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  “And what did you think of The Sheik?” asked Toby, who had told them that yes, he was indeed a “real” doctor and worked in a “real” hospital.

  “Spectacular!” declared Delilah.

  “Disturbing,” said Poppy, before she could stop herself.

  Delilah and Miles looked at her aghast; Toby tossed back his head and laughed.

  “Ah, a feminist, I see.”

  Poppy tightened the belt of her bathrobe. “If by feminist you mean I don’t think a woman should aspire to be forced to have intimate relations with a man and then still want to marry him, then yes, I’m a feminist.”

  Delilah, her forehead creased ever so slightly, laughed fetchingly. “Oh, do forgive my friend. As I said, she’s frightfully clever, and has very modern ideas.”

  Poppy’s lips tightened. Was Delilah criticizing her? She whose mother had died for the sake of women’s suffrage?

  But before Poppy could say anything, Toby Spencer interrupted, speaking to Delilah but looking fully and appreciatively at Poppy. “Oh, there’s no need to apologize, Miz Marconi; I couldn’t agree more. I would expect nothing less from a lady of Miz Denby’s intellect and character.”

  If Toby’s comments were meant to imply that Delilah was lacking in the intellect and character department, Poppy could not tell, but she was grateful that that seemed to be the end of it.

  “Enough of this jaw-wagging. Let’s swim!” declared Miles and, with a short run, he dived into the pool, splashing water over all of them. He surfaced and called out to them: “Who’s joining me? It’s divine!”

  Delilah jumped up and headed for the steps. Miles swam over and reached out his hand to help her in.

  “Are you coming, Miz Denby?” asked Toby.

  Poppy smiled at him. “Not today. It’s been a long time since I was last swimming. I would prefer my re-acquaintance with water to be slightly less public.”

  Toby nodded his understanding. “Do you mind if I do?”

  “Of course not,” said Poppy and watched as he joined his cousin and Delilah in the pool. Poppy laughed as, led by Miles, the three of them started a game of Marco Polo, splashing around like toddlers in a paddling pool. Soon other bathers joined in and shrieks of laughter filled the room. Toby participated with gusto, but whenever he was on the side of the pool closest to Poppy, he kept trying to catch her eye. The young journalist wasn’t sure how to respond and wished she had a book with her so she could pretend she hadn’t seen him – or his impressive physique.

  Oh, he’s good looking, thought Poppy appreciatively, but not as good looking as Daniel. Her heart clenched as she wondered what she would be doing if her former beau were here now. She sighed. I’d probably be swimming.

  CHAPTER 6

  The passengers were summoned to dinner by bugle call, which was the tradition on the Olympic. Poppy had taken a nap after her time at the pool, while Delilah had been out and about socializing. But by seven o’clock they were both bathed and dressed and ready to make their grand entrance into the first-class dining room, down the majestic oak staircase. Poppy wore the same pale pink Jean-Charles Worth she had worn the night she and Daniel broke up. She’d thought twice about it, but in the end decided it was the best frock she had in her trunk and she wouldn’t let her emotions stop her from getting her money’s worth – even if she hadn’t paid for it!

  Delilah wore a Madeleine Wallis leaf green silk and chiffon sleeveless evening gown with a silver lamé sash and silver shoes. It was brand new, from the 1921 House of Paquin spring collection. She’d bought it on a shopping trip to Paris. Unlike Poppy, whose budget restricted her to the department stores of Oxford Street, Delilah frequently popped over to Gay Paris whenever one of her favourite designers was showing a new collection. Poppy had to admit that Delilah looked divine, and whatever the price tag, she could no doubt afford it.

  The two exquisitely dressed women, one petite and brunette, the other taller, blonde and slightly fuller-figured, stood at the top of the staircase and drew the eyes of nearly everyone in the dining room below.

  “Just smile and pretend you do this every day,” whispered Delilah, who could feel Poppy tense beside her. Delilah squeezed Poppy’s hand warmly, then linked arms with her friend and led her down the stairs. Poppy held her breath and prayed her Cuban heels would not get caught in her Vandyked hem.

  At the bottom of the stairs they were greeted by Rollo, who inserted his squat body between them and linked arms. “Ladies, you both look swell,” he declared, and steered them across the dance floor to the restaurant tables beyond. Already seated at a round table with a white damask table cloth were Aunt Dot and Miss King.

  “Hello, you two! Delilah, darling, thank you again for giving up your suite for me. Gertrude and I have settled in very nicely, haven’t we, Gertrude?” Gertrude King nodded solemnly. She was looking a little green about the gills, Poppy thought.

  As Rollo pulled out a chair for her, next to the older woman, Poppy asked quietly: “Are you all right, Miss King?”

  Miss King cleared her throat and replied: “As well as a landlubber can be, I suppose.”

  Poppy smiled at the dour woman’s attempt at humour. Sea sickness was a horrible thing, she’d heard. Fortunately, Poppy had found her sea legs quickly and thought the gentle lilting of the ocean liner soothing rather than stomach-churning. On her previous sea voyage she had been more concerned about a possible attempt on her life than any queasiness, so she had wondered how she would get on in more benign circumstances.

  Aunt Dot, a frequent traveller, looked in rude health, her blonde curls piled high on her head and held in place by her best tiara. She was extolling the virtues of her luxury cabin to Delilah and asking what it was like “slumming it” in the cheaper cabin.

  “It’s hardly a slum, Dot,” said Delilah. “Just not quite as luxurious as yours. It’s still first class. And of course,” she added, grinning at Poppy, “I’m bunking with a first-class cabin mate.”

  Aunt Dot laughed. “What fun you girls are going to have!” And then, more wistfully, “What I’d give to be young, footloose, and fancy free again.”

  “My dear Miz Denby, I’d take your age and beauty over these young flappers any day!” said Rollo, winking at Poppy and Delilah.

  “You’d better watch out, Mr Rolandson, or I might just take you up on that,” said Aunt Dot with a melodramatic flutter of her false eyelashes. “And it will be interesting to see if you can outrun a wheelchair,” she added, and everyone at the table laughed.

  Aunt Dot then went on to inquire after the health of Rollo’s sweetheart, Yasmin Reece-Lansdale. The newly appointed barrister – one of the first women in the country to hold the position – was an old associate of Aunt Dot’s from her days as a suffragette.

  While Dot and Rollo were reminiscing, Poppy and Delilah took some menus from a hovering waiter and perused the culinary fayre. As Poppy was trying to decide between a soup or shellfish starter she heard a booming American voice call out: “Well, if it isn’t Rollo Rolandson! How are you, old sport?”

  Poppy looked up to see a tuxedoed gentleman of around sixty, sporting a salt and pepper moustache under an aquiline nose. His grey hair was slicked back and his sideburns were sharply trimmed. Poppy’s heart started to race. The American man’s patrician looks had for a moment reminded her of Lord Melvyn Dorchester, the man who had nearly cost her her life during her first assignment for The Daily Globe. However, the American’s sparkling eyes were filled with good humour and he was pumping Rollo Rolandson’s arm up and down with bonhomie.

  “How many years has it been, old chap?”

  “Too many!” declared Rollo, who braced his legs to absorb the impact as his interlocutor slapped him on the back with his spare hand.

  “You will, of course, remember my wife.”

  The man let go of Rollo’s hand and took the arm of a splendidly attired brunette lady in her mid-fifties and edged her towards the editor. She wore a navy-blue crêpe velvet evening gown, cu
t to disguise the spreading figure of middle age while accentuating her elegant neck and shoulders, as well as an exquisite diamond choker. She too carried herself with the bearing of an aristocrat, and although she did not wear a tiara like Aunt Dot, Poppy realized this was a woman born and bred to wealth. She reached out a gloved hand and allowed Rollo to take it. He did so, with some reluctance, Poppy thought.

  “Good evening, Miz Spencer,” said Rollo.

  “Good evening, Mr Rolandson.” The woman withdrew her hand as soon as introductions were over, turning her body away from the diminutive editor. Hmmm, thought Poppy, noting the body language, there’s some history there.

  “We-ell,” said her husband in what Poppy was to learn was known as the Long Island drawl, “you ce-ertainly are the thorn among the roses.” He nodded to the four ladies seated at the table.

  Rollo preened like a rooster in a hen house. “That I am, Theo, that I am. Let me introduce you. Ladies, this is Theodore Spencer and his wife Amelia. Senator Spencer, I do believe he is now.”

  Theodore nodded his assent.

  “Theodore is an old friend of my family from Long Island.”

  “Not that old, old sport!” laughed Theodore and bowed to the ladies. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Mrs Spencer politely inclined her head too.

  Rollo continued: “May I introduce Miz Dorothy Denby and her companion, Miz Gertrude King, from London. Miz Denby is –”

  “Heavens above! It’s Dot Denby!” The previously subdued Amelia Spencer lit up like a Broadway stage. She stepped forward and thrust out her hand towards Aunt Dot. “I’m Amelia, Amelia Spencer. I’m sure – or at least I hope – Emmeline has told you all about me. I’ve been working with the sisters in New York to get the vote. And we finally have – glory hallelujah – we finally have!”

  Aunt Dot’s West End countenance lit up too. “Amelia Spencer! Well I never! Of course Emmeline has told me all about you. The Pankhursts hold you in the highest regard, and any friend of the Pankhursts is a friend of mine. How delightful to meet you!”

  Poppy thought for a moment that the two women might embrace, but they didn’t. Instead, Aunt Dot gestured to the other women at the table with a sweep of her plump white hand. “Let me finish Mr Rolandson’s introductions. My companion, Gertrude King, my niece, Poppy Denby – a lady journalist, no less – and Delilah Marconi, who is practically a daughter to me. Delilah’s mother was a sister too. I don’t know if you heard of Gloria Marconi on your side of the pond…”

  Amelia nodded solemnly. “We did indeed. She was mourned as a martyr to the cause. I’m sorry for the loss of your mother, m’dear,” she said softly, “but she did not die in vain.”

  Delilah’s large brown eyes grew wider and welled with tears. “Thank you,” she said softly and lowered her head.

  An awkward momentary silence ensued, but was soon broken by Theodore’s loud and enthusiastic: “We-ell, we’re delighted to meet y’all. Aren’t we, m’dear?”

  “We are,” agreed his wife with what appeared to be genuine warmth. Whatever chill Poppy had detected earlier in relation to Rollo had thawed.

  “May we join you?” asked Theodore, indicating the five empty seats at the table.

  “Of course!” said Rollo and Aunt Dot in unison.

  “Two more will be joining us in a moment, if you don’t mind,” said Amelia as her husband pulled out her seat for her. She looked over to the stairs, as if expecting the latecomers to arrive imminently, then smiled as two dashingly handsome young men approached from across the dance floor.

  Poppy and Delilah sat up a little straighter as Miles and Toby Spencer joined the party. Of course! thought Poppy. Spencer.

  “Ah! There you are, boys!” declared Theodore, and proceeded to make introductions around the table.

  CHAPTER 7

  Three courses later and the conversation had traversed from women’s suffrage, to the British miners’ strike, to the morality of curbing immigration into the United States, to the rights and wrongs of German war reparations, to the League of Nations and the possibility of world peace. Poppy was ready for a bit of fresh air. She looked longingly at the sliding doors that led out onto the deck and wondered when it would be polite to slip away.

  Aunt Dot whispered something to Delilah who nodded enthusiastically, excused herself, and scooted away across the dance floor towards the bandstand. Was she about to sing? Although Poppy loved hearing her friend doing a turn, it was not what she felt like tonight. She wanted to be alone for a while: to think, to breathe.

  The last week had been a whirlwind of emotion from the time Rollo told them that the Globe’s future was on the line, to him inviting her to join him in New York to – and at this Poppy bit her lip – Daniel refusing to support her decision to go. Then there was all the packing and wrapping up at work: the filing and typing, the last-minute instructions to the man who was covering her beat, the telephone calls to her contacts introducing him and explaining the situation and… she simply had not had time to process it all.

  The microphone yowled and the bandleader – a Jewish man with slicked-back black hair and a pencil moustache, holding a clarinet in one hand – announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you have enjoyed your first meal on board the Olympic. On behalf of the captain and crew I wish you a bon voyage. If we may make your stay any more comfortable please do not hesitate to ask. We are here at your service. And at this point, I would normally say, without further ado, let’s start the dancing…” This was met by cheers and applause. The bandleader grinned but silenced the crowd with a “simmer-down” motion of his free hand. “However, before we do that” – he nodded to the young woman in the green dress beside him – “Miz Marconi here has informed me that tonight is an extra special night for…”

  Delilah smiled, basking in the appreciative glances from the assembled guests. Poppy couldn’t help but chuckle. Anything to be the centre of attention. What “special night” is it for you, Delilah?

  “… Miz Poppy Denby. Miz Denby, where are you?”

  Poppy felt like a rod had been shoved up the back of her dress. Good Lord, no…

  “She’s here!” called Aunt Dot in a voice worthy of the Albert Hall.

  All eyes were now on the young woman in the pale pink dress. The rod in her back crumpled and Poppy’s shoulders slumped. She smiled self-consciously and nodded to left and right.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” the bandleader continued, “I have it on good authority” – Delilah giggled beside him – “that today is Miz Denby’s birthday.”

  Poppy expelled all the air from her lungs. Her birthday. It was. The 6th of April 1921. Today she was twenty-three years old. It wasn’t as if she had forgotten, but with all the busyness she just hadn’t given it much thought. And she wouldn’t have minded if it had come and gone without notice. She was not in the mood for celebrations, but – as she took in the warm looks from her friends and family – she knew she just needed to pull herself together. It would be unkind of her to deny them the opportunity to do something for her. So she put her reclusive thoughts to one side, straightened her back, and announced: “It is. Thank you.”

  The bandleader and Delilah shared the microphone and led the dining room in a round of “Happy Birthday”, and as the applause came to an end, the bandleader declared: “And now, on with the dancing!” This was met by an appreciative cheer.

  Aunt Dot beckoned Poppy over. Poppy obliged. The older woman reached into her embroidered blue satin evening bag and brought out a small parcel wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied together with a purple ribbon.

  “Oh, Aunt Dot, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Of course I should have! Who else am I going to shower gifts upon other than my beautiful niece?” She passed it to Poppy, who took it with a warm smile.

  “Thank you.”

  “Open it!” said Aunt Dot with a look that reminded Poppy of a child on Christmas morning.

  Poppy pulled at the ribbon and unfurled the ti
ssue paper. Inside was a black leather box. She opened the hinged lid to reveal a string of pearls nesting in green velvet. She gasped. “Oh, Aunt Dot, the Prince of Wales’s pearls!”

  Aunt Dot giggled. “Yes! He gave them to me after my run as Juliet in Drury Lane in 1906.” She turned to the rest of the guests at the table – Rollo, Miss King, and the Spencers – and explained: “It may be hard to believe but this plump middle-aged woman, stuck in an invalid’s chair, was once as lithe and beautiful as my lovely niece. And,” she winked, “despite rumours to the contrary, the Prince of Wales and I were never more than friends. Nonetheless, he frequently gave me gifts. He bought these, he said, on a royal tour of Ceylon. One hundred and twenty-four of the purest pearls. Put them on, Poppy; let’s see them on you.”

  Poppy untwined the string, lowered her head, and slipped them on. They felt cold and heavy against her neck and chest.

  “Stand up, my darling; let’s see.”

  Obligingly Poppy stood and the pearls fell to her waist.

  Aunt Dot clapped her hands in glee. “They were meant for you, darling. Meant for you.”

  Everyone at the table agreed.

  Poppy bent down and kissed her aunt. As she stood she said: “You still are beautiful, Aunt Dot; and if the Prince of Wales was here now, he’d say the same.”

  “Hear, hear!” agreed the rest of the guests at the table.

  “Hear, hear, indeed,” said a bass voice. Poppy looked up to see Captain Williams approaching the table. He reached out his hand to Poppy, who took it. “Happy birthday, Miss Denby, and may you have many happy returns.”

  “Thank you, Captain Williams.” Poppy did a little half-curtsy then felt foolish. Did one curtsy to ship captains? She wasn’t sure.

  The captain didn’t seem to mind. “Well, Miss Denby, as it is your birthday I should ask for your hand to dance; however, if you will excuse me and my old hip, I should rather step aside for a younger man.” He looked around the table and took in the eager faces of Toby and Miles Spencer. “I, instead, shall dance with your most beautiful aunt, Dorothy. I still remember the first time I danced with her at an Admiralty dinner back in… oh, when was it? Nineteen hundred and eight? She was the belle of the ball.”