By dinner time on Saturday evening, Juliette was restless in her gilded prison. No matter how large the ship, there was no escape from the exasperating presence of her mother, and from the burden of class expectations, which were magnified a thousand times on board. Here were the crème de la crème of American society and a good few British aristocrats, all mingling together and watching each other closely for any lapse in standards. Not for a second could you swear, or burp, or put your feet up on a table, never mind attend breakfast without a hat. Brought up with a brother who was close in age, Juliette enjoyed tennis, cricket and tree-climbing rather than needle-point and bridge. She liked male conversations about politics and exploration and technology but when she tried to engage their companions in the reception room outside the dining saloon in speculation about what might have happened to Captain Scott, her mother was desperate to change the subject.

      ‘Really, Juliette, I’m sure the ladies don’t wish to talk about such things.’

      Juliette ignored her and continued. ‘Mr Amundsen has returned triumphant so at least we know it’s possible. But the papers are saying that Scott’s party did not have enough supplies with them for this length of time. I do hope they are all right.’

      A middle-aged American woman called Mrs Grayling, whom they had met just that evening, smiled at her. ‘I’m fascinated by the stories I’ve read about both men. They seem infinitely resourceful. I have a hunch that Captain Scott will be fine. He might even have turned up while we’ve been at sea.’

      Her husband didn’t agree. ‘They’d have told us. Someone would have telegrammed news like that to the ship and the captain would have announced it. Remember we heard the news that Amundsen had returned safely while on our voyage across to Europe.’

      ‘That’s true, dear,’ Mrs Grayling said, smiling in his direction. ‘At any rate, I wish Captain Scott and his team all the best.’

      There was some discussion about who was dining at which table that evening and they decided to ask the chief steward to move them so they could sit together as a party. Juliette was pleased because there was no obvious suitor in the group that her mother could thrust upon her but humiliated when, over dinner, she guessed that her mother was asking Mrs Grayling if she knew of any possible marital candidates. Their heads were close together, voices lowered to little more than a whisper, but Juliette could tell by the way they occasionally glanced in her direction that she was the subject of their discussion. It was insulting. She was only twenty and perfectly capable of finding a husband for herself once the present unfortunate matter had been dealt with, yet her mother seemed to think it was her role now.

      Juliette was seated between Mr Grayling, who didn’t seem to want to make conversation, and a Canadian couple who weren’t speaking to each other. She got talking to the husband, a man called Albert Howson who came from the Calgary area, and who proved to be a most agreeable companion. They talked about the rumour that King Edward VII had been married bigamously to Queen Mary, after a secret marriage in Malta while he was serving in the Navy, which meant George V wouldn’t be the lawful King of England. Neither believed it. Juliette was interested when he described Calgary as cowboy territory, but said that there were fortunes to be made for those prepared to speculate. But when she brought up the subject of women’s suffrage, she found Mr Howson unsympathetic.

      ‘Men are the ones who understand finance and business. How would a woman even begin to vote knowledgeably on fiscal policy? They would vote for the most handsome or charismatic candidate rather than attempting to review the issues.’

      ‘Don’t be such an idiot, Bert,’ his young wife cut in sharply. ‘Women would bring an emotional sensitivity to politics that would improve them for the better. We have more insight into human behaviour. We care about others.’

      Her husband turned to her with a curl of his lip. ‘All you care about is fashion: who has the newest gown or the biggest diamond ring.’

      Juliette turned quickly to Mr Grayling so as not to be drawn into their squabble. ‘Are you enjoying the crossing?’ she asked. ‘Is the Titanic everything you expected it to be?’

      ‘I don’t have any complaints,’ he replied. ‘Except that the soup is never hot enough. And the meat is frequently overdone.’

      Their waiter was collecting plates at that point and Mr Grayling raised his voice to make sure he was overheard. Juliette felt sorry for the poor boy, who certainly bore no responsibility for the standard of the cuisine. When he lifted her plate, she turned to him.

      ‘The fish was quite delicious. Please pass my compliments to the chef.’

      The waiter gave a slight smile and nodded. ‘Thank you, miss.’

      She tried again to engage Mr Grayling, but he didn’t seem to want to join in the general conviviality. Was he shy perhaps? Or just not good at small talk? On the other side of the table, the conversation turned to the speed of the ship, and Juliette listened with interest.

      ‘I do wonder if they are going for a record crossing,’ remarked one gent. ‘They say we covered 519 miles yesterday, which is rather more than the day before.’

      ‘Would that mean we’d get into New York early?’ his wife asked.

      ‘In theory, yes. It could be Tuesday evening rather than Wednesday morning.’

      ‘That would be rather a bore as our chauffeur won’t be there till the morning.’

      The Canadian woman, Mrs Howson, joined in. ‘You could send him a Marconi-gram. Have you sent one yet? They’re ever such fun. I sent my sister one yesterday, simply saying ‘You’ll never guess where I am!’ She thought we were coming back on the Lusitania so she’ll be astonished when she gets it.’

      Mrs Grayling asked how Marconi-grams reached the people concerned, and one gent took it upon himself to explain about radio waves and how they were sent from ship to ship then on to base stations on shore.

      ‘How clever!’ she remarked. ‘What will they think of next?’

      ‘I imagine they will think of a way of using the telephone across an ocean. That will rather change the world, won’t it? Imagine being able to place a telephone call from New York to London!’

      ‘I can’t see it happening in our lifetime. How would they run the telephone wire along the ocean floor?’

      ‘Do you have a telephone yet?’ Mrs Howson interrupted. ‘It’s very convenient but I never say anything private on the line because the operator always listens in. You can actually hear her breathing. It’s most off-putting.’

      Mrs Grayling said that her telephone always gave her a start when it rang. ‘It’s so loud and shrill. I’m not sure I like it. You use it more than I do, darling.’ She turned to Mr Grayling, trying to include him in the conversation. ‘What do you think?’

      ‘Technology has never been your strong suit, has it, my dear?’ He looked round the other guests at the table. ‘She doesn’t like to touch the light switches in case she electrocutes herself.’

      Juliette was astonished by his patronising tone. It seemed a nasty way to talk to your spouse.

      ‘But there was that case in the New York Times,’ Mrs Grayling protested. ‘It can happen.’

      ‘I read that story,’ another gent burst in gallantly. ‘It was rather alarming.’

      Juliette was interested to hear that so many Americans had telephones and electric lights in their homes. Back in Gloucestershire they had neither. She’d been trying to persuade her father to install a telephone but so far he hadn’t agreed.

      Over dessert, the Canadian couple’s argument erupted into a fierce skirmish and Mrs Howson rose and stamped away from the table without saying goodbye to anyone. The husband quaffed the remainder of his wine in one swallow and remarked to the gentlemen, ‘At least that frees me up for the evening. Shall we retire to the smoking room?’

      As the ladies rose to