Page 64 of The Missing Pages
“Yes, of course.” She put the Byron volume back into her lap. “I’ll have more than enough to read to keep me busy,” she said as her eyes moved toward the ship’s bookshelves.
“And tonight, we can continue our game where we left off,” I added. “Perhaps by the end of the trip, we will have our own book of sonnets.”
“I would love that,” she said.
“I still have the Little Bacon here.” I tapped my breast pocket. “But a miniature version of our own book of poetry, now that’s something I’d really like to keep next to my heart.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE FRAGRANCE OF AN ENORMOUS BOUQUET FILLED MYparents’ suite. White gardenias, blush-colored roses, and yellow jonquils. My mother adored flowers. Our vast garden at Lynnewood Hall, which some said could rival the beauty of the grounds of Versailles, was constructed to ensure there would always be flowers in bloom: from the endless rows of French tulips in shades of pink that blossomed in April, to the irises in June. On those warm spring days, she filled each room with her personal arrangements. On the desk in my study, she would often fill a small vase with flowers, its fragrance my companion as I read.
“Harry,” she said, opening her arms to me. “I missed you! Paris was not the same without you there with us.”
Her milk-white hands gripped me and she planted two soft kisses on my cheeks.
She was already dressed for dinner. Her dark hair coiled and beset with tortoise and abalone combs. Her throat wrapped in her priceless pearls.
I surveyed the room. As one of the premier cabins on the ship, my parents’ suite was even more spacious and luxurious than mine. Gilt and ormolu accents, mirrored wardrobes, and two damask coverlets adorned each twin bed. All of the suites on the B and C decks had been fashioned in eleven different period styles for each passenger to choose from, from Jacobean, Georgian, Louis XV, to the Renaissance that I’d selected for mycabin. Mother had settled on the modern style, which was fitted with Harland & Wolff furniture and lush purple velvet accents. All of these suites came with private bathrooms complete with hot showers.
“Mr. Ismay wanted to make sure your mother was happy.” Father grinned, pointing to the floral bouquet. “He must have had them cut this morning near Cherbourg.”
It was true. We both knew how much Mother adored lilacs and bemoaned that their bloom rarely lasted more than a few days. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star Line, was on board for the maiden voyage and had no doubt tried to pay special attention to the V.I.P. guests.
“Did you keep yourself busy in London?” Mother asked.
“Very,” I said, smiling. “Every day there was a new book. A new find.”
“A good thing you stayed behind,” Father added as he peered out one of the two windows in their room. “Your mother spent every hour buying things for Ellie’s wedding. I’m relieved the next five days at sea will prevent her from buying anything else for a while.”
Mother gave him a playful slap. “George,” she chided. “We only have one daughter.”
“Ah,” Father grinned. “You’re right.” He bent over and kissed her on top of her head. “Then spare no expense for our little girl.”
We ate that evening in the sumptuous a la carte restaurant. Mother was in her element, surrounded by the finely carved furniture, the gilt and crystal chandeliers, and the orchestra playing soft preludes in the background. While the majority ofthe first-class passengers would eat in their main dining room, where there was a set menu and the food was included in the ticket price, the a la carte restaurant, run by the famed restaurateur Luigi Gatti, offered not just the chance to eat the finest in haute French cuisine at an additional cost, but, perhaps even more importantly to its diners, separated the merely wealthy passengers from the millionaires.
Scanning the room, I saw many of my parents’ acquaintances. In the far corner, John Jacob Astor IV sat at a table with his new bride. Ben Guggenheim sat quietly next to one of the fluted plaster columns with a young woman that my mother gossiped wasn’t his wife but rather his mistress, the French singer Léontine Aubart. At the table closest to the musicians sat Isidor and Ida Straus, their hands lovingly entwined as they swayed together to the wafting melodies.
The waiter brought us a tower of fresh oysters and champagne to begin our first meal on board.
When the captain approached our table, Mother quickly let him know she was arranging a small party in his honor.
“Will Sunday do?” she asked. “Leave everything to me. It will be enormous fun!”
“A night to remember, I’m sure,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he accepted her invitation.
“Wonderful.” She clapped her hands. “I’ll get to work on the guest list.”
After he left, Mother turned to Father and suggested that John and Marian Thayer, William and Lucile Carter, and Major Butt should all be invited.
“A fine group of people,” Father said as he reached for an oyster. “That was so good, I could almost taste the sea!” he said after he swallowed.
I felt my heart sink. I had wanted to introduce Ada to my parents, but now with Mother’s party on Sunday, I had to think of when would be the best time. I did not want her to be eating by herself in the main dining room for several nights or, even worse, being invited to dine with another gentleman there.
“Would it bother you if I didn’t attend your party?” I asked tentatively.
Mother eyed me with suspicion.
“What do you mean? Why would you not?”
