her way down the panelled corridor with its two-toned blue carpet. There seemed to be smiling stewards around every corner to guide her out onto the promenade deck.

The ship was stirring into life, and she wanted to watch it turning out of the dock to face up the river to Southampton and out towards Cherbourg, seventy miles across the Channel. France would be their next port of call.

A crowd had gathered at the railings as the whistles blasted over the city. People were climbing up poles and through windows, waving them off from every vantage point along the coastline, shouting and cheering them on their way. How she wished she was a little girl again at the seaside at Sidmouth, watching as the tall sailing ships floated across the water. Roddy would have loved all this. He was nearly three and such a chatterbox. She’d bought him picture books of London and postcards of the
Titanic
and a toy yacht to help her explain to him where she’d been all this time.

The
Titanic
drifted slowly from the dock, pulled out by little tugs and manoeuvred into a position so she was facing downriver.

There were other big liners tied up at their berths like a stable of restless horses, but as the ship passed there was a sudden swell of water, and Celeste could see one of the liners jerk from its mooring.

‘The ropes on the
New York
have snapped!’ shouted one of the sailors working behind her.

‘It’s going to crash into us!’ screamed a passenger.

‘Bloody hell, what a start to a maiden voyage!’ another shouted across to the officer looking on in shock.

All eyes were fixed on the
New York.
Its stern was arcing outwards, drawing to them. But below, a little tug was coming to the rescue, gathering up its loose rope, gaining control of the errant steed, somehow pulling it away as the captain on the bridge above them was steering the ship out of danger, edging it slowly out of the path of the oncoming liner. They seemed to be going backwards.

‘Drama over. That was a close call!’ A sigh of relief went round the onlookers but Celeste overheard a steward mutter under his breath, ‘I didn’t like this ship before, and now I like it even less. It can’t even get into the water without causing trouble.’

She smiled to herself. Sailors were a superstitious lot and she didn’t have time for such folly. You made your own fortunes, she thought. It was the one thing she agreed with Grover about. No point in dwelling on misfortunes that didn’t happen. There were enough of them that did. The danger had been averted by skill and science. It boded well for their journey.

Now they were on their way, delayed for only an hour or so. It was time to explore the rest of this floating palace but first she must take tea with her chaperone. Mrs Grant was waiting in the Café Parisienne.

‘Isn’t this modern? It’s like an open veranda and the wicker trelliswork with the ivy is so realistic, don’t you think? They’ve thought of everything. It’s all light and air and sea views. Isn’t this journey going to be fun?’

Celeste tried to look enthused but all she could think of was Selwyn on his way home and what might be waiting for her in Akron, Ohio.

Later she strolled around the freshly painted deck, enjoying the familiar strains of music from the ship’s orchestra playing in an open gallery nearby. She’d seen signs to a gymnasium and both a swimming bath and a Turkish bath down below deck. She found her way to the reading room to seek a quiet corner to read her Edith Wharton novel:
The House of Mirth.
She must make the most of her remaining time alone. This perhaps would be where she took her refuge, among the soft armchairs and the writing tables. The room was decorated in a Georgian style with moulded panelled walls painted white, simple fittings and a bay window overlooking the promenade deck letting in even more light. Here she could sink into a chair and escape into her book.

But as the waters drew them further and further from the shore, she felt a peculiar churning in her stomach. It was time to head for the safety of her four-poster bed until this feeling passed. All this luxury didn’t make for happiness but it certainly made misery more comfortable.

It was Sunday morning and May had heard there was a church service taking place somewhere on the upper decks. She asked a steward exactly where it was being held.

‘It’s only for First and Second Class passengers, ma’am,’ he said, eyeing her up and down.

‘Well, I am Church of England so where do I worship then?’ she replied, refusing to be cowed by his abrupt manner.

‘I’ll go and see,’ he sighed. ‘Wait here.’

She was feeling brighter now she’d got used to the pitch of the ship, and Joe had told her to go and have some time to herself while he looked after Ellen. She looked respectable enough, spruced up in her Sunday best. Why shouldn’t she be in church along with the best of them?

Judging by the to-ing and fro-ing, her request had caused a bit of a fuss, but eventually a steward escorted her upstairs, unlocking some screens onto the upper decks to let her into the holy of holies. ‘You were right, ma’am. The service is for everyone.’

No odours of stew, gravy or stale sweat clouded the air here. Instead, May smelled the wafting perfume of fresh arum lilies, carnations and cigar smoke, and felt the thickest of rich-patterned carpets at her feet. She was underdressed and self-conscious, but no one seemed even to notice her as they promenaded around the decks. The steward pressed her on apace until they came to a sumptuous dining saloon with leather chairs in rows and a rostrum at the far end.

‘Stay in these back rows, please, madam. They are reserved for visitors.’ By that May knew he meant the steerage passengers, and she was relieved to see she was not the only brave soul to venture forth into this strange uncharted territory. In fact there were rows of visitors, and sitting next to her was another woman wearing a dowdy coat and plain hat. Soon the room filled up with the rich and famous, according to her neighbour, who, by her own admission, was here only to gawp and gossip.

‘Are you here to see how the other half live then? Just look at those hats. I bet each one of them would cost our men a year’s wages? Still, they do put on a show for us; they say the richest men in the world are on board, Astor, the Guggenheims . . . and I bet some of them fancy women aren’t their wives. I saw one carrying a dog with a diamond collar, I ask you.’ She rattled off who they all were and who was related to whom; names that meant nothing to May.

Then the captain arrived along with several members of the crew armed with hymn sheets, which were passed along the rows. He led them through a simple service that wouldn’t offend anyone. The singing was polite and muted, but May loved a good hymn and when it came to ‘O God, our help in ages past’ she couldn’t help but sing out, her strong soprano voice betraying her enthusiasm until people turned round to see where the noise was coming from. She blushed and lowered her voice.

She sneaked a closer look at Captain Smith. He was older than she expected, with his silver hair and portly figure. May couldn’t help but think about the congregation gathering back at her parish church in Deane. Another wave of panic flooded her at the thought of them all in church without her. Here she was, a stranger among strangers in a steel ship at the mercy of the waves. Tomorrow the girls from the mill would be lining up at their machines for the new week without her. Would any of them miss her?

Still, it was her chance to glimpse into a world where passengers wore furs, exquisite hats, velvet coats and fine leather boots. A restless pampered toddler, dressed in silks and swansdown, was whisked away by her maidservant. May was glad she hadn’t brought Ellen, not least because her homespun clothes would have looked shabby in contrast. Alone, there was time to drink in her surroundings and gaze on the congregation at leisure.

She had never seen such sumptuous rooms. The wall panelling was decorated with beautifully carved flowers and leaves. Joe would know how it was done. And above her head electric domes of light hung from ceilings of ornate white plasterwork.

No wonder there were stewards at each door to make sure the likes of her were promptly escorted back to their rightful deck. They might all be equal under the Lord, she smiled ruefully, but on board this British ship it was everyone in their proper station. She was honoured just to be in the same room as these grand people, if only for a few minutes. She didn’t mind being set apart. It was only right and proper. These gentlefolk had paid much more for their tickets so they deserved all this finery. It was a different world up here in First Class. Would America be as class bound or was it truly the land of the free?

Celeste attended morning service in the First Class dining room. She caught glimpses of the famous in their seats at the front: wealthy American hostesses from Boston and Philadelphia; the cream of New York society, the Astors, Guggenheims, Wideners; Walter Douglas, founder of the Quaker Oats factory, a familiar face from the pages of Akron’s
Beacon Journal
, returning from Paris with his wife. Some of the wealthiest men in the world were aboard. Grover would be impressed by her fellow passengers. It was more like a ballroom than a church assembly. The captain did his best using the ship’s order of service sheets to cater for a broad church sort of worship but it made her feel even more homesick.