DEAR AMERICA

The Diary
of Margaret Ann Brady

Voyage on
the Great Titanic

ELLEN EMERSON WHITE

For Holly
 Contents

Cover
Title Page
London, England 1912
Thursday, 28 March 1912
Friday, 29 March 1912
Saturday, 30 March 1912
Sunday, 31 March 1912
Monday, 1 April 1912
Tuesday, 2 April 1912
Wednesday, 3 April 1912
Thursday, 4 April 1912
Sunday, 7 April 1912
Monday, 8 April 1912
Tuesday, 9 April 1912
Wednesday, 10 April 1912
Thursday, 11 April 1912
Friday, 12 April 1912
Saturday, 13 April 1912
Sunday, 14 April 1912
Monday, 15 April 1912
Tuesday, 16 April 1912
Wednesday, 17 April 1912
Thursday, 18 April 1912
 Friday, 19 April 1912
Saturday, 20 April 1912
Epilogue
Life in America in 1912
Historical Note
Timeline
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other books in the Dear America series
Copyright
London,
England
1912
Thursday, 28 March 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel, London, England
I feel rather a fool writing down my thoughts, but this evening,
Sister Catherine made the very firm suggestion that I start
keeping a diary—and handed me a brand-new tablet from the
supply closet for that very purpose. She says that everything has
changed for me now, and I will be disappointed later if I do not
keep a written record. Failing that, she assured me that she
would be disappointed. In all honesty, I so prefer to guard my
privacy that I do not think I would accept such a directive from
anyone else, but my fondness for her is such that it seems only
proper to follow her advice. In any case, there is no question but
that today was nothing if not eventful. One moment, my life was
mundane; mere hours later, the whole world seemed new and
different.
It was midmorning, and I was in the midst of a clumsy
declamation — “‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright/In the forests of
the night,’” — when I was summoned to Sister Mary Gregoria’s
office. I went with great uneasiness, as I had been somewhat
unruly at breakfast, and would now almost certainly have to
serve my penance in the form of … chores.
“Margaret Ann!” Sister Mary Gregoria said, her voice surely as
loud as Bow bells. She waved a piece of paper at me, and then
pointed at the chair where she wanted me to sit.
I have been known to post a solemn note here and there in the
common rooms, proposing peculiar new policies, and scrawling a
facsimile of Sister Mary Gregoria’s signature below, but this
sheet did not look familiar. It would be a shame to be punished
for the offense of another — and yet, truth be told, probably not
altogether undeserved.
Then Sister Catherine bustled in, murmuring an apology for
her tardiness. Obviously, she and I are close, so I sensed that
whatever punishment I was getting this time would not be too
severe.
When I first came here, some five years ago, I do not think I
spoke at all for several months. It was a dark and unhappy time,
and I rarely ate, or slept through the night. I was assigned, as my
regular task, to assist a Sister Catherine in the library. During
those early days, I felt shy around the jolly, stout woman in the
sweeping black habit, but soon I grew to depend on her
kindnesses. When I felt most alone, she would always be there
with a smile, a book she thought I might enjoy, and a hot cup of
sweet, milky tea. Now, that small, book-cluttered room is the one
place in the world that feels like home to me. Sister Catherine is
very wise, and has guided my studies far beyond my basic
classwork, with the hope that I might even attend university one
day. Other than my brother, William, I believe she is my favorite
person.
“Margaret Ann,” Sister Mary Gregoria said again, once Sister
Catherine had settled herself upon a flimsy wooden chair. “I am
told that it is your wish to go into service.”
I want to do no such thing, but neither do I fancy ending up
back in the back alleys of Whitechapel, or even worse, in a
workhouse. So I nodded in a grave manner. William has been
trying to save enough money to secure my passage to America
for nigh on two years now. If I were also able to work, I could
help with my fair share. William is the only family I have in the
world, and I am eager to join him over there.
“Should you like to be a companion, Margaret Ann?” Sister
Mary Gregoria asked.
Since I was not sure what that meant, I did not know how to
respond.
“This will give you so many more opportunities,” Sister
Catherine said, her face bright with happiness. “It is exactly what
I would have wished for you, Margaret.”
 I knew that she would only tell me the truth, so I nodded.
Then I turned to look at Sister Mary Gregoria and presented her
with a very large smile. “I should love to be a companion,” I said.
And so it was that I set forth to the City that afternoon, with
Sister Catherine as my chaperon.
The hour grows late, and I am tired, so I think I will tell of our
City adventure in the morning.
Friday, 29 March 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
None of the Sisters felt I ought to be wandering about the streets
by myself, which was why Sister Catherine was to accompany
me. There was great concern about what I should wear on our
jaunt to the City, since they wanted very much for me to make a
good impression. As a rule, the Sisters’ only concern is that our
clothing is clean. We wear very plain, simple dresses, and do our
best to keep them in good condition. Some of the merchants in
Petticoat Lane donate their castoffs to the orphanage, but they
are, of course, not top-quality garments. In the end, it was
decided that I would wear a dark blue frock, which once
belonged to one of the older girls. Sister Celeste arranged my
hair neatly, and I used a soft cloth to rub a bit of shine into my
button-boots.
Perhaps it goes without saying that Sister Catherine wore her
habit.
I was eager to take the Underground, since I have scarcely
ever traveled that way, but instead, we rode on a motor bus to
Piccadilly Circus. Sister Catherine was strangely nervous and
silent, so I spent my time staring out the window. When I was
very small, Mummy and Father would take us to the City once in
a great while. I remember a picnic in Regent’s Park, and another
day, when we stood and stared at Buckingham Palace with great
admiration.
Piccadilly was crowded with enticing food stalls, street
performers, and other lovely sights. I was very hungry, and the
vendors’ cries of “‘ot meat pies!” and “Taters! All ‘ot!” made my
stomach rumble. Many a man passing by raised his hat to Sister
Catherine and murmured, “Afternoon, Sister,” before continuing
on his way.
Sister Catherine was very concerned that we would lose our
way, and she stopped to ask a bobby for directions. I knew only
that we were going to a fine hotel in Mayfair to meet a rich
American lady for tea.
We walked for several blocks, turning right and left and right
again. I wanted to tarry on Savile Row, to scrutinize the
windows of its exclusive clothing stores, but Sister Catherine felt
that we had no time to linger. As we walked vigorously, I
enjoyed watching the fine ladies and gentlemen strolling about,
with pretty parasols and mahogany walking sticks. The ladies
wore the most astonishing hats! Perhaps my frock was too
humble for the likes of Mayfair.
The name of the hotel was Claridge’s, and it looked so fancy
that I was shy about going inside. Sister Catherine had stopped,
so perhaps she felt timid, too.
“Margaret Ann,” she said, sounding terribly serious. “I must
remind you that there are times when it is best to sit quietly, and
merely listen.”
I am afraid I am often so eager to be clever, that I speak
without thinking. When Sister Catherine is cross, she calls me
“Saucy Girl.” This always makes me laugh, and then she is even
more cross.
“Nary a word,” I promised.
“Remember, she is American,” Sister Catherine said. “Be kind.”
I nodded. I have heard that Americans have simply dreadful
accents, and tend to be lacking in characteristics like reserve and
dignity. I decided, for the time being, to suspend my judgment.
Two young men in elegant uniforms stood at either side of the
entrance to the hotel. When they saw us, they promptly swung
the great doors open and ushered us inside. I must admit, I felt
like a princess.
Never had I been in such luxurious surroundings! The floors
were of marble so shiny, I do believe I could see my own
reflection in them. A beautiful staircase loomed ahead of us, and
the ceiling sparkled with chandeliers.
 Sister Catherine asked another uniformed man to direct us to
the Foyer, where we were to meet Mrs. Frederick Carstairs for
tea. The man bowed and motioned for us to come along.
We were taken into a lovely room where a quartet was playing
live music! Everywhere, ladies sat at small, exquisite tables,
while graceful footmen served them tea. The air was filled with
the sounds of chamber music, delicate china clinking, and soft
conversations.
We were led to a table, where a plump, middle-aged woman
sat. She was wearing an ornate flowery hat, a boxy dress, and
long gloves, all in various shades of minty green. Something
about her posture put me in mind of a spring pigeon. Seeing us,
she lowered her glasses and looked me over with a critical eye.
“Mrs. Carstairs, I am Sister Catherine from St. Abernathy’s,”
Sister Catherine said, “and may I present Miss Margaret Ann
Brady.”
Mrs. Carstairs studied me, and then extended her hand. I was
startled by her forwardness, but then reminded myself that she
was, after all, American, and forced myself to return the gesture.
She gave my hand an abrupt shake, then dropped it.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Carstairs,” I said, as
polite as can be. I noticed, then, that she was holding a small,
and rather smug, brown terrier. Although I prefer cats, I am
terribly fond of all animals. “What a delightful pet,” I said, and
reached out to stroke her.
“Don’t!” Mrs. Carstairs said sharply, her voice loud enough to
make me wince. “She doesn’t take to strangers!”
By then, the dog was already licking my hand. Mrs. Carstairs
seemed surprised, but not displeased; Sister Catherine had the
exact opposite reaction. Once we were seated, and Mrs. Carstairs
had told me that the dog’s name was Florence, one of the
uniformed footmen appeared with a steaming teapot to fill our
cups.
 I had never seen such a glorious tea! Plate upon plate of small
sandwiches, crumpets, scones, cakes, and petits fours. I am
always hungry—Sister Catherine says I grow an inch every
fortnight — and I wanted to eat my fill, then gather up the rest
to bring back to Nora, who is the youngest child at St.
Abernathy’s, and to whom I am quite partial.
Mrs. Carstairs nibbled a bite of sandwich here, a taste of
shortbread there. I tried to make each half sandwich last for
three full bites, though I could easily have popped them into my
mouth whole. But I knew my manners would reflect upon Sister
Catherine, and so I endeavored to be discreet.
Cucumber, salmon, roast beef, watercress, a soft white cheese,
thinly sliced ham — the sandwich varieties seemed endless. If
you began to empty your plate, the cheerful footman appeared at
once to replace it. Because of this, I liked him very much, and
smiled broadly at him each time.
“How ever do you stay so slim?” Mrs. Carstairs asked, by and
by, her voice a bit stiff.
I took this as a hint to restrain myself, although Sister
Catherine sprang to my defense with her “inch a fortnight”
explanation. This was followed by a brief discussion of how tall I
am for my age, and Mrs. Carstairs seemed somewhat dismayed to
discover that I am only thirteen. Sister Catherine instantly
assured her that I have always been mature beyond my years,
although I will concede that there are times when that is
probably debatable.
“I am surprised to find your accent so refined,” Mrs. Carstairs
said, seeming now to remember that I was at the table. “You
sound very learned.”
Although I had been silent for quite some time, I, naturally,
assumed that meant she wanted to hear a somewhat learned
remark. “‘Oh, to be in England/Now that April’s there,’” I
responded.
“Ah,” Mrs. Carstairs said, although she looked uncomfortable.
 It was quiet for a moment, and then she asked if that was
Keats. I thought surely she was having a bit of fun with me, until
Sister Catherine said softly, “Robert Browning.” Mrs. Carstairs
gave that some consideration, then remarked upon the fine job
the Sisters had done of educating me.
In truth, I can rip out a right impressive string of Cockney —
as only befits one born in Wapping—that would singe the ears of
a sailor, but I have also never found it difficult to mimic the
accents of others. Mummy always said I had a fine ear, and
might well be musical, were I ever to get the opportunity to
learn an instrument. The pianoforte, she hoped. I enjoy music,
and would have been happy with a mouth organ. Once, Father
found me a pennywhistle, upon which I blew nonstop until
Mummy decided to “put it away” for a time.
Father had a beautiful light brogue, and often when we spoke,
I would lapse into my own. This gave him no end of amusement,
and, I hope, pleasure. He was very proud of his roots — County
Cork, in Ireland, to be sure — and told me many wonderful
stories about the old country, and the wondrous sights to be
found there.
Sister Eulalia, who grew up a very proper young lady in
Kensington, has always been very strict about our pronunciation.
“H’s!” she says in snappish tones. “I want to hear your H’s!”
Then one of my classmates will promptly say, “Sure, and h’it’s an
‘eavenly diy h’out, h’it ‘tis.” Whereupon, Sister Eulalia puts her
head upon her desk. Often, I cannot resist speaking to her in the
broadest, most mangled Cockney imaginable. She tells me that I
am very, very wicked, and then slaps a ruler across my knuckles
to punctuate the scolding.
This may not bode well for my future as a pianoforte virtuoso.
“You have a pleasant demeanor,” Mrs. Carstairs said then, “but
I sense some mischief about you.”
I wanted to laugh, but knew that would only confirm her
suspicions. So I lowered my head in a shy manner, and quietly
sipped some tea. I was still very hungry, but confined myself to a
small piece of sponge cake.
After a time, it was decided that I should take Florence for a
short walk, while Sister Catherine and Mrs. Carstairs spoke
privately. The dog, I saw now, wore a jeweled collar, and a light
pink silken lead. I took her out through the opulent lobby, and
we wandered up to Bond Street before returning. Florence had a
sprightly gait, and seemed to enjoy barking at everyone — and
everything—we passed. I cannot imagine why she, for example,
found the gas lamps objectionable. But, to her credit, she was a
spirited animal, if foolishly small.
When we returned to the Foyer, Sister Catherine and Mrs.
Carstairs were still speaking in low, serious voices.
“… remarkably bright child,” Sister Catherine was saying,
“and very congenial.”
Given the charming tenor of the conversation, I was loathe to
interrupt. However, they stopped at once when they saw me.
Upon entering the hotel, Florence had jumped up into my arms,
where she was now lounging happily. Mrs. Carstairs looked at
us, and seemed to make up her mind.
“Margaret Ann, would you like to go to America?” she asked.
I wanted nothing more! “I should be delighted,” I said.
Saturday, 30 March 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
I simply cannot sleep tonight. Earlier, I wrote to William to tell
him the wonderful news, and Sister Mary Gregoria is to post the
letter in the morning. I feel very lucky, and yet also frightened. I
have grown used to my life here, and am not sure I am ready for
so many changes all at once.
Mrs. Carstairs and I are to sail for America, ten days hence, on
a ship called the RMS Titanic. RMS means Royal Mail Steamer,
Sister Catherine told me later. Before we left the hotel, Mrs.
Carstairs gave me all the details of our upcoming journey, and
what she will expect of me. Mainly, I gather, I am to be polite
and agreeable — and to fetch and carry and otherwise help out
with whatever she needs at any given point in time. I assured her
that I would have no problem complying with these rules,
although I am afraid her loud tones will grate on me. Naturally, I
did not share this concern.
Mrs. Carstairs is terribly excited about being aboard this
particular ship, as it is the Titanic’s maiden voyage, and she is
supposed to be the finest ocean liner in the world, as well as the
largest ever built. I know nothing of ships, and see no reason to
doubt her. I gather Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs have been sailing the
Atlantic for many years, and have been on all of the great liners,
including the Titanic’s sister ship, the Olympic.
Originally, they were to make this trip together, along with
Mr. Carstairs’s — one assumes, faithful — manservant. Hence,
they had reserved two cabins on the ship. But now, Mr. Carstairs
has been detained here in the City on business, and so will rejoin
his wife in a month or two. Their daughter, it turns out, has only
just given birth to their first grandchild, a boy named Theodore,
and Mrs. Carstairs wants to see him as soon as possible. Mr.
Carstairs did not want her to travel by herself, which is why they
decided to seek out a companion.
 I am still not quite sure how this fortunate assignment came
my way. I believe there may have been an advertisement, but an
“East End-ing” acquaintance of the Carstairs’ may have brought
St. Abernathy’s to their attention. Now and again, with a desire
to do good works, fancy London ladies come to this
neighborhood to tutor poor urchins, and otherwise provide
enrichment and counsel to the destitute. The ladies call this “East
End-ing,” and sometimes, less politely, “slumming.” Most of their
charitable time is given to the better-known missions and
settlement houses, like Toynbee Hall. But every so often, they
come across our small orphanage, too. I suppose there are some
who are awed by, and overcome with gratitude for, these
earnest, well-to-do ladies, but I tend not to be among them.
Somehow, I have never fancied being the object of pity.
And yet, in many ways, I suppose our situation here is rather
pitiful. The nuns have limited funds, and we are always
overcrowded. Right now, there are at least twenty other girls
sleeping here in the tiny dormitory—one of three in the
orphanage — and it can be very loud. The room can barely hold
ten beds, so we have makeshift double bunks. Nora, who is only
five, sleeps below me. I know she would rather have the upper
bunk, but she is so often troubled by nightmares that I fear she
would fall out and hurt herself.
There is a window just above my bunk, and when sleep will
not come, I like to look out at the lively streets below.
Whitechapel is never still, and there are always people to see.
There is a public house ‘round the corner, and I am particularly
fond of listening to the sounds of music and laughter.
I was not quite eight years old when I came here. No, the true
story is that William left me here, one cold and desperate night
some five years ago.
When my family lived in Wapping, near the river, we were
happy. We rented the bottom half of a cottage, which had two
small rooms separated by a muslin curtain. Father worked very
hard as a labourer on the London Docks. When times were good,
he helped load cargo; when work was scarce, he would toil as a
coal-whipper, and come home black with soot. Mummy was
always frail, but she took in sewing when she was able. She was
consumptive, and I would often wake in the night to her muff
led coughing. We worried about her greatly, but in the daylight
hours, she always had a smile for us.
I suppose we were poor, but we never went without food.
There was little money to spare, but Father always made sure
that Mummy had her tea with sugar, and that William and I had
a glass of milk to drink. Once in a very great while, we would get
to feast on fish and chips, all bundled up in newspaper. I don’t
know that there is any food I love more than fresh, “‘ot” chips.
After supper, Mummy would smooth out the newspapers and
blot away the worst of the oil so she could read whatever was
beneath. I remember her helping me with my letters and
numbers, and later, we would read together for hours.
One icy February afternoon, three burly men came to the door,
twisting their wool hats in their hands, and avoiding Mummy’s
eyes. A great load of crates had come crashing down at the
Docks, and although Father was able to push another worker out
of the way, he could not save himself. They were sore sorry, the
men said, shuffling their boots.
Mummy did her best to keep the family together. She began
working in the rag trade, and was gone from sunrise to sunset,
sewing buttons in a hot, airless factory. She grew very thin, and
we rarely saw more than a shadow of her old smile. Then, early
the next spring, she took ill. Her fever raged, and William and I
did not know what to do, other than make tea and try to feed her
digestives. By the time Mr. Harris, who lived down the way,
brought a doctor — a grey-faced little man dressed in a black
suit — it was too late.
These are hard memories, and I will save the rest of the story
for another time.
Sunday, 31 March 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
Today was a quiet day, as Sundays generally are. We go to a very
long mass in the morning, eat a substantial midday meal, and
then have free time until our early evening tea. I spent most of
the afternoon glancing through A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and
trying not to think too much. I am to return to Claridge’s later
this week, as Mrs. Carstairs has concerns about my wardrobe,
and wishes to have me fitted for “appropriate” clothing. That
seems like a frightful waste of money to me, but I have been told
not to concern myself with such matters. I gather that neither
money, nor the lack thereof, are problems for the Carstairs. I
would far prefer to wear the clothes I have, but when I broached
this to Sister Catherine, she just sighed, and said, “Be agreeable.”
As I sit here in the library, thinking about the future, I cannot
help also remembering the past. In his letters, William speaks
about the Colonies in glowing descriptions, but I am still feeling
a trifle hesitant. I scarcely know Mrs. Carstairs, and if we don’t
get on, the voyage could be difficult. For both of us. I suppose,
though, I can occupy myself with Florence.
But this journey can only be easy, compared to the horrible
days after Mummy’s death, when William and I were on our
own. For a time, we were able to stay with the McDougals, who
lived three streets down. I knew two of their daughters from the
ragged school. The McDougals’ small rooms were crowded, so
William and I each slept in a burlap sack, on the floor near the
woodstove. Food was scarce, and William did what he could to
provide for us, so that we would not be a burden. I know he
resorted to stealing more often than not, but if I asked him, he
would get very angry, and I learned to avoid the subject.
Mr. McDougal and his brother Kieran spent many an hour at
the public houses, and would come home much the worse for
drink. They would be spoiling for a fight, and Mr. McDougal
would swing out a big hand at anyone who looked at him cross-
eyed. After I got knocked down a time or two, William grew to
fear for my safety, and packed up our few possessions one
morning and took us away.
But, of course, we had no place to go. We lived on the streets,
sleeping in alcoves and doorways, or anyplace we could find
shelter. Sometimes, we were able to earn a few shillings by mud-
larking—exploring the riverbanks and wading into the filthy
water, trying to find objects we could sell. Lumps of coal, lengths
of rope, broken crates—anything that someone else might want.
While William tried to interest passersby in our gatherings, I
would crawl under the stalls in the market, looking for discarded
food. Sometimes I might be lucky and find a squashed orange, or
heel of bread, but other days, we lived on rather foul scraps or—
far too often—went hungry.
I think it was December — we had long since lost track of the
days — when hard sleet fell all one day and night. Though I was
terribly ill with a fever and hacking cough, I was afraid to go to
hospital. William wanted to take me to a charity orphanage for
girls some mate had told him about, but I refused. We had had
this argument before, and I had no intention of being separated
from him — he was all I had left. He threatened to make me go,
and I said he would have to round up every bobby in London to
do the job — and even then I did not like his chances. In the
meantime, the sleet faded into damp fog, and then back to bone-
chilling sleet. We huddled in an alley, with me trying not to
weep between bouts of shivering and coughing.
“That’s it,” he said suddenly. He stuffed our belongings — a
cracked teacup of Mummy’s, a battered mug, a bent spoon, some
bootlaces, an old sardine tin filled with a pennyworth of salt, a
chipped china figurine of a cat, and three slim water-stained
books of Father’s — into his sleeping sack, and helped me up.
By then, I was so sick, I could not find the strength to protest.
We walked and walked, as he could not quite remember where
the convent was. William wanted to carry me, but I stubbornly
shrugged him away and kept tottering along. As always, there
were other wretched souls wandering the streets, or slumped in
odd corners, but they never looked at us.
It must have been near dawn, and I was asleep on my feet,
when he stopped one last time.
“Here you go, then,” he said, sounding pleased. He settled me
down on an icy stone step and wrapped Father’s old coat more
tightly about my shoulders.
I knew he was going to leave me, and I started crying so hard,
I could not speak.
“You stay here,” he ordered, “until the ladies wake up.”
I was able to choke out his name, and William must have been
crying, too, because he blinked a good deal and his voice was
thick. He wrapped his arms around me, told me I was his best
girl, and promised to come back as soon as he could take proper
care of me. Then, as the sky faded from black to grey, he handed
me a piece of toffee wrapped in sticky paper.
“Make it last until the ladies come outside,” he said.
I knew he was about to leave for good, and I tried to get up so
I could follow him.
“Please, Margaret,” he said, tears covering his cheeks. “Do as I
tell you.” Then he smiled at me — I tried to smile back — and
kissed me on the forehead before quickly walking away. He did
not wave, or even look back, and I watched him until he
disappeared around the corner.
When he was gone, I sobbed until I thought my chest might
break apart. It hurt very badly whenever I took a breath, and my
whole body shook with each harsh bout of coughing. I was dizzy
and hot, and the gas lamps seemed to twirl around me.
Some time later, I heard a horse’s hooves clattering on the
street, and the sound of a rickety cart trundling along. But I was
too weary to look up, or even try to open my swollen eyes.
 “‘Ere now, wot’s all this?” a deep voice said above me. There
was a clank as he set down some milk-cans, then a harsh
knocking on the thick wooden door where I was leaning.
The door creaked open, and there were more voices, but I
stayed huddled inside Father’s coat, still crying. I can remember
just staring at the cans of milk. I wanted one so much. Weak as I
was, I had a notion that I could nick one and dash away before
they could stop me. I even reached out a shaking hand, but then
thought of how ashamed Mummy would be, and pulled it back.
I could not make sense of what was happening around me, but
the man seemed to be gone and the voices were all female now.
There was talk of calling a police ambulance, and whether a
child who was so ill could be brought in among the others, and
then whether, after all, they could do anything other than bring
in such a child. The last thing I remember is a warm hand on my
forehead, and then someone lifted me up and carried me inside
the building.
When I awoke, many hours later, I was in a bare white room
with a strange, sharp odor. I found out later it was the infirmary.
A lady in a big black cape was sitting by the narrow iron bed.
Her clothes frightened me, but her face was kind. I remember
that she spooned some beef broth into my mouth, and washed
my face with cool water from a tin basin.
I have been here ever since.
Monday, 1 April 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
Yet again, I cannot seem to fall asleep. So I am writing by
moonlight. All day, I have been wondering how long it will take
William to receive my letter. How surprised he will be! Postage
is a luxury, so as a rule, we only exchange one letter a month. He
is working very hard as a bricklayer, somewhere in the city of
Boston. He lives in a boardinghouse run by an Irish immigrant
lady in Charlestown, which he assures me is almost as
fashionable a neighborhood as Whitechapel. The mail can be so
slow that it is actually possible I will arrive in the States before
he even finds out that I am coming!
Once I get there, I would like to keep going to school, but I
know that will not be possible. I will have to work, to help
support us. I am sure that, like London, Boston has factories, and
saloons, and rich ladies who need maids — so, I should be able
to find a job.
I have not seen my brother since the summer before last,
although it seems even longer. He must have grown a great deal
by now, as he is almost sixteen. For all I know, he will scarcely
recognize me, either.
One of the reasons I miss him so is because I am afraid I have
never been one for making friends. Not by design, mind you. Still
and all, I have few talents in this area. It may be because I am
loath to share my feelings. Also, I read too many books and
speak, as I am often told, “like a right toff.” My not having the
grace to be ashamed of this worsens the situation. Father always
said —

Later
I stopped writing for a while, as Nora was crying out in her sleep
again. She is so small and alone that I always like to keep a
special eye on her. She tends to follow me about a good deal of
the time, but I find this to be a compliment, more than anything
else, and slow my pace so she can keep up. At supper, she likes
me to help her cut up her food, and butter her bread for her. She
is an adorable child, and I am happy to do it.
I sat with her for quite some time just now, talking softly so
we would not wake the others in the dormitory, and trying to
calm away her tears.
“You was down the ‘Dilly?” she asked. Nora speaks in the very
sweetest and pure Cockney. “And ‘ad you Rosy Lee?”
I agreed that I had, indeed, been to Piccadilly, before having a
scrumptious tea at the fancy hotel. I had brought her home a few
petits fours and some smushed trifle, which she had eaten
happily, without leaving the tiniest crumb behind. That only
made me wish I had managed to set aside even more for her.
Unfortunately, talking about this reminded her that I would
soon be leaving for America, and she began to cry all over again.
I promised—as I had several times already in recent days — that
I would write her lots of letters and that someday, when we were
both rich ladies, maybe we could visit each other. She found this
to be scant comfort, so I changed the subject by telling her a very
long story about cats, and Buckingham Palace, and astonishing
amounts of candy. This lulled her to sleep, finally, and now I am
back up in my bunk, looking out the window.
There is no question in my mind that Nora and Sister
Catherine are what I will miss most about living here. It is
several days away, but I already dread our final parting, as I
know that the chances of our meeting again are very slight,
indeed.
There are few things more difficult in life than saying good-
bye to people.
Tuesday, 2 April 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
Tonight, the moon is obscured by fog, so I can barely see to
write. Not that my handwriting is admirable under the best of
conditions.
After William left me here at St. Abernathy’s, several months
passed before we saw each other again. I wondered endlessly
where he was, what he was doing, and how he was surviving on
his own. Even if he was surviving on his own. Then, one Sunday
afternoon, the littlest Murphy sister—there are four of them
living here, each more freckled than the next — came to tell me
that a young man was waiting to see me in the visiting parlour.
At first, I was perplexed, since I do not know any young men.
Then I was overjoyed, realizing that it could only be my brother.
I ran out of the library so swiftly that Molly Murphy was left
quite startled — and Sister Judith even more so, when I dashed
slam-bang right into her near the kitchen.
William was standing by the window, looking out at the grey,
rainy day. He was wearing a thin black sweater and frayed wool
pants, with a cloth cap hanging out of one pocket. It was the first
time I had ever seen him in long pants. His face and hands were
very clean, but his clothes were soot-stained, and he looked so
much more grown-up than I remembered. Sister Eulalia was
posted right by the door, with an expression of great suspicion
on her face. Girls at the orphanage do not — ever—receive young
men. I assume Sister Mary Gregoria was lurking nearby, also.
“William!” I said happily.
He turned, his whole face changing when he smiled. “Sure,
and she’s tall.”
“Sure, and we get bowls and bowls of porridge here,” I
answered.
 We both laughed, while Sister Eulalia — who often helps with
meal preparations — frowned. I introduced them, and after a few
moments, she went out to sit in the hall to give us a bit of time
to get caught up.
There was so much to talk about! I have to admit now that I
cried a good deal, because it was so wonderful to see him after
worrying for so long.
He had brought along a small bag of toffee and licorice, which
we shared. I had forgotten I even knew how to smile so broadly.
For a time, after we parted, he had miserably continued mud-
larking. He tried to find a job at one of the breweries, or the
foundry, but was told that he was too young. His luck changed
when he ran into one of Father’s old mates, Mr. Daniels, on the
street one day. Mr. Daniels helped him get work on the Docks
and secure cheap lodgings in a sailors’ home. The home certainly
wasn’t fancy, but neither was it a workhouse — or a reformatory
— and for that, William was grateful. And so was I.
From then on, he came every Sunday. The weeks passed much
more quickly, and easily, for me, knowing I could look forward
to his visits. He would always bring a gift of some kind — candy,
a newspaper, and one special day, a little bundle of hot chips. I
wanted to give him something in return, and Sister Catherine
patiently taught me how to knit so I could make him a scarf for
his birthday. The final result was amateurish to say the very
least, but he accepted it with great enthusiasm.
It was the summer of 1910 when William got a chance to sign
on as a cabin boy on a cargo steamer heading to America. He did
not want to leave me alone in London, but we decided that he
would have many more opportunities to make his way in the
States. We planned that I would follow him when I was older—
and he had enough money to pay for my fare.
The captain on his steamer was an unpleasant man, and
William had a difficult journey. He worked long, hard hours, and
was so seasick that he subsisted on nothing more than hard
biscuits and water the entire time.
This gives rise to a bothersome notion. What if I get seasick,
too? That would make me a rather unsatisfactory companion, I
fear. Never in my life have I set foot on a boat — or even gone in
the water, beyond wading in the Thames. However, I suppose
worrying about it will not help matters any. I shall simply have
to wait, and see — and eat sparingly the entire time, perhaps.
Well, the morning will come sooner than I would like, so I will
stop writing for this evening.
Is there not some tradition of counting sheep in order to
become drowsy? I think I just might give it a try… .
Wednesday, 3 April 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
Today I went back into the City to meet my new employer again.
This time, I was allowed to go by myself, although I was given
many instructions by the Sisters, and warned to keep the small
change they had given me hidden in different pockets, so I would
be safe from knaves and thieves. I have a bit of experience with
thieves, but am quite certain I have never known a knave—or
even seen one from a distance.
The dress I wore was an unflattering cut, and an even worse
shade of dull maroon. A postulant who did not do well in the
orphanage atmosphere and was transferred to a more traditional
convent had left it behind with a bundle of other unfortunate,
but “earthly,” frocks. I do not remember her, but it was clear
from the dimensions of the dress that she had been tall — and
not slim. Sister Judith and Sister Catherine performed some
necessary surgery with great handfuls of pins, and warned me
not to move about freely, if possible.
“But, what if I meet a knave, and must take flight?” I asked.
Their reignited concern about just that dreadful possibility
eliminated the chorus of wry chuckles I had anticipated.
So, it was off to Claridge’s once again. There might have been
a more direct way to go, but I repeated our exact motor bus ride,
in order to enjoy another walk through Piccadilly Circus. But I
resisted buying any food, as I suspected plenty would await me
at the hotel. After all, teatime approached.
I had hoped we would meet in the Foyer, so I could enjoy
listening to that quartet again, but Mrs. Carstairs had a footman
downstairs awaiting my—slightly late — arrival. He escorted me
up to her suite, where our tea was to be served privately. I was
concerned that my table manners had not passed muster
previously, but then caught sight of two fluttery young women
clutching measuring tapes, and pincushions, and the like. I had,
of course, forgotten that I was to be fitted with “appropriate
garments.” Florence was stalking back and forth in front of the
two women, letting out a fierce, if squeaky, growl every so often.
This was making the women uneasy, to say the least.
“Hello, Florence,” I said.
She wagged her tail at me, then resumed her feisty strut.
I could not tell how large the suite was, as so far I had only
seen the entry, but it appeared palatial. Mrs. Carstairs came
bustling out, looking both more matronly and more unwieldy
than I remembered. Judging from her widened eyes when she
saw me and ran her eyes up and down my lumpy dress, I was
more obviously working class than she had remembered.
“Good afternoon, Margie,” she said, quite brisk.
Margie? But I greeted her very pleasantly, regardless — and by
the proper name, even.
She waved her hand at each of the two pale, jittery ladies in
turn. “This is Hortense, and Mabel. Please be most cooperative
with them.” She turned to the women. “As you can well see, this
is a dire situation.”
I followed them into a sun-splashed sitting room, where a
grand tea was spread out on a lace-covered table by the broad,
sparkling windows. A man with sparse white hair, but thick grey
muttonchop whiskers, was seated at the table, reading a
newspaper and clearing his throat every so often.
“Frederick,” Mrs. Carstairs said, “this is Margaret Jane Brady,
the child who will be accompanying me.”
Jane?
Mr. Carstairs noticed us then, and stood up with a militaristic
bow. “Yes, yes, so glad to see you,” he said, with a patient, but
vague, smile.
I was relieved that he did not want to shake hands, or
otherwise be demonstrative. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I
said, although I was tempted to call him “Guv’nor,” just to hear
everyone gasp.
“Her clothes are very common, but I think she will do nicely,”
Mrs. Carstairs said. “Don’t you, Frederick?”
Mr. Carstairs nodded heartily, although his gaze was still
lingering on his newspaper. “Yes, yes. Lovely, lovely.”
“Splendid,” I volunteered.
He looked up. “Yes, yes. Splendid.”
“I am to have her fitted now,” Mrs. Carstairs said.
Right out in the open? Were Americans utter heathens?
I sensed a spot of alarm coming from Mr. Carstairs’s direction
as well, but Mrs. Carstairs was already ushering me into a small
dressing room, crowded with more fancy clothes than I had ever
seen in one place. And, oh, the shoes! So many glossy,
impractical shoes.
“Be thorough,” Mrs. Carstairs instructed Hortense and Mabel.
“When they are finished, Margie, you may join us for tea.”
I despise nicknames, but suspected that pointing this out
would make no impression whatsoever.
Hortense and Mabel had a great deal of trouble unpinning me
from my dress. Although they were shop girls, and certainly not
society ladies, my appearance seemed to offend them, and they
exchanged more than one wince. I ignored this, except for
mimicking one of Florence’s snarls once, just to see them flinch.
After they had finally completed their oddly complex
measurements, with muttered comments to each other, they
undertook the not inconsiderable challenge of re-pinning me into
my dress.
“Did you pick this out yourself?” one of them — I think it was
Mabel — finally asked.
“Yes, quite so,” I said. “It fell off the back of the quaintest little
lorry in Whitechapel.”
 They gave each other knowing glances, and regarded me with
somewhat more sympathy than before. Once they had finished
the pinning and been shown out by a hotel maid, I found I could
move even less freely than had previously been the case. Sitting
down promised to be a challenge.
However, I was up to the challenge if I could then tuck into
that appetizing array on the tea table. My dinner of bread and
jam felt like a memory from my distant past.
Mr. Carstairs rose to his feet when I came in, and I sat down as
swiftly as possible, a small shower of pins escaping in my wake.
Neither of my tea companions commented upon this, although
Mrs. Carstairs at least noticed — and frowned.
“I very much appreciate everything you are doing for me, Mrs.
Carstairs,” I said, very politely, “and urge you not to go to too
much trouble.”
“Yes, well,” she said, after the barest pause.
Our conversation was stilted, and Mr. Carstairs did little more
than nod or grunt assent occasionally. I found it appalling that
he was drinking coffee — but other than that, he seemed like a
pleasant, if somewhat stodgy, chap. Both of them fed Florence
tempting tidbits at every opportunity, and she took turns sitting
in their laps. Once in a while, she visited me as well, and I would
present her with a nibble of ham or chicken. She seemed to
dislike watercress.
“What a wonderful hotel this is, Mrs. Carstairs,” I contributed
at one point.
“Obviously I should rather be at the Savoy, but” — she
glanced at her husband—“my Frederick prefers it here.”
It developed that they had theater tickets that night, and
reservations at a restaurant called Romano’s, so soon it was time
for me to take my leave. Mrs. Carstairs reminded me, again and
again, that I was to return on Tuesday morning, packed and
ready to go. We would be taking the train to Southampton, and
then sail the next day. Each time she went over the plans, I felt
shivers of excitement, and fear. Mr. Carstairs said it had been
“capital, just capital” to meet me; I agreed; Mrs. Carstairs went
over our schedule one last time; and finally, I gave Florence a
pat and headed off. Then I paused by the door.
“So, I am to return on—Wednesday evening?” I said, just for
fun.
Mrs. Carstairs’s face went so pale that I suddenly felt a bit
alarmed. But all she said was, “You are a very impudent girl,
Margie.”
I graciously agreed with this observation — and left.
Thursday, 4 April 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
At breakfast today, Bridget Murphy told me I was hoity-toity,
sailing off to America with a rich lady. I nodded, and said that I
was, indeed, a right swanker, and Sister Eulalia spoke to me
sharply about being prideful. I could hardly disagree — but did
so anyway out of devilment. Sister Eulalia failed to find any
humor in this.
My mind wandered during arithmetic, and I could not even
pay attention when we turned to literature. I was thinking about
many things, but mainly, I was wondering what it will be like to
spend so many days traveling across the sea, surrounded by rich
ladies and gentlemen. Apparently, many of them are among the
wealthiest people in the world! I hope I will not seem too out of
place. Surely my humble station will be obvious to one and all —
especially those of English extraction. I hope Sister Catherine is
right that one can hardly run into problems by simply keeping
one’s own counsel, and smiling every so often. I will just always
have to remember to think before speaking. I want to be a credit
to the Sisters, and to the memory of my dear parents, and so will
have to rise above my natural tendency to misbehave.
Here in Whitechapel, it is hardly unusual to be poor. In fact, it
is not even interesting. But I admit that I still find it hard to
understand why most of the girls at the orphanage will be
perfectly happy if they get a factory job, marry some nice bloke,
and pass the rest of their days within a block or two of here.
Most, I think, will be quite content simply to live a life without
surprises. I am not sure what it is that I want, but I know that it
is something more than that which I see every day. I expect to
learn a great deal from my journey, and hope I can put it to
some good use in my life. The girls would call this cheeky, and I
suppose it is. But America is supposed to be the land of endless
opportunities, and I see no reason not to try to better myself.
 Oh, dear, I believe Sister Eulalia has just caught on that I am
writing something of my own, rather than methodically working
on my declensions. She looks very indignant, so I believe I will
now set this diary aside.
Quickly.
Sunday, 7 April 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
This morning, Sister Catherine took me over to the St. Botolph
parish for Easter mass. She explained that he is the patron saint
of travelers, and she wants to be sure that I leave with his
blessings. Our fellow worshipers were a bizarre mix—ranging
from prostitutes to the very flagrantly pious — and it was quite
different from my normal mass experience. But, because it was
Easter, they were all unusually well turned-out. I rather enjoyed
it.
On the way home, Sister Catherine stopped at a small shop
and bought us two lemonades and some toffee. We sat on an old
wooden bench to enjoy our snack, and made almost no
conversation. Her face was pensive, and I could tell that she was
very sad today.
“We never have favourites, you understand,” she said
suddenly. “It would not be proper.”
I nodded; she nodded; and we sat in the sun and finished our
toffee.
Monday, 8 April 1912
St. Abernathy’s Orphanage for Girls
Whitechapel
It is my last night here, and I suddenly feel quite tearful, sitting
up in my usual window. Earlier, I packed a musty old carpetbag
Sister Judith found with some underclothing and stockings, a
sleeping gown, a brown sweater, my plaid dress, Father’s old
wool coat, and Mummy’s chipped china cat. On further
reflection, I took out the cat, for I will give it to Nora, to
remember me by. I know Mummy would not mind—and besides,
I still have her beautiful silver locket, which I wear night and
day, close to my heart. The locket may be somewhat battered
and tarnished, but that does not diminish its value to me in any
way. I will keep Father’s copy of Hamlet, but will sign my name
under his in the volume of sonnets and present it to Sister
Catherine in the morning. I hope she likes it.
I wonder if William has received my letter yet. I suspect not.
Still, it would be nice to know that he was expecting me. But I
do not think he will mind being surprised, either. And now he
will not have to worry about spending the money he has been
laboriously saving for my passage.
On the whole, I think Mrs. Carstairs makes me almost as
nervous as I make her, so thank goodness for Florence. At least I
know I will have one friend on the ship. When I get to Boston, I
hope William will not mind our getting a cat or two—and maybe
a dog as well. I have always wanted to have pets of my own.
At supper tonight, the Sisters brought out a pound cake with
white frosting as a farewell celebration, and everyone clapped.
Perhaps they are just pleased to see me go. Except, of course, for
Nora, who wept. I gave her my share of cake, which helped a
little. I also stopped Shirley Hallowell — a nice girl, just turned
twelve — in the corridor later and asked her to promise to watch
out for Nora after I leave. Shirley was quick to agree, which
relieved my guilt a little.
 It is hard to believe that by this time tomorrow, I will be in
another part of England altogether—and on my way to begin a
whole new life!
Tuesday, 9 April 1912
The South Western Hotel
Southampton, England
Here I am, in a lovely hotel room, with my own bathroom. I have
never experienced such incredible luxury. I just took a long, hot
bath, complete with a thick blanket of fragrant soap bubbles. Hot
water, as much as I wanted! Then I dried off with a warm, fluffy
towel, feeling like the very Queen herself. The pillows on my bed
are fat with feathers, and my mattress is as soft as a cloud. Mrs.
Carstairs is in the room next door, getting what she described to
me as “beauty sleep.” I can only imagine that anyone who slept
on one of these delightful beds would wake up looking beautiful.
Before I left this morning, everyone gave me good wishes at
breakfast. For once, I had no appetite at all, and merely sipped
some tea. Then, I went back to the dormitory and checked my
carpetbag one last time. Sister Judith brought Nora in, and the
two of us sat together on her bunk for a time. I gave her
Mummy’s china cat, and did my best to soothe her tears.
“You goin’ down the big ship now?” she asked finally.
I nodded, feeling some tears of my own. I promised to draw
her a picture of the Titanic and post it right away, so that she
could look at it whenever she wanted.
“Draw you in the picture,” she insisted. “And Florence.”
I gave her a big hug, until Sister Judith said that it was time
for me to go, since it “wouldn’t do” for me to be late. The last
thing I saw, when I looked back, was Nora crying and holding
the china cat, her feet dangling helplessly over the side of the
bed since she is so small. The sight made something inside my
chest hurt, and I had to look away.
My farewell to most of the Sisters was quite formal. Sister
Mary Gregoria gave me enough money for my motor bus fare,
and two pounds “for emergencies.” I was very grateful for this,
and tucked the money away in a safe pocket.
 Then Sister Catherine walked me out to the square, where I
would board the motor bus. While we were waiting, she gave me
another two pounds, and several shillings. I have no idea how
she managed to gather up such a sum, but I was sure it would be
disrespectful to refuse to accept it. So I did so, thanking her
profusely.
“If you ever need—” She stopped. “Well.”
I nodded. Then I took out Father’s sonnets and handed the
book to her. “Thank you for everything,” I said. “I have depended
on you greatly.”
The conductor seemed impatient, and it really was time to go.
Off at Claridge’s, Mrs. Carstairs was probably impatient, too.
“No favourites,” I said.
Sister Catherine smiled. “No. Never.” When the bus pulled
away, I stared out the window until she faded from sight. I know
that I will always miss her. I must keep a very careful record of
my journey so that one day I can share it with her.

I was nearly twenty minutes early when I arrived at the hotel,

but Mrs. Carstairs was still very anxious. She surveyed my
traveling outfit — the same dark blue dress I had worn the first
time we met — and sighed a little. Mr. Carstairs was occupied by
his newspaper and coffee, although he nodded pleasantly when
he saw me.
There were a great many suitcases and trunks piled up by the
door—eight or ten, I should say. My lumpy little carpetbag
looked very inferior next to them. Meanwhile, Mrs. Carstairs
twittered about, fussing with her hair, checking for misplaced
belongings, and otherwise making me feel fidgety. Florence
pranced behind her, fully enjoying all of the activity.
“Mr. Carstairs, sir?” I asked hesitantly, when his wife seemed
to be occupied for the moment in her dressing room. “How are
we going to get all of that luggage onto the motor bus?” More to
the point, was I supposed to carry it?
He laughed heartily, shook his head, and returned to his
newspaper.
As it turned out, a hotel liveryman arrived shortly to cart the
many trunks away. We were to be driven to Waterloo Station,
and then take the train to Southampton, by the sea. To my
amazement, we rode in one big black car, and the luggage
followed by itself in a second car.
At the railroad station, a slew of porters appeared to whisk the
trunks off. Mr. Carstairs arranged for our tickets and went ahead
to see if our seats met with his approval. Mrs. Carstairs kept
daubing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and sensing the
unhappy possibility of a noisy parting, I elected to take Florence
for a pre-trip walk along the platform. I had thought that there
would be a large crowd of passengers, but Mr. Carstairs said that
no, most people would be on the official Boat Train the next
morning.
Mrs. Carstairs was still weeping a little when we pulled out of
the station, and she waved Florence’s paw at her husband, who
was still standing on the platform below. Out of respect, I hid my
excitement about leaving London for the first time in my life.
Actually, I had never even been on a train before, and found its
chugs and whistles exhilarating.
It would be too overwhelming to think about whether I would
ever return to the city of my birth, so I concentrated on looking
out the slightly sooty window. My seat was very comfortable,
and I sank back into the blue cushions. The window felt cool
against my fingers, and the paneling below it was a dark,
polished wood. Worried that I might have smeared the polish, I
lightly rubbed the spot I had touched with my sleeve.
To my great surprise, both Mrs. Carstairs and Florence fell
asleep almost before we had even left the City. They also both
wheezed noticeably.
 We were passing small houses now, lined up in neat, redbrick
rows. The train seemed to be moving so rapidly that I felt just a
bit queasy and was glad to have neglected my breakfast.
Once in a while, we came to a slow, shrieking stop, and the
conductor would shout, “Surbiton!” or, “Woking!” or the name
of some other hamlet with which I was unfamiliar. “Passengers
only, please,” he would say. “Step lively!” Then, after a brief
idling pause, we would chug on our way again.
Gradually, we left the towns behind, and forged into the
countryside. How often I had heard about the great beauty of the
English countryside! Now, finally, I was getting an opportunity
to see it for myself. Green, rolling fields, spring flowers, and here
and there, a quaint cottage or sprawling mansion. The roofs of
the cottages seemed to be made of thatch, and I wondered if they
would leak in the rain. My grey, cluttered, foggy City seemed a
thousand miles away. If we had had the time, I would have loved
to spend the day in one of those fields, lying in the grass, with
nothing but a book, and perhaps some bread and cheese, to keep
me company. I think I would stay there all night, watching the
stars and waiting for the moon to rise.
Our journey was only about eighty miles, and all too soon, the
conductor was announcing, “Southampton!” Mrs. Carstairs’s eyes
fluttered open, and she yawned widely.
“What an exhausting trip,” she said.
Yes, having a bit of a lie-down was always quite a tiring
activity.
The conductor helped us off the train, and two red-uniformed
porters hurried over to greet us. Once all of the baggage had
been collected, they trundled us through a passageway, toward
the South Western Hotel, where we would be staying. I could
smell the water, but from where we were, I could scarcely see
the quays, let alone the ships in the harbour beyond.
We were taken up to the third floor on a sparkling clean lift,
although I swallowed hard to think of being wafted off the
ground like that, held by thin cables. Still, our ride was steady,
and in less than a moment, there we were. It developed that one
of the trunks was mine, filled with my new “appropriate
clothing.”
When I opened it to peek inside, I discovered petticoats,
stockings, a pair of shiny black shoes, three dresses, a skirt, two
high-necked blouses, two hats, and a pink wool coat! Pink. I
should certainly have chosen another shade, but it was very
pretty. One of the hats was decorated with ribbons and flowers,
and looked altogether garish. That one, Mrs. Carstairs explained,
was to be worn with the green silk dress on fancy occasions
aboard the ship. I thanked her, and complimented her
impeccable taste. Or had it, perhaps, been Mabel and Hortense’s
taste? Regardless, looking at these clothes, I felt sadly removed
from St. Abernathy’s and our faded, patched near-rags.
After an early supper in the hotel dining room — I had the
most delicious mutton chops — I took Florence out for a walk.
There was still enough daylight for me to explore a little, and I
headed directly for the docks. Railroad tracks cut across the
street in unexpected places, and I made my way cautiously.
Florence found the rumbling of a passing lorry offensive, and
barked aggressively at it for quite some time.
Just ahead, there were masts and funnels and metal cranes to
be seen in every direction. It was impossible to get a good view
of any one ship, as there were so many berthed in the harbour.
Also, the railway station and other surrounding buildings
obscured my view.
I asked a passing workman which one was the Titanic, and he
stopped to point her out with great pride.
“There she is, miss,” he said, beaming. “Wit’ the four funnels.
The grandest ship you could ever hope to see!”
I began counting funnels, trying to locate her, but still was not
sure that I was looking in the right place. There was a great deal
of activity on the quays, and a fair number of gawking passersby,
too. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to catch a glimpse of the new
ship before her maiden voyage.
Then, all of a sudden, there was a great black hull, stretching
farther than my eye could see. I tilted my head back, and the
ship loomed above me, looking taller than most of the buildings I
have ever seen. Never could I have imagined such a mammoth
structure. I noticed now that the train station connected directly
to the ship, and that men were loading all sorts of cargo down
the gangways, or with towering cranes. There was a feeling of
excitement about me, as the workers jostled each other and
shouted orders, and onlookers pointed out what little they could
see from their various positions.
The Titanic was bigger than seemed humanly possible, bright
and shiny and smelling of fresh paint. I do not know what I had
expected, but the sight of her took my breath away. Florence
seemed dismayed by it all, and lay down, resting her head on her
forepaws. I patted her, but kept craning my neck in an attempt
to take in as much of the ship as I could.
It is hard to believe something so gigantic can float — and yet
there she sits, peacefully atop the water. She looks sturdy; she
looks proud. Were you to pick her up, with a great Godly hand,
and drop her in the midst of Whitechapel, I do believe she would
smother my entire neighborhood. She was built in Ireland—by
fine, strong men like my father and William — and I am filled
with admiration at the thought of mere mortals creating
something so stupendous.
Florence grew restless, and so, reluctantly, I took her back to
the hotel. It would soon be dark anyway.
“I was afraid you had toppled into the water,” Mrs. Carstairs
said apprehensively, upon my return.
Well, that would be unfortunate, as I do not know how to
swim. “Florence wanted to linger,” I said.
Mrs. Carstairs decided that it would be fun to play cards before
bedtime — and was dismayed to find out that I know very few
games. She pronounced that bridge would simply be out of the
question, but quickly taught me how to play hearts. We did this
for an hour or so — by which point, I was winning more often
than she might have liked. So she told me that it was time to
retire, and I did not disagree, as I was eager to come in here and
write down my thoughts.
But the hour is very late now, so I believe I will stop for the
night.
Wednesday, 10 April 1912
RMS Titanic
So much has happened today that I scarcely know where to
begin. The Titanic is, to put it bluntly, the most magical and
astounding place in the world. Bigger, grander, and more exotic
than I could possibly have predicted. She is awe-inspiring, and
yet, comfortable. Right now, I am sitting in a deck chair on what
they call the Promenade. I was up on the Boat Deck for a while,
but the wind grew too cold for me, so I moved down to the more
enclosed Promenade. Mrs. Carstairs is off in her cabin, having a
rest before supper, and Florence is curled up on my lap, snoring.
I guess I should start with this morning, and our final hours at
the South Western Hotel. I had thought I would never be able to
fall asleep, but awoke to find sunshine filling my room. A
liveryman brought tea and toast right to my room, without my
even asking, which pleased me a great deal. I fear that I could
grow accustomed to this special treatment! I took another bath
— simply because the shiny white tub was there — and then put
on one of my new dresses. Mrs. Carstairs has made it clear that
she does not want to see me in any more “hideous convent
discards,” and I suspect it is not worth the breath it would take
to argue. Anyway, this dress is golden yellow, made of a material
I cannot identify, but the cloth feels very soft. The fancy
petticoat makes the skirt billow out amusingly. My new shoes
seemed slippery against the floor, so I put on my dependable old
boots, instead. The dress is long enough so that no one will be
able to tell anyway.
I brushed my hair, then pinned it back as well as I could so
that it would not fly about. In the trunk, I even found a pair of
white gloves, so I wore them, too, just for amusement.
When I appeared at Mrs. Carstairs’s door, she squinted through
her glasses and then nodded in approval.
“Much better,” she said, “but do not neglect your hat.”
 I assured her that I would not dream of doing so, and went
back to get the plainer of the two. I dread having to wear the
gaudy one, as I am sure I will look quite the imbecile.
We had a most leisurely breakfast. I ordered delicate shirred
eggs, along with sausage, kippers, and a jacketed potato. At St.
Abernathy’s, eggs were always a special treat and you would
receive a soft-boiled one only on Christmas, Easter, and your
birthday. I was surprised that Mrs. Carstairs, like her husband,
preferred coffee to tea, but that must be the way Americans do
things. She did not seem to fancy kippers, either. In both cases, I
felt that it was a wretched mistake on her part. Florence enjoyed
a small plate of chopped ham and the crusts from Mrs. Carstairs’s
toast. Early on, I spilled a tiny bit of marmalade on my sleeve
and quickly blotted it away with a damp napkin, hoping that no
one would notice.
Many of the other people in the hotel dining room also
appeared to be Titanic passengers, as they would look eagerly in
the direction of the docks whenever the great steam whistles
blasted away. There were even a few children, who sat in their
fine clothes much less self-consciously than I did. The boat
whistles had been blaring all morning, announcing to all of
Southampton that it was Sailing Day. As the town was a bustling
seaport, I suspected that they heard these ship whistles on a
regular basis, and grew weary of them.
After our meal, it was time to go upstairs and prepare for our
leave-taking. Apparently, passengers from the Boat Train were
already boarding the ship. Porters arrived with wheeled carts to
take our luggage away, and Mrs. Carstairs handed out folded
wads of banknotes with a casual air. The porters and bellhops
were elated to accept them.
As we crossed Canute Road and approached the quay, it
became more difficult to navigate through the crowds. Trunks
and bags and overstuffed boxes were piled everywhere, and I
wondered how the porters could possibly keep track of them all.
People crowded every possible space, and it was hard to separate
the passengers from the onlookers. Only the various
workingmen, with their confident movements and expressions of
tense concentration, stood out to me.
The side of the ship seemed to have openings all over the
place, and gangways stretched out to meet them from the
railroad platform and the quay itself. The gangways looked
rather like wooden bridges, with waist-high railings. Men and
women in plain, sensible outfits were boarding on the lower
decks, while the gangways above were packed with people
arrayed in the grandest fashions. By virtue of clothing alone, it
was not at all difficult to tell which passengers were steerage,
and which were first class. Presumably, the second-class
passengers were the ones boarding somewhere in the middle.
I saw a thin girl in a kerchief and grey wool dress who seemed
to be watching me somewhat enviously from farther down the
quay. I realized then, with a start, that my appearance made her
think that I was a young lady of privilege. The thought struck me
funny, and I was tempted to raise my skirt enough to show her
my worn old boots. But she was already gone, and I was
following Mrs. Carstairs up a flight of stairs towards one of the
first-class gangways.
I had never seen such a crowd in my life, and could not quite
picture how many of us could fit inside the ship. Enough, I
assumed, so that you might never see the same person twice. But
I suppose some of the people were only here to see others off —
or had only come down to stand nearby and vicariously enjoy
the excitement of the day.
Walking across the gangway, I had a moment’s unease,
wondering if I really wanted to get on such a gargantuan ship
and float off into the middle of the ocean. Dry land seemed so
much more familiar, and safe. In truth, I have never ridden in a
dinghy. For that matter, I have never even floated on a raft.
“Please do not dawdle, Margie-Jane,” Mrs. Carstairs said
sharply, as a rather handsome ship’s officer waited to greet us at
the end of the gangway.
I nodded, and quickened my pace. To my surprise, seen up
close, the side of the ship was pieces of metal welded and riveted
together. I do not know what I had expected—not wood,
obviously—but the bumpy appearance caught me off guard. I
guess I thought it would be smooth and seamless, which only
goes to show you how little I know about boats. I reached out to
touch the metal, finding it—quite predictably — cold and solid.
Nearby passengers looked disapprovingly at me, so I yanked my
hand away.
We stepped inside the ship into a thickly carpeted hallway. I
had not expected carpeting, either. A uniformed man just inside
the entry handed us each a small nosegay of flowers from a large
wicker basket next to him. No one had ever given me flowers
before, so even though it was probably routine on occasions like
this, I felt flattered.
From there, we went to the Purser’s Office. Mrs. Carstairs
handed our tickets and other necessary paperwork to Chief
Purser McElroy, and made arrangements to come back later to
deposit her valuables in the ship’s safe. Once we were back in
the corridor, still another smiling dark-haired young man
stepped forward. He was wearing a white uniform, and
introduced himself as our bedroom steward, Robert Merton. Our
staterooms were down on C Deck, and he would be escorting us
there, and then be at our service throughout the voyage.
Mrs. Carstairs told him that she had sailed the White Star Line
many times before, and began to give him a long list of
instructions about exactly when and how she wanted things
done. He nodded solemnly at each request, and then smiled at
me.
“You would be Mrs. Carstairs’s daughter?” he asked, as he led
us through a maze of carpeted corridors.
Mrs. Carstairs gasped; I grinned. He might be the first, but he
would probably not be the only one on the ship who would jump
to that mistaken conclusion.
“No, I am her staunch companion,” I answered.
“Yes, this is Margaret Jane Brady,” Mrs. Carstairs said,
recovering her composure. “You may feel free to treat her as you
treat me.”
Robert nodded, very solemn, although I could see amusement
in his eyes.
“You would want to treat Florence just that much better,” I
said, indicating the dog in Mrs. Carstairs’s arms.
Robert nodded again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That
goes without saying, Miss Brady.”
So far, I was quite taken by Robert. He looked to be in his late
teens, and seemed the sort to be one of William’s mates. Mrs.
Carstairs ignored this entire exchange, inquiring as to the
whereabouts and general safety of her baggage, and whether it
would be unpacked for her, or if she would be required to do this
herself, a concept she found disagreeable. I was so busy looking
around that I missed Robert’s answer.
People were milling about, nearly surrounding us, either
trying to find their cabins, or exploring the ship and making
admiring remarks. I noticed that I was not the only one who
could not resist reaching out to touch things. Robert steered us
expertly along to a set of three lifts, and we crowded into the
first one that opened. Every woman crammed inside seemed to
be wearing a different scent, and I found it a little difficult to
breathe through the confusion of strong perfumes. We rode down
one deck, and then walked through another corridor. The walls
were a pristine white, and the floors still carpeted. It felt as
though we were inside a hotel like Claridge’s, rather than on a
ship. Somehow, I had imagined that a sailing vessel would be
much less — substantial.
“You will be right up here, Mrs. Carstairs,” Robert said,
pointing, “while Miss Brady is just across the way.” He opened
her stateroom, first, and I could see that our baggage had arrived
ahead of us.
There were several boxes of fresh flowers piled up on a low
mahogany table near a settee, and Mrs. Carstairs immediately
asked to have them arranged in vases at the first possible
opportunity. She said proudly that most of them were probably
from her dear Frederick, and was he not a thoughtful husband?
She also asked that a bowl of fresh water be brought for Florence
right away. Robert nodded, and smiled, and nodded some more.
I waited outside in the corridor, watching other patient
stewards ushering other demanding passengers to their cabins,
each receiving a bewildering litany of instructions and
complaints.
“Come knock on my door as soon as you get settled,” Mrs.
Carstairs said to me. “We will want to be up on the Boat Deck
when we cast off.”
I nodded, and followed Robert to my stateroom. He had an
interesting accent, which I could not quite place. South London,
maybe? Manchester? When I asked, he said he was a
Liverpudlian — in other words, from Liverpool. Just for fun, I
responded with some Cockney, saying that me being a Londoner,
that practically made him a “bleetin’ fawrner,” but still and all,
he seemed like a “right stiddy gint who acted proper.” He
laughed, and instinctively glanced in the direction of Mrs.
Carstairs’s door to see if she had overheard.
“She has not experienced this side of me yet,” I said.
His smile was very broad. “No, I don’t suppose she has, Miss
Brady.”
My stateroom was smaller than Mrs. Carstairs’s but still
wonderful. Before leaving to tend his other passengers, Robert
took a moment to show me where things were — from the
washbasin, to the bedside heater, to the button to push for
immediate service, and even my life belt, which was resting
neatly atop the wardrobe. I would be sharing a lavatory with
someone’s maid who had the cabin next to mine, but that was
certainly not a hardship. He told me to be sure and call him if I
needed any help, or even just had a question. Then, with a wink
and a slight bow, he left.
I stood in the middle of my cabin, thinking about how lucky I
was. I was in my own beautiful room, aboard the RMS Titanic,
the finest ocean liner in the world, on my way to America!

Later
I was just interrupted in my writing, but it was a pleasure, as a
deck steward served me a hot mug of broth. I cannot get over
how delightful it is to have people bring you things without even
being asked. The liquid tastes beefy, and rich, and full of
goodness from the marrow. I expect to be quite stout when this
voyage is over.
Shortly before noon, Mrs. Carstairs and I went along with the
general flow of passengers heading for the upper decks. Florence
remained behind, sleeping on Mrs. Carstairs’s canopy bed.
Instead of taking a lift this time, we climbed what I heard people
calling the Grand Staircase. It was, unquestionably, a very
impressive piece of architectural artistry—broad mahogany steps
winding upward, with a dome-shaped glass skylight above. A
statue of a cherub holding a light aloft graced the middle railing,
and a beautifully carved wooden clock with a pair of intricately
detailed figures dominated the wall at the top of the landing. The
time read 11:50.
The railings up on the Boat Deck were so crowded that we
could find no place to stand. We moved down to B Deck, and
found a small open space along the Promenade. I felt a shiver of
excitement each time the steam whistles blew, trumpeting our
departure. The air seemed filled with a sense of tremendous
anticipation.
Below us, the quay was also jammed by an enthusiastic crowd
of people waving their handkerchiefs or hats, and shouting
farewells. In return, our passengers were also waving, and
tossing single flowers or even full bouquets over the side. Some
splashed into the water, while others were caught by lucky
onlookers. I am sure I will never be able to forget that feeling of
shared festivity and jubilation.
The Titanic is such a large ship that a group of tugboats have
been assembled to tow us away, out into Southampton Water. As
we began to move, ever so slightly, a tremendous cheer rose up.
There were other boats berthed nearby, and their passengers and
crew members were waving at us, too.
Out of nowhere came several sharp cracking sounds. I was
afraid part of the ship had broken apart, but then saw a smaller
ship break free of its mooring ropes and veer in our direction. It
looked as though she might crash right into us! Some of the
people by the railing did not even notice, while others gasped.
The Titanic did not seem able to turn out of the way in time, but
then a wave of water slowed the other ship, and one of the
tugboats steered it to safety. An Englishman standing a few feet
away from us said, “Well, what can you expect from a ship called
the New York?” Mrs. Carstairs was not the only American nearby
who did not laugh at this. My fellow Brits, though, were almost
uniformly amused.
There was something of a delay as the New York was secured,
and I heard people grumble about being thrown off schedule. To
me, it seemed a minor mishap and hardly worth complaining
about. I was merely relieved that an accident had been averted.
Two men behind us were talking seriously about the huge wake
a ship like the Titanic created simply by moving her bulk through
the water, and how anything in her path would be helpless in the
face of that suction.
As she tends to be so nervous, I would have expected Mrs.
Carstairs to be extremely upset about our near-miss, but she was
chatting casually with the woman on her left and discussing
mutual acquaintances — of which they seemed to have many.
We were underway now, but other than a slight sense of engines
throbbing somewhere far below me, I could barely feel the ship’s
motion. Since I had been dreading a constant bobbing and
lurching, this smooth and gentle pace came as a relief.
A bugle began trumpeting so close to us that I jumped. It was
being played by a man in a crisp blue uniform with brass
buttons. All around me, almost everyone began to move away
from the railings and head back inside.
“Come along now, Margie-J.,” Mrs. Carstairs said briskly.
“Time for our luncheon.”
From this, I gathered that it was routine for the sound of a
bugle to announce meals. This was far preferable to the forceful
banging on tin pots I had heard so many times during my
childhood. It is also routine on board to call the midday meal
luncheon and the evening meal dinner.
Margie-J. Do all Americans have a penchant for misbegotten
nicknames, or is it just Mrs. Carstairs? A vulgar habit, to my way
of thinking. Then I heard another American lady up ahead of us
happily greeting someone else by shouting, “Bootsie! How are
you?” Bootsie? God save us from the Colonies.
The first-class dining saloon was on D Deck. We waited, in a
crush of people, for a lift, and then rode downstairs. There was a
large, inviting reception room in front of us, and a small band
was playing off to one side. I did not recognize the tune, but it
was very cheery. The reception room was filled with wicker
chairs surrounded by small round tables, and an array of large,
reedy plants had been placed in strategic locations. It struck me
as a cozy place to linger.
The dining saloon itself ran the full width of the ship, and
seemed even longer. The room looked as though it could easily
serve several hundred people, and yet, the small, elegant tables
had, somehow, an intimate feel. The ceilings curved into detailed
moldings, and were supported here and there by thin white
columns. A plush, patterned carpet covered the floor, and the
tall, frosted windows made it seem as though we were anyplace
but aboard a ship.
It was not my place to take any initiative, so I sat in the chair
Mrs. Carstairs indicated. It had a solid feel, with sturdy oaken
arms and legs, and medium-green upholstery. At least two people
my size could have fit in the seat, and I felt rather young and
small perched on its edge. If I were not careful, I feared that I
might slide right off. It was a chair designed to comfort the
corpulent, I suspected.
The tablecloths were white, and a small lamp with a dark red
shade sat in the middle of the table as a centerpiece. A napkin
was folded like a pair of wings atop each plate, and accompanied
by a daunting array of glassware and cutlery. Sister Catherine
had advised me always to mimic whatever the most mannerly
person at the table seemed to be doing, and I can only hope that
technique will carry me through.
Our table seated six, and shortly we were joined by a Mr. and
Mrs. Prescott, whom Mrs. Carstairs was delighted to see. She
introduced me in the briefest possible way, and then they were
off in an energetic conversation about the spring fashions, the
delight of the Russian ballet, and an endless stream of people I
did not know, and places I had never been. Even if I had felt
bold enough to participate in the conversation, I would have had
nothing to contribute to these topics. The Prescotts were pleasant
to me, but expressed great disappointment that Mr. Carstairs had
been unable to make the voyage. Mrs. Carstairs concurred, and
then they began to speak of Broadway and the West End and
other theatrical subjects.
Bangers and mash would have done me nicely, but our
luncheon was far more impressive than that, with multiple
courses. I elected not to drink any wine, and satisfied myself
with water, instead. A cold potato soup, salmon, tiny spring
peas, crisp asparagus with tart dressing, roasted meats — a
stream of blackjacketed waiters bearing silver platters appeared
at our table again and again. I generally prefer the heartier taste
of mutton, but my sliced lamb was delicious. For that matter,
everything—right down to the fruit tart and array of cheeses and
fruits we were offered for dessert—was delicious.
After our meal, I was ready for a bit of a lie-down myself, so I
was pleased when Mrs. Carstairs suggested returning to our
cabins. In our absence, her flowers had been arranged, and there
was even a bouquet of yellow daffodils in my room! Our clothing
had also been unpacked, and the luggage stowed away.
“Fairies came to visit, eh?” I said.
Mrs. Carstairs laughed. “Oh, child, it is quite customary.”
An enchanting custom, I should say.
My washstand has been well supplied with thick towels and
small scented soaps. After a mite of freshening up, I lay on my
bed for a time, marveling once again at how I could scarcely tell
that the ship was moving. Even the hum of the engines had
begun to seem familiar, and not loud enough to be oppressive.
It was just after three, according to the small clock in my
room, when I went to take Florence for a walk, and ultimately
ended up here on the Promenade, lounging on a deck chair. Yet
another steward even brought me a steamer rug to tuck about
my legs so I would not get chilled.
I have been sitting here writing for a while, then pausing to
watch people stroll by. A number of children have been playing
on the deck, tended by governesses for the most part, as well as
the occasional parent. The children have tops, and marbles, and
other small toys too numerous to mention. Except for one or two
stormy bouts of tears, they all seem to be having a happy
afternoon. Part of me would like to go over and join in, but as a
hired companion, I do not suppose I am permitted to engage in
childish pursuits on this trip. At one point, a ball rolled over in
my direction, and I tossed it back to the boy who owned it. Even
though he was probably only a year or two younger than I am,
he just said, “Thank you, miss,” and raced off to continue his
game. I cannot help feeling a bit left out — too old to play with
the children, and too young and naive to interact with the adults.
In these fancy clothes, I can pass for one of them — but, to me,
the differences in our social backgrounds feel too huge to
overcome.
I suppose I should have a driving desire to examine the ship
from top to bottom, but so far, I would rather adjust gradually to
being here. There will be plenty of time for exploration in the
days to come.
But now I think Florence could do with stretching her small
legs, so I will write more later.
Thursday, 11 April 1912
RMS Titanic
I had every intention of continuing my entry last night, but fell
asleep almost before I had a chance to lie down. The sea air can
do that, Mrs. Carstairs tells me.
We stopped in Cherbourg, France, last night, and more
passengers boarded the ship. The water was not deep enough for
us to steam all the way in, so smaller boats brought the
passengers out and transferred them aboard. “Tenders,” those
boats are called; I am not sure why. I would like now to be able
to claim that I have been to France, but sitting quite some
distance offshore does not really count, I suppose. I saw the
coast, at least.
This morning, we are en route to Queenstown, Ireland. I hope
that we dock close enough to be able to see the land of my
father’s birth. It would be even better if we were able to
disembark, so I could touch the soil of my ancestors, but that
seems doubtful.
Robert knocked on my door early this morning, and then
brought in tea, scones, marmalade, and a perfect little bunch of
grapes. He stayed to talk for a few moments, and I found out that
this is his first job as a full-fledged steward, as opposed to being
an assistant, and that he was very excited to have been assigned
to first class.
“A strange thing happened yesterday,” I told him, indicating
the cheerful vase on my bedside table. “Elves came, and brought
me a gift.”
“They must have liked your smile, Miss Brady,” he said, with a
grin. Then, a bell rang in a stateroom somewhere down the hall,
and he had to leave to answer it.
I ate every bite of the food he had brought, yet still had no
trouble eating a full breakfast in the dining saloon later. Perhaps
the sea air makes one hungry, too? Not that having a large
appetite is unusual for me, mind you.
 After breakfast, Mrs. Carstairs thought it would be nice to
spend an hour or two in the first-class writing room, which is
next to the lounge. Queenstown will be our last opportunity to
post letters before we arrive in New York. Quite a few other
passengers seemed to have the same idea, but we were able to
find an empty desk and two chairs without much difficulty.
There are lots of postcards and fancy vellum stationery available
for the passengers to use. The top of the stationery has the same
red flag with the White Star logo that I have seen on so many
other items, like menus and matchbooks, on the ship. Next to the
logo is printed: ON BOARD R M S “TITANIC.” I am tempted to slip a
few sheets into this diary to keep as a souvenir; I wonder if
anyone would mind my doing so. I will ask Robert, maybe, later,
if it would be all right. I am hoping that he and I will be friends,
as I do not feel at all shy talking to him.
I wrote fairly detailed letters about the trip to William and
Sister Catherine, and then worked on a simpler note to Nora. She
cannot yet read, but I printed neatly in the hope that she might
enjoy practicing. Then I wasted several sheets of the stationery
trying to draw an accurate picture of the ship for her to hang by
her bed. I began to get frustrated at my lack of even minimal
artistic competence, and crumpled one of the sheets so loudly
that several people in the room looked up. Mrs. Carstairs was
mortified by this unexpected attention, which I attempted to
divert by looking around as though I, too, were searching for the
dastardly crumpling culprit.
A broad-shouldered man with kind, clean-shaven features
stopped next to our desk. I had noticed him walking around,
seemingly observing everyone for about twenty minutes, and he
must have noticed my sketching struggles. He leaned over and
examined my discarded drawings before I had time to cover
them with my hand. My face felt hot with embarrassment, as
they truly were inept.
“Please excuse my disruption,” I said. “I am trying to send a
picture to a little girl of whom I am terribly fond.”
 He smiled, and said he would be happy to put together a quick
diagram for me, if I would like. I thanked him, but explained that
to Nora, my having drawn the ship myself would mean more to
her than the quality of the rendering.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, in that case, may I suggest that you angle
the funnels more? Then just try for very clean lines. Long
strokes, instead of attempting so much detail.”
I gave that a try, and my next effort showed some small
improvement.
“There you go,” he said. “I think you’ll do very nicely now.”
I thanked him again, and then he said, “Good day, ladies,” and
went on his way.
“My goodness, that was Mr. Andrews!” Mrs. Carstairs said in
an awed voice, once he was gone.
“A nice fellow,” I agreed, drawing intently.
“He designed the ship,” she said.
Startled, I stopped drawing. “Then I guess he would have done
quite an accurate illustration,” I said finally.
Mrs. Carstairs shook her head, seeming exasperated. “You are
a most curious child, M. J.”
M. J. “I thank you, Mrs. Upstairs,” I said.
“A very difficult child,” she said, sounding much more
exasperated.
I nodded, sadly, and we both returned to our letters.

Later
I am in my stateroom now, getting ready for bed. Once our
letters were completed this morning, we went up to the Boat
Deck to watch for Ireland. Mrs. Carstairs did not see the urgency
of this, but elected to humour me and come along. The sky was
bright blue, and nearly cloudless; the sea, flowing in smooth,
dark swells. There was an invigorating breeze, and I took several
deep breaths of the wintry air.
Mrs. Carstairs looked uneasy. “Where is your coat, I ask you?”
I assured her that I was quite warm, with my sweater thrown
over my shoulders. It is not a fashionable garment, so I knew she
would prefer that I not put it all the way on.
How jarring it was to look in every direction, and see nothing
but the ocean. Given the implications of that, too much thought
would have made me apprehensive, so I decided it would be far
better to praise this phenomenon.
“‘Oh ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,/Feast them
upon the wideness of the Sea,’” I said.
“Browning again?” Mrs. Carstairs asked, after a pause.
I had only meant to be jovial, not put her in an uncomfortable
position. “Keats,” I said, after a pause of my own.
She nodded heartily. “But of course.”
From now on, I think I will refrain from spontaneous
quotations.
The wind was increasing, and more and more people on the
deck were retreating to the warmth of the Promenade or one of
the public rooms. Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Carstairs decided that
she, too, would prefer to go back inside. I promised to join her
when the bugler announced luncheon. We were going to try the
Café Parisien this time, instead of the dining saloon.
As she left, I observed that I was cold, so I gave up and
shrugged into my sweater, watching the horizon intently the
entire time. If Ireland appeared, I did not want to miss anything.
Then I saw grey shapes rising up out of nowhere. Hills?
Mountains? As we drew closer, the land grew more distinct.
There were steep, stark cliffs, grey and barren, with
extraordinary green pastures and hills behind them. The land
was both rocky and lush, and I fell in love with it at once. It
lacked the civility and dignity of the English countryside, but
somehow had a wild, bewitching charm. An intoxicating charm.
So much green! How could potatoes ever have dreamed of
refusing to thrive in fields like that? It seemed a crime against
nature, as well as humanity.
Once again, we did not enter the harbour; but, rather, tenders
crowded with new passengers rode out to meet us. Realizing that
I was looking at Cork, where my father had been born, brought
tears to my eyes. How I would have loved to have him standing
here next to me, at this very moment. Mummy never got a
chance to see Ireland, either, and I know she would be staring as
eagerly as I was.
There were other boats following the tenders, with people
inside clamoring to come aboard. I asked a bundled-up woman
reading in a deck chair what they were, and she said that the
boats contained merchants hoping to come aboard and make a
quick profit. A few actually were allowed to set up shop while
we were anchored, and I heard later that they were displaying
the most beautiful lace, along with china and linen.
It was with deep regret that I went inside for luncheon, and I
barely noticed my food, so eager was I to return to the Boat Deck
and admire Ireland. Two shrill middle-aged sisters were seated at
our table, and they told us, at giggling length, about the
horrifying thing they had seen while they were out on the deck.
A demonlike face had appeared to them, peeking out of the aft
funnel, and laughing, as one of them put it, like “Beelzebub
himself!” Mr. Prescott, who was also at our table with his wife,
assured them that it had certainly been a member of the crew
doing maintenance work. The sisters remained convinced that
there must be a more sinister explanation. This was altogether
too eccentric for me, and I asked to be excused, so that I could
go back outside. Mrs. Carstairs agreed reluctantly, but urged me
to stay away from the funnel in question, just in case.
Back on the Boat Deck, I was pleased to discover that we were
sailing along the coast, rather than heading straight out to sea. A
great flock of screeching seagulls was following us, swooping,
and diving, and otherwise enjoying the day. I leaned on the
railing until well past teatime, watching the beautiful scenery
pass by. We passed islands, and lighthouses, and austere, craggy
cliffs. The rock formations were fascinating in their variety, and I
do not think I could ever get tired of those glorious shades of
green in the landscape beyond. Of course, I will always love
London, but my father must never have stopped regretting
leaving this splendid country behind.
Someday, I must come back to Ireland and see all of that
beauty up close.
After dinner tonight—the meal as lavish as ever, I might add—
we went up to A Deck to listen to a concert by the five-man
orchestra. I was not familiar with many of the tunes, but they
were all gay and cheerful, and it was an enjoyable evening.
People applauded each effort enthusiastically, and sometimes
shouted out requests. The band would respond right away, never
once stymied. I found the ragtime particularly engaging. Mrs.
Carstairs says it is very popular in the States, and was pleased to
answer the many questions I had about American music in
general.
I realize that I have yet to do my stateroom justice on paper.
Right now, I am reclining on my bed, which has thick blue
curtains I can draw around it for privacy, if I so choose. My
entire room has been decorated in shades of blue, from the
flocked wallpaper to the bedspread to the thick carpet. I even
have my own writing desk and dressing table, the latter with a
large antique mirror mounted above it. There is also a small
sitting area, with a shiny square table and two comfortable
armchairs. I have a bedside heater, as well as a ceiling fan. My
washstand — with two sinks! — is against the far wall. The
paneling is a glossy dark chestnut shade that matches the
wardrobe exactly.
I have the porthole opened slightly, to get the air. It is dark, so
there is nothing to see, but the breeze is welcome. Otherwise, it
feels a little stuffy to me. There are numerous small lamps on the
walls and tables, but I like keeping the room somewhat dim and
mysterious.
Someone is knocking on my door — I wonder why? I have
only just returned from walking Florence, so surely it is not Mrs.
Carstairs telling me she needs to go again.
It was Robert, with hot chocolate, some biscuits, and a bright
red apple.
“I thought you might want a snack before retiring, Miss
Brady,” he said. “Most of my passengers do.”
I realized that a snack would, in fact, be a welcome treat.
“Thank you very much for thinking of me,” I said. “It should
never have occurred to me to bother you.”
His eyes twinkled. “I must say, you are not my most difficult
passenger, Miss Brady.”
I imagined not, since I heard bells in all of the nearby cabins
summoning him constantly. “I would be very pleased if you
would call me Margaret,” I said.
He hesitated. “We are supposed to treat our passengers with
the utmost respect at all times.”
“I will keep your disgraceful breach of protocol to myself,” I
said.
He laughed, and then looked a little tired as two bells chimed
simultaneously out in the corridor. “I must bid you good night
then, Margaret,” he said, and left the room, still smiling.
I finished every bite of the apple and all three biscuits, making
my hot chocolate last the entire time. While I ate, I read the
Henry James novel I had borrowed from the ship’s huge library
after breakfast this morning. I also have some Ralph Waldo
Emerson essays, and a collection of Emily Dickinson poems,
waiting by my bed.
Frankly, I never want to leave this ship; it is the most
wonderful place on Earth.
Friday, 12 April 1912
RMS Titanic
Somewhere at Sea
I have now discovered that when one is aboard ship, there is a
whole new vocabulary to learn. I got Robert to explain some of it
to me this morning, when he arrived with tea, toast, and jam.
“Port” is left, and “starboard” is right. I think. It is hard to keep
all of these new words straight in my mind. The “bow” is in the
front of the ship, and the “stern” is in the rear. When people say
“amidships,” they seem to mean the middle. “Aft” is someplace
behind you. Corridors are “alleyways,” the kitchen is a “galley,”
and walls are “bulkheads.” And never, ever, ever would you call
the Titanic a “boat.” She is a “ship.” Why ships are called “she,”
rather than “he,” has not yet been satisfactorily explained to me.
Tradition, perhaps.
Mrs. Carstairs has found a group of avid bridge players, and
they spent most of today playing in the lounge. I watched for a
while, but found the intricacies of the game quite dreary.
With Mrs. Carstairs thusly occupied, I had plenty of time to
explore today. Her only firm request was that I be certain to
come to her stateroom before meals to help her dress. That
sounds foolish, but with all of her corsets and petticoats and
elaborate dresses, she seems to need an extra pair of hands. She
changes before every single meal, and I have yet to see her wear
the same outfit twice. This variety seems to be very important to
the women on the ship, although for the life of me, I am not sure
why. It seems a great waste of time to worry so about fashion. I
even grow impatient during the time it takes to comb my hair.
Mrs. Carstairs is disturbed that a young man is serving as our
cabin steward, and says she is tempted to request a stewardess,
instead. I quickly promised that she could depend on me to assist
in any way she desires, and reminded her of the lovely job
Robert had done arranging her flowers. She seemed dubious, but
finally nodded reluctantly and waved me away.
 I went all the way down (G Deck? F Deck? I lost count) to the
swimming pool and squash court this morning, and peeked
inside the rooms. I had no urge to engage in either of these
activities, but it was entertaining to watch others do so. Later, I
examined the Turkish baths, the postal office, and the first-class
maids’ and valets’ dining saloon. I have not run across many of
the maids and valets, and rarely even see the young woman who
shares my lavatory. Her name is Josephine, and her employer is
a crotchety and demanding elderly woman who keeps her so
busy that she scarcely has a moment to herself. I am fortunate
that Mrs. Carstairs is far more reasonable about such things. We
are, perhaps, not an ideal pair, but even my brief glimpses of
Josephine’s harried face rushing by make me count my blessings.
For amusement, I rode the lifts for a while, and had a nice chat
with a boy named Stephen who operates one of them. He is from
Southampton, and overjoyed to have found employment on such
a fine ship. It is funny — I am really only comfortable here when
I am speaking to members of the crew. I am sure I would also
feel at ease if I were traveling in steerage, since I would no
longer feel like such a fraud. I know how lucky I am, but still, it
would have been nice if I had earned my passage on this ship.
Later on, I wandered into the gymnasium, and the very fit Mr.
McCawley, who oversees the room, demonstrated the various
machines for me. In the East End, people are too busy working to
exercise, but it seems to be different for the leisure class. I did not
care for the mechanical horse or camel — far too jouncy and
erratic — but I pedaled quite effectively on a stationary bicycle.
It is queer to ride and ride and not go anywhere, but there is a
clock on the wall with small pointers that move to show how far
you have traveled. I also tried the rowing machine, but did not
find myself to be very adept at this.
First-class passengers can go anywhere they choose, but the
second-class and most especially the third-class passengers are
restricted to certain parts of the ship. There are actually locked
gates and other barriers to keep the steerage passengers
segregated from everyone else. The only time I have seen anyone
from steerage is from the end of the Promenade, looking down at
the deck by the ship’s stern. That particular deck is known —
here I share some more of my new vernacular, courtesy of
Robert — as the “poop deck.” There is almost always a great
laughing crowd gathered there, and some man keeps playing the
bagpipes. I have also heard a fiddler. It reminds me, fondly, of
Whitechapel. First-class passengers tend to frown down at the
steerage passengers, pointing and making comments as though
they were at the zoological gardens in Regent’s Park. This makes
me so uncomfortable that I have decided I will stay to the bow
end of the ship as much as possible.
I have no sense of what the conditions are like down in
steerage, and hope it is not too dreadful. William’s stories of his
transatlantic voyage were horrid — and haunting. I have little
sense of what is happening anywhere other than the first-class
areas. Part of me would like to go down and see steerage for
myself, but the idea of being able to pass through the locked
gates at will, while others cannot, is terribly offensive to me. I
think it would be very contemptuous. In the lift, Stephen told me
that a number of first-class passengers have done just that,
laughing when they returned and talking about how much fun it
was to go “slumming.” So, despite my curiosity, I have no
intention of doing that myself.
The ship is so big that you can actually get tired walking
around it. When I bring Florence, I always have to carry her part
of the way. She can be fierce, but she is not very hardy. Because
it is so cold, Mrs. Carstairs has been making me put a tiny
handmade sweater on Florence before taking her out. This seems
whimsical to me, but I am not about to argue. Besides, Florence
enjoys preening.
On more than one occasion, I have passed a remarkably tall,
mustached man walking his Airedale on the Boat Deck. He has
been pointed out to me as Colonel Astor, and Mrs. Carstairs says
that he is one of the richest men in the entire world. He never
seems to look cheerful, except when he is walking his dog.
People are always gossiping about his wife, because she is much
younger than he is and, “in the family way.” There is so much
gossip during meals — about everyone and everything — that I
am very glad to be such an anonymous figure. Once people find
out that I am only a companion, most of them promptly lose
interest in me, and begin to talk to someone else. I am not easily
offended, so this bothers me not a twit. Besides, the marvelous
meals themselves continue to offer me plenty of distraction.
A man named Mr. Hollings has attached himself to us because
we are unescorted. Apparently, gentlemen aboard ship feel a
duty to look after women traveling alone. Mrs. Carstairs says her
Frederick would be very pleased to know that we are so well
protected. His guardianship seems mostly demonstrated by his
taking Mrs. Carstairs by one elbow and leading us to our table at
mealtimes. If Mrs. Carstairs is out on the deck — a fairly rare
event, as she continues to be occupied by marathon card games
— Mr. Hollings makes certain that the ever-responsive stewards
are paying her what he feels is sufficient attention. Often now,
during meals, he joins us, along with a rather weedy young man
named Ralph Kittery, whose sole pursuits appear to be polo and
the American stock market. Mrs. Carstairs is much better about
feigning interest in these subjects than I am. I can manage
nothing better than a vague, impersonal smile, and maybe a nod
or two.
What an unusual situation, to be seated at tables full of
Americans, meal after meal. They are lively people, but almost
childishly gullible. Any Englishman or woman would instantly
see through my accent, which is, at best, of the light Oxford
variety. I have been introduced to some of the British passengers,
in the Reception Room before dinner and so forth, and once I
speak, they almost always give me a smile that looks more like a
wry wink. But the Americans all seem to think that I sound
terribly clever. When I do speak, Mrs. Carstairs appears to hold
her breath. I am not exactly sure what she fears I will say, but it
seems as good a reason as any to remain reserved.
A Mrs. Janson from Philadelphia was included in our dinner
group this evening. She is blond and willowy and prone to
blinking constantly. She asked where I was from, and when I
said Whitechapel, by way of Wapping, she commented upon the
beauty of the names. Insofar as Whitechapel is concerned, I
wanted to say that yes, Jack the Ripper had apparently shared
her affection for this area—but I held my tongue. Rarely do these
Americans seem to enjoy my humor. But sometimes, I admit, I
cannot resist.
“I met the most remarkable Parisian child on the Boat Deck
today,” I remarked, during a lull in the conversation tonight.
“Scarcely four years old, and already speaking French!”
A puzzled silence fell over the table. Then, to my surprise,
Horace, the wine steward, laughed. He was not joined by anyone
else, quickly changed the laugh into a cough, and began to refill
everyone’s glasses.
In the meantime, I returned to my haddock. And soon, the
conversation shifted, once again, to the many joys of the summer
season in Newport.
Such are the social interactions I have been experiencing. I
must be a terrible disappointment as a companion, since Mrs.
Carstairs and I are able to find little common conversational
ground. But I am continuing to assume a number of mundane
housekeeping chores for her, so I guess I am fulfilling the
requirements of a maid. These tasks include sending her clothes
out daily to be sponged and pressed, changing the water in her
flower vases, ordering trays for her, and of course, taking very
good care of Florence. Devoted as Mrs. Carstairs is to her dog,
she does not seem to enjoy walking her — or, more crucially,
cleaning up after her. Yesterday, Florence caught me off guard
right at the end of a row of covered lifeboats, and a passing
ship’s officer gallantly contributed his handkerchief to the cause.
 I was happy to retire somewhat earlier than usual tonight; my
day of exploring fatigued me. The sound of those steadily
throbbing engines below is very soothing, and also helps lull one
to sleep. With all of the many sights on the ship, I still think that
I like the reading and writing room best of all. I could easily
spend the full day there, and never grow restless.
Between that room, and the library, I would have no trouble
finding activities to amuse myself.
The weather was so lovely today. I hope tomorrow is just as
nice!
Saturday, 13 April 1912
RMS Titanic
I really enjoy the morning ritual of having tea and scones in my
room — and as much conversation as we can manage before the
peal of a bell calls Robert away. He has taken to bringing an
extra scone or two, and joining me in my meal.
“How is it down in steerage?” I asked him today.
“Oh, quite comfortable,” he assured me. “I would be right
pleased to journey that way myself. I’ve seen ships where second
class is not so nice as our third.”
I gave that some thought. “How are your cabins, then?”
“Well, we have very little time to spend there,” he said, after a
pause. “And it was a great piece of luck, my catching on with
this crew. Many’s the week I could find no work, and my mum
sore needs the money.”
“My brother made his passage as a cabin boy on a fair rotter of
a steamer,” I said. “I never thought I would be anywhere but
steerage.”
He winked at me. “So, we’ve both had a bit of luck, then.”
As always, bells began to chime, and he was off. Each
morning, he includes the Titanic’s small newspaper on my tray,
the Atlantic Daily Bulletin, and I picked it up to read. The stories
are more chatty than informational, and report items such as the
number of miles we have cruised during any given twenty-four-
hour period. As the weather has been no handicap, the ship
seems to do better and better, and there is a daily contest for
passengers to predict the actual figure. We are expected to arrive
in New York on Wednesday morning. Oh, I hope William is
standing there on the dock waiting for me!

Later
This afternoon while I was on the starboard-side Promenade,
Colonel Astor stopped to pat and admire Florence. He had his
own dog in tow, and I asked him what the dog’s name was.
When he said, “Kitty,” I laughed, which clearly pleased him. He
may be an imposing figure, but how could you dislike a man
who named his dog “Kitty”?
Mrs. Carstairs and I took tea in the Café Parisien, instead of
the lounge. The atmosphere is much less formal than the dining
saloon, and we had a harmonious time. There is a light, airy feel
to the room, complemented by numerous plants and wicker
chairs. Trains of ivy actually climb the walls! We were joined by
several other ladies, one of whom had a great booming laugh,
which she employed regularly. Her name is Mrs. Brown, and
people seem to think her amusing, but boorish. Since she sat
down right next to me, and plied me with friendly questions, I
liked her at once. If anything, discovering that I was a mere
companion only increased her attention. She feels that I will find
America smashing, and that Boston will suit me well, as the area
is famous for its educational institutions. I was encouraged by
this information, and hope that her 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.
“All 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 paneled 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 flavored, 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 sweaters, 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.
“Excuse 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 guess servants do not count.
My peaceful time ruined, I got up and returned inside. I must
try to remember that, for the most part, people on the ship have
been very nice to me, indeed. And he had smelled of whiskey, so
perhaps he was not in his right mind.
Even so, it hurt my feelings.
Sunday, 14 April 1912
RMS Titanic
This morning, we went to a religious service in the dining
saloon. I took great solace from this, which suggests that I may
be more devout than I would have estimated. At St. Abernathy’s,
we attended some form of mass every day, and it became part of
the fabric of my life. The sight of nuns and priests came to be a
comforting one to me. This mass was being called a Divine
Service, presumably so that passengers of every faith would feel
comfortable attending. Second- and third-class passengers were
welcome, but not as many took advantage of this as I would
have thought. Many of the ones who did come took unobtrusive
seats, or stood, in the back of the crowded room. I was very
tempted to join them, but knew that it would upset Mrs.
Carstairs, and so I just stayed where I was.
Rather than a clergyman or priest, the service was led by
Captain E. J. Smith himself. I know he is very busy commanding
the ship, but he also mingles in passenger areas sometimes. He
has a formidable appearance, with his dense grey beard and
solemn eyes, but his voice is soft and almost melodic.
Everywhere he goes, people want him to stop and talk to them,
and he seems to be unfailingly polite. Mrs. Carstairs is somewhat
miffed that we have yet to dine at his table, although today we
are to have lunch with the Purser, Mr. McElroy, and the affable
ship’s doctor, Dr. O’Loughlin. She feels certain that if her
Frederick were here, her social standing would rise considerably.
At the service, we were each handed a copy of the White Star
Line’s Book of Prayer. Many of the prayers and psalms were
familiar, while others had a specific nautical theme. The
orchestra accompanied us on all of the hymns, which culminated
with a rousing chorus of “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.”
At one o’clock, the bugler called us to luncheon. At St.
Abernathy’s, bells summoned us throughout the day; now, I
respond to a bugle. This may or may not be progress.
 As we are going to be at a more prestigious table than usual,
Mrs. Carstairs told me to change into my yellow dress and to
take extra care with my hair.
Most of our mealtime conversation concerned an endless
stream of questions directed towards Purser McElroy and Dr.
O’Loughlin. As senior members of the crew, it is expected that
they are privy to special snippets of inside information. There
was much talk about the ship’s performance, and whether the
rumor that we might reach New York on Tuesday night, rather
than the following morning, is true. One gentleman at our table
— I forget his name — even wanted to know if the tales of
icebergs ahead were reliable. Most of these questions were
dodged with vague generalities. So my tablemates moved on to
compliments, and complaints about many of the ship’s amenities.
These, Purser McElroy addressed with more authority.
I, of course, concentrated on savoring my meal, since I was
ravenous. It would not have been appropriate to eat before the
Divine Service, so I had declined breakfast this morning. I had
been afraid that this would offend Robert, but he said he was
only too pleased to respect my wishes. I did sip some tea, and we
talked a little about what it had been like for him growing up
with five sisters and three brothers in Liverpool. It sounded as
though he had been raised in a close and jolly family, even
though he said that he and his brothers had gotten into “many a
scrap.” I admitted that while I preferred only to remember the
happy times, William and I had been known to have a row or
two ourselves. A row or three, William probably would have said.
During my third course, Dr. O’Loughlin smiled across the table
at me. He has white hair, and seems terribly kind. “You do not
suffer from a delicate constitution, do you, child?”
“I embrace culinary excess, sir,” I said, and he laughed.
“Spoken like a true Edwardian!” Purser McElroy proclaimed,
and more people chuckled.
 After that wonderful feast, I was content to read in my room,
while Mrs. Carstairs napped. Before it was time to dress for
dinner, we went to the Purser’s Office, so that she could retrieve
some of her jewels. Then we stopped by the wireless office, so
that she could send a telegram to her son-in-law, to let him know
that she might arrive earlier than expected. The two young men
working in the Marconi room were strikingly civil, but I saw a
huge stack of messages piled in two baskets, and they seemed
somewhat overwhelmed.
That evening, it took Mrs. Carstairs much longer than usual to
get ready. She wanted me to help her arrange a singularly fancy
hairdo, but my efforts on her behalf were clumsy. In the end, she
summoned a friend’s maid to assist her, all the while directing
me to watch very closely so that I would be able to do it myself
next time. I suspected that she was overdressed, but soon
discovered that elaborate evening gowns with an abundance of
accessories were the norm tonight. The men wore black dinner
jackets and looked very debonair, indeed.
I was a little unsteady in my new shoes, but put them on to
make Mrs. Carstairs happy. My green silk dress felt very sleek,
and I carefully pinned my ornate, gaudy hat to my hair. It rested
at a tilt that seemed jaunty to me, so I did not adjust it. Mrs.
Carstairs also gave me an extra pair of her gloves, which reached
almost all the way to my elbows!
Anyone who had accused me of being hoity-toity at this
particular moment would have been absolutely correct.
When we walked into the Reception Room for pre-dinner
cocktails, the sight of my fellow passengers decked out in their
very best was impressive. Trains and bustles, stylish jackets and
stoles, furs and pearls, lace and satin, gold and emeralds, each
hat more decorative and festive than the last. Tonight is an
extra-special occasion as people will be concentrating on their
packing tomorrow.
 Mr. Hollings fetched Mrs. Carstairs a glass of wine, and me
some mineral water. When it was time to go in for dinner, his
stodgy young friend, Mr. Kittery, glanced over, looked again, and
then offered his elbow to me. This gave me the sense that my
appearance — or at least the quality of my silk dress — was
moderately successful tonight. Mrs. Carstairs reminded him,
sharply, that I am only a young girl, and he should behave in a
gentlemanly manner. Since all he wanted to do was share yet
another series of tales about his many polo exploits, I think her
concern was misplaced.
Everyone in the dining saloon seemed to be in high spirits, and
animated conversations raised the usual noise level. I tried a raw
oyster for an appetizer, and found its salty intensity a bit much.
The next course of cream of barley soup was more to my liking.
No sooner had I laid down my spoon or fork than my plate was
swiftly taken away and replaced by a fresh one.
The stream of silver platters borne by restaurant stewards
came at a steady pace. Among other treats, I enjoyed roast
duckling, château potatoes, and creamed carrots. For dessert I
selected a chocolate éclair with vanilla ice cream. By now, I was
quite satiated, and saw no need to avail myself of the traditional
cheese-and-fruit course.
After a repast like that, it was almost surprising that any of us
were able to walk. Some of the passengers seemed rather tipsy,
but it was all in the spirit of celebration and good fun. Tonight’s
concert by the orchestra was even more stirring than usual, and I
sipped a raspberry cordial throughout.
It has become so cold that I took Mrs. Carstairs’s advice and
wore my pink coat when I walked Florence. It may have clashed
with my gown, but there were very few people outside to notice.
As a rule, there are many affectionate couples strolling about,
but tonight, the frigid temperature seemed to have dissuaded
most of them, and I often had full stretches of deck to myself.
Fortunately, there was no sign of the rude gentleman with the
cigarettes.
 The sky was so astoundingly clear that I stopped and gazed up
in outright fascination. The ocean was so smooth that it looked
like glass, and the stars had an incomparable brilliance. The
moon had yet to rise, but the starlight more than compensated
for this. What an extraordinary evening it had been!
Once Florence was safely situated back with Mrs. Carstairs, I
treated myself to a comfortable soak in the tub and changed into
my sleeping gown. I have been writing quite furiously ever since,
but am beginning to feel drowsy, so I think I will stop soon. It is
past eleven-thirty, and I am looking forward to a peaceful night.
Robert, of course, has already appeared with hot chocolate,
which I am still sipping. After that gargantuan meal, I have no
appetite for biscuits, but the cocoa is delicious. We did not have
much time to talk, because one of the other passengers is feeling
somewhat queasy, and Robert was waiting for Dr. O’Loughlin to
come up and examine him. However, in the morning, I am sure
we can —
A very strange thing just happened. My hand seemed perfectly
steady, and yet I spilled part of my hot chocolate. It was as
though there was a jolt, and the hot liquid just slopped right
over the edge. Perhaps the seas are beginning to get rough?
Oh, I hope not, after such a tranquil time so far.
I am afraid Mrs. Carstairs will be upset when she finds out that
I have stained my new nightclothes with chocolate. Maybe I
should put them to soak in a washbasin, and change into my old
nightdress from St. Abernathy’s.
There seems to be some commotion out in the alleyway, so
maybe I will go see what happened. Maybe other people noticed
the jolting sensation as well?

I have just returned, after shrugging on Father’s wool coat as a

dressing gown and slipping into my button-boots. People were
walking by on their way to the deck to see if perhaps we struck
another ship. Others feel that we may have grazed an iceberg, as
the weather is so cold tonight. I knocked on Mrs. Carstairs’s
door, but she told me she was trying to sleep, and I should do
the same, as any sensible person would at this hour. I am,
however, inclined to get dressed, and go up to the deck to
examine the situation for myself. I know he is busy, but I am
even tempted to go find Robert, and ask him if — wait,
something is different. I am not sure what, but everything seems
different.
There has been a change in the atmosphere that I cannot quite
distinguish. My ears feel a little hollow, and—that is the
difference. I can no longer hear the soothing, constant vibration
of the engines. Over the past few days, that has become a
comforting background noise — and now, just like that, it is
gone. I wonder why.
Voices out in the hall keep saying the word “iceberg,” but no
one seems upset. Maybe this sort of event is routine in ocean
travel. It seems odd that the engines would stop, so I hope they
are not damaged in any way. Maybe they are just running more
slowly, which is why I can no longer hear them.
I think I will go out and find Robert now, since I know that he
will relieve my curiosity.
This must be routine. What else could it be?
Monday, 15 April 1912
My hands are shaking, I feel hot tears struggling against my eyes,
and I have no idea where to begin. I feel a driving need to tell
everything properly, exactly as it happened, but my mind is
cluttered with confusion, and exhaustion, and despair. And grief;
I am overcome by grief.
The Boat Deck. I will go back to the Boat Deck, and follow the
evening through from there. Or—no, the story begins earlier, so
that is where I will start.
It was after midnight, and I could still hear people moving
about in the passageway. Before I had time to go out and join
them, there was a sharp knock on my door. I opened it to see
Robert. He was smiling, but his eyes looked urgent.
“Good evening, Miss Brady,” he said. “You need to put on
something warm, and report to the Boat Deck with your life
belt.”
Miss Brady? When I heard that, I felt alarmed for the first
time, but I was also startled. Had I done something to offend
him? That would be terrible. I must have looked upset, because
he reached out to pat my arm.
“A routine drill,” he said. “No need to fret.”
I knew he needed to get on with his duties, so I found a smile
for him and nodded. If he said it was routine, it must be routine.
Robert started for the next stateroom, but then stopped.
“You’ll not want to take your time, Margaret,” he said in a
very quiet voice.
It did not seem possible — but maybe this was not a drill.
“Robert,” I started.
“Please,” he said. “There’s no time to waste.”
 He looked so worried that I did not want to trouble him with
any questions, so I just nodded.
“I have already woken Mrs. Carstairs, but you will want to
urge her along,” he said.
I nodded again, and he patted my arm once more before
moving on to the next stateroom.
My hands trembled as I swiftly pulled on my warmest clothes.
My button-boots, the thickest petticoat, the grey skirt, a white
blouse, and my old brown sweater. Over all of this, I wore
Father’s black wool coat, tucking gloves into one pocket, and this
diary into the other. On further ref lection, I slipped his copy of
Hamlet in as well, and checked to make sure Mummy’s locket
was safely around my neck. Then I pulled my life belt over my
head and fastened it securely. The belt was so bulky that it was
hard to walk, or even move my arms.
Across the hall, Mrs. Carstairs was vexed at the prospect of
going outside.
“Why on earth are you so bundled up?” she asked me. “They
are merely taking precautions.”
If Robert wanted us to hurry, I trusted that he had a good
reason. “I believe you should approach this situation as though it
were serious,” I said calmly. “We must do as we have been
instructed.”
“Well, I hope they lock the staterooms,” Mrs. Carstairs
grumbled. “I have far too many valuables to risk.”
We had a short argument when Mrs. Carstairs decided that she
did not want to expose Florence to the cold night air, and that
she should remain resting safely in the cabin. I would not hear of
that, and put Florence into her sweater at once. Mrs. Carstairs
found this cheeky; at the moment, I found her downright stupid.
Mrs. Carstairs also balked at putting on her life belt, because it
seemed too cumbersome. I was losing patience by now, but
fortunately Robert came in just then and took over, giving quiet,
but firm, instructions.
“Will my valuables be safe?” Mrs. Carstairs asked. “Ought we
not go to the Purser?”
He told her not to worry, because he would be certain to
secure the cabins, and that she must now go to the Boat Deck
without further delay. As we were leaving, I looked at him, still
smiling but looking very pale in his white uniform jacket.
“Everything will be fine, Margaret,” he said. “The crew is
terribly well trained.”
Surely that must be so, but why was he avoiding my eyes?
“Should we wait for you?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Then you will join us up there?” I asked.
“Straight away,” he said.
Still, I felt hesitant. “Ought I to stay down here and help you? I
could —”
He shook his head more firmly, and Mrs. Carstairs sighed.
“All right, come along, Margie,” she said. “The sooner we go
up, the sooner we can come back down.”
Robert was nodding, so I bent to attach Florence’s leash and
lead her upstairs.
“Just one more thing,” Robert said, and then he reached out
and checked to make sure that I had fastened my life belt
properly. Then he pointed me in the direction of the Grand
Staircase and lifts, and hurried off down the hall as a bell rang in
one of the other cabins.
“This is utterly ridiculous,” Mrs. Carstairs sniffed, as we started
up the Grand Staircase, accompanied by a stream of passengers
in various states of dress. “We should never have been roused
from our beds like this.”
 “Has this ever happened to you before?” I asked. “You and Mr.
Carstairs have taken so many trips.”
“In the middle of the night?” she said. “Certainly not! I find it
outrageous, frankly.”
The steps seemed somehow crooked, and I could not figure out
why. Was something on the ship broken? How could any of this
possibly be routine? My heart began to pound, and I was finding
it a little difficult to swallow.
On the whole, the other passengers seemed to think this was
either a jolly game, or an irritating inconvenience. There was no
running or pushing, or even any raised voices. Mostly, people
were just joking or grumbling. I relaxed a little, deciding that
there must be no good reason to be afraid.
When we stepped outside, the sudden exposure to the icy air
made me suck in a short breath. Then again, how could anyone
think that the ship would hold a routine drill when it was this
cold? Such an event would be sheer madness. There must be
something terribly wrong here.
“I wonder how soon they will let us go back downstairs,” Mrs.
Carstairs groused.
“This is absurd. The White Star Line will certainly be hearing
from me,” someone else was saying behind us.
The ship’s officers and seamen were uncovering the lifeboats
and hurling the canvases aside. The passengers were standing in
small groups, watching with perfunctory interest and chatting
among themselves. A number of people had merely tossed coats
on over their nightclothes and wore slippers on their feet. Since
they all seemed to expect to go back inside momentarily, I
assumed that my nerves must only be a result of my
inexperience.
But if that was so, why did the deck seem to tilt forward?
Surely, it ought not to do that. Then again, the Titanic was the
finest and safest ship ever built, so there must be a reasonable
explanation.
 The officers were calling for people to board the lifeboats, but
almost no one volunteered. The Titanic was so warm and safe,
with its bright lights, and the dark ocean looked lonely and
dangerous. For the time being, it seemed the better part of
wisdom to stay aboard.
I saw Captain Smith pass by, with ship designer Andrews, and
they were both so carefully expressionless that once again, I felt
a stirring of fear. If there was no problem, they would have been
making reassuring remarks, and their faces would lack that
tightness. Mrs. Carstairs interpreted their calm manner to suggest
that everything was perfectly fine, and most of the people
around us agreed with her.
I wished that Robert would come out here soon. It was so
dark, and crowded, that I was going to have to keep out a very
sharp eye for him. There did not seem to be any cabin stewards
out here yet, so they must still have had things to do below
decks.
In the meantime, the officers at the lifeboats were trying very
hard to convince people to get aboard. A brave few did so, which
encouraged others to follow along. But the first boat appeared to
be barely half full. I was sure that there were plenty of boats, so
this did not concern me. We would all have our chance.
A tremendous amount of steam was bursting noisily out of the
funnels above us, and I felt a surge of hope, even though it made
my ears hurt. Maybe they were getting ready to start the engines
again!
Someone was saying that a great crush of ice had fallen upon
the aft decks, and that some of the third-class passengers had
come up to play an impromptu game of football with the chunks.
A few first-class passengers wandered down in that direction to
watch, and maybe collect some ice for themselves.
Mrs. Carstairs, who was among the impractically dressed
group, shivered next to me. “I cannot be bothered with this
tomfoolery,” she said. “I am going inside to get warm.”
 Faint music was coming from the First-Class Lounge, where
the band must have been playing. Tentatively, I started to follow
her.
“No, you stay out here, M. J.,” she said, “so you can come and
report on the progress.”
So I stayed outdoors. I was on the port side, and the officers
were repeatedly requesting that women and children only step
forward. The first boat on our side was slowly filling up, and the
second was being lowered to the next deck, so it would be easier
to board. A group of women and children were ushered
downstairs to meet it. No sooner had they gone than they
returned, because the Promenade windows had blocked their
way. So the boat behind it began to be loaded, instead.
The passengers were still very quiet, waiting cooperatively to
be told where to go, and what to do. The only shouts came from
the men manning the lifeboats, who yelled things like, “Lower
away!” and, “We need an able-bodied seaman over here!” and
the ever-present, “Women and children first!”
The forward tilt of the deck was, to my eyes, growing more
and more pronounced. I could think of no explanation, unless—
but we couldn’t actually be sinking, could we? Suddenly, there
was a blinding white light and a strange whistling sound,
followed by the boom of an explosion up in the sky. The noise
made everyone duck, and now I saw fear in formerly confident
faces. My heart was pounding harder than ever, and my stomach
began to ache.
“Distress rockets,” someone murmured.
Distress rockets?! Impossible as it seemed, that could only
mean one thing.
Immediately, I went inside to tell Mrs. Carstairs, and try to
convince her to come back out. I was having little success, but
then Mr. Hollings came over and echoed my concerns, and she
peevishly returned to the Boat Deck. I took hold of Florence’s
leash and went after them.
 “Is there really a problem here?” she asked Mr. Hollings.
He glanced around, and then nodded slowly, as though
making sure no one else was listening. “The word came down
from Mr. Ismay himself, I heard. You must find yourself a seat, at
once.” Ismay was the Managing Director of the White Star Line,
who I had been told was traveling on this voyage. He would be
one of the people most likely to know the true extent of the
damage.
Now Mrs. Carstairs’s eyes widened, and she allowed Mr.
Hollings to guide her over to Boat 8. The boat was already
partially occupied, and women were hesitantly stepping inside.
An elderly woman allowed an officer and a strapping sailor to
help her aboard with her maid. Then, just as suddenly, she got
back out and went to stand next to an elderly gentleman still on
the deck, saying something to the effect of, “Where you go, I go.”
Her husband, and the men nearby, tried to dissuade her, but she
could not be convinced to leave him behind. So the men turned
their attention to her husband, suggesting that he get in the
lifeboat as well. He refused them with quiet good humour, and
the next thing I saw was the elderly couple going off to sit down
in deck chairs. They were holding hands tightly, and seemed
unaware of anything in the world beyond each other.
We were sinking. We were actually sinking. My legs felt weak,
and I had to swallow hard to keep my expression as calm and
brave as everyone else’s seemed to be.
The officers were still trying to fill Boat 8, and Mr. Hollings
implored Mrs. Carstairs to do as they were advising and climb in.
“I—I don’t know,” she wavered. “It seems so very dark out
there. Perhaps I should —”
Was there really time to squander quibbling right now? After
all, the word had come from the Managing Director himself,
hadn’t it? “Just get in the boat, Mrs. Carstairs,” I snapped. She
stared at me, looking confused. “Mrs. Carstairs,” I said again,
through clenched teeth. “Get in the —”
 Before I could finish, she nodded shortly and moved toward
the boat with something of an offended flounce.
“Here you go, ma’am,” one of the officers kept saying
patiently, as he tried to coax people into the lifeboat. “Step
aboard, ma’am. Women and children only, sir.”
Husbands and teenage sons were escorting their wives and
sisters forward, and then calmly promising to join them later on.
Some of the women meekly obeyed; others refused to leave at
all. I saw a couple of women literally being dragged into
lifeboats, sobbing, while their husbands stayed behind, smiling
wanly.
And yet, there was still no real sense of panic. I could not tell
whether this was because so many did not want to believe that
there was any genuine danger, or if everyone was just
extraordinarily courageous. I, for one, was growing increasingly
frightened.
Halfway into the lifeboat, Mrs. Carstairs stopped short.
“Wait! I’ll not go another step without her!” she cried out.
Mr. Hollings and the nearest officer looked at me expectantly.
Without a word, I held out Florence’s leash, and Mrs. Carstairs
scooped her up and clutched her against her life belt.
“Wait until the other first-class ladies board, dear,” she said to
me over her shoulder. “Then come along, and we will meet up
later.”
I had been on the verge of stepping in after her, and this
caught me off guard. Should I let the others go first? Considering
my station, maybe it would be better to wait my turn. Maybe it
was only right. Besides, I had not seen Robert up here yet. I
certainly did not want to leave until I was sure that he was safe,
too.
“Come on!” the officer said to me, his temper starting to fray.
“There’s no time to waste!”
 I shook my head and stepped away, doing my best to melt into
the crowd. I think Mr. Hollings tried to follow me, but it was
easy to elude him with the confusion of people milling about,
and the deafening explosions of the distress rockets still being
fired into the air.
There were plenty of other boats; I would wait my turn.

Later
Writing about all of this is very difficult. There really are no
words to describe what those hours were like. I cannot bear to
talk, or eat, or — most of all — think. And yet, what can I do but
think?
At the time, I remember feeling dazed, but also curiously alert.
The boats were being loaded, and what had previously been
casual partings, with promises to meet up soon, were now
wrenching, tearful farewells. Most of the people on the deck
seemed to be first-class passengers, and I wondered where
everyone else was. Probably there were more lifeboats back on
the poop deck, or some other convenient place. There seemed to
be a limited number up here, and so many people still needed to
be taken to safety. I knew almost nothing about ship procedures,
but was sure that they would have planned for a situation like
this as a matter of course.
That did make me wonder why it was necessary for women
and children to go first. If there was room for everyone, the
officers should just load the boats without any form of selection.
There must be something going on that we had not yet been told.
A number of passengers and crew members were watching the
lights of what seemed to be a nearby steamer. A ship must be
coming to rescue us! The distress rockets worked! That was why
the officers were allowing the lifeboats to be lowered away with
empty seats. They knew that we would all soon be saved. But, as
the moments passed, the lights did not seem to be moving. If
anything, they appeared farther away. Now some people were
saying that the lights were only stars, or maybe the northern
lights, and that there was no ship out there at all. Because if
there was a ship nearby, how could it not respond to the distress
rockets?
The band had come out onto the deck, and was playing a
series of light, spirited tunes. By now I was so afraid that my
mind was jumbled, and I could not concentrate enough to listen.
The feeling of collective fear on the deck was starting to spread,
and I felt as though I had to escape from it. I would go find
Robert, and wait with him. I walked slowly toward the aft
staircase against the steadily increasing flow of nervously
chattering people coming outside.
There were still people mingling in the foyer and other
common rooms, but most of the alleyways were deserted. I
passed a man wearing what might have been a cook’s uniform,
and reached out a hand to stop him.
“Do you know where I would find the cabin stewards?” I
asked.
He glared at me. “The cabins are locked, miss. Go back up to
the Boat Deck!” Then, without waiting to see what I was going to
do, he continued past me.
I noticed how steep the angle of the floor was, and quickened
my pace. The ship was sinking, and if I tarried down here much
longer, I might well sink right along with it. I would just check
our row of staterooms, and then I would head back out. Maybe
Robert and the others were on the Promenade, or helping out on
the poop deck—if only the ship were not so incredibly big; it was
impossible to find anyone.
I checked every alleyway I could find on C Deck, but never
saw a soul. Was I the last person still below-decks? Would all the
lifeboats go without me? Fighting a sudden rush of panic, I was
turning to hurry back to the aft staircase when I saw someone in
a white uniform jacket just up ahead of me. Robert! He was
sitting down on the carpet, his back against the wall, staring
bleakly at nothing. A life belt was lying next to him, but he made
no move to put it on.
“Thank goodness I found you!” I said. “Where have you been?”
He stared at me, looking shocked. “Margaret, I thought you’d
left! What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” I said. “Come quickly, it’s not safe to be
down here.”
He looked at me, and his young, sweet face seemed positively
ancient. “Please go back upstairs right away, Margaret. Your
place is on the Boat Deck.”
My place. My place because I was female, or because I was, by
a mere technicality, first class? Or was my place waiting to make
sure others boarded before I did? Or, tonight, should “place”
have been the most irrelevant thing in the world? Somehow,
things I accepted my entire life no longer made any sense to me.
“Robert —” I began.
“Go on with you, now, and don’t worry about me,” he said,
looking straight ahead. “There isn’t a moment to lose.”
Nothing—not even the great welling fear inside of me —
would have allowed me to walk away and leave him there alone.
I carefully sat down next to him, my balance unsteady on the
sloping floor.
“Where are the other stewards?” I asked tentatively.
He shrugged, staring straight ahead. “Gone, I guess. Maybe
having a bit of a nip for courage.”
“Gone to the other boats?” I asked.
Now, he looked at me with those ancient eyes. “What other
boats?”
“Well, there are not nearly enough for everyone on the Boat
Deck,” I answered. “So I assumed that—”
“There are no other boats,” he said.
 I blinked, trying to figure out what that meant. “How can that
— there are still so many people aboard. How will they get off
safely?” But then I knew the answer before he even said
anything: They would not get off safely. I would probably not get
off safely. The enormity of this was hard to take in, and I had to
close my eyes.
It was very quiet. Sometimes I could hear running footsteps, or
the unexplained creak of metal, but there was no rushing of
water. We must still have been a few decks above the worst of it.
Robert let out his breath. “You know, you never told me how
old you are, Margaret.”
“I will be fourteen in October,” I said. Except that now I was
unlikely to see October.
“For me, it would have been seventeen, in August,” Robert
said.
Would have been? God help us.
Then Robert held his hand out. “Please allow me to take you
back upstairs now.”
I let him help me to my feet. “I insist that you put on your life
belt, first, sir.”
Robert smiled, although his lips were trembling. He fumbled
for the life belt, and fastened it around his waist. I reached over
to tug on the strap and make sure it was tight enough — which
made his smile widen. “Now, come on,” he said, “while there’s
still time.”
I knew that it might already be too late, but he was right —
we had to try. The staircase was so crooked at this point that we
both kept stumbling, but finally we made it up to the deck.
“I’ll see you off here,” he said. “Are you sure you know where
to go?”
I stopped to look at him, stunned. “What do you mean, ‘see
you off’? You need to come with me!”
 Instead of answering he reached into his pocket and handed
me a White Star envelope, with an address written clearly across
the front. “Could you post this to me mum? In case I don’t get a
chance?”
I just stared at him in horror.
“Please don’t argue, Margaret,” he said. “Go find a boat, quick
as you can. I could never rest, knowing otherwise.”
I stood there like a right fool, not sure what to say or do.
“Please, Margaret,” he said. “I do not want to be worrying
about you.”
I remembered another dark night when my brother had said,
“Please, Margaret,” in that same desperate way. “What about
you?” I asked, hearing my voice shake.
“I have to go find my mates, so we can all give it a go
together,” he said. “On a night like this, the crew stays together.”
The deck had tilted so badly now that it was hard to keep our
balance, and I hung on to his arm.
“Please, Margaret,” Robert said again, his eyes staring
intensely into mine. “I do not want to beg you.”
Although it sickened me somewhere deep inside, I nodded—
and saw his face relax.
“Good,” he said. “Now my mind will be easy.” He put his hand
out and touched my face for a moment. “Would you mind doing
me one small favor?”
“Anything,” I said quickly, hoping he would ask me to stay
here with him.
He grinned at me. “I should like to remember I kissed a pretty
girl tonight.”
I nodded shyly, and he gave me a small peck on the lips. This
was all new for me, and I was not sure if I was supposed to
respond in kind.
“Have you ever kissed a lad before?” he asked gently.
 I shook my head, abashed. “No. I am afraid that was not very
satisfactory.”
He brushed a small piece of hair away from my face. “So, we’ll
give it another go, eh?”
This time, our kiss was warm and tender.
Robert hugged me very tightly, and then stepped back, looking
pleased. “You’re a natural, Margaret,” he said. “I’d better find my
mates now. Promise me you’ll go straight to the boats.”
I swallowed hard, but nodded.
“So, I have your word,” he said.
I nodded, as tears filled my eyes.
“Don’t worry, love,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He touched my
cheek one last time, and then was gone before I could stop him.
Wherever he went — wherever he is — I wish him Godspeed.

Still later
I was crying, but I returned to the lifeboat area. I had promised,
so that was what I did. There were still plenty of passengers
around, most of them men, but the boats all seemed to be gone. I
swallowed, knowing that I had missed my opportunity and
would now have to take my chances along with the people who
remained. I should never have allowed Robert to leave, as we
could have tried to swim to safety together. But — I had
promised.
For now, I sank into an empty deck chair to absorb the
inevitability of my fate. The bow seemed to be almost
underwater, so it would not be long now. The orchestra was still
nobly playing away, and I took great comfort from listening to
the music. I thought momentarily of writing in this diary, but
instead, I took out Hamlet and began to thumb through the
pages.
 “Margie-Jane!” a deep voice said. “What are you still doing
here? I was certain you and Mrs. Carstairs had long since left.”
It was Mr. Prescott, who had dined with us, along with his
wife, so many times during the voyage. I scarcely knew him, but
it was wonderful to see a familiar face.
“She left earlier,” I said. “Where is Mrs. Prescott?”
His expression tightened, and I deeply regretted having posed
the question at all.
“I sent her on ahead,” he answered. “Now, come, quickly, to
the Promenade with me. We may just have time.”
We hastened down there and I saw a number of women and
children climbing across a bridge of deck chairs to get into a
lifeboat. There was one left. I felt elated — and inconsolably
guilty at the thought of getting aboard.
“You and the men —” I started.
Mr. Prescott cut me off. “We have no time for idle chatter,
please, just come along.” Then he raised his voice. “Let us
through, please, gentlemen! I have a young girl here!”
Men moved aside, without the slightest thought for
themselves. There are not sufficient words in the English
language to honor their valor and gallantry, but I will never
forget it — any of it — as long as I may live.
Colonel Astor was there, helping his young wife across the
treacherous bridge of chairs. I heard him ask if he could stay
with her, due to her condition, but the officer refused him. The
Colonel accepted this gracefully, and asked the number of the
boat, so he would be able to find her in the morning. Then he
moved away, his dog Kitty trailing behind.
A woman was trying to board with her children, but the
officers stopped her son and told him to go back and stand with
the men. A man who must have been his father protested that
the lad was only thirteen. The officer in charge scowled, but let
him pass.
 Another woman was clutching her young son. Then he was
wearing a woman’s hat — I am not sure who put it on his head,
but it may have been Colonel Astor. After that, she and her
children were allowed aboard with no comment from the
officers. I wished so very much that Robert would find his way
here; at only sixteen, they might relent and let him board as
well.
Except that I knew they would not, and he would not.
“Quickly now,” Mr. Prescott said to me. “We mustn’t hold
things up.”
I did not know what to do, but found myself impulsively
hugging him.
“You are a perfect gentleman, sir,” I said, “and a credit to us
all.”
He smiled, and let his hand rest gently on my head for a
second. “Come on now, child, it’s time. Mind the chairs.”
Then, just like that, I was half-climbing, and half-falling, into
the lifeboat. I recovered my balance, and made my way to a seat
in the bow. As I sat down, the cry to “Lower away!” went up,
and my end of the boat dropped toward the water. Next, the bow
dropped, and we continued in that erratic fashion.
The last thing I saw was Kitty — noble in her own right —
staying close by her master’s side.
The Titanic was so low in the water that we had a very short
trip down. We made balky progress, and one of the two sailors
aboard reached for a knife to cut us free. But then we hit the
water, and were able to cast off. The portholes were still brightly
lit, but I could see water rising unchecked through C Deck and
making its inexorable way upward.
“My God,” a woman near me whispered. “She really is going
down.”
All around us, heavy objects were crashing into the ocean. At
first, I feared that the remaining passengers on the ship had gone
mad, but then I understood that the deck chairs and other
wooden articles could be used for flotation devices.
We had only two men aboard, so another sailor came sliding
down the davit ropes to join us. Several more followed in his
wake, landing heavily in the boat. A number of women were
knocked down and badly bruised as a result.
Anyone who was near an oar grabbed hold and started rowing.
I was too far forward to be of any help, and besides, I was unable
to take my eyes off that beautiful stricken ship in what appeared
to be her death throes.
“Row with all your might!” a man was yelling. “Before we get
sucked under!”
First they rowed one way, and then we reversed direction. I
had no sense that anyone was in charge. Two men who had
taken a chance and jumped off the ship now swam towards us,
their arms flailing wildly. They were hauled aboard, shivering
from just that brief period in the freezing water.
Even then, to my amazement, I could hear the brave sound of
violins being played aboard the ship. As the bow began to
disappear completely, there was an enormous din of shattering
glass and crashing metal from inside the ship. People were
leaping into the water from all directions, while others
scrambled toward the stern in a frantic, hopeless attempt to save
themselves.
No one in our boat spoke, or perhaps even breathed. The
horror of these last moments was too awful to watch, but it was
impossible to look away. Several women gasped as the Titanic’s
front funnel suddenly ripped free and smashed violently into the
water, and then her stern rose higher in the air.
I am not sure if the engine rooms had exploded, or if the ship
broke in half — but amidst all of the crashing noises, the bow
had gone under, and, slowly, the stern was lifted straight up into
the sky. I could hear distant screams as people were thrown off,
or else struggled to hang on. The ship’s lights were abruptly
extinguished, and then came back on for one final second before
we were all plunged into utter darkness.
The clamor of smashing, crashing, tearing metal seemed
endless. The stern stayed straight up in the air like that, a stark
shadow against the stars, for what seemed like an hour, but may
only have been a minute. Then, with an almost stately grace, it
gradually slipped beneath the surface of the ocean.
The Titanic was gone.
Tuesday, 16 April 1912
Carpathia
I had to stop and return to my diary in the harsh light of day
because the next part is the worst of all. After the Titanic sank,
the unspeakable shrieking of hundreds of people dying filled the
night. Frenzied, terrified screams. Since we were still very close
to where the ship had sunk, I could distinguish individual voices
begging for help, calling out for people they loved, and praying
for salvation.
“We must go back,” one of the women in my boat said, her
voice shaking. “We must help them.”
“We can’t!” another woman shouted, nearly hysterical.
“They’ll kill us all! No one can help them anymore — we have to
save ourselves!”
Everyone chimed in with their own opinions — I was very
much in favor of returning—and a near-mutiny ensued. Finally, a
ship’s quartermaster named Perkis made the decision that we
were so close we had to try. He said that he was in charge, and
we would follow his bidding. So our boat began to row back, and
we were able to pull five or six half-frozen men out of the water.
Each time, I prayed that one of them would be Robert, and each
time, my prayers were not answered. One of the men was
clutching a bottle of brandy, and Quartermaster Perkis tossed it
overboard, since the man was obviously already intoxicated and
might become unruly.
The rescued men were drenched, and a goodly amount of
water had spilled into the boat as we struggled to haul them in.
It was deep enough to cover my boots completely. Most of the
men were in a very bad way, and I offered the one closest to me
my coat. He was too cold to respond, so I just took it off and
covered him as well as I could.
The screams of the dying seemed to last forever. It was a
horrifying, unearthly sound that would have sickened the very
Devil himself. I am not sure which was worse: the screams
themselves, or the way they gradually faded away. I think we
had enough room in our boat to try to rescue a few more — but
now, we were rowing in a different direction, and the
quartermaster could not be persuaded otherwise. The rescued
men’s teeth were chattering, and some of them were out of their
heads from the cold. Other than trying to help them get warm,
no one knew what else to do.
It was pitch-black, except for the stars, and even
Quartermaster Perkis did not seem sure about which way we
should go. As far as I know, we were just rowing around in
circles. After a while, we heard a whistle blowing, and rowed
towards it. A boat commanded by an Officer Lowe wanted as
many lifeboats as possible to tie up together for safety. I think
there were three other boats who responded to his call, and
Officer Lowe transferred all of his passengers into our boats. He
was planning to return to the site where we had last seen the
Titanic, and try to rescue some more people.
While we waited for him to return, our boats drifted aimlessly.
There were a number of children, as well as a few babies, on our
lifeboat, and some of them cried on and off. Obviously, there
was no milk to give them to soothe their distress. I tried to help
one woman by rocking her baby for a while, but had no more
success calming him than anyone else had. Between the crying
babies, a few seasick women, and the ravings of the frozen men
— one of whom was also very drunk — ours was not a quiet
boat.
On the whole, I do not remember any conversations. There
may have been some, but I just cannot remember. I think I just
sat there in utter despair. Two of the women near me were
weeping, but most had been silenced by a combination of grief,
shock — and the terrible cold. Anyone who was not fortunate
enough to be rowing, which served as an excellent distraction,
just hunched down and tried to stay warm. At some point, two of
the men we had pulled aboard succumbed to their ordeal, and
died. After that, the silence aboard our boat was impenetrable.
 Officer Lowe returned with only four more survivors — all of
them strangers — and then directed us to begin rowing again. A
sailor caught sight of another boat with figures standing up on it.
He said that it was one of the collapsible emergency boats, and
she looked to be in grave danger of capsizing. With Officer
Lowe’s encouragement, we rowed over there with one other
lifeboat — Boat 12, I think. Between us, we were able to take on
all eighteen or twenty men. Again, Robert was not among them.
Maybe he was on another lifeboat, or was clinging safely to some
wreckage, or — I could not face the other possibility.
By now, our boats were very crowded and the water inside
reached to my knees. Had the sea not been so calm, we would
surely have been swamped.
When a passenger first shouted that she saw a ship, none of us
believed her. The men told her that it was probably only a
shooting star, or maybe dawn beginning to break. But as the
lights loomed closer, we realized that it was a steamer, and she
was heading our way!
For the first time, we all had a feeling of hope. The sky was
getting brighter, and the steamer was still coming towards us. As
a new morning dawned, the sky pink and light blue, I was
stunned to see that we were surrounded by a veritable mountain
range of icebergs. In the dark, they had been completely
invisible, but now they were everywhere. For objects so lethal,
they were also majestic, and almost beautiful in a horrid way.
Someone in our boat checked her watch, and announced that
it was going on to five in the morning. I felt as though our time
in the boat had lasted for months, so I was surprised only a few
hours had passed.
The rescue steamer proceeded cautiously through the ice field.
Every so often it would stop to take aboard the occupants of a
lifeboat. Our boat rowed doggedly in their direction, but we did
not get to her side until almost eight o’clock. Up close, I could
see that our saviour was called the Carpathia.
 There were ladders, and cloth slings, hanging over the side to
help us aboard. Many of the people in our boat were too weak to
climb, but I chose a ladder. As I reached the deck, a uniformed
man helped me aboard. As he asked me my name and wrote it
down, a woman pressed a mug of hot liquid into my hands and
wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I lurched off to the
side, out of the way, so that others could also come aboard.
A great many survivors were waiting by the railing, searching
for loved ones and friends. We were one of the last boats to be
picked up, so I knew that their hopes were growing faint. My
legs were shaking, so I sat down on the deck, and sipped the hot
liquid. The taste was unexpected, but I recognized the smell as
coffee. There may have been some brandy in there as well.
A kind-faced woman knelt next to me and offered to show me
to the saloon, so I could get warm. Once in there, someone else
handed me a sandwich, and my mug was refilled. By and by, a
doctor stopped to examine me, and pronounced me perfectly fit,
and extremely lucky. I was none too sure of the former, but
utterly certain of the latter.
I must say that the commander of the Carpathia, Captain
Rostron, was terribly heroic. Having seen those treacherous ice
fields, I have no idea how he made his way to us without his
own ship crashing. Once all of the lifeboats had been emptied, he
steered his ship over to the area where the Titanic had gone
down, in search of more survivors. Alas, there were none to be
found, and there was not even much debris to be seen.
Another ship, the Californian, arrived around then, and they
were to continue the search while we headed for New York.
Before we steamed away, Captain Rostron gathered all of us
together for a brief service. He and a reverend gave thanksgiving
for the approximately seven hundred of us who had been saved,
and then led us in prayer in memory of the more than fifteen
hundred people who had been lost.
Fifteen hundred.
 As soon as I felt stronger, I began to look around to see if
anyone I knew had survived. There were so few men, and I never
found Robert. Or Mr. Prescott, or Mr. Hollings, or Ralph Kittery,
or so many others. Colonel Astor had not survived, and neither
had Mr. Andrews or Captain Smith or Dr. O’Loughlin or — my
mind just could not accept the enormity of the loss of all those
fine people.
Especially, of course, Robert. I should never have left him alone
like that, no matter how hard he begged. Surely, if he was brave
enough to accept his fate, I should have been as well.
I think the Titanic’s crew may have suffered the most
devastating percentage of deaths. Stewards, cooks, engineers,
postal workers — even the entire band perished. How admirable
they were! How admirable all of them were!
Steerage passengers also fared far worse than the rest of us,
although those in the second class had a great many die, also. I
am sure there were countless stories of heroism among their
ranks, which will never be told, as so few eyewitnesses are alive
to tell them.
This afternoon, I was sitting out on the deck half asleep, when
I heard a familiar bark. I opened my eyes to see Florence tugging
at her leash, and trying to pull Mrs. Carstairs in my direction.
Mrs. Carstairs saw me, and looked very pleased.
“What an agreeable surprise!” she said. “I was so very
concerned. Now that I have found you, you must come and join
me for the rest of the voyage.”
I shook my head, too exhausted and sad to face that notion.
“Thank you, but I would rather be alone just now.”
She stared at me, dumbfounded. “But —”
“Robert died,” I said, and came very close to bursting into
tears.
She nodded, her expression more serious than I had ever seen
it. “I’m sorry, child. I know how fond you were of him.”
 I nodded, and rubbed my hand across my eyes, trying very
hard not to cry. To my surprise, Mrs. Carstairs dragged over a
deck chair — by herself! — and sat next to me.
“My Frederick would have died, too,” she said. “With Thomas
Prescott, and all of the others. And I would have been on that
lifeboat, thinking that he would be perfectly fine.”
We were now safely on a ship, surrounded by widows; she
was, indeed, lucky Mr. Carstairs had not made the voyage. We
sat in silence, for there seemed to be little to say.
Then I let out my breath. “Thank you,” I said. “For I should
have been in steerage.” And therefore, almost certainly would
have also died in those icy waters.
Mrs. Carstairs nodded, set Florence on my lap, and we sat
there together without speaking for the rest of the afternoon.
Wednesday, 17 April 1912
Carpathia
We are supposed to arrive in New York tomorrow night. During
the last couple of days, I have done little more than write and
think, and think some more. I am not hungry; for the most part, I
have not slept.
The Carpathia’s passengers have been uniformly sensitive and
benevolent. They have donated clothes to those who have none,
along with toothbrushes and other necessities. Some of them
have even given up their beds! I decided that I would be more
comfortable bunking on the floor of the saloon, or outside on the
deck. For those of us in that position, the ship provided steamer
rugs and blankets to try to make us comfortable.
When my parents died in such quick succession, I thought my
whole world had come to an end. I could not understand why
they had died, or how life could be so cruel. And now, I do not
understand why I survived, when so many others did not.
And why did not every single lifeboat return to help our fellow
human beings? Had we not already been so close, I do not think
our boat would have gone back, either. People were too
frightened, too confused, too self-protective, to remember others.
But, we had room. All of the lifeboats did. Fear seems a paltry
excuse. We were all afraid that night. I know I did not want to
die, but neither did I want to doom others to their helpless,
frozen fate.
Although I suppose that is exactly what I did by virtue of
taking my seat on Boat 4 in the first place. I doomed Robert; I
doomed complete strangers. I hope that I can figure out some
way to understand all of this. Why it happened, what could have
prevented it, how to keep anything like this from ever taking
place again.
Most of all, I hope I can learn how to forgive myself for still
being alive, when so many others are not.
Thursday, 18 April 1912
Carpathia
We steamed into New York Harbor at eight-thirty P.M., in the
midst of a fierce thunderstorm. Somehow, given the
circumstances, that seemed only fitting. Smaller boats
surrounded us, and many of the bright flashes we saw came from
cameras, not lightning. Then, when we finally berthed, I could
see a tremendous crowd waiting for us on the pier.
Before we disembarked, I saw Mrs. Carstairs making her way
towards me. Awkwardly, she tried to hand me one of her typical
wads of folded bills.
“Here,” she said. “I thought you might need this.”
I shook my head. “No, thank you. You have already done more
than I deserve.”
“Take it, it’s a pittance,” she said, sounding impatient. “My
address is there, too, if you need anything.”
I hesitated, but then slowly nodded and tucked the bills into
my pocket. I was about to land in a foreign country, with no idea
of what was going to happen, or where I was going to go—and
the few pounds I had had were now at the bottom of the ocean.
“Will your brother be here to meet you?” she asked.
Would he? “Yes,” I said, uncertainly. “Everything has been
arranged.” Of course this was not true, but what did it matter?
She nodded, and then we looked at each other.
“It is not for us to know why we survived,” she said. “Try to
remember that, Margaret.”
I hoped, very much, that that was true.

The gangways had been laid out now, and the first group of
numb, tired passengers began to get off. When it came to be my
turn, I followed those who had gone ahead, looking neither right
nor left. It was a chaotic scene, as people searched for loved
ones, and reporters rushed around with notepads, trying to get
stories. I ignored all of this, only wanting to get off the pier and
find a quiet place to sit down. Mrs. Carstairs had located her son-
in-law, and she offered to drive me to the train station or a hotel,
but I assured her that I was fine. I thanked her one last time, she
shook my hand, and then I bent to give Florence a light kiss on
top of the head.
That was the last time I saw them.
Once they had left, I stood alone in the frantic crowd, trying
not to panic. Where was I going to go? I was in the middle of a
strange city, with nothing more than the clothes on my back, and
a few dollars. It was upsetting to have so many people swarming
around me, and it took me quite some time to make it to a quiet
street corner across the way. I wanted to sob loudly, but was
afraid of drawing attention to myself.
Gradually, the crowds began to thin out. Every so often,
someone would stop and ask me, eagerly, if I had been on the
Titanic, and I would just shake my head. It was easier that way.
I had so hoped that William would be here, but I did not know
where to start looking. For all I knew, he thought I had perished
at sea. Maybe he had never even gotten the letter I sent from St.
Abernathy’s! I did not want to leave, in case he was here, but
maybe I should go try to find a room for the night. Then
tomorrow, I would have to figure out some way to get to Boston.
Slowly, I got up and began to walk around some more. I was
still surrounded by strangers, and the whole scene was
overwhelming. If I could just sleep for a while, maybe I would
feel better, and could think more clearly.
After all, this would not be the first time I had slept on the
streets.
A woman standing by two tall bundles of apparently donated
clothing asked me if I needed help, but I just shook my head. I
have accepted far too much charity in my life, and no longer
want to do so.
 Ever.
I finally found a deserted bench, near the shipping office. At
first, I just sat down, but when no one seemed to notice me, I
stretched out and closed my eyes.
Maybe when — if? — the sun came up, I would know what to
do.
I was sound asleep when I suddenly felt someone sit down
next to me, and a hand touched my shoulder. I opened my eyes,
terrified—and then recognized my brother.
“There you are,” William said, his eyes filling with tears. “I
was worried sick.”
I began crying, too, and hugged him with what little strength I
had left. William hugged back and I rested my head against his
shoulder, not even noticing the pouring rain.
I was finally safe.
Friday, 19 April 1912
Somewhere between Boston and New York
After a joyful reunion, William brought me to the small hotel
where he had been staying for the last two days, hoping and
praying that I would arrive soon. The White Star Line had
insisted that I was on the survivor list, but he knew he would not
believe it until he actually saw me.
He tucked me into bed, and brought me a ham sandwich and a
cup of tea. I fell asleep before I could finish either, and did not
wake up until almost noon. Once William was sure I was strong
enough to travel, we went up to the railroad station to get a train
to Boston.
First, though, we posted Robert’s letter. I could only hope that
it would give his mother some small comfort.
When our train was announced, William helped me board and
put his coat over me as a blanket. I had yet to stop shaking since
the lifeboat, although I am not sure it had anything to do with
cold temperatures.
“It’s a miracle that you got here, Margaret,” he said.
“Everything will be okay now. I am going to rent us a bigger flat,
and with my salary, you can start school soon. I don’t want you
to have to worry ever again.”
I just nodded, and leaned against him, too tired to respond.
Now we are riding along, and I do not even have enough
energy to look out the window. I am so very tired and sad. I do
not even feel like writing now—and may never again.
Saturday, 20 April 1912
Charlestown, Massachusetts
I think this will be my last entry. Frankly, I am not sure there is
anything left to say. The flat is very nice, and we can divide it
with a curtain for the time being, so we each have our own
room. William looks just wonderful — taller than ever, and full
of confidence. I can tell that he is very happy here, and hope that
one day, I will be also be happy again.
This morning, after breakfast, William sat back and looked at
me for a few minutes.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Okay,” he said, and cut me another slice of bread.
We spent the rest of the morning sitting quietly and sipping
tea. There was no need for conversation; simply being together
again was more than enough.
“William?” I asked finally.
He looked up from across the table.
“Would you mind terribly if we got a cat?” I asked.
He studied me for a moment, and then grinned at me. “We can
get two,” he said.
Tomorrow, we plan to do just that.
It may be a trifling step forward, but it is a step regardless.
Part of me would like to stay with my grief forever, but that
would not do justice to the sacrifices that have been made on my
behalf. As long as I live, I will never forget the great courage
shown by Robert and so many others. I only hope that I can live
up to their fine example.
I pray they are all at peace.
 Epilogue

Margaret Ann Brady never once discussed her voyage on the

Titanic in public — and also rarely mentioned the disaster in
private. Throughout her life, she felt that the memories of those
tragically lost were best served by a respectful silence. She also
never completely forgave herself for surviving the tragedy.
She did permit William to read her diary, and then sent it on to
Sister Catherine, who later returned it for safekeeping. Margaret
completed her high school education in Boston, and then
accepted a scholarship to Wellesley College.
Margaret and Sister Catherine never lost touch, and on two
occasions, Sister Catherine was actually persuaded to come visit
Margaret in the States. The only time Margaret ever returned to
England was for her beloved mentor’s funeral in 1962.
Margaret also kept up a regular correspondence with Nora,
who later emigrated to the United States with her new husband
when she was nineteen. They had a joyous reunion, and Nora
ended up settling in nearby Pawtucket, Rhode Island.
After their parting in New York, Margaret and Mrs. Carstairs
exchanged letters a couple of times, but never saw each other
again.
When the First World War broke out in 1914, William
immediately volunteered to fight for his new country. He served
valiantly until he was seriously wounded during a trench battle.
Margaret dropped out of college in order to devote her time to
nursing him back to health and working to support them.
Although William ultimately recovered and got a job with the
Boston Police Department, Margaret never returned to college.
She did, however, continue reading voraciously.
In 1923 Margaret met a young history teacher named Stanley
Ryan at a bookstore in Cambridge. They were married the
following June, and spent the next forty-four years laughing and
arguing together. They had three children: Dorothy, Harriet, and
… Robert. Margaret devoted many long hours to volunteer work,
helping disadvantaged youngsters in the Boston area, and she
later ended up heading a halfway house for unwed mothers until
her retirement in 1965.
During her life, Margaret occasionally boarded planes, and
regularly took trains — but she refused to set foot on another
boat ever again. Despite her many decades in America, she never
lost her British accent, but to her surprise, she became extremely
fond of coffee.
She died peacefully in her sleep in 1994, at the age of ninety-
five.
Life in
America
in 1912
 Historical Note

Over the years, the tragedy of the Titanic has been a source of
endless fascination and speculation for people all over the world.
The Titanic was the largest ship that had ever been built, and
such a technological marvel that even a conservative
shipbuilder’s magazine raved that she was “practically
unsinkable.”
In the years before the First World War, public confidence in
England and America was at an alltime high. King Edward VII
held the British throne during this period, and the era was
dubbed the Edwardian Age. A general air of complacent
confidence prevailed. The Titanic, with her glittering passenger
list, seemed like the ultimate example of human achievement in
this optimistic time.
In 1912, the rich and famous were famous primarily because
they were rich. Society events were reported in great detail in
newspapers and magazines. Ordinary citizens enjoyed living
vicariously through these reports.
There was also a very strong class system in effect. Upper-,
middle-, and lower-class people rarely came into contact with
one another, and would never have interacted socially. Lower-
(or working-) class people “knew their place,” and thought
nothing of being ignored by those they considered to be their
“betters.” By that same token, members of the upper class looked
down upon anyone who was not at their level financially and
socially. The upper class was also expected to “set a good
example” for others, and this concept of “noblesse oblige” was
generally accepted by everyone. Actually, the vast majority of
people probably existed somewhere in the middle, but the two
extremes got the most attention. These rigid notions of class
were much stronger in England than they were in America, but
they still existed here.
Throughout the early 1900s, technology and industry were
booming. The international shipping business was a particularly
competitive field. Speed and comfort were the two most
important concerns for any passenger liner. Voyages that had
once taken months could now, because of powerful steam
engines, be completed in less than a week. As a result, a number
of companies were vying to dominate the business. The two best
known were the Cunard Line and the White Star Line, which was
run by International Mercantile Marine (IMM).
In 1907, Cunard was probably the most successful, with their
impressive new ships, the Lusitania and the Mauretania. J. Bruce
Ismay and William James Pirrie, two top IMM executives,
decided to meet that challenge by building the three biggest
ships in the entire world. They would be called the Olympic, the
Titanic, and the Gigantic. The Harland and Wolff shipyard in
Belfast, Ireland, was commissioned to do the job. The Olympic
was launched, to great fanfare, in 1911, and the Titanic was to
sail on her maiden voyage a year later.
The plan was for the new White Star ships to offer weekly
passages from Southampton, England, to New York City. They
would be fast, they would be dependable, and they would offer
remarkably pleasant sailing experiences.
The Titanic was just over 882 feet long and 92.5 feet wide.
This length translates to 1/6 of a mile! She stood well over 100
feet tall, which is the equivalent of 11 stories in a building. She
had 9 decks, 3 propellers, and weighed more than 45,000 tons.
The decks ranged from the Boat Deck all the way down to the
boiler rooms in the bowels of the ship. She was equipped with a
total of 20 lifeboats, which exceeded the admittedly minimal
standards of the day. Most impressively, the ship had been
designed to have 16 watertight compartments in its hull, all of
which could be closed individually with the mere flip of a
switch. This made the ship unusually safe.
She had a number of features never before seen on an ocean
liner, including a swimming pool, Turkish baths, a squash court,
a gymnasium, and several restaurants. The ship even had
elevators! Second-class accommodations were equivalent to first
class on other ships, and the conditions in third class (also
known as steerage) were unusually pleasant.
As a Royal Mail Steamer (RMS), the Titanic obviously carried
countless sacks of letters and postcards. Some of her other cargo
and provisions included 40 tons of potatoes, 75,000 pounds of
fresh meat, 600 gallons of condensed milk, 15,000 bottles of
beer, 5 grand pianos, a marmalade machine, and 12 cases of
ostrich feathers.
The Titanic also had a crew of approximately 900 (though
many of these numbers have never been accurately established).
The crew was broken down into 3 categories: the Deck Crew, the
Engineering Crew, and the Victualling Crew. These various
workers included the Purser, the Marconi wireless radio
operators, the saloon and bedroom stewards, postal clerks, cooks,
bakers, firemen, engineers, stewardesses, and, of course, the 8
members of the band.
The passenger list included many famous celebrities, including
one of the richest men in the world, John Jacob Astor, and his
second wife. Other well-known passengers were J. Bruce Ismay,
the Managing Director of the White Star Line; Thomas Andrews
of Harland and Wolff, who had designed the ship; Mrs. J. J.
Brown, known as “the Unsinkable Molly Brown”; Isidor Straus,
who had founded the famous Macy’s department store in New
York, and his wife; and Major Archibald Butt, who was President
Taft’s top military aide.
Of the estimated 1,320 passengers, many, of course, were not
famous at all. While the first class was heavily comprised of
socialites, along with their maids and valets, the second- and
third-class passengers were more conventional. Second-class
passengers were predominantly successful professionals,
including teachers, middle-class families, and businessmen. The
third-class passengers tended to be immigrants on their way to
America to make new lives for themselves. Many of them were
Irish or Italian, but other nationalities were represented, too.
At noon on April 10, 1912, the Titanic prepared to cast off
under the command of Captain Edward J. Smith. Captain Smith
was the most popular of all White Star Line officers, and was
commonly known as “E. J.” After completing the maiden voyage
of the Titanic, Captain Smith was planning to retire.
A near accident marred the beginning of the Titanic’s journey.
While being towed away from her Southampton berth by
tugboats, the Titanic nearly collided with a smaller ship, the New
York. A quick turn by Captain Smith, along with some swift
interference by the tugboat Vulcan, prevented a dangerous crash.
Despite this mishap, it was a happy leave-taking, and
thousands of people had gathered on the quay to see the ship off.
That evening, the ship arrived in Cherbourg, France, to pick up
more passengers. Then the Titanic steamed toward Queenstown,
Ireland, scheduled as its final stop before going to New York
City. There were now an estimated 2,200 passengers and crew
members aboard.
On Thursday, April 11, the Titanic finally headed out to the
open sea. The weather was beautiful, if cold, and the early days
of the voyage were uneventful. The atmosphere aboard the ship
was cheerful and at ease. Passengers spent most of their time
eating fantastic meals, relaxing, and exploring the ship.
Then disaster struck on the night of April 14, 1912. The seas
were remarkably calm, but before retiring for the night, Captain
Smith instructed First Officer Murdoch to watch out for ice and
“alert him” right away if anything happened.
At 11:40 P.M., Lookout Frederick Fleet saw a huge iceberg loom
up out of nowhere. He instantly alerted the officers in the bridge.
With barely thirty seconds to make a decision, Officer Murdoch
ordered “hard a-starboard!” and tried to steer out of the way, but
the starboard side of the Titanic scraped violently against the
iceberg. Metal tore, rivets popped, and water began rushing
through the hull of the ship. It had been a glancing, but
ultimately fatal, blow.
Captain Smith instantly came to the bridge and summoned
ship designer Thomas Andrews to go below and inspect the
damage with him. Andrews came to the quick — and tragic —
realization that the Titanic would sink within the next hour or
two.
In the meantime, most of the passengers and crew were
unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Many passengers
noticed a slight “bump” or “jarring” or “scraping,” and some
were even awakened from a sound sleep. But since they assumed
the Titanic was unsinkable, almost no one was terribly
concerned.
Around midnight, Captain Smith gave orders to uncover the
lifeboats and load the women and children first. There were over
2,200 people aboard, and at full occupancy the lifeboats could
carry only 1,178. Captain Smith and his fellow crew members
tried very hard to keep this information from the passengers, to
prevent panic. In order to keep up morale, the band, led by
Wallace Hartley, began to play. With total disregard for their
own safety, they continued to play on the Boat Deck until the
very end.
Wireless operators Phillips and Bride were busy sending out
“CQD” and “SOS” distress signals. Many ships responded,
although most of them were too far away to be able to help. The
Carpathia, about 58 miles away, immediately began rushing to
the rescue, but it would take her several hours to arrive. Perhaps
the most controversial aspect of the disaster concerns a nearby
ship, the Californian. She may have been as close as 4 or 5 miles
away, although this exact distance has never been established.
Her radio operator had gone to bed, so she never got the distress
calls — nor did she respond to the distress rockets the Titanic
began shooting into the sky.
Throughout the night, the Titanic’s passengers and crew
members were — with very few exceptions — remarkably brave
in the face of danger. Men routinely stepped back and gave up
their lives in order to save women and children. In some cases,
wives stayed behind with their husbands in a courageous
example of the “till death do us part” marriage promise. There
are many wild legends of officers firing guns to keep frantic
passengers at bay, and men dressing as women in order to sneak
onto boats — but there is really no way of knowing exactly what
occurred. White Star Managing Director Bruce Ismay took a
place in one of the last available boats, and was condemned as a
coward for the rest of his life.
Once the last lifeboats were gone, there were still about 1,500
people aboard the Titanic—almost all of whom were now
doomed. The bow was completely underwater, and the ship was
sinking rapidly. Captain Smith told his crew that they had
performed nobly, and that it was “every man for himself.” He
was never seen again. During all of this, the band kept playing.
Their selfless devotion to duty is one of the most inspiring stories
to come out of the tragedy.
At about 2:15 A.M., the ship snapped in two and the bow
slipped under water. Slowly, the stern of the ship began to rise
up into the air. The front funnel broke off and slammed into the
water, crushing a number of people who were trying to swim
away. The stern stood up in the air until it was almost exactly
perpendicular, and then it, too, disappeared beneath the water’s
surface.
It was 2:20 A.M. and the Titanic was gone forever.
Even though many of the lifeboats had room for more people,
only one made a point of going back to pick up survivors. That
boat found only four people left alive, one of whom died later.
 At about 4:30 A.M., the Carpathia steamed up, after a risky
journey through dangerous fields of ice. Her commander,
Captain Rostron, demonstrated astonishing seamanship and
grace under pressure. The survivors were brought on board, and
the Carpathia set sail for New York City. Just over 700 people
survived, while more than 1,500 perished.
The night the Titanic sank was one of darkness and courage,
nobility and despair. For the most part, the very best of
humanity was on display — with the very worst of results. It is a
night that will never be forgotten.
The Titanic’s planned voyage included a return trip from New York on April 20, 1912, as
indicated in this advertisement by the White Star Line, the shipping company that owned the
Titanic.
Southampton, England, the port of origin for the Titanic, was a working-class town much
like London’s East End. The children seen here may have worked in the shipyards or on the
ships, or had parents who did so. Though much has been said of the Titanic’s wealthy
passengers, many working-class families from England, Ireland, and other European
countries also boarded the Titanic in hopes of finding a better life in America.

The Titanic was unveiled at Southampton port. At 882.5 feet from bow to stern and
decorated with the finest furnishings of the period, she was the largest and grandest ship of
her day. Even in a city where people were accustomed to seeing large ships, the Titanic’s
maiden voyage was an exciting event, and families lined the dock to see her set sail.

One of the early indicators that this would be an ill-fated voyage was the Titanic’s near
collision with another ship, the New York, just moments after leaving the dock at
Southampton. The tug boat is leading the New York out of the Titanic’s path.

Captain Edward John Smith was the commander of the Titanic. This was supposed to be his
final voyage before he retired from a 38-year career as a ship’s captain with a perfect sailing
record. Ironically, it was his final voyage, because the captain went down with his ship.
Second-class passengers take a stroll on the promenade deck. The first-class promenade was
a separate area behind these passengers, more toward the Titanic’s bow. The third-class
promenade was at the stern. Passengers in each class were kept separated, as was customary
at the time.

The Grand Staircase, graced by a glass dome overhead, marked the entrance to the first-
class passenger areas.
Meals at sea were an event, and in first class, passengers had several dining options — from
a casual café that younger passengers enjoyed to this more formal dining room.

A typical luncheon menu included several courses. This was the last luncheon served in first
class before disaster struck.
A first-class bedroom typically included a bed, sofa, wardrobe, vanity, and washbasin,
though some first-class passengers did share a washroom. There were also staterooms, which
included a separate sitting area. Few children traveled in first class, but those who did shared
suites with their parents. In third-class bedrooms, children slept in bunk beds.

The first-class reading and writing room on A Deck offered passengers a place to read, play
cards, or write letters. Children met their friends here or played games outside on the deck.
One of the most famous areas of the ship was the gymnasium, which was complete with one
of the first stationary bicycles. Another favorite spot was the Titanic’s swimming pool,
where, for 25 cents, passengers could purchase a ticket to swim.

The Titanic’s mail room workers (pictured here) and other crew members had the least
luxurious quarters. Theirs were located on the lowest decks, which partially accounts for the
high death rate among the crew.
Telegrams were sent from and received by the Titanic’s wireless room (shown here). Ships’
wireless rooms are often called Marconi rooms, named for Guglielmo Marconi, the man who
manufactured telegraph equipment.

At 1:45 P.M. on April 14, 1912, a German ship, the Amerika, sent a telegram to the
Titanic warning of ice in its path. Many other ships sent ice warnings, too. Because ice was
common in the area, the warnings were not considered serious.
This dramatic painting shows lifeboats being lowered into the water. Unfortunately, many
passengers were not aware of the grave danger, so several lifeboats were only half-full.
When they reached the site of the Titanic’s accident, passengers on other ships in the area
took photographs of the iceberg they thought caused the disaster. A smear of red paint runs
along the base of this iceberg, leading observers to believe that it had been struck recently.

There are no photographs of the Titanic as it sank. Many artists have rendered paintings
based on eyewitness testimony.
One of the Titanic’s four collapsible lifeboats was photographed by a passenger on the
Carpathia, the first ship to arrive at the scene.

Still dressed in their formal evening clothes, rescued Titanic passengers recover on the
Carpathia’s deck.
This is one of the few photographs taken of surviving third-class passengers.

Early reports indicated that the Titanic had been damaged but would arrive in New York as
planned. This newspaper headline reveals the devastating truth.
This diagram shows the original plan to include 32 lifeboats on the Titanic. However,
according to British Board of Trade regulations in 1911, only 16 lifeboats were necessary.
The shipping company voluntarily added 4 more collapsible boats, bringing the total to 20.
Inquiries into the accident later revealed that it would have taken 63 lifeboats to save all of
the Titanic’s passengers.

Both American and British authorities conducted investigations of the Titanic disaster. Key
issues were the number of lifeboats, the reliability of the telegraph equipment, and the
location of other ships that were sailing nearby, as shown on this map. In the end, it was
determined that no one person or thing was to blame; rather, it was a series of unfortunate
occurrences that led to the most well-known maritime tragedy of all time.
 This map charts the Titanic’s ill-fated course.

Timeline
1898: A writer named Morgan Robertson publishes a story called
Futility. It is a prophetic tale about a ship, named the Titan, that
hits an iceberg and sinks on its very first voyage. The ship does
not have enough lifeboats, and many of its passengers die.
1907: The International mercantile marine company, known as
IMM, is being run by J. Bruce Ismay, who controls the White
Star Line of ships. He and William J. Pirrie, head of a
construction company called Harland and Wolff, decide to build
two new ships, the Titanic and the Olympic.
1909: Construction begins on the Titanic at a Harland and Wolff
site located in Belfast, Ireland.
May 31, 1911: The Titanic is launched for the first time.
January 1912: Sixteen lifeboats are installed on the Titanic. She
has the capacity to handle many more, but the law in Britain
does not require them. The Titanic is also provided with four
collapsible lifeboats.
March 31, 1912: The Titanic is fully outfitted and ready to
commence her maiden voyage as the largest and most luxurious
ship ever built.
April 2, 1912: Tests (known as sea trials) are conducted on the
Titanic. They are completed in about half a day. That evening,
the ship departs for Southampton, England.
April 3, 1912: Cargo and supplies are loaded onto the ship in
Southampton, and the first crew members are hired.
April 6, 1912: The rest of the crew is hired, many of them local
residents of Southampton.
April 10, 1912:
7:30 AM: Captain Edward J. Smith, who will command the
ship, boards the Titanic.
8:00 AM: Two lifeboats are tested in a short drill.
9:30 – 11:00 AM: Second- and third-class (also known as
steerage) passengers begin to board the ship.
11:30 AM: Boarding begins for first-class passengers.
Noon: The Titanic sets out on its maiden voyage, but is
delayed by a near collision with a much smaller ship, the New
York.
6:30 PM: The Titanic arrives at her first stop, Cherbourg,
France, and almost 300 more passengers are ferried to the ship.
She is an hour late.
8:10 PM: The Titanic heads for its next stop — Queenstown,
Ireland.
April 11, 1912: The Titanic has traveled 386 uneventful miles in
near-perfect weather.
April 13, 1912: The superb weather continues, and the Titanic
completes another 519 miles.
10:30 PM: Another ship, the Rappahannock, sends a warning of
severe ice.
April 14, 1912:
9:00 AM: An ice warning is received from the Caronia.
11:40 AM: Another ice warning comes from the Noordam.
1:42 PM: Yet another ice warning is sent by the Baltic.
1:45 PM: Still another ice warning arrives, from the Amerika.
7:30 PM: Three iceberg warnings are sent by the Californian.
9:20 PM: Captain Smith goes to bed, ordering Second Officer
Lightoller to wake him if there are any problems.
9:40 PM: Another ice warning comes in, this time from the
Mesaba.
10:00 PM: First Officer William Murdoch relieves Lightoller on
the bridge.
10:55 PM: The Californian, only a few miles away, tries to send
another ice warning, but the overworked Titanic telegraph
operator tells them to “Shut up!”
11:30 PM: The telegraph operator on the Californian signs off
for the night.
11:40 PM: Titanic lookouts Fleet and Lee spot a large iceberg in
the calm ocean and call down to the bridge. Officer Moody tells
them, “Thank you.” Officer Murdoch, who is currently in charge,
is unable to steer out of the way, and the starboard side of the
ship is torn open in the resulting crash.
11:50 PM: The first five compartments of the ship are filling
with water, as is Boiler Room 6. (A stubborn coal fire that raged
in the Boiler Room may have weakened its strength.)
April 15, 1912:
 Midnight: Captain Smith and Thomas Andrews, the builder of
the ship, go on a quick tour to inspect the damage. Andrews
estimates that the Titanic will sink within two hours. Captain
Smith has distress calls sent to nearby ships with the message
that the Titanic is going down and is in desperate need of help.
Responses begin to come in from everyone except the nearby
Californian. Initially, Operators Phillips and Bride use the
traditional “CQD” signal. Later, they switch to the new “SOS.”
12:05 AM: Captain Smith orders that the lifeboats be readied
and that all passengers put on their life belts. If fully loaded, the
lifeboats can carry only 1178 people. There are approximately
2200 people on board the Titanic.
12:15 AM: The Titanic’s band begins to play “lively” music to
help prevent a panic.
12:25 AM: The lifeboats begin to be loaded with women and
children.
12:45 AM: The first lifeboat — Lifeboat 7 — is lowered away,
holding only 28 passengers. It has room for 65. Simultaneously,
the first distress rocket is fired, as the Titanic’s officers try to get
the attention of a ship (thought to be the Californian) that they
can see in the distance.
12:55 AM: Lifeboat 7 leaves, with Lifeboat 5 soon to follow.
The boats are still not fully loaded.
1:00 AM: Lifeboat 3 leaves.
1:10 AM: Lifeboat 1 leaves. It has only twelve passengers
aboard. It can hold forty.
1:15 AM: The Titanic is visibly sinking.
1:20 AM: Lifeboat 9 leaves, more fully loaded than any boat so
far, but still not filled to capacity.
1:25 AM: Lifeboat 12 leaves.
1:30 AM: Lifeboat 14 leaves.
1:35 AM: Lifeboat 13 leaves.
 1:40 AM: Collapsible Boat C leaves, with J. Bruce Ismay
boarding at the last minute. He is later heavily criticized for this.
1:45 AM: The Titanic sends out its final message to the
Carpathia. Lifeboat 2 leaves.
1:55 AM: Lifeboat 4 leaves.
2:05 AM: Almost all of the lifeboats have gone. Collapsible
Boat D is being loaded with women and children.
2:17 AM: Captain Smith releases the crew from their duties and
tells them to try to save themselves, since nothing more can be
done. Collapsibles A and B are washed overboard by the rushing
water. Later on, survivors will cling to them.
2:20 AM: The Titanic sinks. Approximately 1500 people —
passengers and crew — die in the disaster.
3:30 AM: Lifeboats spot rockets being fired by the Carpathia,
which is speeding to the rescue.
4:10 AM: The Carpathia picks up passengers from the first
lifeboat it encounters, Lifeboat 2.
8:30 AM: After several hours of rescue work, the final lifeboat,
Lifeboat 12, is picked up. At the same time — hours too late to
help — the Californian appears.
8:50 AM: The Carpathia sets out for New York City with an
estimated 705 survivors aboard.
April 18, 1912: The Carpathia arrives in New York.
April 19 – April 25, 1912: Under the committee leadership of
Senator William Smith, the United States Senate conducts
hearings to investigate the sinking.
May 2 – July 3, 1912: A similar inquiry, run by British
authorities, takes place in England, attempting without much
success to assess blame for the disaster.
April 1913: The International Ice Patrol is formed in the hopes
of preventing another tragedy like the Titanic. It is administered
by the United States Coast Guard.
November 1955: A Night to Remember, by Walter Lord, is
published. More than fifty years later, it is still considered the
best book ever written about the Titanic.
September 1, 1985: American scientist Dr. Robert Ballard and
his crew, along with French scientist Jean-Louis Michel, discover
the wreck, lying more than two miles below the ocean’s surface.
July 1986: Dr. Ballard explores the wreck and takes underwater
photographs of it. Out of respect, he makes no attempt to
retrieve anything, and hopes that no other expedition ever does
so.
There have been a number of dives since Dr. Ballard’s discovery.
Crews have recovered everything from dishes to clothing to
furniture.
 About the Author

In the course of her research, Ellen Emerson White found many

accounts of the Titanic’s voyage from the first- and third-class
points of view. Because the classes never mingled, she thought it
would be interesting to explore the privileged experience of the
wealthy through the eyes of a working-class girl who, by a stroke
of luck, finds herself traveling in first class.
Ms. White has written several critically acclaimed novels for
young adults, among them The President’s Daughter, Life Without
Friends, and Long Live the Queen, which was named an ALA Best
Book for Young Adults. For Scholastic Press she has written The
Road Home, also an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. She lives in
New York.
 Acknowledgments

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use the

following:

Cover portrait by Tim O’Brien.

Cover background: Titanic. © Popperfoto/Getty Images.

White Star Line advertisement, Hulton Archive/Getty Images.

Northam Street Scene, Southampton, England, Southampton

Maritime Museum.

Titanic at Southampton, Mariners’ Museum, Newport News,

Virginia.

Near miss with the New York, Mariners’ Museum, Newport News,
Virginia.

Captain Edward J. Smith, Popperfoto/Getty Images.

Passengers strolling on deck, Cork Examiner, Ireland.

The Grand Staircase, Mariners’ Museum, Newport News,

Virginia.

First-class dining room, Mariners’ Museum, Newport News,

Virginia.

Luncheon menu, Southampton Maritime Museum.

First-class bedroom, Mariners’ Museum, Newport News, Virginia.

First-class reading and writing room, Mariners’ Museum,
Newport News, Virginia.

Gymnasium photo, L’Illustration, from Titanic: Triumph and

Tragedy © 1994 by John P. Eaton and Charles A. Haas,
published by W.W. Norton, Inc. Reprinted by permission of
the authors.

Mail room workers, from Titanic: Triumph and Tragedy © 1994 by

John P. Eaton and Charles A. Haas, published by W.W.
Norton, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Wireless room, Express Newspapers, Photo by Father

Browne/Universal Images Group/Getty Images.

Telegram from the Amerika, National Archives, Washington, D.C.

Lifeboat painting, Hulton Archive/Getty Images.

Iceberg, Mariners’ Museum, Newport News, Virginia.

Titanic sinking, © Ullstein-Willy Stoewer/The Image Works.

Survivors in lifeboat, Mariners’ Museum, Newport News,

Virginia.

Survivors on board the Carpathia, North Wind Picture Archives,

Alfred, Maine.

Third-class passenger survivors, New York Evening Journal, from

Titanic: Triumph and Tragedy © 1994 by John P. Eaton and
Charles A. Haas, published by W.W. Norton, Inc. Reprinted
by permission of the authors.

Newspaper boy, Topical Press Agency/Getty Images.

Lifeboat diagram, National Archives, Washington, D.C.

Diagram of nearby ships, National Archives, Washington, D.C.

Map of voyage by Heather Saunders.

Other books in the Dear America series

The Winter of Red Snow

The Diary of Abigail Jane Stewart
by Kristiana Gregory

The Fences Between Us

The Diary of Piper Davis
by Kirby Larson

A Journey to the New World

The Diary of Remember Patience Whipple
by Kathryn Lasky
 Copyright

While the events described and some of the characters in this book may be based on actual
historical events and real people, Margaret Ann Brady is a fictional character, created by
the author, and her diary and its epilogue are works of fiction.

Copyright © 1998 by Ellen Emerson White

Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
Cover portrait by Tim O’Brien, © 2010 Scholastic Inc.
Cover background © Popperfoto/Getty Images

All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, DEAR
AMERICA, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic
Inc.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding
permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway,
New York, NY 10012.

The Library of Congress has catalogued the earlier hardcover edition as follows:
White, Ellen Emerson.
Voyage on the great Titanic : the diary of Margaret Ann Brady, R.M.S. Titanic, 1912 / Ellen
Emerson White.
p. cm. — (Dear America)
Summary: In her diary in 1912, thirteen-year-old Margaret Ann describes how she leaves
her lonely life in a London orphanage to become a companion to a wealthy American
woman, sails on the Titanic, and experiences its sinking.
ISBN 0-590-96273-6
1. Titanic (Steamship)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Titanic (Steamship)—Fiction. 2. Shipwrecks—
Fiction. 3. Ocean liners—Fiction. 4. Orphans—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. 6.
Diaries—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Series.
 PZ7.W58274Vo 1998
[Fic]—dc21 98-27501 CIP AC

This edition first printing, November 2010

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By

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e-ISBN: 978-0-545-41501-9