Maria ‘Pepita’ Josefa Peñasco Perez de Soto y Vallejo
First-class, 22 years old, Lifeboat No. 8
Before we left Spain, Victor’s mother, Mamá Purificación,
made us promise that we would not take an ocean voyage.
“It’s bad luck for a honeymoon!” she warned us.
But while we were in Paris, everyone spoke of Titanic’s maiden voyage to America.
“¡Vamos a Nueva York!” Victor said on a whim.” Let’s go to New York!”
“But what about your mamá ?”
He shrugged. “Who’s going to tell her? Besides, mi amor, I have a plan.”
Victor purchased postcards for us to write of our adventures in Paris.
His butler, Eulogio, stayed behind to mail our posts home to Madrid.
In Cherbourg, France, Titanic stole my breath.
The ship was larger than I had imagined—like a city floating on the water.
My superstitious maid, Fermina, crossed herself and mumbled a prayer.
I thought of Mamá Purificación’s words.
Victor gently tilted my chin. “Don’t look so guilty, my little dove.
We’ll be back before she suspects we’re gone.”
My husband was right. I was being foolish.
Besides, we were no longer children. We were husband and wife.
And sailing was the perfect way to end our honeymoon.
The Titanic was stunning. She was everything we had dreamed of.
Victor and I enjoyed dressing elegantly for dinners.
Arm in arm, we descended the beautiful spiral staircase,
its stained glass dome lit above us like a royal crown.
Women complimented my jewelry.
Victor adored spoiling me with jewels from our European travels.
And I took great pleasure showing them off each evening.
Sunday after dinner,
we retreated to the saloon for pleasant conversation with new friends.
It was about 11:30 when we retired to our stateroom.
Victor slipped off his tie and set his shoes outside our door to be polished.
I sipped from a glass of warm milk to help me sleep,
then snuggled under the bedcovers.
Suddenly, I sat up when I felt a peculiar vibration of the ship.
Then there was faint tapping at our door.
Just as Victor let Fermina into our room the ship’s engines stopped.
Victor rushed off to see what had happened.
He returned after midnight.
“Put on your lifebelt, querida. There’s been an accident.”
“¿Un accidente?” I said.
While Victor slipped my lifebelt over my nightgown,
Fermina hurried across the hall to put hers on as well.
Without delay, we climbed three floors up the grand staircase,
making our way to the upper deck.
Victor put me into a lifeboat with some of the other women.
I took my seat then looked up toward the deck, but he was gone.
“Victor!” I screamed. “Victor!” Where did he go?
Still aboard the ship, Fermina pushed her way through the crowd.
She shouted for my husband.
Nothing.
“Victor!” I cried as sailors prepared to lower our boat without him.
“Señor,” Fermina begged an officer, “por favor, you must wait for my mistress’s husband.”
Some men picked up my maid and tossed her into the lifeboat.
“Victor!” Oh, mi amor! I sobbed.
A kind woman in the small boat cradled me,
rocking me back and forth
as the ocean swallowed the enormous ship, taking mi querido with her.
But all I could do was cry. “Victor!”
Mamá Purificación had warned us.
Oh, mi amor! Why didn’t we listen?
Note: Newlyweds Victor and Maria Josefa were married in December, 1910. The couple was on a two-year honeymoon touring Europe while their mini-palace with forty-four terraces was under construction in Spain. Victor’s body was not among those recovered by the CS Mackay-Bennett. In order for the young widow to inherit her husband’s wealth and to be able to remarry, Spanish law required proof of the deceased—a body and death certificate. Otherwise, Maria would have to wait twenty years before she could remarry and collect her inheritance. Her father came from Spain to support his grieving daughter. Then he, along with Fermina traveled to Canada, to see if they could find and identify Victor’s body. With no luck, Mamá Purificación paid a sum and a body appeared—most likely not Victor’s—which was then released to the family and buried in Halifax, Canada. Maria returned to Spain. After six years of mourning, she remarried and had three children. She died in 1972 at the age of 83.
First-class, 22 years old, Lifeboat No. 8
Before we left Spain, Victor’s mother, Mamá Purificación,
made us promise that we would not take an ocean voyage.
“It’s bad luck for a honeymoon!” she warned us.
But while we were in Paris, everyone spoke of Titanic’s maiden voyage to America.
“¡Vamos a Nueva York!” Victor said on a whim.” Let’s go to New York!”
“But what about your mamá ?”
He shrugged. “Who’s going to tell her? Besides, mi amor, I have a plan.”
Victor purchased postcards for us to write of our adventures in Paris.
His butler, Eulogio, stayed behind to mail our posts home to Madrid.
In Cherbourg, France, Titanic stole my breath.
The ship was larger than I had imagined—like a city floating on the water.
My superstitious maid, Fermina, crossed herself and mumbled a prayer.
I thought of Mamá Purificación’s words.
Victor gently tilted my chin. “Don’t look so guilty, my little dove.
We’ll be back before she suspects we’re gone.”
My husband was right. I was being foolish.
Besides, we were no longer children. We were husband and wife.
And sailing was the perfect way to end our honeymoon.
The Titanic was stunning. She was everything we had dreamed of.
Victor and I enjoyed dressing elegantly for dinners.
Arm in arm, we descended the beautiful spiral staircase,
its stained glass dome lit above us like a royal crown.
Women complimented my jewelry.
Victor adored spoiling me with jewels from our European travels.
And I took great pleasure showing them off each evening.
Sunday after dinner,
we retreated to the saloon for pleasant conversation with new friends.
It was about 11:30 when we retired to our stateroom.
Victor slipped off his tie and set his shoes outside our door to be polished.
I sipped from a glass of warm milk to help me sleep,
then snuggled under the bedcovers.
Suddenly, I sat up when I felt a peculiar vibration of the ship.
Then there was faint tapping at our door.
Just as Victor let Fermina into our room the ship’s engines stopped.
Victor rushed off to see what had happened.
He returned after midnight.
“Put on your lifebelt, querida. There’s been an accident.”
“¿Un accidente?” I said.
While Victor slipped my lifebelt over my nightgown,
Fermina hurried across the hall to put hers on as well.
Without delay, we climbed three floors up the grand staircase,
making our way to the upper deck.
Victor put me into a lifeboat with some of the other women.
I took my seat then looked up toward the deck, but he was gone.
“Victor!” I screamed. “Victor!” Where did he go?
Still aboard the ship, Fermina pushed her way through the crowd.
She shouted for my husband.
Nothing.
“Victor!” I cried as sailors prepared to lower our boat without him.
“Señor,” Fermina begged an officer, “por favor, you must wait for my mistress’s husband.”
Some men picked up my maid and tossed her into the lifeboat.
“Victor!” Oh, mi amor! I sobbed.
A kind woman in the small boat cradled me,
rocking me back and forth
as the ocean swallowed the enormous ship, taking mi querido with her.
But all I could do was cry. “Victor!”
Mamá Purificación had warned us.
Oh, mi amor! Why didn’t we listen?
Note: Newlyweds Victor and Maria Josefa were married in December, 1910. The couple was on a two-year honeymoon touring Europe while their mini-palace with forty-four terraces was under construction in Spain. Victor’s body was not among those recovered by the CS Mackay-Bennett. In order for the young widow to inherit her husband’s wealth and to be able to remarry, Spanish law required proof of the deceased—a body and death certificate. Otherwise, Maria would have to wait twenty years before she could remarry and collect her inheritance. Her father came from Spain to support his grieving daughter. Then he, along with Fermina traveled to Canada, to see if they could find and identify Victor’s body. With no luck, Mamá Purificación paid a sum and a body appeared—most likely not Victor’s—which was then released to the family and buried in Halifax, Canada. Maria returned to Spain. After six years of mourning, she remarried and had three children. She died in 1972 at the age of 83.
