Wednesday, April 10, 1912
Knowing her father had little patience on an empty stomach, Elizabeth resisted the urge to discuss her impending debut and marriage to Alan Reed while they were all changing for dinner. She regarded this strategy as prudent rather than cowardly. The best military generals plotted their moves carefully. She would do no less. She was determined to win this war.
She wore her apricot silk, its collar high around her throat, its sleeves full and to the elbow. It was the most feminine dress she owned, and she knew how becoming it was. She hadn’t seen anyone who looked especially interesting board at Cherbourg, but she had been distracted by that confused young man from third class. It was possible that while she was helping him, someone fascinating had boarded. If so, that person would most likely be in the dining room. She should look her best, just in case. The apricot silk brought out the peach tones in her skin and the reddish highlights in her hair.
“Tomorrow night,” her mother said as she fastened a mother-of-pearl comb in her own blond upsweep, “I should like to dine in the à la carte restaurant. Mrs. Widener tells me the cuisine is extraordinary. But tonight I prefer the dining room. Someone we know may have boarded in Cherbourg. The Jarvises were touring the Continent this spring, and Lily Bascomb rented a house in the south of France for the entire month of March. Wouldn’t it be lovely if they were all on board?”
Since Elizabeth couldn’t tolerate her mother’s friend Miss Bascomb, a silly, vain woman who talked of nothing but herself, she made no comment. She thought it interesting, even surprising, that she and her mother were thinking alike. They so seldom did. But now they were both hoping someone interesting had boarded at Cherbourg.
Elizabeth’s apricot-dyed shoes pinched her toes, forcing her to take tiny, mincing steps.
“Good heavens, Elizabeth!” her mother said. “Must you walk like that?”
“You ordered the shoes a half size too small. They hurt.”
“Then change them,” her father interjected. “Heaven knows you’ve got plenty of others in your wardrobe room. If I were as astute a businessman as everyone thinks I am, I’d invest in an Italian shoe company.”
Nola Farr looked shocked. “Martin! Those shoes were custom-dyed specifically for that dress. And they are not the wrong size. Elizabeth is just being melodramatic.”
“Tell my toes that,” Elizabeth said. But she repositioned her feet in the shoes enough to allow her a normal gait. She didn’t want to waste any time arguing on something as insignificant as shoes. There were far more important issues to discuss with her parents.
The dining room was more crowded than it had been earlier in the day. Mr. Farr shared information garnered from one of the stewards that one hundred and forty-two first-class passengers had boarded in Cherbourg. But the enormous room was also more festive. Now that darkness had fallen, the lights were on, sending a soft glow across the tables. Elizabeth found herself wishing she were making this trip with someone other than her parents.
The thought took her by surprise. Romance hadn’t been on her mind lately. She’d been concentrating too hard on removing Alan Reed from her life to even think about putting someone else in.
But there was something about this magical ship gliding across the Atlantic Ocean that made her think about strolling on the promenade hand in hand with someone wonderful. Someone who understood her. (And liked her.) Maybe it was the soft, golden glow cast by the lights, or the love songs being played by the orchestra now and again, or the sight of honeymooning couples seated in the cozy alcoves, holding hands across the table and gazing into each other’s eyes.
Whatever it was, Elizabeth felt a sudden wash of loneliness sweep over her, and she shivered.
Her father noticed and said, “You should have worn a shawl.”
“I shouldn’t have worn these shoes.” Elizabeth shifted position again to ease the cramping in her toes, and as she did so, she saw, across the room, the third-class passenger she had helped. He was seated at a table with Mr. Benjamin Guggenheim, a friend of Elizabeth’s father’s.
At first, she thought she was mistaken. How could that passenger be sitting in the first-class dining salon? But as she continued to look, she knew there was no mistaking those finely chiseled cheekbones. He was still in need of a haircut, and although he had changed into a dinner jacket, he was wearing it over a white turtle-neck sweater, the only man in the entire room dressed so informally. He probably didn’t know any better.
What was he doing here? According to the pamphlet they’d been given with their tickets, there was supposed to be a very clear separation of classes on board. Second-class passengers had their own dining room, also on D deck, but near the bow, and third-class passengers, like this fellow, were supposed to eat in their own dining room on E deck. Not that she cared where anyone ate. But if someone…a waiter, perhaps…checked and discovered a third-class passenger dining in the first-class salon, it could be positively mortifying for the young man.
It seemed obvious that he must not understand a word of English.
“Well,” her father, standing at Elizabeth’s elbow, said then, “I do see someone we know. Two people, actually. And their table isn’t yet full. Shall we join them?”
It made sense to Elizabeth that he led the way then to Mr. Benjamin Guggenheim’s table. After all, the man was an acquaintance of her father’s. She had met him herself twice, and wouldn’t need to be introduced.
What did not make sense, however, was the way her father turned to the young man in the turtleneck, who had politely risen to acknowledge the presence of ladies, and said with a smile, “And this, if I’m not mistaken, is Jules Whittaker’s slightly wayward son, Maxwell. Max, isn’t it?” Mr. Farr extended his hand. As the two shook hands, Elizabeth’s father added, “Studying art in Paris, weren’t you? Always the rebel, eh, Max?”
Elizabeth stared, unaware that her jaw had dropped. He was an American”! The son of someone her father knew? He spoke English, and he wasn’t poor? But then, what—?
She knew who Jules Whittaker was. He owned one of the largest fur salons in New York and another in Los Angeles. Her mother adored him…or maybe it was his furs she adored. Jules Whittaker was a very wealthy man. His son, rebel or not, wouldn’t be traveling third class…unless Daddy had disowned him. But if that were true, her own father would know it, and wouldn’t be speaking to the son in such a civil, even friendly, voice.
Elizabeth knew the Whittakers slightly. She also knew they had a son. She even knew the son’s name was Max, and that he had a talent for art. But she had never met him.
So. The tall, thin, confused, third-class passenger she’d “helped” earlier that evening wasn’t third class at all, and hadn’t been the tiniest bit confused. He was as wealthy and privileged as she was. How mortifying. For her, not for him. How could she have made such a mistake?
“Enid Whittaker is near collapse,” Elizabeth remembered her mother reporting at breakfast one morning late in August last year. “That younger son of theirs, the one who’s always been so difficult, is giving her palpitations.” This was the young man she’d been talking about? This Max standing in front of her, smiling?
“That boy has spirit,” her father had answered in August. “He’s just sowing his wild oats. They’d be well-advised to leave him alone, let him stand on his own two feet for a change.”
Elizabeth had been angry about that. Why was it he didn’t feel the same way about his daughter standing on her own two feet? Now, she struggled with her chagrin over mistaking Jules Whittaker’s son for a third-class passenger. Remembering how he had remained so completely silent while she directed him to third class, Elizabeth flushed with anger. He could have said something—before she made a complete fool of herself.
Of course, she had made the mistake of judging him by his appearance. Bad, bad mistake. But he could have set her straight. Why hadn’t he? He must have been laughing at her the whole time.
She remained miserably mute when they were introduced, barely nodding her head. She looked away, fixing an aloof stare on the ornate ceiling above his head. But she knew he was still smiling.
She hated him.
“I’m sure your parents will be relieved,” Elizabeth’s mother said. “I know your mother’s been beside herself, with you off in France alone.” Her voice lacked its usual warmth. Elizabeth knew why. The shagginess of his haircut, the turtleneck sweater…one of those things all by itself would have set her mother’s teeth on edge. The two combined were simply too much. She was, of course, completely civil. Nola’s Rules of Etiquette were on display. But she was not as friendly as she would normally be to the son of an acquaintance.
Elizabeth wondered if Max Whittaker noticed. Probably not. Probably wouldn’t care, anyway, about a woman who had a fool for a daughter.
The fool daughter had no choice but to be equally civil to the Whittaker’s errant son. Her mother would expect nothing less of her. And Elizabeth didn’t want to waste time back in the stateroom listening to a lecture on manners. If she didn’t face her parents tonight regarding their plans for her, the entire first day at sea would be a waste. She couldn’t afford that.
The only thing she learned about Max Whittaker during that endless dinner was that he was intelligent and could carry on a spirited conversation. He entertained them all with witty tales of his adventures living among the poor artists in Paris. Even as he lifted a forkful of filet mignon to his lips, he said, “You can make a surprisingly palatable tomato soup with nothing more than catsup and water. Very cheap, and very filling.”
What Elizabeth couldn’t figure out and was unwilling to ask was how Max Whittaker, who had apparently defied his parents, could afford first-class passage on the Titanic. Had his parents forgiven him for rejecting Harvard and choosing instead to live among the bohemians in Paris? She could imagine the message inserted in the fine linen envelope containing his first-class ticket: “All is forgiven. Come home.”
She tried her best to ignore him, but his stories were interesting. Then, too, she told herself she might be forced to follow his example and cut all ties with her own parents if they refused to listen to her wishes. Perhaps she could learn something about living on one’s own if she listened carefully to Max Whittaker. Although she couldn’t imagine eating tomato soup made from catsup and water.
They all left the dining room together. They were passing through the lounge when Max Whittaker suddenly appeared at her side and asked quietly, “Helped any more third-class passengers since I saw you last?”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush scarlet. Fortunately, her parents had paused to talk for a moment with Second Officer Lightoller, and were unaware of their daughter’s discomfort.
“No,” she snapped in response. Not content to leave it at that, she added under her breath, “And if you’re really Jules Whittaker’s son, I would think you could afford a decent haircut!” With that, she picked up the hem of her apricot dress and swept out of the lounge with her head held high.
She heard laughter behind her. She didn’t turn around. But she knew it was coming from him.