Titanic 2012 Part 9

8.

One of the other three lifts appeared a moment later, disgorging two elderly women, one holding a Pekingese in her arms. The tiny dog had a pink ribbon tied between its twitching ears, and it eyed me with wide-eyed terror, as if I were some unknown predator bent on devouring it.

Smiling at the two women, I entered the lift and the operator ran me up to B-deck with uncommon swiftness. I was just drawing my door key when I spied a steward standing outside the door to Harlan's suite, and I suddenly remembered my original intention to speak with him. I slipped the heavy skeleton key back into my pocket and walked down the hall.

"Excuse me, sir," the steward said, raising a hand toward me, "Mr. Astor has requested he not be disturbed."

The steward had a chubby face full of freckles and a thick London accent.

"Could you please tell him Trevor Hughes needs to speak with him?"

The steward eyed me with an expression that made me feel as if I were an impertinent child. "I'm sorry, sir, he was quite explicit."

I frowned, concerned. It wasn't like Harlan to hole up in his stateroom like a hermit, especially after all the money he'd spent to recreate this magnificent s.h.i.+p. The man I knew would be out among his guests reveling in the spotlight.

I opened my mouth to offer a snappy comeback then thought better of it. The steward was only doing his job, and would no doubt become belligerent should I persist. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders with practiced indifference. "Okay, could you tell him I stopped by?"

The steward nodded, a patronizing smile sliding onto his face.

"Certainly, sir. It would be my pleasure."

Back inside my stateroom, I found the set of tails had been removed from the closet and laid out on the bed, as were my underwear, socks, and a pair of patent leather slippers, so s.h.i.+ny they looked wet. In addition, the pearl cufflinks and collar studs were inserted into the correct holes. Obviously, my steward had preceded me into the room. A part of me felt privileged, as would any Edwardian gentleman traveling first cla.s.s. The twenty-first century man in me felt invaded.

A knock sounded at the door and I opened it. A steward stood outside, his starched white jacket immaculate. "Yes?"

"Good evening, Mr. Hughes, I'm your Steward, Henry Llewellyn."

He bent at the waist, giving me a little bow and strode into the room, forcing me to move aside. "I've come to draw your bath."

"My bath?" I asked, too dazed to realize that I'd shut the door out of sheer habit.

"But of course, sir," he said, looking arch. "You do want to freshen up before dinner?"

The man oozed unctuous charm, reminding me of the character from an old 1980s television show, Mr. Belvedere. And, in a way, the man had the same look about him: tall and beefy, with gray hair topping a jowly face practiced in looking besieged.

"Mr. Llewellyn-"

"Please, sir, call me Henry."

"Sorry. Henry, I was not aware that stewards aboard the t.i.tanic served as personal valets."

An indulgent smile played across his lips.

"No, sir, normally they do not. However-"

I raised my hand. "Don't tell me...Mr. Astor hired you to attend to my needs. Is that about right?"

Henry bowed again. "Quite."

"And I suppose you were the one who laid out my evening clothes?"

"Right again, sir."

"All right," I said, throwing up my hands. "I guess I'm just going to have to grin and bear it."

"Very good, sir." Henry turned toward the bathroom.

"Uhh, Henry?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Just one thing. And don't take this the wrong way, because it has more to do with me than you. I would appreciate it in the future if you would not enter my stateroom when I am not present."

"But, Mr. Hughes, if I am to do my job-"

I raised my hand again, and his mouth clamped shut. I couldn't tell if he was angry or bewildered. Maybe it was a little bit of both.

"Shall I draw the bath, sir?"

"By all means, Henry."

He disappeared into the bathroom and a moment later I heard the rush of water filling the tub. When he didn't come out right away, I had the sickening feeling I was expected to bathe with him in the room, or worse, that he expected to bathe me himself. I was relieved to see him emerge a second later.

"When you are ready to dress, sir, please ring the buzzer next to your bed."

Here was where I drew the line.

"That's okay, Henry, I won't be needing you for that. I'm much too old and far too American to be dressed by anyone but me."

I thought I saw a tiny smile flicker across his craggy face. "Very well, sir. If you need anything...." He left the rest unsaid and exited the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Shaking my head in amazement at Harlan's continuing largesse, I threw off my clothes, tossing them onto one of the Biedermeier chairs and padded into the bathroom. Unlike the rest of the stateroom, the bathroom was a study in elegant simplicity: bare white walls, marble washbasin with gold-plated fixtures, hexagonal tile floors, and pipes running along the walls and ceiling. The tub, a cavernous affair stood on clawed feet against the wall opposite the toilet, steam rising from it in a thick cloud. I sniffed it, detecting the pungent aroma of bath oil.

I was beginning to wonder if Harlan wasn't perpetrating another of his infamous gags. First the Polish prost.i.tute, now a valet. I could only guess at what might be next. I slid into the water, sighing with pleasure, feeling the heat tingle my skin. Settling back, I took a soaked washcloth and draped it over my eyes, suddenly glad for the silence and feel of the water lapping at my chin. After twenty minutes, I sprayed myself with cold water and toweled off.

The set of 1912 tails proved trickier than I'd imagined. The collar, so starched the fabric felt like plastic, refused to stay on the front stud. Just when I thought I had it pegged, and would grab for the tie, it sprang loose, flapping outward like a sight gag from an old silent movie. I finally managed to make it stay long enough to get the tie around my neck. Then it took me the better part of fifteen minutes of frustration before I realized I had no hope of tying the bow correctly. Feeling foolish, I walked over and pressed the little black b.u.t.ton set into the dark paneling between the door and the bed.

I only had to wait about two minutes before the knock came.

"Come in, Henry," I said.

The steward bustled in, a.s.sessing the situation in a single glance.

With swift practiced moves, he had the tie knotted in less than thirty seconds. And what's more, he'd done it facing me, which meant that he'd tied it "backwards."

"You're a handy man to have around, Henry," I said, not a little impressed.

"So, they tell me, sir," he replied, helping me on with my vest.

Unlike modern evening clothes, which stressed function over form and tended more to the "false front," this vest was a full vest with a pique front, satin back, and real mother of pearl b.u.t.tons. The jacket, with its peaked satin-faced lapels, fit perfectly, and even though the lapels were wider than the current fas.h.i.+on, they looked sharp, as did the functioning b.u.t.tons on the sleeves. I examined myself in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the bathroom door, secretly glad I'd stayed trim. Edwardian styles were extremely unforgiving to the portly frame.

Slipping into the shoes, I turned to Henry, who gave an approving nod. "Quite the fas.h.i.+on plate, sir."

"Thank you, Henry. Now, if I can keep from spilling the soup on it, I will consider it a successful evening."

"I should think that would be easy for you, sir," he said, with a tiny grin. "Shall I turn down your bed?"

I nodded, making ready to leave the room. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was now half past seven. Time for a quick stop at the First Cla.s.s Lounge.

Whoever had designed the original t.i.tanic had not spared anything when it came to the public rooms for first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers. This was especially true of the lounge. Decorated in a modified Louis Quinze Versailles style that dazzled the eyes with its rococo details, it boasted enough floor s.p.a.ce to accommodate nearly the entire first cla.s.s population.

When I entered it around 7:35, it held a smattering of perhaps fifty individuals a.s.sembled in groups of various sizes. I scanned the men, trying to see if Harlan was among them. I didn't find him, so I grabbed a whiskey at the bar, savoring its dark peaty flavor while watching a group of men playing poker.

Some of the women also watched, and I was impressed by their attention to their period costumes: beaded gowns predominated, as did ones sporting volumes of lace. And judging from their stiff, regal bearing, they'd also elected to wear authentic corsets, which must have been excruciating. For the first time since parting from her at the elevators, I thought of Maddy, trying to conjure a mental picture of how she would look.

At 7:55, I retraced my steps to the Grand Staircase and followed the crowd down to D-deck and the Dining Saloon.

Once touted as the largest dining room afloat, the Saloon was nearly as wide as the entire s.h.i.+p and stretched a hundred feet in length, resplendent in its faux Jacobean paneling and detailed plaster work.

Every table glowed with the bright chatter of its inhabitants, as well as the dazzling array of silver flatware, lead crystal and hand-painted china.

I found Harlan seated at a table for six, holding court as he always did, his rapt audience spellbound by an inexhaustible supply of anecdotes. Every chair was filled save for two directly to his right. I was threading my way through the sea of tables when he looked up and smiled, spotting me.

"Trev!" he said, grinning. "You look great! You could-"

I held up a hand. "Almost pa.s.s for a gentleman, I know."

We laughed and embraced. "You've got to stop doing this, Harlan. A valet, for Christ's sake? You're going to spoil me."

He held me at arm's length.

"Hey, if I don't spoil you, who will?"

He laughed again, and the rest of the table joined him. I felt my face redden. Good-natured or not, I was never comfortable being the b.u.t.t of a joke.

Harlan slapped me on the back. "Everybody, this is my friend, Trevor Hughes."

One by one, he introduced me to my fellow diners. There was Hoyt Asbury, a stout mustachioed retiree from Brighton, who sat sipping a vodka tonic with a sour look on his face. He barely acknowledged me.

Next to him was, Gavin Reynolds, an ascetic young man, whose pale translucent skin and white-blonde hair made him look like an albino. He wasn't, of course, as his deep liquid brown eyes attested. He gave me a friendly nod and raised his gla.s.s of white wine.

Lastly, there was Hermione Bates, a lively widow from Kent, who appeared ill at ease trussed up in her corseted gown. She smiled when she heard my name, her narrow face lighting up. "I absolutely love your mysteries, Mr. Hughes. When are we going to see another? I do so love Conrad Holm. So devil-may-care."

"I've just finished the ma.n.u.script for the latest one. But it won't be out for about six months, I'm afraid."

"Oh, dear, what a shame. I would have loved reading it. Mr. Astor tells me that you're writing one about this voyage. And that you're interviewing the pa.s.sengers?"

"That's right."

"How nice," she said, her eyes flicking to Harlan, then back to me.

"I hope you'll be kind."

I found that an odd thing to say, but let it pa.s.s.

"Perhaps you'd allow me to interview you later?" I said.

The woman shook her head. "Oh, I'd be such a bore, really."

"Nonsense. I'm sure you'd have a lot to tell."

"Now, now, Trev," Harlan said. "Let's not bother Mrs. Bates with any more business. I say we enjoy the evening."

"Yes, let's," Asbury said, stifling a belch.

Picking up my napkin, I noticed the still-empty chair to my right. I turned to Harlan, indicating it with a nod of my head. "Are we still expecting someone?"

"Well, you never know who might turn up," he said, giving me a conspiratorial wink.

My rejoinder died on my lips when Maddy swept through the double doors at the far end of the room. She wore a tight-fitting shortsleeved floor-length gown of bottle-green silk, set off with abalone beading. The neckline, a deep scoop with an iridescent gold fringe, stayed well above her decolletage. And she'd piled her luxurious auburn hair atop her head in a Psyche knot, reminding me of the Gibson Girl. With her glowing milk-white skin, the entire effect was one of elegance blended with eroticism.

An eon seemed to pa.s.s while all of this tumbled through my mind, and then I snapped back to reality when I saw her eyes searching the room, an air of expectancy about her. A part of me silently prayed that I had something to do with that.

"Excuse me a minute, Harlan," I said, standing up. Conscious only of Maddy, I crossed the room, dodging white-jacketed stewards bearing heavy silver trays piled high with epicurean delights. When I was twenty feet away from her, she turned to me and smiled. My feet felt as if I'd walked off the edge of a cliff and the din of dishes and human chatter faded, replaced by the pounding of my pulse.

"Oh, Trevor, you look so nice, so debonair," she said.

Coming from anyone else that line would have sounded commonplace and trite. From her, it sounded as heartfelt and sincere as I knew it to be. I found my voice, though to me it sounded hoa.r.s.e and rough as sandpaper. "My G.o.d, Maddy, you-you look...absolutely stunning...."

Her smile brightened and she moved closer to me, her eyes s.h.i.+ning.

"You really are a Galahad. You always know just what to say."

"And for you I mean every word."

She nodded. "I know...."

I held out my arm. "Shall we repair to our table and dazzle them with our presence, my dear?" I asked, putting on a fake English accent.

Maddy laughed, and we started back to the table. All during that short walk, I was conscious of more than a few male eyes following our progress. On the one hand, I was flattered to be seen in the company of such a beautiful woman. And the fact it was Maddy, made it all the finer. On the other hand, I had to admit to a sense of quiet panic, that someone else might vie for her affections.

While I held out her chair and watched her seat herself with such unaffected grace, it all hit with the force of a hammer blow: I wanted her to want me. In the worst way.