Titanic Affair (4 page)

‘It’s a pity you’re not going to
New York
. You could have looked in on Charlie. He’s got a job out there.’

Emilia’s eyes widened. ‘Charlie Potter? A job?’

Charlie had also lived in Chipping Burton, and had been a great friend of Freddy’s. He was a small, round person and in his childhood he had had a love of jam tarts and practical jokes.

‘I can’t blame you for being surprised, but it’s true. Here.’ He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. CHARLES POTTER, EXPERT ON FINE ANTIQUES, she read. It was followed by an address in
New York
.

‘Does Charlie know anything about antiques?’ she asked in surprise.

‘Oh, Lord, yes. Well, no . . . no, not really, but he’s doing very well out there.’

‘What made him think of selling antiques in
New York
?’

‘You might well ask. It’s all on account of Julia.’

‘Julia?’

‘Yes. Charlie’s in love again.’

‘Ah. I see.’

Charlie fell in and out of love with alarming regularity, but he had never before, to Emilia’s knowledge, carried things so far as to take up employment.

‘I assume he wants to impress Julia’s father?’ she asked.

‘Got it in one. He asked for her hand. He was turned down, of course - her father couldn’t give his daughter to a man with no means of support, he said. He wouldn’t take the trust fund as means. Nothing but honest labour. So off Charlie went to
America
and somehow fell into antiques. It was all on account of his being English. It made people think he knew what he was talking about. They don’t have them over there, apparently . .  antiques, that is, not English people. The country’s not old enough. He got himself employed by a firm that liked the sound of his voice and is doing jolly well, apparently.’

‘Good for him!’ smiled Emilia. ‘Will you be on board for dinner?’ she asked, when she and Freddy had finally caught up with all their news.

Freddy shook his head. ‘No. Unfortunately not.
Titanic
docks about
half past five
. I’ll be in
France
for dinner. A nice cutlet and a bottle of wine.’

‘Would you like to look round the rest of the ship with me whilst you’re still aboard?’ she asked.

Freddy shook his head. ‘No, thanks all the same. I’ve seen it. I boarded early. Promised old McCawley I’d go back and give his camel another go. I wouldn’t mind a look round your stateroom, though. I haven’t had a chance to see one. They’re very grand by all accounts, though I can’t see why they call them staterooms. They seem more like suites to me.’

‘They are,’ said Emilia. ‘Mine is wonderful. Come and see it when you’ve finished in the gym. Shall we say, half past three? I can arrange for the stewardess to bring us tea.’

‘Rightio,’ said Freddy.

‘Do you know where I’ll find any writing paper?’ asked Emilia, as they were about to part. ‘I promised to write a letter to a friend.’

‘In the reading room,’ said Freddy promptly. ‘It’s very impressive. It’s headed with the white star flag, and it says
On board R.M.S. "TITANIC"
. I wrote a letter to the mater. I thought it would please her.’

‘I’m sure it will. Can I post it on board?’

He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know. I gave mine to my man. Ask a steward, he’ll be bound to know.’

Thanking Freddy for his advice, Emilia decided to go back to her room first for a shawl. The ship was heated but her dress was thin and she was feeling rather cold. Once she had fetched it she would go to the reading room and then write her letter to Mrs Wichwood.

Carl Latimer was standing in the sitting-room of his mother’s stateroom with a frown on his face. He had hoped the trip to
Europe
would be beneficial to her, and that the
London
doctors would be able to tell him what was wrong with her, but, like the
New York
doctors, their diagnoses had been vague.

"A nervous indisposition" had been the general consensus of opinion, but it told him nothing. His mother had never been a nervous woman, indeed she had been extremely robust in her prime. But ever since his father had died she had gradually dwindled into a hesitant woman with very little energy, a shadow of her former self.

He had done everything he could to make life easier for her after the blow of his father’s death, but instead of making her better it had only seemed to make matters worse. At last he had taken to consulting doctors, the best men in their field. They had shaken their heads and looked grave; talked about tonics and rest; but none of them had seemed to be able to cure her.

The trip to
Europe
had been his last hope. But again the diagnoses had been vague. So now he was taking her back to
New York
. He had decided, at first, to rely on the ship’s doctors for the voyage, but his mother had been so nervous that he had decided to engage Dr Allerton to accompany her on the trip. The good doctor was with her now, checking that the vessel’s departure hadn’t unduly unsettled her.

The door of the bedroom opened and Dr Allerton came out.

He was a small man with a grave manner, dressed in sober style. He carried a black bag.

‘How is she?’ asked Carl.

The doctor shook his head.

‘Her nerves are disordered. She must have complete rest. I have given her companion a bottle of tonic to administer to Mrs Latimer before each meal. I rely on you to see that she takes it.’

‘You can be sure I will. Is there nothing else that can be done for her?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s a question of complete rest. Keep her quiet. Don’t allow her to exert herself, and all will be well.’

Carl looked towards the door of the bedroom. His mother came out, leaning on the arm of her companion. She was not a small woman, but she seemed to have shrunk in recent years. Her complexion had dimmed, and her hazel eyes had become sunken. She was too thin. Her high-waisted Empire gown was tied with a sash which accentuated the narrowness of her frame. Not even its expensive cut could disguise the fact that her arms and shoulders were bony.

He went forward and kissed her on the cheek.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘A little better, I think, ’ she said with a weak smile.

‘Good.’ His voice was hearty, but he was moved to pity as he looked at her. She had lost her sparkle, and her joy in life.

He must make a more determined effort to persuade Miss Cavendish to relinquish her stateroom, he thought.  It was not that his mother’s room was small. Far from it. Although he had booked the rooms at short notice, he had had plenty of choice. Uncertain if the ship would sail because of the coal strike that had plagued
England
recently, a number of people had decided to delay their travel plans, with the result that
Titanic
was only two thirds full. But he had not been able to engage one of the promenade suites for his mother, and she kept voicing a wish for some fresh air. He did not want to take her up on deck as the doctors had expressly forbidden it, but at least a private, covered promenade deck would give her an opportunity to take some exercise if she wished, without exposing her to the April chill.

Miss Cavendish would have to give in to him sooner or later. He would just have to make sure it was sooner.

Emilia left the Café Parisien behind her and made her way to her stateroom in search of her shawl. As she went along the corridor she passed one of the first class staterooms and stopped, arrested by the sound of a weak voice, which held a wistful tone.

‘If I could just have a breath of air . . . I’m sure I would feel so much better if I could only go outside.’

‘My dear lady,’ came the soothing rejoinder, ‘it would be most unwise. The air is cold and the wind is biting. Going outside would be most injurious to your health.’

‘Oh, yes,
most
injurious,’ twittered a female voice. ‘Far better to stay in your stateroom where it is nice and warm.’

Emilia felt a moment of sympathy for the elderly lady, whom she could just glimpse through the open door. Her brown hair was pinned back into a sever chignon, and her skin looked grey. Her eyes were dull, and her shoulders drooped.

How dreadful for her to be cooped up inside when she longed for fresh air. But her attendant must know what was best for her, Emilia reflected, and passed on down the corridor.

She returned to her stateroom, where she picked up her shawl and draped it over her dress With its long skirt and its long sleeves, her dress was one of the few fashionable things she possessed. It displayed the new Empire line, with a high waist, a narrow skirt and a square neck. She had made it herself, out of an orientally-inspired piece of material which she had found in a sale, and although she was not particularly gifted with a needle the result had been surprisingly good.

Having arranged her shawl, she went back along the corridor. As she passed the door of the stateroom she had previously noticed, a man came out. He was short and wiry, dressed in sober clothes, and he was carrying a doctor’s bag. He must be the physician who attended the elderly lady, thought Emilia, and whose voice she had heard earlier.

‘Is the lady terribly ill?’ she asked on an impulse.

‘
Ill
?’ He looked startled, then gave a grin. ‘No, of course she’s not ill. There’s nothing wrong with her. These old cats are all the same. They want to be told how poorly they are so they don’t have to do a shred of work, and can cosset and coddle themselves all day long. If you take my advice,’ he went on, looking Emilia up and down and evidently seeing that her dress was home made, ‘you’ll ingratiate yourself with the companion and get her to introduce you to the old lady. She’s as rich as Croesus, and a pretty young thing like you could wangle a good deal of money out of her one way and another. It’s a shame to see you in that home-made dress, when there’s a lot of ugly old women on board turned out in the best style.’

Emilia, whose surprise had begun to turn to anger during the course of this speech, was outraged.

‘Well, really,’ she said.

She didn’t know whether to be most annoyed because the doctor was misleading his patient, or because he thought she was the type of young woman to ingratiate herself with a wealthy woman in the hope of a reward.

The doctor laughed.

‘You’ve got to get what you can in this world,’ he said. ‘You might as well wake up to that fact. Once you do, you won’t have to wear dresses like that any more. You just think about what I’ve said.’

Then, tipping his hat, he went on his way.

Of all the mercenary charlatans! she thought. I’ve a good mind to go in there and tell that lady she’s being exploited.

And then, before she could think  better of it, she gave way to the impulse, and opened the door of the stateroom.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ she said, going in, ‘but I feel I must speak to you — ’

She broke off. For there, standing in the middle of the stateroom, was not the elderly lady she had seen earlier, but Mr Carl Latimer!

She looked at him in amazement, and then felt herself start to colour as he looked at her in astonishment. She did not wonder at it. Whatever must he think of her? But she couldn’t see how it had happened. This was definitely the stateroom the old lady’s voice had been coming from, so what was Mr Latimer doing here?