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Patrick stepped out onto the second class promenade located on the aft section of the boat deck directly to the rear of the similarly fashioned first class promenade. The only real difference between the two sections was the wealth of the passengers who strolled along the expertly crafted pine flooring. The sun shone brightly, momentarily deceiving Patrick into believing it to be a pleasantly warm afternoon until the invigorating sea breeze, cooled by its journey across a thousand miles of Atlantic seawater, buffeted him backwards. He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, pulling his overcoat tighter about his body, then, aided by a strong gust of wind, headed aft in search of Bernard.
Patrick stole a glance at the rear mast towering above him. The ensign of The White Star Line fluttered frantically at its top while the rigging below creaked as its ropes swung back and forth, occasionally smacking loudly against the mast. Slightly forward of his position was the rearmost of the four black-capped, tawny brown funnels, a thin wisp of lazy smoke drifting skyward until, caught by the wind, it disappeared into the fluffy, silvery-gray clouds.
As he stepped around the corner into the relative shelter afforded by the raised building housing the stairwell and carefully folded deck chairs, he smelt the unmistakable seafaring blend of canvas tarpaulins and tar. The harsh burnt-coal smell of the tar irritated the back of his throat, causing him to cough, while the sea-salty tang in the air stung his lips, making them feel dry and cracked. Patrick swept his gaze across the few passengers, hardy enough to brave the wind, until he spotted Bernard propping up the railing, staring out across the white-capped waves at the distant shore. He scurried over to join his new friend.
“Hello, my dear boy. Come and witness the end of our old-world lives, for soon, we’ll be reincarnated as new Americans. Free from the shackles of class and the manacles of poverty. Free to shape our own destiny and realise the American dream.” Bernard threw his arms wide as his voice rose in a crescendo before plummeting into a limp, sarcastic laugh, his words blown away on the wind. “What a load of, if I may be so bold as to borrow a word from our adoptive nation, bunkum!”
“You do not strike me as a man full of optimism for his new life. Did you not embark on this great adventure to advance your station in life, to climb above those holding you back?” Patrick eyed Bernard with confusion which gave way to suspicion as he added cautiously, “Or did you have too much wine with your lunch?”
Bernard looked hurt and took a moment before replying. “To answer your last question first; no, I did not. If the truth be known, I didn’t have enough wine with my lunch and to answer your more pretentious first question, the answer is again, no. I embarked on this great adventure because I am running away. Not from poverty or oppression, but from the police who would like to ask me some awkward questions regarding certain funds which, as happy circumstance would have it, came into my possession.”
Patrick laughed aloud and applauded the older man. “You’re wanted for common theft.” It was a statement, not a question, but Bernard was quick to tender an answer.
“I have never stolen anything in my life, except maybe a few hearts. The money was given to me in good faith, albeit misplaced, as I may have misled the dear, sweet lady who gave it to me, on one or two small details.” His eyes met Patrick’s, and he winked. “Namely, who I was and what I wanted the money for. It was not a common crime; it was sophisticated in detail and rich in deception.”
“I knew you to be a fraud at our first meeting, but I have my suspicions you were never the English country gent your appearance makes you seem,” Patrick replied, smiling broadly.
“Oh! Far from. My father was a poor man, a farm hand from Lincolnshire. Sadly, all I inherited from him was poverty.” Bernard laughed, his mood becoming more pensive. “It’s the English social order. We rely on class to ensure society runs smoothly. The working class works to make the upper class rich while the middle class actually works for the upper class, and the upper class themselves drink champagne, ignorant of the rising power of the masses. They remain ensconced in their ivory towers enjoying a halcyon lifestyle while we remain downtrodden and oppressed, all because of birth.”
Patrick listened intently to Bernard’s words while he stared at the distant Irish coastline. Somehow, it looked even more beautiful than he remembered; the green pastures were a deeper emerald shade while the ploughed fields were a richer brown. “That’s why there are so many people on this ship, and not just from England. All of Europe is the same. People believe it is somehow better to be a poor American than a poor Englishman or Irishman or Italian.”
Bernard nodded his agreement. “That is true, but I do not intend to be a poor American. It is the poor Americans who gave their lives building the American dream, the railroads, and the skyscrapers while rich Americans live the American dream. The rich ones become politicians, and the rich politicians become president; a rich king presiding over rich men with economic power, a feudal system of wealth. It’s serfdom by another name.” Bernard became more animated as he spoke, his eyes afire with passion. “Even here, as we sail to our freedom there is segregation of class. Not just by ticket price but by real, physical barriers. Servant’s quarters are located away from their masters, sparing their employers the ignominy of having to make small talk over dinner. Locked gates separate first and second class areas of the ship from steerage areas, preventing the common man rubbing shoulders with the gentry. We, my young friend, are interlopers, traitors to our class; me by fraud and I know not how you paid your way, but I wager it wasn’t earned by hard work alone.”
“And to avoid becoming another poor immigrant you are going to do ... what exactly?” Patrick pointedly ignored Bernard’s veiled invitation to tell his story. Then, before the Englishman could reply he added, “My apologies ... Sir Bernard Astor intends to do ... what exactly?”
“My plan ...” the bushy moustache tilted upwards as he smiled, “is to marry a rich, gullible, and preferably attractive widow.”
“Am I to assume that description also applied to the lady who told the police about your inattention to detail?” Again, Patrick found himself laughing, enjoying his conversation with the older man. He felt that a strong bond of friendship had already formed between them, one that could be of great mutual benefit.
Bernard looked aghast, “Why no! She was rich and a widow, that much is true, but she was also as ugly as sin and sadly for me, not as gullible as I thought.”
The shrill sound of the ship’s whistle drowned out their laughter. The two men gradually fell silent, taking a last lingering gaze at dry land as the propellers far below churned the water into a foamy white spray and began inching RMS Titanic out towards the vast ocean.
William felt the almost imperceptible increase in power as the two massive steam engines began to turn the ship’s three solid bronze propellers, pushing the vessel through the water. She crept forward, slowly at first, her vast bulk taking time to respond to the helmsman’s orders, but she soon picked up speed, leaving Cork Bay in her wake. As he almost danced up the grand staircase with a joyous smile, William reflected on his luncheon meeting. He had dined on the most exquisite food and with none other than the hugely respected philanthropist and businessman, Benjamin Guggenheim, as his guest. He was confident he had secured Guggenheim’s friendship and the support of one of America’s most influential men. That, coupled with his clever marriage to a Boston socialite, would undoubtedly smooth his passage into the higher echelons of society on both sides of the Atlantic, helping him make a notable sum of money into the bargain.
On reaching the top of the grand staircase, he looked down the corridor towards his cabin before pointedly turning on his heel and walking confidently in the opposite direction. He headed to the identical staterooms on the other side of A Deck. He was in the mood to celebrate, but not with his new wife, she was a convenient business arrangement, and an immature and irritating one at that. No, he wanted to enjoy himself with someone who understood his needs, shared his passion.
He stopped outside the cabin next to the Writing Room, pausing to allow an elderly couple to pass. He gave them a courteous nod and waited for them to enter their cabin a few doors along the corridor before knocking gently on the door. He listened carefully but heard no response. Without bothering to knock a second time, he quietly opened the door and slipped inside. The reception room was in semi-darkness, the thick drapes closed tight preventing the bright afternoon sunshine from entering the room, and the sickly-sweet smell of freshly burned opium hung heavily in the air. William moved to the well-stocked drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous shot of Scotland’s finest export before removing his jacket and draping it over the chaise longue.
He took a sip of his drink, savouring the gold liquid’s rich taste as it caressed his pallet before burning a path down his throat to ignite a fire in his stomach, then strolled through to the adjoining bedroom. Again, William discovered the drapes shut with a single lamp, secreted behind a red silk modesty screen, bathing everything in the room in a deep, blood red hue. From the doorway, the room appeared unoccupied, the smell of opium growing stronger with each tentative step.
William was only a few steps over the threshold, his eyes not yet accustomed to the darkness, when he felt the subtle sensation of warm breath tickling his neck. He froze; a shiver passed down his spine as the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. His nose detected the light flowery aroma of an expensive perfume above the opium’s heavier odour, and he thought he heard the faintest of sighs close to his ear. William remained rooted to the spot, unwilling to move. He had no desire to turn around. He sensed the faintest of movements then something brushed lightly against his shoulder.
“Where have you been? I’ve not seen you for so long I thought you’d got a new plaything and forgotten about me.” The voice was soft and feminine, the words whispered in a sulky, licentious tone. “You know I behave so badly without anyone to correct my ill-discipline.” The woman’s intoxicating scent mixed with her thinly veiled threat of misbehaviour—behaviour apparently so bad it required chastisement—had altered William’s emotional state. He had become frustrated, eager to turn around and take control, but the anticipation was his exquisite punishment for not attending to this matter sooner.
He didn’t have to wait long before Violet glided silently past him, her hand running seductively across his shoulder and down his chest. She turned to face him, her fine silk dressing gown hanging open to reveal her naked curvaceous body to his lingering gaze.
William could contain himself no longer. Scooping his new wife’s maid up in his arms, he carried her across the room before throwing her face down on the large bed. Holding her down with a firm hand, he used the back of her wooden hairbrush to punish her for her perceived indiscretions until he could endure it no longer. Then, in a violent, opium-induced haze, they shared the delights of one another’s bodies.
