Bell opened the bottle of Mumm and poured two glasses. “To what?” asked Marion.
“Love?”
“Love it is.”
They locked eyes, kissed, and drank. Bell changed cylinders, and strains of another new song, the romantic hit “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” played through the cardboard horn.
“May I have this dance?”
He took Marion in his arms and wove a waltz through the furniture as if the rolling, carpeted deck were a crowded dance floor. “Do you recall the first time I asked you to marry me?”
She pressed her cheek to his. “Yes. It was during an earthquake.”
“And the second?”
“In the lobby of the St. Francis Hotel. I said I was too old for you. You claimed that I was not.”
“And the third?”
“In New York. When you gave me this lovely emerald, which I thought too bright at first but have grown to love as our lucky charm.”
“And the fourth?”
“Above the Golden Gate. In your flying machine.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Of course.”
“Tomorrow,” said Isaac Bell.
“Tomorrow?”
Marion gave him a curious smile. The music stopped. She stepped back out of his arms, looked searchingly into his eyes, then down at her emerald ring. “Funny you should ask.”
“What is funny about a man asking his fiancee five times to marry him?”
She did not seem to hear him, but marveled, instead, “At the very last minute as I was racing to Euston Station to catch the boat train I made the driver stop at Hanover Square so I could run into Lucile’s to buy a dress. Obviously, there wasn’t time to make one, but a Russian woman I met in London told me that there was such a run on black dresses for mourning King Edward — it turned out he had
“Of course you can’t. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
She looked him in the face, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears.
“You’re crying. What’s wrong?”
“I am so happy.”
“But—”
“I love you so much.”
“But—”
“May I have your handkerchief?”
Bell handed Marion a square of snowy linen.
“I’m surprised by how totally happy you’ve made me. I think I got used to the idea of us always being engaged. That was fine, but I love you with all my heart. I know you love me. But I guess I was holding back a little, because I really, really want to marry you — Isaac, are you sure Captain Turner will marry us? I’ve heard he’s very gruff.”
“It was touch and go,” Bell admitted. “He has a low opinion of First Class passengers and asked straight off why would we want a ‘bunch of bloomin’ monkeys’ at our wedding. I assured him that some of our best friends were monkeys. He didn’t crack a smile. Just said that having been divorced, he was not, as he put it, ‘much of a hand in the wedding line.’”
“How did you change his mind? Show him your gun?”
“I was about to. But he caught sight of you running aboard from the boat train and was suddenly all smiles. Practically fell in the drink leaning over the rail to watch your progress. I said, ‘That is my fiancee.’ Captain Turner said, ‘By Jove, I’ll wear my full dress uniform. The whole bloomin’ rig!’”
“I would not call my dress ‘full dress.’ It’s not quite white. It is rather creamy, though more an evening dress than a traditional wedding dress.” She gave her eyes one last dab of his handkerchief and handed it back. “Speaking of tradition, Isaac, isn’t it traditional for a man to kiss the woman he’s asked to marry when she says yes?”
Isaac Bell swept Marion back into his arms. “I couldn’t recall whether it’s bad luck or good luck to kiss the bride before the wedding.”
“It is required,” said Marion.
“The very night before?”
“All night.”
5
“Third class passengers are never admitted to First Class sections of the ship,” Isaac Bell was informed by
“And what is that?” Bell inquired with a dangerous glint in his eye. He could not abide bigotry. That Marion’s acquaintances were traveling on the cheap was no reason to exclude them.
“A reason that even the most ardent ‘democrat’ will sympathize with. Were Third Class to mingle with the superior classes and one of their lot were to arrive in New York exhibiting symptoms of measles or mumps or some other of the infectious diseases spread by immigrants, the entire vessel and all who sail in her would be held at Quarantine. No one — not even you and your fellow First Class passengers — would be permitted ashore until the doctors could guarantee no outbreak of infectious disease, which would take weeks. Weeks! Imagine, Mr. Bell, confined to the ship anchored offshore, staring helplessly at New York City, so near but so far.”
“My fiancee’s acquaintances are not immigrants. They’re artists saving on expenses, trying to make ends meet.”
“Infectious diseases do not distinguish between motives. I am sorry, but surely you understand.”
“What’s tomorrow’s dinner menu in steerage?” asked Bell, using the popular term for Third Class.
“A nourishing soup with bits of beef in it.”
“May I see tomorrow’s First Class dinner menu?”
The purser produced a tall menu card beautifully illustrated with a color print of the immensely tall and narrow four-stack
“I see nothing here that displeases. For our wedding feast, my bride and I will have prime sirloin and ribs o’ beef, roast turkey poulet, quarters of lamb, smoked ox tongue, and Rouen ducklings sent down to steerage.”
“Excellent! Give me your acquaintances’ names, and I will see—”
“To
“Everyone?”
“Everyone will enjoy our wedding feast.”
“Most generous, sir,” the chief purser said drily. “May I remind you that we have one thousand one hundred
