Willard squared his shoulders. “What are their names? I shall find out for you. The paper listed the hospitals where people were taken. I will call them.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She had wondered about Catherine and Sean since saying goodbye to them before the Carpathia had docked.
“Please, let me find them for you,” Willard said earnestly. “I’ve felt as if my hands have been tied, not able to help with anything.”
She smiled at him and his sincerity. “Catherine and Sean O’Malley. It would be good to know where they are.”
Within the hour, he entered the sitting room where she and Elsie were sitting on the floor drawing pictures.
“My Mary will keep an eye on the little miss while I take you to see your friends,” Willard said.
Bridget pressed a hand to her chest at the thumping of her heart. “You found them? Are they all right?”
He was beaming with pride. “Yes, I did, and I will drive you there to see them.”
She would love to see Catherine, but shook her head as she glanced at Elsie.
“My Mary has watched Miss Elsie many times for Mrs. Conrad.” He took her hand. “There is nothing to worry about. Now, go put on one of those nice hats that arrived yesterday for you.”
She wasn’t sure if it was for herself, or him, but her decision was made. “I need to go with Willard for a while,” she told Elsie.
“All right.” Elsie nodded to her drawing. “I will finish your picture for you.”
Willard gave her a smile.
She grinned in return. “I’ll be right back,” she told him, and then hurried upstairs to put on a hat and a thin coat over her dress. It was one of the new ones. A yellow and white striped one, with a lacy collar and cuffs. She had on new shoes, too, and for the first day since the accident, her feet didn’t hurt.
If only she had a few more hairpins, so she could pin up her hair rather than just pin back the sides, but the wind on the Carpathia had caused her to lose all but three. After making sure the three pins were secure, she brushed the ends of her hair and then picked out a hat and coat from several in the closet in the bedroom across the hall from Elsie’s. There were also purses, but she didn’t have anything to put in one. Still, she took one, a white one, and a pair of white gloves, which she put in the purse as she hurried back downstairs. She’d never owned such stylish clothes and felt a bit vain at how much she admired herself in the mirror. A hat had only been something she’d dreamed of owning, and she couldn’t stop from glancing at her reflection in the windows as she walked to the sitting room.
“You look pretty, Bridget,” Elsie said, still on the floor drawing pictures.
“Very pretty,” Mary said from where she sat on the floral sofa. “Willard is pulling the automobile out of the carriage house. You take your time. Enjoy visiting with your friends. We will be just fine.”
“Thank you, very much.” Bridget leaned down and kissed the top of Elsie’s head. “You be a good girl.”
“I will,” Elsie agreed.
Bridget told herself she should be glad that Elsie was so comfortable with her leaving. That was how it should be. It was her that had the problem with it. Not just in leaving Elsie, but in leaving the house. It was frightening. The last time she’d left home it had been to board the Titanic.
This wasn’t her home, so the comparison was silly.
She drew in a deep breath, called herself a ninny and left the room.
Willard met her in the hallway and explained that both Catherine and Sean were at a hospital only a couple of miles away and that the report he was given said that they there were both making very good progress.
The only other time she’d ridden in an automobile was the night Willard had picked her up at the docks. She sat in the back seat again, because that was the door he’d opened for her. As they backed away from the house, she thought how different it looked in the light of day. The red bricks, white framed windows, front pillars and black shutters all shimmered in the sunlight, making it look welcoming. It was a welcoming home, and she needed to be thankful for that. Without Karl Wingard’s generosity, she had no idea where she’d be right now.
Willard pointed out homes of friends and neighbors as he drove along the street, and other things that she listened to, but didn’t really hear because she was thinking about Karl. Not only how he’d offered her a place to stay, but a job that she needed for the time being. A way for her to stay with Elsie.
“I hope you don’t get in trouble for taking me today,” she said.
“Trouble? By whom?”
“Ka—Mr. Wingard.”
He laughed. “Master Karl won’t mind in the least. Mary and I often go places during the day, and evenings. Last month we were gone for over two weeks. We drove up the coast and stayed in a cottage the family owns. With the rest of the Wingard family gone, there wasn’t much we needed to see to.”
“What about Karl? Who cooked for him?”
“Mrs. Dahl made sure there were meals, but she also went out, visited friends.”
She had never been away from the pub for more than a day until leaving. “How long have you worked for him?”
“Longer than he’s been alive.” Willard laughed again. “I worked for his father, so did Mary. We raised our two children in the house. Our Marie is now a schoolteacher, and our son, James, works for Karl’s bank. We have six grandchildren between the two of them. They are getting older now, too. Growing up. Moving on.”
“Did you ever work anywhere else?”
“Oh, yes. Several jobs. I met Karl’s father when I was delivering milk. His father was still alive then. He asked if I wanted a job. I told him that I had a wife and two children. He said bring them with you. I did and have never regretted it. I’ve enjoyed my years with the Wingards very much. It’s been a fine job. The finest.”
Bridget wondered what Da would think of Willard and how he felt about working for Karl until the automobile stopped and Willard opened her door to lead her inside a very large building. The largest she’d ever been in. She’d never seen so many sick people, either.
Chapter Five
Because it was Saturday, the inquiry recessed in the early afternoon, which suited Karl just fine. Besides hearing the same questions over and over, and often the same answers, his anger at the White Star Line had grown to mammoth proportions. He’d visited the offices this morning, demanded to have Benjamin’s and Annette’s remains returned home. It was like the day he’d heard of the sinking. Each person he’d spoken too had told him something different. Yes, that could happen. No, that was impossible.
It was infuriating.
He no longer believed anything anyone said.
Leaving there, he’d gone to the inquiry only to hear a senator confront the press about printing half-truths. How could they not? That’s the information they’d been given. Everything seemed to be a half-truth, from everyone.
Everyone.
Upon arriving home, he threw several sheets of paper on his desk. The list of casualties, directly from the White Star Line’s office.
The name Bridget McGowen was on that list.
This at least was something he could confront.
He was still standing at his desk, staring at the papers a moment later when a knock sounded on the door. “Come in.”
The door opened slowly and his breath caught as Bridget stepped into the room. She wore a yellow and white dress that fit her to perfection, from the collar of lace around her slender neck, to the hem that stopped just above the heeled low-sided shoes covering her feet. His eyes followed the line of white buttons that went from her waist up to her face, framed by her long, wavy black hair. A slight frown tugged the corners of her dark eyebrows down slightly above her blue eyes.
“Willard said you wanted to speak to me,” she said.
He swallowed, nodded a
nd looked away for a moment. The fact she was wearing a new dress should please him—it’s why he’d purchased them. He was simply so angry right now, at the world, that nothing pleased him.
Most certainly not a liar, no matter how lovely she may be. His mother always looked pretty, and she was the world’s greatest liar.
“Yes,” he said. “Please close the door.”
She twisted, closed the door, then turned, started to walk toward him.
Her frown grew as her gaze met his again. She stopped, midstep, staring harder.
It was as if the room went still as they stood there, face-to-face. His lungs grew hard and he pushed out the air. He sucked in another breath. Why had he thought she’d be any different? Hell, he’d entrusted Elsie’s care to her.
Folly on him for believing a woman, any woman, could be truthful.
“What is it? What did you want to see me about?”
Her voice was soft, lyrical with her accent, and that made his neck muscles tighten. “I have a question to ask you, and mind you, I’ve been lied to all day and will not tolerate another one.” It wasn’t as if he was giving her a second chance, it was merely a warning.
“All right.”
She still hadn’t moved, stood halfway across the room from him. It wasn’t possible for her to see the print on the paper, but still, he lifted a sheet off his desk. “What is your name?”
Her head moved, just slightly, back and forth, as if shaking her head at the question before she said, “Bridget Louise McGowen.” Still frowning, she added, “My father’s name was Patrick and my mother’s name was Annie. She died when I was eight.”
He didn’t need to know that. Didn’t want to know that. He’d wanted the truth. Holding up the paper, he explained, “This is a list of casualties from the Titanic. Verified by the White Star Line’s list of boarding passes from Southampton.”
Still frowning, she gave a slight nod.
“Would you care to explain why Bridget McGowen is on this list? Before you do, let me remind you that I’d already said I wouldn’t tolerate another lie.”
If he’d expected outrage, a show of the feisty anger he’d seen before, he’d have been disappointed. Instead, the color drained from her face as she stepped forward.
“Where?” she asked softly, walking to the desk.
His lungs stalled again, making the air he breathed in and out, hurt. He jerked his head sideways, unlocking their gazes, and held up the paper. “Right there. Bridget McGowen.”
She took the paper.
He took a step back, but it was too late, the quick whiff of a scent as soft, as lovely as her, was already locked in his mind.
“That’s a bit unnerving,” she said. “Seeing yourself listed as deceased.”
The paper in her hand fluttered slightly, because her hand was shaking. He took the paper. It was either that or take her hand and he couldn’t do that. She was trying to fool him. Make him care. He’d never do that again. Care about a woman. His mother had taught him that lesson too well. Taught him that the one who cares the least has the most power. He’d never forget that.
She pressed two trembling fingers to her temple. “Oh, dear, my uncle Matt. Friends from the pub, they are all going to think I died. Why didn’t I think of that? Mrs. Flannagan. I promised I’d write when I arrived.” Her fingers went to her lips. “She’s going to be so... Oh, dear, and she will tell the entire village. Everyone will believe I’m dead.”
Her voice was barely a whisper, and the gaze she lifted, cast toward him, was as if she was in a haze. Of pain.
He stiffened, planted his feet firmer against the floor, committed to not falling for her act.
Shaking her head, she continued, “I never went to the third-class line. I was so concerned for Elsie, wanting to make sure she was on the list of survivors. If Annette or Benjamin had somehow survived, I wanted them to get word that she was alive.”
“What line?”
“On the Carpathia, when they separated us to collect our names. I never went to the third-class line. I went to the first-class line because I knew that is where Elsie’s name would be listed. I told them my name, but when they asked if I was her mother, I said no, her nanny.” She laid her hands on the desktop, as if needing help to stand. “Every time I went back, to check to see if they had new names, it was to the first-class line, knowing that’s where Annette would have gone. I never thought...” Looking at him, she said, “I need to get word home. Let them know I’m not dead.”
She wobbled, and the moment he thought she might collapse onto the floor, something inside him snapped. Not anger. Compassion. A compassion he’d never experienced. He stepped forward, took ahold of her arm to steady her.
“They have to be so worried,” she whispered.
“We’ll get a message to them,” he said. “They may not have seen this list yet.”
She nodded and then shook her head. “Yes, they would have. Mrs. Flanagan lives next door to the pub. She sorts the town’s mail, postings, newspapers—she was so much help when Da died. I promised her I’d write.”
“You can still do that. A letter wouldn’t have arrived there yet.”
“But the news has.” She pressed a hand against her mouth as a tiny sob escaped.
His heart constricted, knowing what she’d been through on the ship, and now he’d caused her more grief. He grasped her other arm, twisted her and pulled her against his chest. “It’s not your fault. Mistaken reports are everywhere,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “Your friends, your uncle, will be glad to hear the truth, that you are alive, fine and well.”
The side of her face was pressed to his chest, her arms around his waist holding on as she continued to tremble. He didn’t want to care about her, to care about anyone because it led to pain. His mother, his father, his brother. So much pain, at this moment, he didn’t want her to feel that pain, either, and held her tighter.
“I never thought,” she whispered. “I just kept thinking about Elsie.”
Her trim, firm curves were melded against his, creating a warmth, a comfort he’d never known, and an awareness. A heated, significant awareness.
“I feel so thoughtless for letting this happen,” she whispered.
“It’s going to be fine.” He bit his lips together to stop from brushing his lips to the top of her head, but it didn’t help. The desire to comfort her was stronger than all else and he gently kissed the top of her hair.
Her arms slipped from around his waist and she slowly took a step back. Color had returned to her face. Her cheeks were tinged pink.
Blood was flowing through his body faster than normal, too. He shouldn’t have done that. Held her or kissed her hair.
“Thank you for telling me about this,” she said, chin up but wobbling slightly.
She was thanking him for thinking the worst of her. He’d been so angry, so sure she’d lied to him. Now the only anger he felt was at himself. Actually, it was more disgust than anger. He let his hands slide off her shoulders, drop to his sides, and for a man who’d been yelling at people nearly all day, he was suddenly tongue-tied.
“I’m sorry for being so foolish,” she said. “For causing such confusion.”
“I’m sorry, too.” It was the least he could say.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” She huffed out a breath and took several steps away. “You must think I’m a—”
“I’m the fool,” he said. That was the truth. “For—” He stopped and shook his head.
“For what?”
It wasn’t flattering, but it was him. That much he had to admit. “I thought you were trying to trick me.”
“Trick you? How? Why?”
“I don’t know, Bridget, and that’s the truth.” He walked around his desk, putting a solid barrier between them because having his arms around her felt too
right. Too good. “I’ve been lied to all day, and seeing your name on that list.” He shrugged. “I—”
“You thought I’d lied to you, too.” Her frown overtook her entire face. “That I wasn’t really Bridget McGowen.”
He nodded. Shame was not something he’d known before, and he wondered why she brought that out in him. Why she seemed to bring other things out in him, too. Things that he wasn’t accustomed to.
She crossed the room, slowly, gracefully and sat down on the davenport near the fireplace. Back straight, chin up, she asked, “Who has been lying to you all day?”
He shook his head. “Who hasn’t?” Knowing that wasn’t an answer, he continued, “The White Star Line, witnesses at the inquiry, their stories don’t match. The senators, blaming the newspapers for printing incomplete news, when they are the ones censoring what can and can’t be printed.”
“What are the witnesses saying?” she asked. “What doesn’t match?”
Everything, yet he didn’t want to tell her that. He didn’t want to tell her any of it. Didn’t want her to have to relive it. He walked to the fireplace, set a foot on the hearth and a hand on the mantel. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I was there. I can tell you what I know. If it will help.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“I believe it is.” A gentle smile formed. “I have a favor to ask of you, but first, I’d like to discuss what upset you so much today.” Compassion filled her eyes as she added, “Willard told me about Annette and Benjamin being buried in Nova Scotia.”
It wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. “There’s no need to ask a favor, I’ll contact the White Star Line and have your name taken off that list.”
She grimaced slightly. “Thank you. I’ll write letters this evening to mail home.”
“I’ll post them for you.”
She nodded and nibbled on her bottom lip before asking, “Did they find Annette and Benjamin?”
A Family for the Titanic Survivor Page 7