The Wild Dark Flowers (26 page)

She looked up at the doctor, affecting composure that she did not feel. Really, in absolute truth, she knew nothing of William’s inner life. He kept so much to himself, sealed himself away from her. If he lay awake and worried about Harry, she would not know; they had not slept together for months.

William’s naked plea for them to be closer, his impatience and fury suddenly shown behind his customary mask, had shocked her. She had been living, she thought suddenly, in some sort of paralyzed state since John Gould left. The cracks in their marriage had been papered over. She had tried to ignore her own need, tried to think of the children, tried to think of Rutherford—anything,
anything
in fact but Gould and the crisis of last year.

And she had done it by turning off her own feelings as one might close off a faucet, or draw curtains against the dark. She had tried to tell herself that the whole paraphernalia of Rutherford—the family name, the need for discretion, the continuance of its long history without scandal, without so much as a murmur, a ripple on the smooth running of their lives, was all that mattered in the end.

She had learned to smother whatever memories rose to the surface of that life. She thought that she had been doing the right thing, if not for herself, then for her children, and even for John Gould, who deserved a pretty young wife and a whole train of delightful children of his own. And if she cried about it in the privacy of her own room—well, that was a necessary evil. She poured her energies into thinking of the Blessington mills, if she thought coherently or seriously at all. That was something real that she could control and alter and make good, in a way that she could not alter her own life.

And all this time she had thought that William had dealt with it all in the same way, dismissing it from his mind. He had certainly acted the part of the unconcerned husband month after month. But yet, this afternoon . . .

Blood rushed to her face. It was not William’s work that had brought about the attack. It was not that, or Harry’s wounds, or concern of any kind for Rutherford. It was she—she and Gould. Gould’s letters. Her telegram to him aboard the
Lusitania
. They said that people had a broken heart—that popular, outworn phrase, used so often it could seem meaningless—but she had thought to herself many a time over the last autumn and winter and spring that she really knew at last what it meant. She had felt that uncomfortable grinding pain in her chest herself. But, in William’s case, perhaps it was actually true. He had actually felt . . .

“Oh madam,” the doctor said. “Come, come.”

She had not realized that she was weeping. The man came to her side and patted her hand.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“There is no urgent need to worry,” he was murmuring. “Lord Cavendish is, it seems by first examination, in otherwise decent health. He is not overweight. He tells me he has had no gout, no arthritis.” He smiled reassuringly. “With your permission, I shall ask a colleague to come, a specialist,” he continued. “For a second opinion on the cardiac problem. There is every chance that, given absolute rest, your husband will recover.”

“He is not a man to rest. He would hate that.”

“He has no choice,” was the reply. “Bed rest is the treatment for a heart attack. No exercise, no noise, no heavy foods. Absolute rest.”

“But Harry . . .”

The doctor smiled, gathering his things together. “Out of the question. Your husband will not be traveling, in any form at all, for at least a month. May I suggest that his valet goes, perhaps, or a trusted member of staff? If you think it imperative that your son is met at Folkestone.”

She rose to her feet, accompanying him to the door of the room.

I am not sending Cooper to meet Harry at Folkestone
, she thought determinedly to herself, even as she shook the man’s hand and thanked him for his suggestion.

I am not sending a member of staff to meet my son.

*   *   *

T
he
Lusitania
still described its arcing circle.

It seemed to John Gould that the ship was actually gaining speed, although he guessed that that was impossible. Perhaps it was the lurch of the angle, the tilt towards the water, which seemed to make them go faster.

On deck, it was sheer bedlam, a seething chaos. There was no loudspeaker system, and so every now and then one could hear an officer’s voice raised in command or information to the crowds, but John only caught a word here and there.

It was to be women and children first in the lifeboats, of course. A whole family went past him; they looked as if they had come from third class. They were staring about themselves, progressing in an extended slow group like a ponderous snail, with all the children holding their mother’s skirt, and, in the center of them, an elderly women was being held up and half carried along. In front of them, a man tried to part the way, yelling at the top of his voice, “My children . . . make way . . . my children . . .”

No one took any notice of him.

As John stood staring at the little group, a man careered into him, almost knocking the breath from his body. John recognized him as one of the men who had been playing cards every day in the smoking saloon. He was red in the face, laughing, holding a cigar. “Sorry, old chap!” he boomed. “What happened? What’s the matter?”

“We’ve been torpedoed,” John told him.

“Torpedoed?” the man repeated, laughing harder. He reeked of whisky. “You don’t say! Torpedo, eh?”

Someone else, another gambler, came up at the man’s shoulder. “It’s not a torpedo. It’s a mine.”

“We’ll have to limp in,” the first one boomed. “Be buggered! I shall be late for the blasted London train.”

As if to answer this, the ship tilted again, righted itself, and settled back at the new angle. There came the shattering of glass somewhere below.

“What’s that?” the red-faced man yelled, spilling the contents of his whisky glass over John’s shoes, swiveling his head to left and right. “What the devil’s that?” He turned back to John. “I had a pair of aces,” he said. “Damn and blast the bloody Germans. A pair of aces!”

John left them.

He made his way between the crowds. People were in varying stages of dismay, bewilderment, and panic. He passed two middle-aged women sobbing piteously. He laid his hand on the arm of the nearest. “You must put on a lifejacket,” he said.

The woman turned a tear-streaked face to his. “I daren’t go back into my cabin,” she said. “What shall we do?”

“Where’s your berth?” John asked.

“In first class . . .” She gave him the cabin number.

“Wait here,” he told her.

He fought his way back until he reached the right door. There, he came face-to-face with a first-class steward. Behind him was a mass of passengers who had, it seemed, made their way up the main staircase. The steward barred his way and turned back to the crowd, shouting, “You need to go to the promenade deck for the lifeboats. The promenade deck!” But the crowds pushed forward. John stepped back and they passed him. The instinct was to get higher on the ship. “It’s all right,” the steward said to him, over the heads of people. “They won’t listen to me, but it’s all right. She’s not going down.”

John looked at him and saw in the man’s face that he was lying. Even as he had spoken, John had had to brace his feet on the deck as it slipped sideways. He gave the steward a smile and went in through the door.

He remembered then how the men who had survived the
Titanic
had been received on both sides of the Atlantic; how vilified they had been. He decided that he wouldn’t get in a boat while there were still women and children about, no matter how urgent that need might become. Running as best he could towards the women’s cabin, he passed his own and shoved open the door. His lifebelt had gone.

In their cabin, he found two lifebelts neatly sandwiched in the wardrobe; snatching them up he went out again and was promptly met by a teenage girl who was clutching a younger boy, her face ghost white.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

The girl’s breath came in stuttering gasps; he could hardly hear her reply. “We have lost Mother,” she said. “Do you think she has gone this way?”

Making an instant decision, not knowing if he would ever find the women again, John got to his knees and put the lifebelts on the children. He guessed that the girl was about fourteen, the boy a little younger. Making sure that the belts were tied tightly, he patted the boy on the shoulder. “You must be brave. Can you swim?”

“I can,” the boy said. “My sister can’t.”

The girl began to shake. The neatly curled ringlets on either side of her face trembled, and he felt a rush of sorrow. Inside her babyish clothes she was quite a young woman, though frighteningly skinny. Growing like a beanpole, he thought. Growing up, growing out of her old self. Even now, in her fright, she was self-conscious, embarrassed. Her brother looked hard at her, and responded with a pout of disdain, and gazed up at John as if ready to take orders. John took both their hands. “Come with me.”

There were still people trying to get on deck. On the stairway, in the stifling crush of passengers, a man elbowed John in the face. The man’s foot was next planted on John’s; he was literally trying to climb over the children.

“Have a care,” John said. “There are young ones here.”

“Young ones be damned,” came the reply.

John let go of the girl’s hand and caught hold of the back of the man’s jacket. “Act like a gentleman,” he hissed in the man’s ear.

The girl screamed; the man had almost torn the collar from her coat as he tried to haul her off the steps.

“Have it your own way,” John said. He released the boy, grabbed the man with both hands by the hair, and pulled him off his feet. He topped backwards, narrowly missing those below them, his hands grazing along the wall until he slumped in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

“Oh, good show,” a woman beside him breathed.

John grabbed the children again, and they got out into daylight. Turning, John saw that the woman who had murmured her congratulations was wearing her lifebelt in a comically haphazard way; he stopped her, and put his hands on it.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried.

“You will sink like a stone with it tied like that,” John tried to explain. “Madam, it’s on upside down. It’ll turn you head down in the water.”

“You’ll not have it!” she hissed, and tore his hands away.

“I don’t want it. You’ve tied it . . .”

But she was haring away, shooting back little baleful looks over her shoulder at him.

Ahead of him, he saw the familiar debonair form of Alfred Vanderbilt. The millionaire was smiling in his usual relaxed fashion at a woman who that moment had rushed on deck, clutching a baby in her arms. As they passed the little group, John heard Vanderbilt say, “Don’t cry. It’s quite all right.” To which the woman gasped, “No, it isn’t!” John paused for a moment, watching Vanderbilt in amazement as he calmly gave the woman his own lifebelt and tied it on her.

John looked down at the children with him. “What’s your name?” he asked the girl.

“Annalisa,” she said. “And this is Joseph. Mother went to see what the noise was, and we were going to wait, but then another lady said we were to leave the cabin.”

“And my name is Gould. John Gould. Is your father here?”

“No,” she told him. “Father is waiting at Liverpool for us.”

“What does your mother look like? What is her name?”

“She’s . . . she’s a pretty lady. . . .”

“I guess there’s a lot of pretty ladies on board just now. What’s your surname?”

“Petheridge.”

“So we’re looking for Mrs. Petheridge,” John said. “And so, Petheridge brood, let’s shimmy along to the boats.” He glanced at Annalisa. “Can you shimmy?”

She blushed and smiled. “No.”

“She’s not allowed to dance,” her brother said.

“We’ll tango for once, shall we?” John asked the girl. “Tango like mad for the Promenade Deck?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You’re crazy,” Joseph said.

“You’re right,” John agreed. “I’m one hundred percent crazy just now.”

It seemed to him that the water of the ocean was shining brighter than before, shimmering in a haze. He could see no other ships, but surely the
Lusitania
was sending out an SOS. They were just a mile or two from land; there must be a harbor nearby and any number of little fishing boats, at least. And then, they were in a busy shipping lane. There must be larger boats. . . . He scanned the water.

Out there somewhere was the submarine that had fired the torpedo. Was the captain looking at them now? Was he seeing what his work had done? Just for a second, John thought he saw a periscope way out there in the rippling opalescent mirror of the sea.
You bastard
, he thought savagely.
Got a good seat for the show?

“That lady is not very well,” Annalisa whispered at his side.

He looked where she had nodded. A woman was collapsed on a steamer chair, clutching her heavily pregnant stomach and wailing in distress.

“Someone will help her,” he said, and pulled Annalisa and Joseph onward.

They struggled towards the boats, caught up in a wave of humanity. Some men were carrying their wives, circling their waists with one arm and almost dragging them off their feet in the tumult. The children pressed closer to him; he heard Annalisa uttering little cries as she was stepped on and pushed. Joseph, on his right-hand side, said nothing, although at one point he tripped and John had to haul him to his feet. All three of them nearly lost their footing then. “Be careful!” John shouted. “Mind out for the children.”

They got to a lifeboat. It was being lowered even though it was plain to see that the ship was listing at something like thirty degrees. John looked up at it swinging in the davits and thought quite lucidly, in a moment of strange calm, that it was not possible to lower boats with the ship at that angle.

Just then, he saw Captain Turner appear on the bridge. He was shouting something.

“What did he say?” John asked an officer who was just three or four people ahead of him, and had been staring up at the lifeboats just as he had done. The officer turned around.