30

DECK A, TITANIC FIRST-CLASS LOUNGE.

SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1912. 6:30 P.M.

Titanic bandleader Wallace Hartley had been performing on liners for three years. A deeply religious man dating back to his days as a choirboy at Bethel Independent Methodist Chapel in Colne, Hartley had prayed many nights for the opportunity to lead his own band. He realized that dream some years later on the Cunard line of ships, and in 1912 his prayers were answered to the fullest when he was chosen to lead accomplished musicians on the finest ship in the world. But by then his wanderlust was anchored by the overwhelming weight of love.

Shortly before receiving notice from the music agency C. W. & F. N. Black that he had won the job of Titanic bandleader, Hartley had proposed to young Miss Maria Robinson, who was everything he hoped to find in a wife—kind, curious, a soprano. Titanic’s maiden voyage had interrupted preparations for their nuptials, but Maria was never far from Hartley’s thoughts, and their wedding day could not come fast enough. Being away from her was the hardest chore his heart had ever endured, yet when he began to feel less than thankful, he sternly reminded himself that God had seen fit to bless him doubly. Hartley was sure his life had been moved by God’s steady hand. The Englishman felt an obligation to the Lord to be dutiful, and right now that meant being a good bandleader. Soon, as God saw fit, it would also mean being a good husband.

Hartley turned to face his assembled musicians, still tuning and preparing to play for a boisterous audience of first-class passengers.

George Krins, first violinist and master of the strings section, appeared out of sorts. His eyes darted around the lounge at the wealthy passengers in their finery, arguing with their spouses, complaining about the service, and obsessing about the latest fashions. It was Krins’s first tour on a liner—his previous job was playing at the Ritz in London. He was accustomed to audiences waiting in hushed anticipation for the music to begin. The last thing this distracted mob seemed to be interested in was the band.

Hartley had performed for many such audiences. He walked alongside the young violinist. “Mr. Krins,” said Hartley in a low voice next to his ear, “I understand that you are used to playing under rather different conditions.”

“We could be replaced with a gramophone for all they care,” said Krins. “Half of them are unhappy and no one appears interested in anything but his own business. They’ll never listen.”

“Titanic is my third liner,” said Hartley, “so you’ll have to trust me on this: When we start playing, they’ll forget their cares. Nothing is nobler than to use our God-given gifts for such good.”

Krins raised a skeptical eyebrow, but he smiled and gave a brief, deferential nod.

Across the room, Charlotte Wardle Cardeza curled a finger and summoned her favorite personal maid. “Miss Anna, go retrieve my bottle of L’Heure Bleue. It is well past the hour for a puff of Guerlain. I believe it’s in trunk number nine.” Lady Cardeza posed prominently in front of one of the panoramic windows, gazing out at the blue waters of the Atlantic. “Hurry now, I don’t want to be beaten to that fragrance by some Luddite from London.”

The maid scurried off to fetch the perfume. As another servant stood ready at her side, Lady Cardeza surveyed the room for a social figure of at least equal stature. It had been fifteen minutes since she had been seen with anyone of standing.

She spied her former dinner guest Emil Kaufmann, alone and sipping a martini one window bay over. She hadn’t spotted him of late and didn’t quite know what to make of the man—a reasonably handsome face and position of some regard but so enigmatic. No matter, she decided. He would have to do.

Lady Cardeza sashayed with practiced elegance across the room, only to trip and stumble halfway to her quarry. Doubtlessly, the five martinis she had earlier consumed accounted for the error. The Lady checked the room furtively to ensure no one of consequence had witnessed the incident. Her wig was akimbo; she artfully adjusted it as if nothing had happened. You pay a king’s ransom for these things, she thought, and they never stay on straight.

“Lady Cardeza,” Kaufmann said agreeably. “I’m afraid you could do far better than I for company at the moment.”

She batted her eyelids. “Why would you say such a thing, Mr. Kaufmann?”

“I am confronted with a nuisance that apparently cannot be remedied and am feeling quite dour. I never expected to be inconvenienced so, on this, of all ships.”

“Do tell, sir. I, too, shall complain at the first opportunity about that horrible rug back there. It has more bumps than a cobblestone street!”

“As well you should complain. What good is it to have the ear of those in power if you’re unwilling to bend it from time to time?” Kaufmann’s charming smile was a tonic, but not the one Lady Cardeza needed. She snatched another martini from a passing valet’s tray. The gentleman touched Lady Cardeza’s hand and nodded discreetly across the room. “Why, there’s Mr. Ismay right now.”

“It most certainly is,” hooted Lady Cardeza. “Let’s go have a word with him.”

Yet before Lady Cardeza and Kaufmann could reach Ismay, he was confronted by another agitated passenger, George Dunton Widener.

“Bruce,” Widener said, his hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey and a fat cigar clenched between his teeth, “my wife would like to take a Turkish bath.”

Ismay laughed nervously. “Well, by all means,” he said. “I wish I had time for such pleasures myself, but I really must be …”

“Your staff won’t allow it!” thundered Widener. “Knock some sense into them. She’s tried to go ten different times but they won’t even let her in the stairwell. Eleanor is beside herself!”

“Mr. Ismay!”

The White Star chairman recognized the shrill, piercing voice of Lady Cardeza. She had that German, Kaufmann, in tow. Ismay winced. What now?

“Mr. Ismay,” Lady Cardeza puffed, “Mr. Kaufmann and I have bones to pick with you.”

“Yes, well, of course, if there’s any problem at all I’d like to know straight away.” Manners dictated that Ismay address Lady Cardeza first, but he overrode such concerns to concentrate on the competition. “Mr. Kaufmann, what is the trouble?”

“I have business several decks below, but I’ve been restricted by ship personnel from venturing there,” said Kaufmann, jaw clenched tight. “I’d like an explanation.”

Widener harrumphed in agreement. “You heard the man, Bruce. Please explain why we’re being denied our amenities.”

With effort, Ismay pushed his anxieties aside and nodded reassuringly. “I understand and apologize for the inconvenience. Purely unintentional. We’re just conducting some routine maintenance. I assure you, it will be finished soon.” Ismay snapped his fingers at a waiter, who rushed over with a bottle of champagne. Ismay put his arms around both Kaufmann and Lady Cardeza. “Please accept this with my compliments, and anything else that suits your pleasure for the rest of this evening.”

“I had better be able to go about my business soon, Ismay,” warned Kaufmann, “or you’ll surely hear from me again.”

Lady Cardeza brandished the opened bottle. “Thank you for the champagne, Mr. Ismay,” she called, pulling Kaufmann away. “But your rugs are still bumpy.”

Once they’d gone, Widener spun his cigar. “A new ship does routine maintenance?”

“Especially a new ship,” Ismay said, one tycoon to another. “Think of your own street cars—do new models off the line run to form on the very first day?”

Widener chewed and puffed thoughtfully. “I suppose not. But we’re charging people an awful lot of money for you to work out the kinks!”

“Let me set your mind at ease,” said Ismay. “I have the ship’s designer himself down below making sure everything is in tip-top shape. I expect the baths will be open again within the hour.”

“Andrews, eh?” nodded Widener. “Very well then. Send someone to get me when Eleanor has run of the ship again, will you?”

“You can bank on it,” said Ismay, silently cursing Smith and the men several decks below. New York could not come fast enough.

Widener turned to leave but stopped as music filled the air. He tilted his ear, listening critically. “These chaps are quite good, Bruce. Quite good.”

For once Ismay and Widener agreed on something. They stood shoulder to shoulder, transfixed by the music as Wallace Hartley’s bow danced across his violin.