CARPE DIEM
Chapter Three
My brother had misplaced his
accounting of the firm again. Once we arrived in New York, after the parade of
newscasters and city patrons, all clamoring for the attention of J. Bruce
Ismay, owner of the White Star Line, veritable father of the already legendary
ship that had just entered their harbor…after all of that, maybe he’d remember
the more practical reason he was in New York and ask me where the accounting
was. I removed two boxes from the upper reaches of the closet in his stateroom.
They were filled with papers, but not the ones I wanted. Hmm…if I were
accounting, where would I be? I searched in the nightstand by the bed and
briefly through his other luggage. Nothing.
I momentarily considered
returning to my own room. Had I misplaced it? Was it sitting in my nightstand,
or lying on the upper reaches of my own closet? No. I’d already checked there
twice. Bruce has it. He must have it, I concluded silently. I locked his
stateroom behind me and walked up to the reception area.
At midday, the room was
overcrowded and waiters were moving fast and with purpose. First class
passengers on the greatest ship in the world were not to be kept waiting. I
spotted Bruce after scanning the room briefly. He sat on the far side with
Captain Smith.
"Mary, honey, is that
you?" Molly Brown’s loud voice was unmistakable. I turned slowly and found
her crossing the distance between us. "Thought so. Can’t mistake you with
those glasses. We missed ya at dinner last night." Her words held some
measure of concern.
"I went to bed early. My
eyes were bothering me," I answered cordially. The woman meant well, and I
certainly couldn’t hold her rough manners against her. She was, of course, no
English schoolgirl, and never had been. But what of it? I couldn’t expect her to
emulate principles of gentility that she’d never learned in the first place.
"Tom told us as much, said
you sent your regrets or something like that. Very proper and all." Molly
Brown winked at me and I gave a patient smile in return. Thomas Andrews had
perjured himself…I sent no regrets, nothing of the kind. I told him to make
excuses for me, but nothing beyond that.
"You and Tom got a history,
Mary-girl?" Her familiar tone half-teased, half-inquired. She was prying
without reserve. Probably didn’t care if she received any answer either. The
blunt honesty of Molly Brown was something I’d rarely encountered in men, never
in women. To say what one thinks had always been strange to me, accustomed as I
had been to pretense or silence where things of a more delicate nature were
concerned. I almost answered her as bluntly, almost said, Not really any of
your business is it, Mrs. Brown? I restrained myself.
"My brother has requested
many ships, Mrs. Brown. Mr. Andrews has built a number of them," I
answered simply, then added, not quite of my own volition, "I suggested
that we name this one after his wife."
"His…wife? Bruce’s wife, you
mean?" She was stunned, thought she had the situation completely figured
out. I shook my head.
"No, Tom’s wife." I
smiled ironically, spoke familiarly, and then stated firmly, "If you’ll
excuse me, Mrs. Brown?" The smile died on my lips as I brushed past her,
walking towards Bruce and Captain Smith. I reached them as my brother asked the
captain about lighting more boilers.
"…the press knows the size
of the Titanic. Let them marvel at her speed, too." Bruce held his wine
glass out to a waiter, who had appeared near me seemingly out of thin air with
a bottle of Cabernet in his hands. "We must give them something new to
print. The maiden voyage of the Titanic must make headlines." The waiter
poured half a glass as Bruce stressed his vision. I rolled my eyes, but beneath
the glasses, I doubt either he or the captain noticed.
"Mary Catherine, dear,
you’re looking better than yesterday." Bruce was gallant in his greeting,
in a good mood, I supposed, contemplating the fame and glory of his ship’s New
York debut.
The captain nodded his head
toward me, said simply, "Miss Ismay."
"Captain," I answered
in kind, turned to Bruce. "I am better, thank you…have you any idea where
the accounting is?"
"Dear God, Mary Catherine,
do you never just enjoy the sights? Take a walk on the promenade? Drink tea
with the other girls?" Bruce waved a hand toward Mrs. DeWitt Bukater and
the Countess of Rothes, doing just that a few tables over. Molly Brown had
approached them, I noticed. Bruce turned to Captain Smith, as if in confidence,
and said, "My sister, sir, is the very image of Old World practicality.
Very little vision in this one." I bit my lip to stop myself from
responding too rashly. Captain Smith seemed uncomfortable with Bruce’s words,
but likewise said nothing.
"Yes, well, I would like to
check the numbers before we present it to the partners in New York," I
replied. "Can’t be too careful pleasing your financers." Bruce
laughed and said something about how a serious tone ruined my features almost
as much as those hideous glasses. Again, Captain Smith seemed uncomfortable at
his words.
"It’s in one of the boxes in
the closet." He finally answered my question. I told him that I’d checked
there. "Then check again," he commented. "You must have missed
it."
"I didn’t miss it."
"Well, you must have,"
he said again, this time angrily, the placid smile on his face replaced by an
irritated scowl. I did not cower before his tone, but I did not intend to make
a scene, either. There was no reason to, and no good would come of it. The
captain said nothing, a quiet man who knew better than to interfere in family
affairs. I paused briefly, then spoke decidedly.
"I must have." I paused
once more. "I’ll look again."
"Good enough." Bruce
straightened up, not looking at me, took a sip of wine. I sighed and left them
to their lunch, Bruce’s talk of boilers and the fastest transatlantic voyage
ever performed, Captain Smith’s meager attempts to reign in my brother’s
excitement.
I looked in the boxes. I looked
twice. I searched my own room once more and then the boxes for a fourth time. I
never did find the accounting. At the time, I was frustrated by this. In
hindsight, I suppose, it was a silly thing to be frustrated by.