Titanic by Ellen Emerson White

predictions are accurate.
    For some reason, Mrs Carstairs is tired of bridge today, so I played hearts with her – still the only game I know – until it was time to help her dress for dinner. She instructed me to wear my paisley dress, and to save the green silk for tomorrow. I did as I was told, and she surveyed me critically before asking me to take off what she described as “that dreadful locket”. This stung me, but I only said mildly that it had belonged to my beloved mother and there were no circumstances under which I would ever take it off. None whatsoever.
    â€œAll right, then,” she said, studying my neckline, and finally sighed. “I will lend you a scarf.”
    It was not until we were waiting for a lift that she remembered to apologize for offending my mother’s memory. I accepted this graciously, but touched the locket protectively. All it contains are tiny dark locks of hair from when William and I were babies – I should rather have photographs of my parents – but I treasure it, regardless.
    We were heading for the à la carte restaurant, which everyone calls “The Ritz”, after a famous hotel. I may not appreciate the connection, but I am sure there is one. “The Ritz” is smaller, and more elegant than the dining saloon. The chairs are upholstered in a floral pattern, and the groupings are less linear. The walls are panelled with an almost golden shade of wood, and there are many inset mirrors. Mr Hollings, who is dining with us again, says that the mirrors give the room the illusion of space. I took him at his word.
    Our napkins had been folded into upright cones, and the gold-rimmed china is an entirely different pattern from the dishes I have seen elsewhere on the ship. I feel sorry for the people who have to wash all of them!
    I have studied French, but not sufficiently enough to translate the menu with confidence. It is possible to order a full nine courses, but even my appetite is not quite equal to that task. I tried caviar for the first time – and do not expect to repeat the experience. Very salty, very strongly flavoured, and the eggs had a slippery feel I found unappetizing. I seemed to be the only one at the table to have this reaction, as the caviar disappeared twice as fast as the plover’s eggs and other appetizers.
    With each course, we are served a different wine. I sip some of the glasses, but have yet to come close to finishing one. When the waiter offered to bring me some lemonade, I accepted eagerly.
    After the meal, I was glad to have the excuse of needing to walk Florence, as I felt quite overstuffed. How do ladies like Mrs Carstairs manage to eat at all while laced into those corsets? I count myself lucky that I have never been forced to put on such a restrictive garment. I suppose it will be inevitable when I am a little older, but I hope to put that particular symbol of maturity off as long as possible.
    Florence and I each wore our pullovers, as it was cold on the Boat Deck. I sat in a deck chair for a few moments, breathing the refreshing air and looking up at the stars. In every other direction, I could only see the blackness of the ocean. Mostly, I could not even see that, but I sensed it. The ship’s lights seem warm and comforting in the midst of this lonely ocean.
    A first-class gentleman – I do not remember his name – walked past me, and began to light a cigarette.
    â€œExcuse me, miss,” he began – and then paused to look at me more closely. “Aren’t you Evelyn Carstairs’s maid? I am not sure you are permitted out on this deck.”
    I instantly felt ashamed, but also angry. “I am chaperoning the dog,” I answered.
    He shrugged, lit his cigarette – right in front of me! – and continued on his way. Gentlemen never smoke in front of ladies – but I suppose servants do not count.
    My peaceful time ruined, I got up and returned inside. I must try to