A carnival atmosphere prevailed aboard until well after midnight. First-class passengers lingered among the potted palms in the dining saloon, which was decorated in the style of Louis XVI with the predominating color of vieux rose. One of its outstanding features was a vast mahogany sideboard, ornamented with gilt metal and glistening like a huge beacon. Above the saloon was a circular balcony supported on Corinthian columns and taking the eye up to the magnificent grand dome with painted panels after Boucher. Those who chose to recline in the lounge found themselves in an equally resplendent room, decorated in the late Georgian period, and featuring fine inlaid mahogany panels, a richly modeled dome ceiling, and superb marble fireplaces.
Second-class passengers enjoyed comfort without opulence. The public rooms were large, well appointed, and tastefully decorated, the facilities comparing favorably with first-class quarters on smaller ships. Public rooms in third class were unashamedly functional with bare wooden chairs and benches in abundance and a distinct absence of the luxurious fixtures and fittings that proliferated elsewhere. Almost twelve hundred people—more than half the number of passengers—would cross the Atlantic in third class and its shortcomings might in time prove irksome. In those early hours of the voyage, however, they were so buoyed up by the general feeling of elation that they had no complaints and were as happy as anyone aboard.
Genevieve Masefield chose to have supper with the Hubermanns, two sisters whom she had befriended on the train from Euston and who seemed to think that someone as young and beautiful as she needed a chaperon. Accordingly, they took her under their wing. Carlotta and Abigail Hubermann had been on a grand tour of Europe and were returning to their native Virginia with an endless supply of anecdotes, souvenirs, and objets d’art. Genevieve warmed to them immediately. Both in their early sixties, they were lively companions, pleasantly garrulous but never to the point of boredom, kind, considerate, and always eager to listen to others. Ladies of independent means, they were extremely generous with their time and money.
“How long do you plan to stay, Miss Masefield?” asked Abigail.
“A month or so, probably.”
“Bless you!” said Carlotta. “You must stay longer than that. What can you see of America in a month? We will expect you to spend at least that long with us, won’t we, Abigail?”
“We insist. You simply must come to Virginia.”
“That’s a very tempting offer,” said Genevieve. “I don’t wish to spend the whole of my time in New York and it would be unfair to impose on my friends indefinitely. By the same token, I would hate to outstay my welcome in Virginia.”
“There is no danger of that,” said Carlotta. “Is there, Abigail?”
“None whatsoever. It is settled.”
“Abigail Hubermann has spoken. No argument will be allowed.”
“Well,” said Genevieve, smiling. “If you put it like that …”
“We do,” they said in unison.
They were seated in the lounge, ensconced in plush armchairs beside one of the marble fireplaces. The Hubermanns presented a strange contrast. Though they could be identified as sisters at once by certain facial similarities, the resemblance ended there. Abigail, the elder of the two, was a thin, angular woman with bony wrists and a delta on blue veins on the backs of her hands. Yet there was no suggestion of fragility. Her energy seemed inexhaustible. Carlotta Hubermann was big, plump, and jovial, her fat cheeks tinged with red, her eyebrows arching expressively whenever she spoke. Both were maiden ladies but Genevieve had the impression that Carlotta’s private life had not been without its share of romance. Even in her portly state, she was still a very handsome woman.
Abigail sipped her coffee, then regarded Genevieve for a moment.
“I still think you should have reported him, dear,” she said.
“Who?” asked Genevieve.
“That steward about whom you told us. That kind of behavior is intolerable. In your place, I would have had him severely reprimanded.”
“I didn’t wish to make too much of it, Miss Hubermann. Besides, it was not so much what the fellow did as what he was contemplating. I found it all rather amusing, to be honest. To be so open about it, he must have had success in the past.”
“Have the man dismissed,” urged Abigail.
“Don’t be so ruthless, Abigail,” said her sister. “It sounds to me as if Genevieve took the right course of action. She put him firmly in his place!”
“Yes, Miss Hubermann. I have a stewardess now. There will be no further problems of that kind.”
“None of this would have happened if you traveled with your own maid,” argued Abigail, setting her cup and saucer down on the table. “Carlotta and I would never go anywhere without Ruby. She is a positive jewel. I daresay she is turning down the beds in our cabin right now.”
“I prefer to travel alone, Miss Hubermann,” said Genevieve.
“Except that you are no longer alone,” added Carlotta a with a grin. “You have acquired two strong bodyguards. And the first thing you must do is to stop calling us Miss Hubermann all the time or it will get very repetitive. We answer to Abigail and Carlotta.”
“I will remember that.”
“Carlotta,” prompted the other.
Genevieve gave an obedient nod. “Carlotta it is.”
“Which part of England do you hail from?” wondered Abigail.
“I was born in Canterbury but my family moved around a great deal. We lived in Italy for a few years.”
“Which part of Italy?”
“Florence.”
“One of our favorite cities!” said Abigail, clapping her hands together. “Wasn’t it, Carlotta? We bought that painting of the Doge in Florence.”
“I thought that it was in Ravenna,” said her sister.
“Florence, dear.”
“I think you will find it was Ravenna.”
“We bought the painting of the three musicians there.”
“That was definitely in Venice.”
“I hate to contradict you, Abigail.”
“Then don’t. Because you are wrong.”
“Not this time, dear.”
“Carlotta!”
It was not really an argument but it allowed both of them to display their characteristic gestures. Abigail used her hands to reinforce her points but Carlotta relied more on facial expressions, raising her eyebrows, pursing her lips and occasionally wrinkling her nose. Watching the two of them, Genevieve marveled at the way they could dispute a simple point without any rancor. In the end, they agreed to refer the matter to their maid, Ruby, for arbitration but Genevieve was sure that it would be the older of the two sisters who would turn out to be right. There was something quietly decisive about Abigail Hubermann. Slighter in build, she carried much more weight in argument.
The three women were enjoying each other’s company so much that they did not notice they were under observation. Sitting within earshot of them, Henry Barcroft caught snatches of their conversation while trying to hold one himself with a senior member of a Christian Science delegation traveling to America in order to attend a conference where they would meet the founder of the movement. As soon as he caught sight of Genevieve Masefield, the journalist lost all interest in Mary Baker Eddy but he pretended to listen while his companion extolled the virtues of Science and Health.
“A seminal book,” said the man reverentially.
“So I understand,” murmured Barcroft.
“Mrs. Eddy writes so cogently. It is inspiring. Would you care to borrow my copy of it?”
“Not just now, sir.”
“I could fetch it from my cabin.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” said Barcroft, rising to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I must try to interview some more passengers. Thank you so much for talking to me.”
Before the Christian Scientist could detain him, the journalist strode across to the trio at the table beside the fireplace. Barcroft put a tentative note into his voice.
“Forgive this interruption, ladies,” he said with oily politeness. “I don’t mean to intrude but I couldn’t help overhearing those delightful American accents. My name is Henry Barcroft. I’m a journalist and I’ve been commissioned to write an article about this voyage. I wondered if I might trespass on your time to get your impressions of it?”
“Now?” said Abigail, sizing him up. “It’s very late, young man.”
“We were just about to retire,” said Carlotta.
“Might I make an appointment to speak to you sometime in the morning, then?” asked Barcroft. “I am told that the Veranda Café is an ideal place for an informal chat.”
“I am not sure that I wish to be quoted in a newspaper,” continued Abigail guardedly. “Journalists have a habit of twisting one’s words.”
“I would send nothing off without your approval.”
“That is different,” said Carlotta reasonably. “But what do you mean about sending your article off?”
“The ship has a wireless room. They will transmit whatever I give them. Even in the middle of the Irish Sea, as we are now, I could get through to my editor.” Barcroft turned to Genevieve. “What about you, miss? May I ask for the privilege of an interview with you as well?”
“I’m not sure about that, Mr. Barcroft.”
“What is your objection?”
“I have no wish to see my name in a newspaper.”
“That objection is easily overcome,” he promised. “You’ll remain completely anonymous. If I quote you in the article, I’ll simply refer to you as a charming young lady on her first trip to America.” He fished gently. “I take it that it is your first trip?”
“Yes, sir.”
“May I ask the purpose of the visit?”
“To stay with us,” said Abigail bluntly. “And if you must ask us questions, confine them to the Lusitania. You are not entitled to probe into our private lives. Remember that, young man. As far as you are concerned, we are just three more faceless passengers.”
“You could never be that,” he said with gallantry, looking around all three of them. “I have never seen three more distinctive faces.”
Abigail sniffed but Carlotta’s cheeks dimpled at the compliment. Genevieve, too, mellowed slightly toward the stranger as the idea occurred to her that he might be useful.
“Whom else have you interviewed?” she said.
“Dozens of people,” he replied, keen to impress. “I spoke with Mr. Cunard himself, of course, and with the Countess of Dunmore. Then there was Mr. Jacob Rothschild, the MP Mr. Robert Balfour and his wife, Sir William Wiseman, and so on.”
“All this for one article?” said Abigail tartly.
“I am very thorough.”
“Do you really need our opinion, Mr. Barcroft?”
“Indeed, yes,” he insisted. “The more reactions I can glean, the better. As American passengers, you have a special interest for me because you must already have made one transatlantic voyage in order to get to Europe. You have a point of comparison. You can measure the Lucy alongside the Lucania or whichever ship brought you over.”
“The Ivernia,” corrected Carlotta.
“How did she compare with the Lucy?”
“Oh, she is not in the same class.”
“I thought this interview was going to take place tomorrow?” said Abigail, who still had reservations about the journalist. “My sister and I need to sleep on it before we decide if we will speak to the press.”
“What harm can it do?” asked Carlotta.
“None,” said Genevieve, “if our names are not to be used. Actually, I would rather get it over with now. If you would prefer to go to bed, I’ll remain here with Mr. Barcroft and answer his questions.”
The journalist beamed and took pencil and pad from his pocket. An interview alone with Genevieve was exactly what he sought. Abigail Hubermann forced him to moderate his pleasure.
“If you stay, Genevieve,” she affirmed, “then so will we.”
“Yes,” said Carlotta loyally. “For as long as it takes.”
“Good!” said Barcroft with false affability. “May I sit down?”
A light meal with the Rymers was less of a trial than Dillman had anticipated. Though still in homiletic vein, Matthew Rymer was much more relaxed, and even ventured, albeit with plodding slowness, into the realms of humor when he described the recent purchase of a property. Dillman learned that his host had amassed a small fortune by means of property speculation, enabling him not merely to travel first class with his wife and daughter on the Lusitania but to take one of the coveted regal suites, comprising two bedrooms, a dining room a drawing room, bathroom and toilets, with an adjoining cabin for their maid, a bosomy middle-aged woman called Mildred. Dillman did not know of her existence until he joined the Rymers in their private dining room and he assumed that Mildred must have traveled to Liverpool with them in a second- or third-class compartment of the same train.
Sylvia Rymer was also more personable, delighted with their accommodation and liberated from the nervous tension that Dillman had remarked earlier. Like her husband, she was able to open up now that the ship had actually left port, as if some major obstruction had finally been negotiated, allowing her to enjoy the voyage. Dillman was certain that the obstruction was related in some way to Violet, who still sulked whenever her parents spoke to her but who showed a genuine curiosity in their American guest.
“Did you actually design yachts?” she said, eyes widening.
“Not really,” he admitted. “My father kept me very much in a subservient role. It was one of the reasons I felt that I had to get away.”
“What was his response?” asked Rymer.
“Let us just say that he opposed the notion.”
“So what will you do now, Mr. Dillman?”
“That is what I am going home to discuss with my family, sir. There are several options to consider, but I don’t wish to worry about them now. I had the most pleasurable vacation in the old country and mean to wring every ounce of enjoyment out of this maiden voyage before I have to contemplate the prospect of a new career.”
“What will you most remember about England?” asked Sylvia Rymer.
“The dreadful weather!” answered her husband.
“Not at all,” said Dillman. “It has been unusually kind during my stay. I was warned about the likelihood of rain but it kept off for the most part. No, my most treasured memories are my visits to the theater.”
“What did you see?”
“Whatever I could, Mrs. Rymer.”
“We went to the theater ourselves last night,” she explained.
“To the Hicks Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. A play by Henry Arthur Jones.”
“Yes. The Hypocrites.”
“You saw it as well, Mr. Dillman?”
“I enjoyed it immensely.”
“So did we,” said Rymer, and then he flung a glance at his daughter. “Some of us, anyway. It was a waste of a ticket to take Violet.”
“I was not in the mood, Father,” she muttered.
“You might have preferred the play at the Duke of York’s Theatre,” said Dillman helpfully. “Brewster’s Millions. It’s a hilarious farce about the business of making money.”
“There is nothing farcical about making money,” said Rymer seriously. “Who wrote the play?”
“A fellow countryman of mine called Byron Ongley.”
“Ah! An American play!”
“And not the only one in town, sir. Had you gone to the Comedy Theatre, as I did, you could have seen Miss Marie Tempest in The Truth, an astonishing performance in a fine play by Clyde Fitch. He is perhaps best remembered for a play called Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, another comedy about American social life. Believe it or not, we do have our own dramatists, you know.”
“But they pale to insignificance beside our playwrights.”
“That is a matter of opinion, Mr. Rymer.”
“No American can hold a candle to Pinero or Henry Arthur Jones.”
“I would dispute that, sir, though I would happily yield the palm to another British dramatist. He is a comic genius. We certainly have nobody who can get within touching distance of him.”
“Do you refer to this new fellow—whatsisname? The one who wrote a play called The Golden Box?”
“The Silver Box, Matthew,” reminded his wife. “We saw it last year. The author’s name was John Galsworthy.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call him a comic genius.”
“No more would I,” said Dillman patiently. “The man who has really taken the stage by storm is George Bernard Shaw. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing his work both here and in New York. Mark my words, he is the playwright of the future.”
Rymer was appalled. “But the fellow is an Irishman.”
Dillman could see that it would be unwise to take a discussion of drama any further and he swiftly backpedaled. After thanking them for their hospitality, he took his leave. As they waved him off, Sylvia Rymer was gracious and her husband uncommonly civil, but their daughter was hurt by his departure and shot him a wounded look. Violet obviously did not wish to be delivered up once more to the less-than-tender mercies of her parents.
Pleased that she had identified him as a friend, Dillman felt a twinge of guilt at having to abandon her. He consoled himself with the thought that there would be time to make amends in the days ahead. Meanwhile, he felt the need of a stroll on deck to clear his lungs. At the end of their meal, Matthew Rymer had smoked a cigar and its acrid smell still haunted Dillman’s nostrils and clung to his clothes. It was a mild night with a welcome breeze. As he walked along the promenade deck, he inhaled deeply. Most passengers had started to disperse to their cabins by now but a few were still on deck. Dillman strode past them until he spotted a uniformed figure at the rail. He recognized the profile.
“Rather late for you to be up, isn’t it?” he said jokingly.
Lionel Osborne turned round. “Oh, hello there, Mr. Dillman.”
“Early to bed. Doctor’s orders.”
“What is the point of being the ship’s surgeon if you can’t ignore your own advice?” said Osborne with a grin. “Besides, who could resist being on deck on an historic night like this? Sea air is so bracing.”
Osborne was a dapper man in his forties with a clean-shaven face that tapered to a point at the chin. Dillman had only met him once but had taken to him immediately. Osborne had a blend of expertise and resilience that was vital in his profession. Unlike some of the ship’s complement, he treated Dillman as an equal and not as a rather minor employee whose presence was a necessary insurance.
“Do you expect to be busy?” said the American.
“Doctors are always busy on transatlantic crossings.”
“Seasickness?”
“That is the least of my worries, Mr. Dillman. No, what we are up against is the law of averages.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Work it out for yourself, old chap. Five days on board with over two thousand passengers. There’s bound to be at least one heart attack, brain hemorrhage, or other serious problem. And some people will overindulge in the dining saloon, so there’ll be everything from cases of acute indigestion to more serious gastric disorders.” He waved a hand at the rolling waves. “I’m enjoying the view while I have the chance.”
“There is not much to see in the darkness.”
“Maybe not,” said Osborne, “but it is an improvement on the swollen ankles, inflamed throats, and distended stomachs which I’ll have to look at in due course. Not to mention the odd broken bone. Whenever I’m on duty, someone always manages to fall down some steps. It’s uncanny.”
“What is the worst emergency you had to face?”
“Difficult to say, Mr. Dillman. If you pressed me, I think it would be a toss-up between performing a tracheotomy on the floor of a cabin and delivering a baby in a force nine gale. Oh,” he recalled, “then there was the lady with the sick poodle.”
“Are you expected to be a vet as well?”
“A ship’s surgeon is supposed to be able to cure anything from malaria to foot-and-mouth disease.” Osborne grimaced at the memory. “But that poodle was vicious. It almost bit off my finger. When I told its owner that there was nothing wrong with the animal, she turned on me as well. I had the pair of them yapping away at me.”
“Occupational hazards.”
“I daresay that you have your share of those, old chap.”
Dillman smiled. “I enjoy a spot of action.”
“Has there been any to report so far?”
“Not really. I conducted one brief search of the ship earlier on but found nothing untoward. To be honest, I still haven’t mastered the layout of the vessel.”
“Nor I. It’s like the Hampton Court maze.”
They chatted amiably for a while, then Dillman excused himself and resumed his walk. Seven decks were designed for use by the passengers, from the lower deck up to boat deck. Though his responsibility was largely confined to the first-class areas, Dillman had an interest in the whole vessel and he spent some time exploring it while it was relatively uncluttered by passengers. Eventually, he made his way up to the boat deck, the largest open area on the ship and the one that would be most populated during good weather. It was almost deserted now and the cooling breeze he felt on the covered promenade deck had stiffened markedly now that he was more exposed. Dillman liked the way that it ruffled his hair and tugged at his clothing. It brought back happy memories of his yachting days.
The only people he could see were a young couple, arms entwined, gazing into the void over the stern of the ship. They were far too much in love to notice the cold. Dillman glanced at the lifeboats, secure on the davits and covered with tarpaulins. In the days to come, he knew, they would assuredly be brought into use for clandestine assignations. Those who had designed the boats showed little consideration for the needs of lovers but true passion made light of discomfort. During his crossing to England on the Lucania, Dillman had found a stowaway in one of the boats but he knew that the Lusitania’s set had been carefully searched before leaving port.
He raised a palm to cover an involuntary yawn. After a valedictory glance around the boat deck, he made his way back to his cabin, feeling the need for sleep. On his way, he had to walk past the first-class lounge and he popped his head in to see if anybody was still there. Several people were still up, talking in groups or, in one case, dozing fiftfully in an armchair, but the people who immediately caught his attention were beside the fireplace. There were four of them. Two were elderly ladies and a spasm of excitement went through him when he looked at the fair-haired young woman seated between them. He had seen her once before, at Euston Station, a blur of loveliness. Shorn of her straw hat, she was even more beautiful and had a natural poise that defied the late hour.
Unfortunately, she was deep in conversation with a man whom Dillman also recognized. Henry Barcroft was in his element, quizzing her and simultaneously showing off by displaying his knowledge of the first-class passenger list. To Dillman’s jaundiced eye, they seemed almost like a couple. It was galling. The young woman he most wanted to meet was ensnared by the journalist he most wished to avoid.
It was time to go to bed.
The superior speed of the Lusitania allowed her to overhaul her sister ship, the Lucania, at 4:30 A.M. the following morning before a blanket of fog obliged both vessels to slow down considerably. Not long after 9:00 A.M., the Lusitania anchored at the entrance to Queenstown Harbor. Fifteen minutes later, the Lucania floated past it to take up its berth. Large crowds had been gathering since dawn on both east and west headlands around the harbor and craft of every shape and size had assembled to give the ships a true nautical salutation. On that southernmost tip of Ireland, sailors and citizens alike appreciated the real significance of the maiden voyage of the Lusitania and they were determined not to miss a sighting.
After taking on board passengers and mail, the Lucania set sail first and passed Daunts Rock Lighthouse at 11:35 A.M. The Lusitania took on more than a hundred passengers and almost eight hundred bags of mail before setting off, shortly after noon, in pursuit of the other ship. The watching crowd cheered themselves hoarse as the narrow beam of the new vessel cut cleanly and purposefully through the dark water. An attempt to win back the Blue Riband, and the enormous kudos that went with it, was now properly under way.
The new passengers were eager to stow their luggage in their cabins so that they could get swiftly back up on deck in order to enjoy the true, heartwarming Irish send-off they were being given. One of them, however, showed no interest in the proceedings. He was a tall, slim young man with a swarthy complexion and large brown eyes. While others had tripped excitedly up the gangplank, he had more or less slunk aboard the ship, head down and face largely covered by the peak of his cap. When he was shown to his cabin in the second-class quarter, he locked the door behind him before swinging his suitcase up onto the bed. Opening it at once, he took out a small photograph of a young woman and kissed it softly before placing it on his table.
From inside a silver frame, Violet Rymer smiled back at him.