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“It is required,” said Marion.
“The very night before?”
“All night.”
5
“Third class passengers are never admitted to First Class sections of the ship,” Isaac Bell was informed by Mauretania’s chief purser when they met to arrange the wedding. “Not even briefly to celebrate your marriage, I’m sorry to say. Not even ‘moving picture people’ known to your fiancée. You may invite a few from Second Class, provided they come properly attired, but we draw the line at Third mingling with the superior classes for one simple reason.”
“And what is that?” Bell inquired with a dangerous glint in his eye. He could not abide bigotry. That Marion’s acquaintances were traveling on the cheap was no reason to exclude them.
“A reason that even the most ardent ‘democrat’ will sympathize with. Were Third Class to mingle with the superior classes and one of their lot were to arrive in New York exhibiting symptoms of measles or mumps or some other of the infectious diseases spread by immigrants, the entire vessel and all who sail in her would be held at Quarantine. No one — not even you and your fellow First Class passengers — would be permitted ashore until the doctors could guarantee no outbreak of infectious disease, which would take weeks. Weeks! Imagine, Mr. Bell, confined to the ship anchored offshore, staring helplessly at New York City, so near but so far.”
“My fiancée’s acquaintances are not immigrants. They’re artists saving on expenses, trying to make ends meet.”
“Infectious diseases do not distinguish between motives. I am sorry, but surely you understand.”
“What’s tomorrow’s dinner menu in steerage?” asked Bell, using the popular term for Third Class.
“A nourishing soup with bits of beef in it.”
“May I see tomorrow’s First Class dinner menu?”
The purser produced a tall menu card beautifully illustrated with a color print of the immensely tall and narrow four-stack Mauretania framed by pink roses. Bell read it from top to bottom.
“I see nothing here that displeases. For our wedding feast, my bride and I will have prime sirloin and ribs o’ beef, roast turkey poulet, quarters of lamb, smoked ox tongue, and Rouen ducklings sent down to steerage.”
“Excellent! Give me your acquaintances’ names, and I will see—”
“To everyone in steerage.”
“Everyone?”
?
??Everyone will enjoy our wedding feast.”
“Most generous, sir,” the chief purser said drily. “May I remind you that we have one thousand one hundred and thirty-five passengers in steer — Third Class.”
“What’s for dessert in steerage?”
“On Sunday they’ll get some marmalade.”
Bell referred back to the First Class menu. “We’ll send down apple tart, petits fours, French ice cream, and rum cake.”
The chief purser looked around his office, confirming they were alone and the door was closed. “I don’t presume to ask what a private detective earns, sir, but the cost of feeding First Class fare to over a thousand souls will be considerable.”
“Fortunately,” Isaac Bell smiled, “I had a kindly grandfather. He blessed me with a legacy. Which reminds me, how many children are in steerage?”
“Many.”
“Better lay on extra ice cream.”
* * *
“Marconigram for mr. bell,” piped a twelve-year-old call boy in a blue uniform.
“Don’t move, nervous groom,” said Archie. “I’ll get it.”
