“I plan to be in my room ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“I highly doubt that. A young woman who climbs cranes as easily as pulling on stockings is not someone who stays put for long.”
She holds up a pearl-white crêpe de chine dress. The English love all things Chinese—silk, tea, plates—just not if it comes with a beating heart. A cloth panel like a wall hanging overlies the front, hand painted with a crane and bejeweled with tiny beads that catch the light. My jaw yawns open, like I’ve caught a gullet of fish. It’s the most magnificent dress I have ever seen.
“You made that?”
“Yes, I did. A crane’s good luck. This is your daywear for tomorrow. Touch it.”
As cautiously as if the crane might take flight, I stroke my finger over the front panel. The fine fabric feels cool and slippery under my hot finger.
“I have the perfect one in mind for your meeting with the captain.”
I snatch back my finger. “What meeting?”
“Everyone gets to meet the captain. It’ll be your big moment. Everyone will be watching. Don’t worry, they’ll send along an invitation.”
As if that is the thing I’m worried about. “B-but why can’t you parade your own clothes?”
“The best way to sell your art is to let someone else do it for you. I’m trying to create a ‘stir’ around my line, and I can’t do it myself. It would be uncouth.”
She frowns at my black boots, which were made for a man with very small feet and could use a good scrub with a horsehair brush. Draping the crane dress on the bed, she pulls a dainty pair of tan pumps with straps from her suitcase and dangles them from her fingers.
“No one takes American designers seriously.” She closes the suitcase and sets the pumps on top. “All they want is Lucile, never mind that her overwrought ‘creations’ look like clown outfits. Those Merry Widow hats of hers—piled high with garden clippings—were abominable, a crime on the eyes and a pain in the neck.”
She must be referring to Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon, whose fashions are all the rage. I remember how Mrs. Sloane’s eyesbecame as big as chestnuts when I told her that the Scottish baron Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon and his wife would be among theTitanic’s passengers.
“Say,youcould be the Merry Widow, just like the operetta. You’re a mysterious woman in mourning, but not even death will quell your allure.” She puts a hand on her heart and holds the other to the ceiling, as if on a stage.
“That might work in the theater, but in real life, widows cannot be so flashy.”
“Says who? Mourning dress is so passé.”
“I wish I could help you—”
“The way I see it, we can help each other. Someone like you needs an ally, hiding up here in first class all by yourself. You never know when you’ll need a friend.” She sidles up to me and touches my nose, as if to prove she can. I shrink against the vanity, and she backs off. “Besides, I’ve got a good ear for gossip. How else did I find out where you were staying?”
Artists may not sell their own work, but she’s doing a pretty good sales job on me. “Do you know Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart of the Ringling Brothers Circus?”
She lobs her gaze to the ceiling. “No. But I could do some digging.”
I have no doubt that with her persistence, even if Mr. Stewart is hiding behind the last boiler on the lowest deck, she will find him. But how exactly am I supposed to keep my chin tuckedandcreate a stir? I sigh. “I’ll wear the clothes, but I won’t do any sales pitches.”
“Of course not. Be as mysterious as possible.” She lowersher voice, as if we are conspiring to rob a bank. “Meanwhile, I’ll be dropping a trail of bread crumbs behind you.”
She extends her gloved hand, and though all the horses leading my rickety sleigh rear up, I take it. Unlike the dead-fish hands that wealthy women usually offer, her grip is solid, a grip that could open her own doors.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night at nine. If you need anything, I’m in room B-47, right by the elevators. It’s good to be in business with you.”
I head towardthe bow, quiet as a shadow in Mrs. Sloane’s black coat, doing my best to look like I belong. Men and women favor me with nods and smiles, but keep their distance, which suits me fine.
The suites that make up the Cabbage Patch end at a well-populated Entrance Hall, which features another tidal-wave staircase. Unlike the aft staircase, tucked behind this one is a trio of humming lifts in an oak-paneled foyer. While I wait, I eye a set of rooms to the side of the lifts, one of which, B-47, belongs to April Hart. One of the boxes stops at our level, and a lift operator slides open a wrought-iron gate.
“E-Deck,” I inform him, in the terse way Mrs. Sloane issued orders.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Three floors down, the box opens, and I pass uncertainly into a hallway, which must be on the starboard side of E-Deck, where the first-class rooms are kept. Unlike the bustlingScotland Road, which parallels it on the port side, this corridor is as quiet as a library, with decorative floor tiles and globe ceiling lights set inside ceramic roses. It’s a notch down from where I’m staying, the engine noise louder, and the cabins closer together. Mrs. Sloane was right about preferring the elephant’s highest end.
