by Kate Hewitt
Edith arched an imperious eyebrow. “That, I believe, is open to debate. My solicitor will deliver the details of the bequest to your residence. I thought I should see you in person to inform you of my son’s wishes. I do not expect we shall meet again, Miss Copley. In fact, I rather hope we do not.”
Ellen swallowed the sting, determined to be dignified. “As you wish, Mrs. McCallister.” Something in the woman’s chilly expression, the grief Ellen thought she saw behind the coldness in her eyes, made her step forward. She reached out with one hand to touch Edith’s hand before she thought better of it and dropped it. “I miss him too, Mrs. McCallister,” she said quietly. “Terribly.”
Edith’s face contorted and for a moment Ellen thought she might cry. Then her eyes sparked with rage. “How dare you compare your infantile emotion to what I, his own mother, feel. Good day to you, Miss Copley. You will not be asked back here again. The maid will show you out.”
The next day a letter arrived from the McCallisters’ solicitor. When Ellen opened it and read its contents, she gasped aloud. The amount Henry had left her was more than enough, if she were careful, to see her established comfortably for the rest of her life.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
June 1914, two years later
“Are you nervous?” Ruby asked in a whisper as the guests began circulating through the galley of the Society for Lady Artists’ house on Blythewood Square. “An exhibition all on your own, Ellen! You’re practically famous!”
“Not quite, Ruby,” Ellen answered with a little smile. “All the women pupils who are getting a Certificate are exhibiting. I’m one of several.”
“Yes, but even I know it’s yours they’re talking about,” Ruby answered. “And how can they not, when you look at the size of it?” Grinning, she nodded towards the shrouded canvas that took up nearly a whole wall. Ellen smiled back even as she tried to suppress the nerves fluttering through her stomach. It had taken her nearly two years to complete the canvas inspired by Henry’s death and the sinking of the Titanic. Tonight was the first time it would be revealed to the public.
The last two years had held both joys and sorrows; Ellen still mourned Henry, but it was a softer emotion, and one she lived with companionably day in and day out. Using her grief constructively, through painting, had helped.
She’d become closer to Ruby and Dougie, too, spending many happy afternoons in their little flat in Springburn, drinking tea and chatting, and also teaching Dougie, who was interested in art, the rudiments of drawing.
Then, just a few months ago, Ruby and Dougie’s father had died in an accident at the railway works. At the same time Ellen had been offered a position at the School of Art, as a drawing instructor, upon the completion of her certificate.
The events together had led Ellen to leaving Norah’s, and with the bequest Henry had given her, purchasing her own little terraced house near the school. She’d invited Ruby and Dougie to live with her; as she’d expected, Ruby had at first declined, claiming she could not accept such charity.
“Ruby,” Ellen had persisted, “if it is simply a matter of pride that is keeping you from joining me, then please, please cast it aside! I’d so much rather not be on my own, and you know the fresher air will do Dougie good. He could go to the local school, a good school, and eat and drink good, fresh food. It will be miles better for him, and it’s not charity, because the money isn’t even mine, not really.” She’d never felt comfortable having the money from Henry’s bequest, and she was glad to use it for this end.
Ruby had stared at her for a moment, her lips pressed together, her eyes full of tears. “You’re too good to us, Ellen,” she had finally said. “Truly you are.”
“I’m really rather selfish,” Ellen answered. “This is as much for my sake as it for yours or Dougie’s.”
A week later Ruby and her brother had moved in, and it had all felt wonderfully cozy, almost as if Ellen were living with family again—evening meals around the table, cozy nights by the fire. Dougie had started school, and Ruby worked as a seamstress, insisting on paying Ellen something for rent, nominal as it was.
Together they all made it work, and nearly three years after having moved to Glasgow, Ellen felt as if she could finally call it home. All that was left now was to receive her certificate, and then begin teaching in September.
She glanced at the crowds now filling the gallery, people murmuring excitedly about the works that were to be unveiled. She wished someone from her old life could have been here to share her success, but who?
Uncle Hamish was still in Seaton, but he’d closed the general store that he and Aunt Ruth had started when they’d emigrated to America, and now worked behind the counter at the new, fancy department store in town. Ellen had written him to tell him of her plans, and Hamish’s reply had been full of praise, but his handwriting had been spidery and with a pang she realized he was becoming quite frail.
She’d written the McCaffertys too, of course, and Aunt Rose, who had been a faithful weekly correspondent, had assured her she was thrilled for her, although sad that Ellen would not be returning to Amherst Island as she’d promised.
Ellen was sad, too; part of her longed to be back on the island, among family and friends, while another part recognized that she had changed, and perhaps her beloved island had, as well. It wasn’t the home for her that it had once been, and at nearly twenty-three years old, she needed to make her own way.
Still, she wished she could have seen the McCaffertys. The children would be so grown up now; Peter about to start Queen’s, and Caro at Glebe for high school. Sarah and Ruthie were now in their teens and Andrew, whom she’d known since he was a baby, was a strapping ten years old. How strange that seemed! How quickly time had passed.
Ellen knew the McCaffertys would never be able to visit her in Glasgow; Rose had sailed once from these shores and possessed neither the means nor the desire to return.
Then, of course, there was Jed and Louisa, in their new farmhouse on the other side of the Lyman property.
Ellen had written Louisa several times over the last few years, but had had no reply, which had saddened her. She wondered if her friendship with Louisa was truly over, and suspected that it most likely was.
Still, Rose had kept her informed of the young Lymans; the summer after Henry’s death, Ellen had learned that Louisa had had a baby boy, Thomas, who was now two years old, and according to Aunt Rose, a lovely little lad. That, at least, brought Ellen no pang of sorrow; she was genuinely happy for them both. Her heart had healed in that regard, at least.
Six months ago, Lucas had written to Ellen; he’d been a faithful correspondent for her entire time in Glasgow, and he wrote then that he’d been accepted as partner at the law firm where he worked, and he’d hinted that there was a young lady of some interest to him.
Ellen had felt a strange welter of happiness and surprising jealousy, but happiness won out. She expected Rose would write imminently with the news of Lucas’s engagement, and she imagined receiving letter after letter—engagement, marriage, birth, death, the whole cycle of life that she would gaze at from afar, and yet never truly participate in.
All of the island happenings and people seemed far away now, almost as if that life had belonged to someone else, someone she looked at the way you studied a stranger in a photograph. Of interest, but then you put it aside.
Her Glasgow life was real and satisfying, and yet even so in occasional, solitary moments, Ellen missed the island quite desperately. She wondered if she would ever go back, and how she would feel when she did. She could not even imagine it.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Norah’s voice rang out among the crowd, and the murmurs ceased as everyone waited expectantly for the works of the Certificate pupils to be revealed.
Ellen’s stomach did a queasy little flip, for she had poured so much of herself into her painting, and revealing it felt like exposing her soul, far more than the Sketches from Springburn had. It was
raw and real and spoke of sorrow and loss, grief and pain. Showing it to people was revealing something she’d chosen to keep hidden
Moments later the sheet was drawn away from her painting, and Ellen tensed as everyone drew a collective intake of breath and gazed at the massive canvas.
It was titled Starlit Sea, and it was a painting of the sea at night, stretching endlessly into the clouds of darkness, as it must have when the Titanic had sunk. The only sign of the presence of a ship, however, was a few ripples in the forefront of the canvas; the painting was mainly taken up with the expanse of water, and the reflection of stars on its surface, each one a pool of light that looked almost as if it were rising up from underneath the water, the souls of the dead offering both hope and their lament.
“Oh Ellen, it’s magnificent,” Ruby whispered. “It makes me want to cry, and I don’t know why.”
It made Ellen want to cry, but she blinked the tears back and simply squeezed her friend’s hand. Amy came up and threw her arms around her.
“You clever, clever thing,” she exclaimed. Amy had stopped her lessons at the School of Art a year and a half ago, when she’d married Charlie Whittaker; she was now expecting her first child, although her tiny bump was barely noticeable.
“Thank you,” Ellen answered as she hugged her friend. “For everything. You’ve been such a strength and support to me, Amy.”
“Me, the dilettante?” Amy joked, even as she dabbed tears from her eyes. “Goodness, I do weep at everything these days. Charlie is heartily sick of me, I assure you.”
“I doubt that very much indeed,” Ellen returned. She knew Amy’s husband adored her.
She caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd and hurried forward. “Letitia!” she called and with an ear-splitting grin her old friend hurried towards her. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get away,” Ellen exclaimed after they’d hugged and kissed each other. Letitia had just started as a junior doctor at The Bruntsfield Hospital for Women in Edinburgh.
“I did, at the last minute,” Letitia said breathlessly. “I was almost late for the great unveiling—oh, Ellen, it’s magnificent!”
“It’s nothing compared to what you do—“
“Nonsense, I do what I do so you can do what you do. They are both entirely worthwhile. And I’m so proud of you, being a lecturer already! Really, you are clever.”
A short while later, Norah came towards Ellen and kissed her on both cheeks. “Ellen,” she said, as if making a pronouncement. “Dear, dear Ellen. I miss you, you know.”
“You’ll still see me every day,” Ellen protested. Although she was no longer living with Norah, they would both be teaching on Renfrew Street.
“Yes, but it’s not the same. The student becomes the colleague… it is a different relationship.” She smiled whimsically. “I shall miss instructing you, I confess, but I am glad to serve by your side.”
Ellen could hardly believe she was the colleague of an indomitable woman like Norah Neilson Gray. Although she’d gained much experience and worldly wisdom in the last two years, she still felt a bit of the country bumpkin inside, and suspected she always would. But she didn’t mind any longer; it was part of who she was, and she’d made peace with it.
Several hours later Ellen, Ruby, and Dougie walked back to the little terraced house they all now called home. The air was sultry for mid-June, the evening still light despite the late hour, syrupy sunlight touching the rooftops with gold.
Ruby and Ellen walked with locked arms, humming tunelessly; despite all the tragedies of the past, in that moment Ellen felt almost perfectly content. There was so much to look forward to: teaching at the school, sharing her house with Ruby and Dougie; participating in the Society of Lady Artists, and planning for the autumn exhibition. The summer stretched ahead of her, both pleasant and exciting.
She’d spoken with Ruby about renting a house in the country for a few weeks in August, near the English Lakes. Ruby had resisted, but Ellen had assured her the cost was minimal, as the place was so remote. She’d used up most of Henry’s bequest buying her little house, but there was enough left to tide her over until she began teaching in September.
Those lazy days in Windermere in early August felt, in retrospect, like the last of Ellen’s innocence, and the simple pleasures she would enjoy.
The farmhouse was low and whitewashed and comfortably shabby; they ate in the kitchen and took long walks by the lake. Dougie’s cough improved in the fresh air, and Ellen spent hours sketching the beautiful gray-green fells of the Lakeland countryside, the waters of Windermere sparkling beneath the steep hills. Then, on the fourth day of their holiday, church bells began to ring in the village, long, dour notes.
Ruby and Ellen exchanged uncertain looks. “Has something happened, do you think?” Ellen asked. “A wedding, perhaps?”
Ruby shook her head. “It’s not merry enough for that.”
Indeed it wasn’t; the continuous tolling of the one, low bell was a lament, not a celebration. Ellen felt a wave of inexplicable dread. What could have happened?
“Should one of us go into the village, to see?” Ruby asked uncertainly.
“I’ll go.” Grabbing her hat and a shawl, Ellen hurried out into the late afternoon sunshine, the air already becoming chilly up in the hills. She walked down the street towards the village church, noting how people were congregating in the streets, shaking their heads and whispering in tight clusters.
A young buck of eighteen or so let out a cheer, and someone else hushed him. A little boy picked up a stick and began firing it as if it were a gun, shouting “Pop! Pop! Pop!” His childhish voice echoed in the street, which otherwise, Ellen realized, was quite quiet.
She approached a middle-aged woman with a careworn face and tired eyes. “Pardon me, but what’s going? What’s happened?”
The woman shook her head. “Ye’re haven’t heard, then?”
“No…”
“They’ve gone and declared war on Germany.”
“What?” Ellen stared at her blankly. She’d been aware of the rumblings of political discontent that had been happening all year, and had culminated in the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand had been by anarchists in Sarajevo at the end of June, but neither she nor any of her friends or colleagues had thought it would amount to much. Sarajevo was a world away, and had little to do with life in Scotland. “Why on earth?”
“The Huns have gone and attacked France, haven’t they?” a young man said, pushing his way into the conversation. “Gone through Belgium two days ago, thought we wouldn’t mind. They’ll get a taste of their own medicine, they will. And I’ll be the first to show ‘em!”
“Oh, be quiet, Harry,” the woman said tiredly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m going to enlist. I’m going to fight, Mam.”
The woman just shook her head, looking even wearier.
Ellen headed back to the farmhouse a short while later, unable to discover any more information. Half the villagers seemed wary and afraid, the other half, mostly the young men, ebullient.
“What is it, Ellen?” Ruby asked as she came through the door of the farmhouse. “What’s happened?”
Ellen shook her head slowly. “England has declared war on Germany.” She felt as if she were playing some monstrous joke, especially Ruby simply stared at her, as blankly disbelieving as she had been.
“What… what do you mean?”
“Germany attacked France through Belgium,” Ellen said, repeating what the young man had told her. “Two days ago, it seems. We haven’t been aware of any of it, tucked away as we are here. England told them to retreat, and they wouldn’t, so war has been declared.” She pressed one hand to her cheek. “I feel as if I don’t even know what that means.”
“War,” Ruby repeated wonderingly. “But for Belgium’s sake? Or France’s? Why?”
“They have a treaty with England,” Ellen explained. She’d read that in the newspaper a few weeks ago, a
lthough she hadn’t thought all that much about it. “They have to.”
“Surely they don’t have to…”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they’ve called Germany’s bluff, and now they will retreat.”
Ruby grabbed onto that like the lifeline it seemed. “Yes, that sounds likely, doesn’t it? No one wants a war.”
Ellen thought of the young man in the village, determined to enlist and ‘teach the Huns a lesson’. “I’m not sure about that,” she said slowly. “But I hope you’re right.”
Over the next few days, however, it became all too clear that Ruby wasn’t right. Men were enlisting in drove; recruiting centers had been set up in all the major cities, and a man came to the village where they were staying, putting up posters and speaking by the village green. England was being carried away on a wave of patriotism, and all Ellen could feel was dread.
When they returned to Glasgow several days later, it seemed a different city. Recruitment posters papered walls and windows, and in disbelief Ellen saw men already in uniform, ready to march. It was all happening so quickly, she could scarcely believe it. In the newspaper she read that three thousand men were enlisting every day.
Ellen felt as if her life were a chessboard and a giant, invisible hand had suddenly upended all the pieces. Plans she’d counted on now were as nothing; young men and women alike were mobilizing for war, eager to join up as soldiers or volunteer as nurses.
Even Amy’s husband, Charlie, enlisted, and Amy was determinedly proud. “It will be over by Christmas, anyway,” she said, when she came to Ellen’s house for tea. “That’s what everyone is saying, and no one’s better than the British.”
“One hopes,” Ellen murmured. She did not feel so sure. When she looked at all the men enlisting, and the fever of patriotism that seemed to be running high, she could not imagine everyone trooping dutifully home in a matter of months, and yet she hoped and prayed that was exactly what would happen.
“It will,” Amy said stubbornly, her eyes glinting with challenge—and fear. Wordlessly Ellen reached over and clasped her friend’s hand. The truth was, no one knew anything.