But she could not help looking forward to dinner - although she still had one thing to worry her. Which was, what on earth should she wear?
That question was still vexing her that evening, as she was preparing to go to the dining-room. She had only three evening gowns, and none of them were suitable. She had worn her home made dress the evening before, and although Mr Latimer had spoken up for her when the other passengers had made cutting remarks she did not want to embarrass him, and so she decided not to wear it again. But her other two gowns were scarcely any better. Both of them had belonged to her Aunt Clem, and were five years behind the times. One was made of yellow satin and the other was made of green silk. In the end she decided on the silk. Its waist sat on the natural waist line, instead of following the fashionable Empire line and sitting beneath the breasts, and its skirt was fuller than was presently fashionable, but it was very beautiful. A sudden inspiration hit her. If she tied a sash round the waist, making it wide enough to reach to just beneath her breasts, then it would make the gown appear to be high-waisted, and as sashes were very fashionable at the moment it would also add a contemporary look to the gown. The one from her home made dress would not do as the colours would clash, but by good fortune she possessed a white silk scarf which could pass for a sash.
Having settled the problem to her satisfaction she luxuriated in a scented bath, then stepped into her cotton underwear and slipped on her gown, which rustled as it fell into place. She was just wondering how to fasten it when her stewardess, Mrs McLaren, called to see if she had everything she needed.
‘Could you help me with my dress?’ Emilia asked, grateful to see the stewardess.
‘Of course, miss. What a beautiful gown,’ said Mrs McLaren as she fastened it. ‘I’m so pleased you decided not to get off at Queenstown,’ she carried on, blissfully unaware of the real reason behind Emilia’s change of plans, for to explain the fact that she had not left the ship, Emilia had said she had changed her mind about disembarking in Ireland. As the stateroom had been booked for the entire journey there had fortunately been no problem about her remaining on board.
‘I think you’re right to take this opportunity to see New York. It’s a wonderful place,’ went on Mrs McLaren, before asking, ‘Would you like me to help you with your hair, miss?’
‘Oh, yes, please, could you?’ asked Emilia.
She sat down in front of the dressing table whilst Mrs McLaren brushed her hair, then braided small sections before wrapping them round the bulk of her hair, which was arranged in a loose chignon.
Emilia thanked her.
‘Not at all, miss,’ said the stewardess, before leaving to attend to her other passengers.
When she had gone, Emilia brushed a few small waves around her face to soften the style, and combed the golden tendrils that were too short to fit into the chignon so that they were tidy. Then she picked up a string of pearls from the dressing table. It had belonged to her mother, and was the only piece of jewellery she possessed. She held it up against her golden hair, wondering whether to fasten it round her chignon, as was currently fashionable, or whether to wear it around her neck.
At last she decided to wear it round her neck. It was not really long enough to wrap wound her chignon, and besides, her throat looked bare without something to adorn it.
Having finished with her hair, she went over to the wardrobe and completed the outfit by winding her scarf round her dress. She was pleased with the result. Then, pulling on her evening gloves, she was ready to go.
The ship was ablaze with light as she made her way to the dining-room. It shimmered and shone from electric fittings that were disguised as candlesticks and flambeaux . And it was not only the lights that shone. The jewels round the necks, wrists and throats of the ladies shone, too. A ship of millionaires, Titanic had been called, and Emilia could well believe it. She had never seen so many jewels, and they were all adorning the famous people she had so often read about in the newspapers: Colonel and Mrs Astor, Benjamin Guggenheim, and the Countess of Rothes, all of whom looked splendid. Then there was Isador Strauss, joint owner of Macy’s department store in New York, with his wife Ida. In fact, the passengers were almost a who’s who of the wealthy, the well connected and the fashionable.
The area was so crowded that she was just beginning to wish she had made more detailed arrangements for meeting Mr Latimer, when a voice beside her said, ‘May I?’ and there he was, offering her his arm.
His dark hair was fashionably slicked back over his head, and was gleaming in the brilliant electric light. In his evening clothes, he was looking extremely attractive. His white shirt with its wing collar, white waistcoat and bow tie, together with the white flower in his buttonhole, set off the light olive of his complexion. His black tailcoat was superbly moulded to his broad shoulders, and his well-cut trousers showed the length and firmness of his legs.
So well did he look that she felt momentarily uncomfortable in her aunt’s old gown. But she saw there was no disparagement in his eyes. Instead, there was an unmistakeable admiration which filled her with a warm glow.
She accepted his arm with a smile and they went into the dining-room. The sound of chatter and laughter mingled with the strains of the ship’s orchestra, which was playing light classical music. The stringed instruments provided the perfect backdrop to the opulent setting. Large leaded light windows were set at either side of the room and tall white columns supported the moulded ceilings, whilst gold light fittings flooded the room with light.
He led her over to a large table in the middle of the dining-room. Sparkling crystal glasses and silver cutlery gleamed on spotless white tablecloths, which were decorated with a mass of flowers.
As they passed Mr and Mrs Gisborne’s table, Mr Gisborne said to his wife, ‘You’d better tell your sister to look lively if she wants to make sure of Latimer for Isabelle. It seems to me he’s smitten with the Cavendish girl. Not surprised, either. She’s a damn fine filly.’
‘Don’t be coarse,’ said his wife mechanically.
‘She must be well connected, too,’ he said, unperturbed. ‘She’s in the Branchesters’ stateroom. They had to cancel at the last minute. The girl must be a protégée of theirs.’
‘She’s nothing of the kind. I had the full story from Charlotte Branchester. She and Edward had to cancel their trip, and she offered the stateroom to an old school friend of hers, an impoverished woman of no family living in Ireland. That friend gave it to her goddaughter. So don’t go running away with the idea that Miss Cavendish is anyone special. She is nothing but the goddaughter of one of Charlotte’s old school friends,’ she said contemptuously. ‘A charity case and nothing more.’
‘Even so, she’s a good looking girl,’ he said, putting his cigar back into his mouth. ‘That golden hair and those blue eyes. Enough to turn any man’s head.’
‘She’s little more than tolerable,’ remarked his wife.
However, the sight of Carl and Emilia together disturbed her. It was not the first time that she had been made aware of the fact that Carl Latimer was showing an interest in one of the female passengers. A good friend of hers, Mrs de Brett, had dropped her a hint of it over breakfast. If it was a shipboard dalliance on his part, a momentary indulgence to pass the time until the ship reached New York, then she had no objection to it. But if it should turn out to be more serious, she had a great objection indeed. He was as good as engaged to her niece, and she wasn’t about to let him escape the hook when Isabelle was so close to landing him.
Seeing Miss Cavendish, Mrs Gisborne had been somewhat reassured. The girl was beautiful, it was true, but she had none of the polish of Isabelle, and could bring Carl nothing in the way of status or contacts. What’s more, he was intelligent enough to know it. His money had bought him into society, but only breeding and a link with an old family name could open the last few doors. And as family names went, Isabelle had one of the oldest.
Still, the situation bore watching. Miss Cavendish appe
ared to be unaware of his interest, but that could be a pose. If she were a scheming hussy, instead of the simple girl she appeared, she might try and get her hooks into Carl before she left the ship. That was a situation Mrs Gisborne would have to be prepared for.
An idea began to form at the back of her mind. She had in her possession a certain magazine containing a society photograph of Carl which could be put to good account. If she needed it she could send a note to her maid, via one of the stewards, and have it brought to her. The photograph was accompanied by a caption which would put an end to Miss Cavendish’s pretensions once and for all.
Emilia was enjoying herself. To begin with, she had been overwhelmed by the splendour of her surroundings, but she had quickly relaxed and was now having a wonderful time.
‘Now isn’t this nice, all of us having dinner together? I wanted to say thank you, dear, for coming into my cabin like that yesterday,’ said Mrs Latimer to Emilia.
She looked so different that Emilia could hardly believe it was the same lady. Gone was the grey skin and worried expression. In their place was an alert look and sparkling eyes. Her dress, too, showed her better spirits. It was not black, but dark blue, and shone with sequins.
‘I’m so glad you are feeling better,’ said Emilia.
‘So am I. I never thought I’d end up eating in the dining-room. My stewardess is a good woman and brought me a bite to eat on a tray, but it isn’t like sitting here and watching the world go by.’
‘Oh, no,’ sighed Miss Epson, her companion, who appeared to have recovered from her sea sickness. ‘This is so much nicer.’
‘We’ll be having some guests to dine with us,’ said Mr Latimer. ‘I’m very lucky they agreed to join us. They’re much sought after, as you can imagine. Ah, here’s my first guest now.’
He stood up as a fine looking gentleman with dark hair and a luxuriant moustache approached. Like the other gentlemen, he was resplendent in evening dress, with black trousers and tailcoat, and a white shirt, waistcoat and bow tie.
‘May I present Mr Bruce Ismay,’ he said. ‘Mr Ismay, my mother, Mrs Latimer; her companion, Miss Epson; and Miss Cavendish.’
Mr Ismay greeted them charmingly before taking his place at the table.
‘Mr Ismay is the managing director and chairman of the White Star Line,’ said Mr Latimer.
‘Oh, how wonderful!’ exclaimed Miss Epson, clasping her hands to together and looking at Mr Ismay with admiration.
‘You must be very proud of your beautiful ship,’ said Mrs Latimer.
‘We are,’ he said. ‘She’s the pride of the White Star Line. Everyone who has worked on her has surpassed themselves, from the engineers to the carpenters. But you should not be congratulating me, you know. It’s Andrews you should be congratulating. He built her.’
Emilia turned in the direction of his eyes and saw Mr Andrews heading towards the table.
‘Andrews. Good of you to join us,’ said Mr Latimer.
‘Not at all. The pleasure’s all mine,’ he said.
‘We were just saying what a wonderful ship Titanic is,’ said Emilia. ‘Mr Ismay was telling us we must not compliment him, but that we must direct our compliments to you, as you built her.’
Mr Andrews smiled. ‘Not single handedly,’ he said.
‘Mr Andrews is very fond of his ship. He calls it his baby,’ said Mr Ismay. ‘Do you know, before we set sail, he spent the best part of every day on Titanic, not leaving until half past six in the evening. He put every rack, table, chair, and electric fan in place himself.’
‘Almost every one,’ he said.
There was general laughter.
‘Well, she’s a credit to you,’ said Mr Latimer. ‘I’ve travelled on the Olympic before, but she’s nothing compared to Titanic. This ship is a marvel.’
‘And so she should be,’ said Mr Ismay, as they perused the menu. ‘It’s taken us three years to build her, almost to the day. ‘
‘Do you always travel on the maiden voyages, or did you make a special case of Titanic, Mr Ismay?’ asked Emilia, once the waiter had taken their order.
‘I always take the first trip on any new ship,’ said Mr Ismay. ‘I like to see what improvements we can make for the next ship we’re building. Take Titanic, for example. I came up with a number of ideas for her whilst travelling on Olympic’s maiden voyage. It was then that I had the idea of putting a covered trellis café overlooking the ocean on board Titanic.’
‘That would be the Café Parisien,’ said Mrs Latimer. ‘Carl and I took tea there earlier today.’
‘A truly wonderful ship,’ said Carl.
He raised his glass.
‘Here’s to Titanic, and all who sail in her.’
The other members of his party raised their glasses in the toast.
‘Titanic!’ they chorused.
Their soup arrived and they turned their attention to their meal, but when the plates had been cleared, Emilia asked, ‘How much longer will we be at sea?’
‘For another five days,’ said Mr Ismay. ‘We hope to reach New York on Wednesday morning.’
Emilia found herself looking forward to the journey. The splendour of the surroundings had driven all thoughts of her frightening encounter with Barker from her mind and she was thinking only of spending five more days on Titanic. And five more days with Mr Latimer.
He was sitting opposite her at the table, and although she took her share in the conversation, she was constantly aware of him. He had a strong presence, one that made her heart beat faster whenever he was near.
They continued to talk about the great ship throughout dinner, which was served on magnificent Crown Derby china, but once it was over the conversation turned to the orchestra. They were playing delightfully, adding a cultured atmosphere to the evening.
‘I see you got Hartley for the trip,’ said Mr Latimer, glancing towards the leader of the band.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Ismay. ‘He’s an excellent musician. We’re lucky to have him. In fact, the whole orchestra’s excellent.’
A number of couples were taking to the dance floor.
Mr Latimer turned to Emilia and said, ‘Would you care to dance?’
She shouldn’t, she knew that. She had been enjoying Mr Latimer’s company during dinner, but she was becoming aware she was enjoying it too much. Not only was she constantly aware of him, but she found him intriguing. He mixed easily with people from the most exalted walks of life, and yet he bore the unmistakeable stamp of someone who had pulled himself up from nothing. She wondered what the early experiences of his life had been, not only to allow him to rise in such a way, but to allow him to have such assurance once he had done so.
‘No, thank you … ’ she began.
‘Oh, don’t say no,’ said Mrs Latimer. ‘I want to see Carl dance. He never usually asks anyone. Do it to please me, dear.’
Thus entreated, Emilia felt it would be rude to refuse again, and reluctantly she stood up.
‘Is it really so bad, having to dance with me?’ he murmured, as he led her out on to the floor, guiding her past waiters and other dancers.
She flushed.
‘No, not at all.’
‘And yet you were going to refuse me,’ he said, as he took her hand in his own. ‘Why?’
She could not tell him the real reason, that the thought of dancing with him filled her with a confusing mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
‘I - I’ve eaten too much!’ she laughed.
To her relief, he laughed, too. But then he said, ‘I don’t believe you.’
The change in him was so sudden that she felt her heart skip a beat.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
He looked down into her eyes.
‘I said, I don’t believe you.’
His gaze was intense, and it made her breathless.
‘You’re not supposed to say that,’ she remarked, flustered.
‘I know. But I rarely do what I’m supposed to do. So why don’t y
ou tell me what you were thinking?’ he said, as he slipped his arm round her waist.
She could feel the heat of his hand as it came to rest in the small of her back, and as he pulled her closer she began to tingle from head to foot.
He had asked her a question, but his nearness had driven it from her mind. She was conscious of nothing but the heat of his body so close to her own, and the soft whisper of his breath against her cheek. It felt like a warm wind, making her instinctively lift her face to his.
He smiled down into her eyes, but there was something predatory in the smile. And yet she did not feel threatened by it. Rather, she felt exhilarated.
‘Well?’ he asked.
His voice was deep and throaty. It sent tingles up and down her spine.
‘I - have forgotten the question,’ she said.
His smile broadened, and the pressure of his hand became more intense. ‘Have you? But I’ve only just asked it.’
‘There are so many distractions. The music, the people, the … .’ feel of your arm round me, she thought, but could not say it.
She did not need to. By the look in his eyes, it seemed as though he could read her mind.
‘I asked you what you were thinking,’ he said, as he began to whirl her round the floor.
He was a good dancer, light on his feet and yet firm in his touch. He guided her effortlessly between the other couples on the floor.
Lulled by the familiar rhythm and steps of the waltz Emilia at last felt able to reply.
All she said, however, was, ‘I really can’t remember.’
‘Yes, you can.’
She swallowed. Then looked up into his eyes.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I was wondering what experiences you must have had in your early life to make you the man you are today.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘And what exactly is “the man I am today”?’
She bit her lip, but then said resolutely, ‘A man who is the equal of anyone here, though he wasn’t born to wealth or position.’