CARPE DIEM
Chapter Four
I was tempted to skip dinner.
When the horn blew, I was on B-Deck’s promenade, wandering. The sunset was
brilliant tonight, the air chilly but not frigid. The breeze was mild and
caught those strands of my hair that were escaping their pins, twisting them
back from my face. As I passed the railing, I let my hand follow it, felt the
smooth, glassy feel of wood unweathered and, in other places, of cold steel as
yet unrusted. Fiddle music came from the second class deck and a deep baritone,
Irish voice sang a sad song about leaving home and a woman named Brigit
O’Malley. I followed the voice, my footsteps soft against the planking. I
didn’t climb to the second class deck, but remained at the bottom of the
stairs, sitting on the first step. I would not have been able to see the singer
clearly anyway, my vision obscured by darkness and blurred edges. And the sight
of a woman in imported silk, moderate lace, well-polished, black laced boots,
and small dark glasses might affect those gathered to listen in an undesirable
manner.
Oh, Brigit O’Malley, you left
my heart shaken
With a hopeless desolation, I’d have you to know
It’s the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken
And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.
With my eyes closed, the pressure
against them subsided. I let the sweet sound wash over me until, called away to
his own meal, the voice faded off. I sighed, rose from the steps and walked
back to first class. I removed the glasses on my way, rubbed my eyes.
"Good evening, Miss
Ismay." The steward at the door greeted me with a smile as he opened the
door. A sharply dressed young man arrived directly behind me and the steward
greeted him similarly. Turning slightly, I watched the young man acknowledge
the steward with a dismissive nod. I met the gaze of the young man without
recognition. He seemed out of place somehow, not nervous perhaps, not even
apprehensive, but out of place certainly, almost as if he’d never been in this
room before. I was staring now, and he noticed. He didn’t respond with more
than a lopsided grin. I tipped my head.
"I hope you don’t take
offense, sir…" I spoke in a quiet voice, kindly. "…but you seem a
little lost." He leaned towards me.
"That’s ‘cause I am."
He continued grinning. Another happy American, inclined to be honest. I shook
my head, smiling back. I couldn’t help it. His easy manner was infectious.
"Could you perhaps point me in the direction of the Bukaters?"
"Ruth and…her
daughter?" Damn. I’d forgotten the girl’s name again. How? It was not that
difficult. Honestly, Mary Catherine…
"Yes, ma’am," he
stated. "I’m supposed to have dinner with them."
"You are?" I asked,
amused. He nodded. "Well, then…I suggest you continue this way until you
get to the staircase and then…" He listened to me eagerly. "…and then
I’d suggest you go…up the staircase."
"As opposed to down?"
he answered my patronizing manner good-naturedly.
"Oh, exactly right." I
smiled once more and left him to find his own way. I had no doubt the happy
American would have no trouble.
I smelled spice as I ascended the
staircase and European perfume, floral scents, every now and then the odor of
musk. As my sight had dimmed, my other senses had become more acute. But I only
noticed a difference at times such as this, when the other senses were
overwhelmed by the sheer grandness of the circumstances before them. The change
had been too gradual to notice in everyday comings and goings. The band played
Strauss tonight. The light from the overhead chandelier was dim enough that I
kept the glasses off. Bruce would be happy.
When I entered the reception
room, Madeline Astor made her way over to me immediately. We had met some
months before at a party in London. I knew she was traveling with her husband
to New York, but this was the first time I’d seen her during the voyage.
"Oh, Miss Ismay!" she
exclaimed, still much like a young girl. And so she was, all of nineteen,
according to the women who know these things. She kissed my cheek, and I
returned her embrace.
"I’ve told you to call me
Mary Catherine, Mrs. Astor," I chided. She responded likewise and we
laughed briefly, as if old friends sharing an old joke. All told, Madeline was
the richest woman aboard the greatest ship in the world. Because of her youth,
she also had a sweetness, untainted by years of society life. I did not like
how the other women talked behind closed doors and in private circles, of how
she was too young to be John Astor’s wife, too young to make him a father, how
her family was new money, how her manner was too…enthusiastic. She was young,
vigorous, and full of life. How could she help but be so?
"I’ve been waiting for you
to come down," she said plainly. "I was afraid we’d get to New York
without having seen each other. You haven’t been on the decks much at all, have
you?"
I shook my head. "No,
sunlight has been bothering my eyes more than usual," I answered. I didn’t
mention that frequenting the decks meant conversing with the likes of Molly
Brown, the Countess of Rothes, and a handful of others I’d rather see once
every few years, and then only distantly.
"Well, you’re here now and
that’s all that matters." She smiled happily, observed me with unchecked
affection. This was how Madeline got into trouble, letting her feelings show
too obviously in a world full of pretense. In a world full of public displays
and private confidences, secrets and grasping, manipulating men and women. A
place where Ruth DeWitt Bukater indulged Molly Brown while slandering her
privately, where the Countess placated Madeline while whispering that the young
girl had married only for money. I worried about Madeline’s lack of reserve,
but more than that, I envied it.