The Dressmaker (7 page)

“I’ve loved it, Mr. Bremerton,” she said, walking over to the rail where he stood. “It’s a feast for the eyes and the hands.”

“The hands?”

“I love touching the draperies and the silk tablecloths and all the beautiful fabrics, and thinking about where I would put them, how I would cut and tuck them.”

“You sound like you want to be a designer yourself.”

“I’m going to be, someday.” Just the fact of saying it to this stranger made her move up a notch in believing it.

“A lady who is willing to stand up for herself has a dignity that will take her a long way. By the way, please call me Jack.”

“I don’t feel comfortable doing that, Mr. Bremerton.” She tried the word out in her mind.
Jack
.

“I accept that, Miss Collins.” He smiled. “Hope you change your mind at some point. Isn’t it a great night? Just look at those stars.”

“They are splendid.” They were standing so close, she could smell the faint musk of his shaving lotion. Was this really happening? Was this impressive, powerful man actually talking to her?

“It’s a pleasure to be watching them with you.” He glanced back in the direction of the dining room. “It’s all very stuffy in there, you know. I left after the duck breasts; don’t like figs. Or oyster martinis.
It looks beautiful from out here, but nothing glitters quite as much when you get close up.”

“You know I can’t go in there, don’t you?”

“So they say.” He seemed to be thinking it over. “Do we agree?”

“What do you mean?”

“That a coterie of snobs can deny you entry into this stiff-backed saloon?”

“They can make the rules they want to make; it’s not for me to decide.”

“Well, I disagree.”

She shivered. Was there a way to tell him that in her heart, tucked away quite privately, she had the same rebellious thought?

He held out his arm, his eyes watchful but revealing nothing. Before she knew it, he was guiding her through the glass doors and right into the magical dining room. With one careless hand, he swept the room. “Here you are, Miss Collins. Shall I signal a waiter for two glasses of champagne?”

Oh, the carpet was soft. And now she could reach out and actually touch one of the velvet chairs. She could inhale the aroma of many perfumes, see the gold-crusted dining plates filled with exotic food, hear the light talk and laughter that rippled across the well-behaved room, laughter as sparkling as the sea. So much, all at once. White-clad waiters moving solicitously among the tables; diamond rings flashing each time a glass was hoisted; men hovering close to women in low-cut gowns. She didn’t recognize the music the orchestra was playing, but she loved it and knew she would never forget it.

And then she spied Cosmo and Madame.
What if they saw her?

She turned quickly and walked back toward the door. “I can’t stay here,” she said, a flush burning deep into her cheeks.

Bremerton made no objection, just followed her back out to the deck. “I’m a betting man, Miss Collins,” he said quietly as they stood again beneath the stars. “After watching you stand up to that oaf tonight, may I make a prediction? Once you get to America, you won’t be closed out of any dining rooms again. And you won’t be carrying a serving tray for very long.”

“Maybe I’ll be busy learning how to play squash,” she said, suddenly encouraged.

He laughed. “Well, it’s not so popular in my country. I’m certainly glad to be going back. No offense, but I get tired of Europe. Too stodgy. Moves too slow.”

“What sort of work do you do?” she ventured tentatively.

“Right now I’m setting up branches to sell the Model T.”

He saw her puzzlement. A motor car, he explained. But, more than that, it was
the
automobile in America. A masterpiece for the masses, actually, and Henry Ford, the man who thought of it, was a genius. He had plans for an assembly line, and soon he would be producing an automobile every ninety minutes.

“Amazing.” She knew she should leave soon, but she didn’t want to go.

“You’ve got me talking tonight,” he said reflectively, looking into the black sea. “Maybe it’s the stars. Is there a young man waiting for you in New York?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t need that. Madame will help me get work.”

“My money is on you. By the way, I don’t play squash, either. Have a nice evening, and I think we should find the opportunity to chat again.” He reached out a hand and touched hers lightly, briefly. Then he gave her a salute and walked off.

She headed back to her cabin, stopping, turning, looking back. Jack had also stopped.

“Good night again,” he said.

“Good night.” She could think of nothing else to say. Taking one more deep breath of the crisp night air, she headed for her cabin. She had actually carried off a conversation with a gentleman who wasn’t snapping his fingers for service or groping up her skirts. Someone with polish and manners who treated her as if she were an equal. Surely rich. What would it be like to be rich? Oh yes, she hoped they would talk again. He was obviously cultured; he would know so much more than she about books and music and plays. Still, she would have been tempted to linger longer with him just now if it hadn’t felt faintly
improper. And why did she have the excited thought that he felt the same?

She hurried down the stairs, consoling herself with the anticipation of a singular pleasure ahead—for in her cabin was one of the most beautiful gowns she had ever imagined, let alone owned.

Just before leaving for dinner, Lady Duff Gordon had lifted a beautiful silk dressing gown wrapped carefully in tissue paper from her trunk and handed it to Tess. It was made of fabric as billowy as smoke, an artful weaving of one deepening color, starting from a bodice of palest lavender to a skirt of regal purple. “Here, dear, something elegant and pretty for you,” she had said.

Tess was stunned. “For me?”

Lady Duff Gordon, looking pleased with herself, was already heading out the door, leaving behind a rich aura of perfume. “Why not?” she sang out over her shoulder.

Tess took the gown to the light, examining its worksmanship with awe. Such artful seaming. Then she wrapped herself in her fairy tale. She put on her lovely gown and twirled to the music, pretending that she, too, was on the dance floor, with Jack Bremerton, wishing only that her mother could see her now, this minute, here on the cusp of a new life filled with immense possibility. She must write home as soon as they arrived in New York. She had scribbled down her family address at the Cherbourg dock for one of Madame’s employees, asking him to tell her parents where she was going, but his attitude had been slightly disdainful and Tess, drifting off into sleep shortly before midnight, wondered if the message had ever been sent.… Her eyes closed. Time enough to think about that in the morning.

I
t wasn’t much of a jolt. More like a slight bump, that was all.

Nothing alarming. At first, the hum of the ship’s engines continued. Then a sudden silence; they had stopped.

Tess lifted herself up on one elbow, instantly drawn out of a deep sleep. Strange, when you knew something was wrong. Her skin tingled; her muscles tensed. Once before, the night her mother’s last baby died, she had awakened like this, already fully sick at heart. Then it had been a thin, tired wail that warned her; tonight, a bump. She jumped from bed, fully awake, and dressed quickly. Whatever was happening, she had better be ready for it.

A few cabins away, Bruce Ismay stiffened at the sound. He knew the rhythms of most ships, and there was something not quite right about that bump. It was nothing, probably, but he didn’t like it. He checked the time on his pocket watch. They certainly didn’t need any delays, not at this point. He decided to go on deck and hunt up Captain Smith, just to make sure all was in order.

Jean Darling shook her husband awake. She had been cold, shivering in a terrible dream where she was running somewhere and slipping, and something was chasing her, and then came that jolt, as if the ship were shivering, too. Jordan put his arm around her and tried to draw her down with him into the warm pillows, but she pulled back.

“Jordan, let’s get up,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“I want to be dressed properly if something is happening.”

He laughed. “Now that’s a novel way of telling me you’re intimidated by the presence of Lucile Duff Gordon on this ship.”

Jack Bremerton felt it and didn’t care. He sat at the desk in his cabin, poring over the pile of business documents he had brought with him, already impatient for the crossing to be over. He wanted nothing more than to immerse himself in the Ford Company’s details and get to California, away from the sticky mess of his personal life, which probably proved the truth of his soon to be ex-wife’s accusation that he was always running away. He was giving her plenty of money with his apologies, which was more than the pompous ass who scolded that young maid tonight had managed to muster. Interesting woman—hard to forget the abundance of soft hair framing her lively eyes and luminous skin. And such determined ways. Probably worth more than most of the pretenders on this ship, though she didn’t know it. So fresh and young. She made him uncomfortably aware of his own advancing middle age.

Lucile felt it as she leaned across her dressing table to remove her moonstone earrings after returning from dinner. She saw the liquid in her perfume decanter shiver and then calm. She would have pointed it out to Cosmo, but he was already in bed. How did he fall asleep so quickly? She so hated his snoring. She hesitated, fingering her earrings, waiting to see if there would be another bump. All seemed fine. Not knowing herself why she did it, she slipped the earrings into their velvet drawstring bag and tucked them into her shoe.

First, a discreet knock at the Duff Gordons’ door.

“Ma’am, we’ve had a small accident,” the steward outside said quickly to Lucile. “Nothing to worry about. We bumped into an iceberg, but all is well. However, you might want to come on deck.”

Lucile was not fooled for a minute. The steward knew nothing—he was just prattling a reassuring line.

“Get dressed, Cosmo,” she said, shaking her husband’s shoulder. “And put your life belt on. I’m going to wake Tess.”

She was lacing up her life belt, muttering about its clumsy design, when Tess knocked urgently on the door. “We should hurry,” Tess said as the door opened. She made no attempt to smooth away the troubled frown on her face. It wasn’t fitting for her to be urging speed on the Duff Gordons, but social conventions seemed not to matter right now.

“It’s Cosmo who is taking his sweet time,” Lucile snapped.

The hallway was filling fast with people in nightcaps and pajamas, looking comically like stuffed teddy bears in their life belts; there wasn’t a silver cigarette holder in sight. Stripped of their grand clothes, they looked quite ordinary, Tess thought fleetingly.

Cosmo finally appeared, stuffing his shirttails into his trousers.

“This way,” Tess said, beckoning them to the stairs. Cosmo and Lucile followed her without objection, joining a good-naturedly grumbling crowd making its slow way to the upper deck. Most of the chatter was relaxed, if a little fretful. Some passengers were complaining they’d never get back to sleep after this silly drill, or whatever it was. Such a bother. When an English surgeon asked Lucile politely if she had watched that smashing poker game in the drawing room after dinner—so exciting—she murmured something pleasant. He turned to his companion, a man still in full evening dress: “Say, are we on for the gymnasium after breakfast? Hope they serve those pancakes again—the children loved them.”

Just behind Lucile was the woman she had disapprovingly called the “coarse Mrs. Brown,” the one who had turned a place named Leadville into a fortune in gold. She was laughing at the sight of her fellow passengers in various stages of dress. “Can’t tell a viscount from a duke in this crowd!” she boomed. “Everybody’s britches look the same!”

Nobody else laughed, although there were a few titters. Much of it, it seemed to Tess, at Mrs. Brown’s expense.

They were at the top of the stairs.