So we waited. A manager from White Star’s Paris office circulated among us inside the station, offering apologies and reassurances, and the unlucky man, I felt sorry for him. I did. He wasn’t to blame for any of it, but you would think he’d arranged the holdup himself, the way some of our fellow passengers abused him.
The only bright spot was that we ran into Margaret Brown again, also waiting to board. She had received a telegram that her grandson in Denver was gravely ill, and so she had left Helen in Paris to rush back home. Titanic was the first available ship headed for New York, and as there were several first-class cabins still open, Margaret had had no problem securing a berth.
It was a relief to see her again, I confess.
In retrospect, of course, I would not have wished that voyage upon anyone, especially a friend.
Wednesday, April 10, 1912
Cherbourg, France
The waiting room of the train station was plainly too small for the number of people anticipating the arrival of Titanic. Madeleine estimated there was well over a hundred and fifty of them, and that was just the first-and second-class passengers. There were even more people on the crowded platform outside, mostly booked in steerage, she would guess: men in flowing robes that reminded her of the galabeyas of Egypt; women with exotically bright shawls wrapped over their shoulders and around their heads, standing and sitting in clusters, calling out to their children in languages she had never heard before. When the wind blew in past the quay, the many shawls would lift and flutter, and she was reminded of clouds of butterflies, dancing against the gloom.
Porters pushing oversized trolleys loaded with suitcases and trunks wound through the multitudes, answering question after question and somehow keeping their composure amid all the jabbering confusion.
Mr. Martin, the White Star man, had already shepherded the Astor group, Margaret, and an older, ermine-clad matron （nervously pale, constantly blinking） through the concourse to a row of benches placed against a wall, somewhat removed from the maelstrom of people.
“I simply do not know . . .” the matron would mutter, again and again. As she never seemed capable of finishing her sentence, Madeleine had no idea what she did not know. She seemed to be an acquaintance of Margaret’s—who kept absently patting the back of her hand, as if in comfort—but Margaret, in her preoccupation, had failed to introduce them.
Kitty had decided to seat herself on Madeleine’s right foot. Madeleine leaned forward, careful not to dislodge the dog, and caught the matron’s eyes. There was a small smudge of black on her chin, likely from a cinder, but there didn’t seem a polite way to mention it.
“How do you do? I’m Madeleine.”
“Oh,” said the matron, still blinking; she looked as if she could barely hold back tears. “I know who you are, of course! Both of you. How do you do.”
Margaret stirred. “Forgive me. Madeleine, Jack, this is Emma Bucknell, a friend from Philadelphia. Emma’s been touring Egypt, as well, it turns out.”
“How nice,” said Madeleine warmly. “Didn’t you love it?”
“It was exceptional,” the matron said. “But now—now we have this.”
“It won’t be long until the liner comes,” Jack said, crossing his legs. “Martin assured me he means to load the tenders within the hour. We’ll be off soon.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bucknell. She blotted her eyes with a handkerchief. “I just—oh, I just have the most frightful feeling about it all. I’m sorry! I’m not usually like this. But I have the most frightful feeling. Just the most foreboding feeling about getting on that ship.”
Margaret shifted on the bench. “Emma, you’ve had too much coffee today and not enough food, that’s all it is. Once you see Titanic, you’ll realize everything is fine. We’re going to be there in time for supper, I’m sure, and then you’ll feel better.”
“If it’s anything like dining on the Olympic,” Madeleine offered, “you’ll be quite satisfied.”
“It will be better than the Olympic.” Jack came to his feet, brushing at his jacket, Kitty instantly springing up to follow. “All of it, from bow to stern. There’s no need to worry, madam. Titanic is the safest ocean liner in the world.”
“That’s right,” agreed Margaret, but her eyes were distant once more. “Everyone says so.”
*
The minutes ticked by, the hour Jack had been promised turning into an hour and a quarter, and then an hour and a half, and still the steamship had not been sighted on the sea line, and the tenders did not launch.