He pulls open yet another door. “Water closet.” A personal toilet stands at attention and ready to serve. The room’s occupant could go whenever and as many times as the urge called. We’d always shared water closets—or sometimes just outhouses—with other building tenants.

In the bedroom, a Persian rug tops wall-to-wall carpeting. The room is wide enough for me to cartwheel and flip over in one run, if not for the center table. Two beds—one a canopied double, the other a single—are dressed with cream skirts and topped with puffy quilts that seem to float. A chaise longue stretches along a wall, in case you need somewhere to rest as you travel from the bed to the square window. There are even two mirrors, one topping a vanity and another above a second sink. I figured the digs here would be fit for a king, but seeing it all laid out around me makes the bones float inside my body.

Ba, I’ve landed in the cabbage patch now.

He had dreamed of living in the most exclusive neighborhood in London—which he called the cabbage patch, where the richest soil is found. Mum had not. She considered mirrors sinful. But I won’t waste my time gazing in the mirror—though I could waste it lying in that bed.

What am I thinking? Impersonating Mrs. Sloane for a few minutes to retrieve a few items from her trunk is one thing. But keeping up the charade for the entire trip? That is hardly keeping my chin tucked.

Steward Latimer presses his hands together. “I hope you will be very comfortable here.”

“It is acceptable.”

Then again, as long as I stay in my room, no one will be the wiser. The first class can stretch out on their chaise longues eating bonbons all day if they wish. This is the perfect hideout. Mum raised me not to tell fibs, but if Ba were here, he would be cackling with glee. If there was anything he liked better than getting something for free, it was getting it from someone who had done him dirty. White Star Line refused me entry, after all my expense and trouble, causing me to put my life and limbs in great jeopardy. By my thinking, they still owe me.

Steward Latimer pulls apart the lace curtains. “This room hasn’t been aired yet. I’ll crack the window.” A gentle sea breeze filters in. Probably even the breezes here are more refined than in third class.

That done, the steward circles the room, pointing out the furnishings. “Light switches there, heating fan—just press this button—fresh towels in the cabinet. Further amenities include the Turkish baths, which are a feast for the eyes—aquamarine tiles, bronze lamps from the Middle East. We’ve got a swimming pool, a squash court, and a gymnasium.”