On Renfrew Street (Amherst Island Trilogy Book 2)

by Kate Hewitt

  She did them all in pencil, on paper, because she wanted to show life in Springburn, with all of its joys and sorrows, in the simplest and purest form, without the pretension of paint or clay.

  She also spent time with Rose during her visits to Springburn, and met her new friend’s younger brother Dougie, who was ill indeed with what Ellen sadly suspected was consumption. Once she brought a net bag of oranges, to the young boy’s delight and Rose’s silent gratitude.

  Sitting in the kitchen of their two-room flat, the coal fire sending out its scant warmth and oily smoke, Ellen felt more at home than she suspected she ever would in the ballrooms of Dowanhill, or perhaps even the studios on Renfrew Street.

  She’d been afraid she hadn’t changed from her Springburn days, and then she’d tried to convince herself she had. But perhaps true confidence, true calling, came from knowing where you’d come from and who you now were, and realizing they weren’t all that different.

  When she had a dozen drawings she was happy with she intended to show them to Norah for inclusion in the winter exhibition, a prospect which made her heart tremble inside her. Showing Norah, or anyone, these drawings felt far more frightening, more revealing, than displaying one of the still lifes from her lessons. This would be showing someone her heart, and then letting them judge it.

  And yet she knew she would do it, because this was why she had come to Glasgow; this was her calling. She’d found it, felt it resonate deep within her. She just hoped her professors agreed.

  One evening after supper she drew Norah aside and asked if she could show her something.

  “Of course, my dear,” Norah said, and silently, her heart pounding with both anticipation and nervousness, Ellen handed her the sketchbook of drawings.

  “Sketches, in pencil?” Norah asked, skepticism in her voice, but she opened the book and began to riffle through the drawings, her fingers slowing as she turned the pages, studying each drawing in turn, her face drawn in stern lines of concentration.

  Ellen waited, her heart thudding sickly. If Norah told her they were no good she wouldn’t know what she would do, or even if she could continue at the school. If this wasn’t enough, then nothing she possessed or did would be. But perhaps there would be some peace in knowing that, and in giving up this dream forever.

  Finally Norah looked up. “These are really quite good, Ellen,” she said quietly. “They possess both heart and honesty, a compelling combination. They are the only things you’ve done where I feel as if I’ve seen a glimpse of your soul.”

  “Thank you,” Ellen whispered, swallowing hard. She felt, strangely, almost as if she could burst into tears.

  Norah closed the book. “I think these are really quite good enough to be included in the winter exhibition. I’ll show them to the Committee tomorrow.” She paused, a smile softening her features. “Thank you for showing them to me, Ellen.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A month later, in the beginning of March, Ellen donned her smartest gown for the Glasgow Society of Lady Artists’ winter exhibition. Her sketches had been framed and displayed together in the back of the building’s long gallery, titled simply Sketches from Springburn, and while their placement was far from prominent, Ellen was beyond proud to be included.

  Many of the pupils from the School of Art came to the exhibition, along with several professors and trustees. Ellen saw Henry circulating amidst the guests, and the sight of him after so long, with his sweep of dark hair and bright blue eyes, his smile as charming as ever, even from across the room, gave her a surprising pang of something like homesickness. She’d missed him, she realized, even though she hadn’t meant to.

  Life had been so busy, she hadn’t been aware of the lack until now. She been spending her Saturdays in Springburn, away from the world of school and art; either sketching scenes she came across in the street or sitting in Rosie and Dougie’s humble kitchen, with a big brown pot of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in, reminding her of her childhood.

  Now, in the midst of all the circulating artists and guests, Henry caught her eyes and after a second’s hesitation he started towards her with a small smile.

  “Hello, Ellen.”

  “Hello, Henry.” She gave a brief of nod of acknowledgement, feeling strangely formal. She recalled her harshly spoken words in the foyer of his family home in Dowanhill, and felt the need to bridge the chasm that had yawned between them since then. “You’re well?”

  “Well enough.” He nodded towards the sketches hung on the wall behind them. “Those are truly brilliant, the best you’ve ever done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So deceptively simple,” he continued, his voice roughened with sincerity. “And yet with such depth. It is the genius I saw you back on that train to Chicago.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say,” Ellen answered, and then impulsively continued, ‘I think I lost some of my spark when I came to Glasgow. I was so intimidated by everything—the professors, the pupils, the whole atmosphere. It took going back to Springburn to remember who I am, and why I love to draw.”

  “And also perhaps an unfortunate experience at a ball?” he added with a wry smile. “Ellen, I still feel I need to apologize—“

  “No, you don’t. I was rude to you then, Henry, and I’m sorry. But I hope you can see now what I meant.”

  “I can,” Henry answered slowly, “but I still don’t agree with you.”

  “Henry—“

  “My grandfather was a coal miner,” Henry cut across her. “Did you know that?”

  “He—what?” Ellen looked at him in befuddlement.

  “A coal miner. Not a coal miner owner, but one of the poor, soot-faced souls who spend sixteen hours out of twenty-four down a dark mine. He bettered himself, took some risks, had a healthy dose of godo fortune, and here we are.” Henry’s whimsical smile was touched by sadness. “We’re not so different, you and I, Ellen, no matter what you’ve chosen to believe.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered.”

  Ellen shook her head. “You know it does, at least to me, but it also doesn’t, because our stations are different now, Henry. Too different for your mother.”

  “And if I don’t care about my mother’s opinion?”

  “Perhaps you should.” Ellen felt as if she’d waded into deep water without realizing, and now had completely lost her footing. “None of this matter anymore, anyway—“

  “It does to me.” He caught her hands in his, and Ellen saw a few speculative looks from the people around them. As gently as she could she withdrew her hands from his.

  “I should go speak to the other guests…”

  Henry reached for her hand once more. “Wait. I wanted to speak with you privately, Ellen, just for a moment. If I may.”

  Ellen swallowed. “There isn’t anything to say in private—“

  “There is. I’ve kept my distance as you requested, but now that I’ve seen you again I need to say what I have been wanting to say for some time. Please, Ellen?”

  She shook her head, knowing she didn’t want to hear what he wanted to say, and yet feeling it was unfair to refuse him outright. “Very well,” she finally relented, against her better judgment. “But only a moment.”

  She moved to a private alcove off the gallery, sheltered enough from the milling crowds while not being too secluded.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again,” Henry said in a low voice that was filled with warmth. “May I be so bold as to ask if you missed me at all?”

  It seemed cruel to lie, although perhaps it was crueler to tell the truth. “I have missed our friendship,” Ellen said carefully. “But as you know, I’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, I know. And I am very proud of you, Ellen.” He held up a hand to forestall the protest she hadn’t been going to make. “I don’t mean to condescend, but I feel as if I played some small part in your success.”

  “You played a large pa
rt, Henry. Of course you have. And I am so grateful—“

  “It is not your gratitude I desire.” He took a step closer to her, his eyes now full of intent, his easy humor changing into something alarmingly serious.

  “Henry…” Ellen began weakly. She had no idea what to say.

  “I recognize this is neither the time or place for a declaration,” Henry said as he nervously ran a hand over his pomaded hair. “But I fear I may never be granted the opportunity otherwise, all things considered.”

  Ellen just shook her head, her mouth too dry for her to speak.

  “Ellen, I’m in love with you.”

  Ellen blinked, astonished even though everything about this moment had been leading to this. The simply stated fact still possessed the power to leave her speechless. “You barely know me…” she began, but he shook his head.

  “I know you. I feel as if I’ve always known you. And what I don’t know, I wish to. I know you don’t feel the same, not yet. But I feel I must make my intentions known, because you seem so sure they are not honorable.”

  “I never—“

  “You think the difference in our stations, a difference I do not agree with, would keep me from proposing marriage.”

  Marriage? Ellen’s mind swam as she tried again. “This is not—“

  “Ellen, please. Let me have my say. After that you can walk away, reject me out of hand, slap my face if you like. But I must say what has been on my heart for so long. You must grant me that, at least.”

  Numbly Ellen nodded. She had never expected such an avowal of affection from Henry, not after such a short acquaintance, and yet Amy was about to be engaged to a man she’d only seen a handful of times. Why was she so surprised? Simply because she’d never imagined that a man such as Henry would be interested in a girl like her?

  “So what I wish to say is this.” Henry’s mouth quirked up at the corner but his eyes were full of earnest sincerity. “I love you, Ellen. Perhaps I fell in love with you back in Chicago, when I saw you on that train. It started then, at least, and it has grown with the more time I’ve spent with you, and the more I’ve come to know you. Nothing would make me happier than having you for my wife. I accept that you don’t love me in the same way, so all I ask is that you think about it. About us. The possibility that in time we might make a good partnership, because I think we could, Ellen. I know you’ll protest that you’re from Springburn and I’ve from Dowanhill and all that nonsense but I promise you, Ellen, I don’t care a fig about that, it’s not true anyway, and in any case it’s the twentieth century. These things matter less and less to people.”

  “Maybe so,” Ellen allowed. Her head was spinning, and she pressed one hand to her flushed cheek. Henry cupped her other cheek with his palm, the contact making Ellen’s skin tingle, his eyes blazing with sincerity.

  “Will you promise me that you’ll at least think about my suit?” he asked, his voice low. “We have time. I’m not in a rush, although I’d marry you tomorrow if I could.”

  “Henry…”

  “But just keep your heart open to me, a little, if you can. Or even just think about opening it.” He smiled whimsically as he dropped his hand from her face. “Do you think you could do that, Ellen?”

  Ellen stared at him, amazed at how conflicted she felt. She’d assured herself, as well as others, that she had no romantic interest in Henry McCallister. She’d been sure she’d made the right decision in severing their friendship back at the ball.

  Yet when he’d touched her face so gently, love shining in his eyes, she’d known that wasn’t quite true. She didn’t know what she felt for Henry, but it was something.

  “I…”

  “All I’m asking is for you to think, and to wait.” His hand was warm against her cheek, his face suffused with love. Ellen felt dizzy.

  “I… I suppose I could do that,” she whispered, feeling as if she were committing to far more than she should, and Henry beamed with relief.

  “Thank you, Ellen.” He took her hand in his own and kissed it. “Thank you. That’s all I ask, truly.”

  Ellen nodded wordlessly, her mind still spinning. She could hardly believe she’d agreed… and to what, exactly?

  “I’m going to America for several months,” Henry continued, “so you will have plenty of time to think.”

  “America? But why?”

  “I’m helping to curate an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, on Scottish artists.” Henry smiled, real enthusiasm glinting in his eyes. “I sail next month for New York, on that fabulous new ship, the Titanic.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  April 1912

  Ellen hunched her shoulders against the chilly spring breeze as she stood with Amy in front of the offices of The Glasgow Herald, waiting for the latest issue of the newspaper to be distributed. It was the nineteenth of April, and four days ago the newspaper had published a special edition, with the terrible headline blazing Liner Disaster. Feared Great Loss of Life.

  Ellen had read the story in dawning horror, her stomach hollowing out as she’d taken in each word. It was unthinkable that the great Titanic had actually hit an iceberg and sunk. At first the reports had said all lives had been saved, and Ellen had breathed a trembling sigh of relief. Henry was alive.

  Then three days ago the newspaper put out another special report: An appalling disaster has occurred. The White Star officials admit that it is very probable that only 675 out of the 2250 passengers and crew on board the Titanic were saved.

  Yesterday the Carpathia had finally arrived in in New York City with the survivors, and today that all too short list would be printed in the newspaper. Ellen prayed she would see Henry’s name.

  In the six weeks since Henry had declared himself, Ellen had seen him several times, for tea or a drive. She had decided that if she were to consider his proposal seriously, she needed to get to know him better, and in truth she’d enjoyed their outings together. Henry had always been easy company, ready for a laugh or a chat, ever solicitous of her comfort and well-being.

  Once he’d even come with her to Springburn, and met Ruby and Dougie; Ellen had been both surprised and gratified to see how at ease he was in their little kitchen, drinking coffee from a tin mug and chatting to Dougie, whose cough had worsened in the wet spring, about his favorite artists.

  “Did I pass?” he’d asked, his eyes alight with humor, as they’d travelled back to Renfrew Street by tram.

  “Pass?” Ellen blushed a little at the shrewd understanding in Henry’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “Come now, Ellen. You are still holding onto a bit of that silly snobbery. You brought me to Springburn to see if I would turn my nose up at your friends. My grandfather might have been a coal miner, but I was born with the proverbial silver spoon. I see it in your eyes every time I look at you.”

  Ellen couldn’t help but laugh. “Silver-plated perhaps,” she teased. “I suppose there is some truth to what you say, but I really brought you to Springburn because it’s an important part of who I am,” Ellen answered. “So yes, I wanted to see if you could accept it.”

  “And so, I ask again, did I pass?”

  Ellen shook her head, laughing again as she touched his arm lightly. “Yes, you passed,” she assured him. “With flying colors.”

  Standing in front of the newspaper office now, the raw April wind buffeting her and Amy, Ellen had a horrible feeling that none of it mattered anymore. The night before Henry had left for Queenstown to board the Titanic, which had already sailed from Southampton to Cherbourg, he’d kissed Ellen for the first time.

  He’d come to Norah’s house to say goodbye, taking her hands in his, and telling her again that he loved her. He never seemed to tire of saying it, and Ellen felt her defences, such as they were, beginning to crumble.

  There, alone in the little sitting room with the fire flickering brightly in the grate, he’d ducked his head shyly and asked, “May I kiss you?” Wordlessly Ellen had nodded.

  Henry’s k
iss had been brief and yet so very sweet, and after he’d left Ellen had decided what her answer was going to be. She would marry him, and she would tell him so upon his return. She didn’t love him with the consuming emotion she’d felt with Jed, but she felt a deep affection, and surely that was a better foundation for marriage than anything else. Besides, although their past experiences were worlds apart, their lives now were entwined through living in Glasgow and being involved in the School of Art. Marrying him made sense, and it also made her happy.

  Now Amy slid her gloved hand in Ellen’s and held on tightly as the doors to The Glasgow Herald’s offices opened, and several grim-faced men came out with stacks of freshly printed newspapers. Ellen’s heart seemed to leap right into her throat and she squeezed Amy’s hand hard.

  “I almost don’t want to look,” she admitted in a shaky whisper. “Is that cowardly? I almost don’t want to know, because at least in the not knowing…”

  “I’ll look for you,” Amy said, and went forward to take one of the newspapers. She came back a minute later, the newspaper clutched in one hand, the fresh ink smeared on her gloves. “All right,” she said, her voice croaky, her face pale. “I’ll look.” Ellen squeezed her eyes shut as Amy started reading the list out loud. “Following is the list of first and second class passengers rescued from the Titanic as received by wireless…” Quickly she scanned the list. “They’re in alphabetical order.”

  “Oh, just look, Amy, look,” Ellen implored. “I can’t bear it a second longer.”

  “Madill, Miss Georgietta A.,” Amy read. “Marschall, Pierce. Marvin, Mrs. D.W.” Amy hesitated and Ellen opened her eyes, her heart, which had moments ago seemed to be in her throat, now plummeting towards her feet as heavy as a stone. “Minnahan, Mrs. W.E.,” Amy read heavily. “I’m sorry, Ellen. He’s not there.”