Chin up. I cannot despair until I have checked every corner of this ship. I shall start with the poop deck, where the third class air themselves. Perhaps Jamie is watching the ship depart.

I slog down Scotland Road—the spine of the fish—a brightly lit and bustling hall of slatted wood. The white enamel walls ring with a mishmash of languages, making my head hurt. I stop at a drinking fountain, and its cool offering is a tender mercy. Then I continue, nearly tripping on the raised sill of a doorway marked “watertight.”

On my left, the humming walls bear signs that read “Boiler Casing”—from 6 to 1—and feel warm to the touch. Those must extend to the boiler rooms on the bottom deck, where the firemen feed the furnaces.

On my right, crew dormitories are arranged by pecking order—beginning with stewards by class, then engineers, cooks, dishwashers, and potato peelers. Then the dorms give way to passenger cabins. Doors open and shut, offering glimpses of families settling into serviceable rooms with tidy bunks, even a few with sinks and mirrors. The furnishings are nicer than one would expect in third class and fit perfectly in the cozy spaces. Everything belongs somewhere.

Except me.

I slow, watching two kids jump off a top bunk. Their mum whips around and pinches them by the ears. “Jump off again, and I’ll have them lock you in the brig.”

After what feels like miles, I reach the last staircase and follow the crowds toward the scent of the ocean.

Two decks up, people move in and out of the public rooms like bees to a hive. One, the Smoking Room, emits a pungent blue haze. The other, a second General Room, vibrates with the sound of a banjo player. No Jamie in either.

The ocean air blows its breath onto my face when I step out onto the aft well deck, which, together with the one at the bow, bookends the superstructure. I climb a final staircase to the rearmost deck, the ingloriously named poop deck. There again, a woman’s opinion would’ve been helpful, as one cannot help but think of the toilet every time one refers to it.

I draw a horseshoe-shaped path around the deck. Folks bundled in their plain wool coats and thick sweaters step aside at my approach. Some men even tip their hats to me. It seems wearing a veil does improve how I’m treated.

A raised catwalk called the docking bridge spans the width of the deck, on which a crewman grips a steering wheel. When I explained to Mrs. Sloane that they steered from the docking bridge when the Titanic had to go backward, she declared herself sold. If a big boat like the Titanic could go backward, it was safe enough for her.

The crewman at the wheel spots me, and his short forehead crimps under a beret straight enough to cut timber.