“Watch me.” Emboldened by my anger, I reach for the door handle.
A crewman appears on the other side, holding up a hand like a stop sign. Another stone in my path. “It’s only the upper classes here.”
Jamie’s grimace burns the back of my head. But instead of pulling me toward safety, that damnable expression prods me forward.
6
I summon Mrs. Sloane’s commanding tone, ignoring the pounding of my heart between my ears. “Iama first-class passenger, and I seem to be lost. Which way to B-Deck?” I hold my breath, hoping my deception works at least long enough to retrieve Mrs. Sloane’s trunk.
The crewman’s face relaxes. “Oh. I’m so sorry, ma’am.” Allowing me to pass, he closes the door behind him, cutting Jamie from my view. He stretches out an arm, directing me past a library. “Pass through that door and keep going until you see a grand staircase. B-Deck is one level up.”
“Thank you.” The door leads to an immaculate corridor floored with octagonal tiles. Can I really just waltz into first class? Every common bone in my body says “stop,” yet my legs keep going. Gilded dome fixtures cast spotlights on me. Paneled walls that stretch twice as long between doors as the ones in third class echo my trespassing footfalls.
The excitement I felt upon seeing Jamie gives way to a gripping sensation at my temples that seems to squeeze my brain into the size of a walnut. It’s a good thing I came. Spend all day in the bottom of a ship, and one might start thinking down is up. Well, I will get him to see the right of it.
After about forty paces, the corridor widens into an open space housing a tidal wave of a staircase, with wooden banisters that look too ornate to get a good grip. At the foot of the stairs, a cheeky cherub seems to sneer at me, as if to say,I see through that veil, you faker.
I sweep by it.It takes one to know one, imp.
People stare as I pass, and it occurs to me that the first class is no better at containing their curiosity than the third class. In fact, they stare even longer, as if it is their right.
One level up, the staircase empties into a populated reception area, where well-dressed people drift around upholstered furniture like exotic fish around blue coral, attended to by plainer fish in uniform grey and black. A woman slips off her fur coat and dumps it on her reedy maid, who nearly spills the wineglasses she is holding. Don’t I remember those tedious days of being a human coatrack and side table?
People here sail around as if they have all the time in the world, unlike in the third class, where one is not wasteful even with time. Even the stewards, in their short black jackets, seem to drift as silently as clouds as they dispense moisture into crystal goblets. More people float down the tidal-wave staircase from A-Deck. A square clock on the half landing reads 2:25.
Two sets of felted doors—like billiards tables—flank the staircase. I choose the port-side doors, since the even-numbered rooms are on that side. Mrs. Sloane specially requested Room B-42 since she was born in 1842 and could easily remember that number. The first-class rooms probably come with keys, with more stuff to steal, but I hope not.
The noise of the lobby dampens as the doors swing shut. This corridor seems even nicer than the one I just rattled through. It’s quieter, with an expensive smell to it, like roses and cinnamon spice. Is Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart in this section? I will need to find a guest list.
I read the room numbers set in gold letters and numbers: B-86, B-84.
A steward approaches. “Afternoon, ma’am.”
“Afternoon,” I reply curtly, striding away. My heart pounds like a fist calling for drinks.
Another steward backs out of a room in front of me. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” He’s an Irishman, pronouncing his longi’s like “oy’s.”
“These are not high-quality cigars,” barks the room’s occupant. “Don’t you know your cigars?”
“Yes, I do. I worked in a cigar factory, and let me assure you, these are triple-A rated—”
“Silence. I expect better than this on my ship. Find me better ones, or I shall report you.”
The steward bows. One tab of his collared shirt has flipped up, and his tie has pulled free from his buttoned-up black jacket. “Again, I apologize, Mr. Ismay.”
I halt at the name. That must be Mr. J. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of White Star Line. Of course, the shipping tycoon is on the maiden voyage of theTitanicto take his bows. If he is staying here, these must indeed be the royal suites.
The door slams in the steward’s face, knocking his tray off kilter. He keeps a tight grip on the tray, but the floor suddenlydips, and he falls. The contents of his tray—a silver bowl of cigars and another of nuts—spill everywhere.
I bite my lip, annoyed at Mr. Ismay for putting this stone in my path when I am busy trying to stow away on his ship. I quickly collect cigars and nuts. The sooner I help this man clean up, the sooner I can go about my business.
“No, no, ma’am, please, it’s not your place.”
Is he mocking me? The steward’s plump cheeks flush red beneath his muttonchop whiskers, which are dappled grey and brown. Of course he isn’t mocking me. He can’t see who I am. I put on the posh accent that the Sloanes use. “It’s no trouble.”
As I help him gather up nuts, I’m tempted to store a few in my mouth like a squirrel for later. “At least it wasn’t hot tea and your best china.”
The steward smiles. “True enough, ma’am.”
