Somewhere within the ship, a woman began to scream.
The ship had started to roll, its sides creaking, the roar of the engine a deep unfamiliar resonance. For a moment, Maisie braced herself against the wall and clung to the handrail. ‘The lady sounds very distressed. Do you think she might require a doctor?’
‘Hysteria would be my diagnosis,’ the steward said, matter-of-factly. ‘Happens every voyage as soon as we set sail.’
‘But aren’t you going to check – just to be sure nothing is seriously wrong?’
He doled out his opinion. ‘Not much point. There’s no pill that can cure her of this ailment. When she realises she’s not going to drown, she’ll stop. Simple as that. Now, here you are, Miss.’ He took a step forward and knocked on the door, his touch surprisingly light.
Maisie mumbled her thanks and tried to ignore the persistent screaming.
The door opened inwards and a stout, big-jawed woman with a helmet of crinkly platinum hair appeared in the doorway.
The woman raised her eyebrows over steel-rimmed spectacles as the steward loitered. ‘No need to stand there, steward,’ she said, her clipped English poorly disguising her Australian vowels. ‘You have already received your tip.’
The man sniffed but held her gaze for a fraction longer than was strictly polite before stepping away.
Maisie’s shock at his boldness shrank her voice to a croak. ‘Mrs Wallace?’
‘Pompous little pipsqueak,’ Mrs Wallace said, loud enough for him to overhear. ‘Put an ordinary man in a uniform and he thinks he commands an army.’
She stepped to one side and gestured Maisie in. ‘Come on, dear. We may as well get acquainted. We are to be roommates for the next couple of months, after all.’
Mrs Wallace was, Maisie understood, related to a friend of her mother. She had a tone of address which might easily have rivalled that of a major general. Though the older woman had been paid handsomely for her chaperoning services, her connection to home was of some comfort to Maisie, and she very much hoped they would get along.
Maisie looked round the tiny cabin. The room was spare and had a strong, clean smell, like pine trees. She took in the white rivet-studded walls, the little handbasin and tap concealed in a coffin-like upright stand in one corner, and the crisp linen sheets folded flat on the bunk beds, which were separated by a short ladder hooked over the foot rail.
‘What’s the matter, dear?’ Mrs Wallace asked. ‘You don’t look very happy.’
Maisie tried to rearrange her expression into a smile. ‘It’s just … Well, this is not quite what I was expecting.’
Mrs Wallace blinked several times. ‘In what way exactly?’
‘I’ve never shared sleeping quarters before. It seems a very small space for two people. Especially in first class.’
Mrs Wallace smiled. ‘You can’t buy something that is not for sale, Maisie. Not even your parents, for all their money and influence. There are very few single-berth cabins on this steamship and you were simply too late to secure one.’
‘Oh dear.’ Maisie faltered. ‘And there is no window. How shall we get fresh air?’
Mrs Wallace wagged a finger. ‘You’ll be very pleased when the weather turns foul, just mark my words. You wouldn’t want seawater sluicing you in the middle of the night. Now, buck up dear. You need to have a wash and change for dinner.’
Maisie froze as confusion overtook her. Was she supposed to undress there and then, in front of Mrs Wallace? Whom she’d only just met? Maisie stared at the floor, fingering the top button of her jacket, aware that her eyes had become slightly damp.
Mrs Wallace coughed two or three times, as if she understood the awkwardness of the situation. ‘Would you like the cabin to yourself while you change your clothes?’
Maisie nodded, pulling out the sharp pearl-tipped pin from her hat and tossing it onto the bottom bunk. Almost before it had landed, Maisie snatched it back up again and glanced at Mrs Wallace.
‘Put it on the chair, dear,’ Mrs Wallace instructed. ‘We are going to have to learn to dance round each other, aren’t we?’ the older woman quipped brightly. ‘There isn’t enough room to unpack everything, so you will have to use your trunk as a sort of auxiliary chest of drawers. It is already under the bed. I am afraid that I have filled up the wardrobe with my own frocks, so you will have to fold your things carefully.’
Maisie felt a flicker of annoyance as she watched Mrs Wallace pat her hair into place and then squeeze past to open the cabin door. ‘I shall go up to the drawing room for half an hour or so and see if I can rustle you up a cup of tea. How does that sound? And don’t worry about the sheets. They’ve already half made up my bed and they’re going to do yours while we are having our dinner.’
When she left the cabin, Maisie stood looking at the back of the door for a moment. As soon as the heavy footsteps died away, she began to unbutton her jacket.
She pulled her trunk out from under the bed and ran a shaky hand across its pitted surface. Bound with brown, wooden ribs and fastened with two brass locks, it wasn’t new. She traced a finger over the initials stamped in gold on the scuffed black lid. ‘Maisie Porter,’ she said aloud. What on earth are you doing here?
She fished out the key from her handbag and sprang open the catches. She managed a wash of sorts at the cabin’s tiny basin, trying not to miss her evening bath nor the spacious London bedroom of which she’d had sole occupancy. By the time Mrs Wallace swooped in over an hour later – with no sign of the promised cup of tea – Maisie was changed into eveningwear and ready for dinner.
Mrs Wallace bustled her out of their cabin and down the cheerless corridor. When they reached the landing, they stopped at the top of a wide wooden staircase.
‘We go down to eat, dear,’ she explained, ‘not up. The dining saloon is always situated on a lower deck, but everything else – for us – is above.’
Maisie peered over the bannister at the small knot of people below. ‘That’s interesting. Why down?’
‘To be nearer the kitchens, I would imagine, although I’ve never really given it much thought. Come along, dear. People are already gathering and we don’t want to keep them waiting. Unpunctuality is not attractive in a lady, and we are already later than I would like.’
As they went down the stairs, Maisie glanced across at Mrs Wallace. ‘Do the second-and third-class passengers go down to their meals as well?’
Mrs Wallace tucked in her chin and at first gave a fair impression of considering the question. It was apparent, though, quite quickly, that her mind was elsewhere. She pointed a large finger. ‘Look what has been prepared for us!’
Laid out on the side tables were plates bearing small rounds of toast covered with what seemed to be tiny black seeds.
Maisie’s eyes widened. ‘What are those?’
‘That’s caviar, dear,’ Mrs Wallace explained. ‘Fashionable with the wealthy. I’m surprised you don’t recognise it.’
She processed this a moment. ‘My mother says it’s a delicacy from the Caspian Sea but I’m not sure I know what the delicacy actually is.’
‘Sturgeon eggs.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘You should try some. Good for your education if you are to live by the sea.’ She beckoned to a steward.
Maisie watched the waiter lift a plate and followed his progression to her side. She looked from the caviar to Mrs Wallace, hoping that by some miracle she would understand her silent plea.