by Jina Bacarr
‘No!’ Ava cried out, taking to her heels, but she didn’t get far. The man grabbed her by her long red hair flying loose around her shoulders. She fell backward, landing on the deck, the breath knocked out of her.
‘A beauty, she is,’ the man said, turning her face to the light.
Ava winced.
‘Must be one of them Irishers from third class,’ the first seaman said. ‘What’s she doing up here?’
‘If you know what’s good for you,’ Ava shot back, ‘you’d best leave me be.’
‘The lass has got spirit,’ the first seaman said, chuckling, then he grabbed her arm. ‘But does she have a steamship ticket?’
‘I’m a lady’s maid.’
‘And I’m Mr Guggenheim’s valet,’ he said, laughing.
‘Blimey,’ added his friend, ‘what’s a lady’s maid doing on the Boat Deck at midnight?’
‘I – I’m meeting someone.’
The seaman leaned closer and she could smell the garlic on his breath. ‘Who is the lucky gent?’
Ava said nothing, her face cold with sweat.
‘Get Mr Moody straightaway,’ he ordered. ‘He should be coming off his watch. He’ll know what to do with her.’
The seaman dug his hands into her jacket pockets, his eyes widening in surprise when he found her white steamship ticket and contract. Holding her by the wrist, he scrutinized them under the small glassed-in light beside the stair.
‘Well, I’ll be. You’re the Irish girl we’ve been looking for.’ He smirked. ‘You’ve given us quite a run, Miss O’Reilly. We never would have found you if me and Willie hadn’t come up here for a smoke.’
‘What’s going on here?’ called out a young man rushing toward them. Ava stiffened. A ship’s officer. Now she was had.
‘We found your fugitive, Mr Moody,’ said the seaman, pinning her arms to her sides.
‘Are you certain?’ the young officer asked, surprised.
‘Yes, sir, I found these papers on her.’ He handed him her third-class ticket and the White Star contract signed by her own hand.
She moaned.
‘You’ve got her all right. We’ll keep her confined below until we get to New York.’
Ava cringed.
Oh, no, dear Jesus, it can’t be.
She kicked and screamed and pleaded, but it did her no good. They forced her to stand still while they tied her hands behind her back with thick rope.
She was their prisoner.
They dragged her down the crew stairways so as not to draw attention from passengers. Down, down. Deep into the bowels of the Titanic where no one could find her. She heard Mr Moody tell the seamen not to breathe a word about her capture to anyone.
Her shoulders slumped.
She would always remember this night by its smells – the fine tobacco and smooth bouquet of wine in first class tempting her, the lingering perfume of the ladies as exquisite as a fresh pink rose. The crisp, clean scent of the gentlemen’s white shirts and cuffs and the pure-smelling lemon soap making her feel grand.
Like a lady.
All that disappeared when she found herself in the close quarters of steerage, where the curious women staring at her wore clothes heavy with the earthy, grassy smell of Ireland still clinging to their petticoats along with a spicy blend of herbs and oranges.
And the smell of fear.
Her own.
‘Look who’s come to join us, dear sister. If it isn’t the Queen of Sheba herself,’ the girl with the braid cried out.
Curious, Ava turned her head and recognized the girl with the long braid wrapped around her head.
The same girl who’d taunted her at Queenstown.
‘Her hands are tied behind her,’ her sister said with dismay, pointing at her. ‘Mercy, what’s she done?’
‘Stole the silver from the first-class dining saloon, I’d say.’
The girl with the braid broke into wild laughter. With coaxing from her sister, they went back to their cabin, whispering and gossiping among themselves.
Ava would get no help from them.
The seaman hustled her along Scotland Road, then down deeper into the bowels of the ship to a lower deck. They tossed her and her small traveling bag into an empty cabin at the forward end, away from the snippety women.
It was half past midnight on Sunday morning when the door slammed behind her. Panic raced through her when Ava heard the click of the key in the lock. She tried to open the door from the inside, but she couldn’t.
A sole electric bulb burned overhead. She closed her eyes and prayed.
She was alone. Abandoned.
Doomed to spend the remainder of the crossing locked up in the cramped two-berth cabin like a common thief. The pine paneled walls closed in on her, threatening to suffocate her spirit.
She had to keep her wits about her. She wouldn’t accept the fact her plight was futile.
The seaman had cut the rope from her wrists, but her hands were still numb with cold. She yearned to slump down into the hollows of the spring mattress and get some sleep to quell her fears. She’d get no special treatment and she was of the mind they’d feed her nothing but water and potato peelings for the rest of the voyage.
Her final stop, Ireland.
Then prison.
The frightening reality of it all shot through her like jagged lightning striking her heart. Her shaking hands grabbed and clawed at the red and white coverlet she’d pulled off the lower berth, wrapping it around her as if it would hide her shame. Ava pushed away the stray wisps of hair hanging in her eyes and her fingers felt a large bobby pin entangled in a knot in her hair.
A crazy notion hit her. Could it work? Why not?
She pulled it out, snagging stray hairs and making her wince.
She bent it with her fingers, changing its shape. Long, wiry. Perfect to pry open the lock. She’d seen the impetuous young footman in the grand house open the servants’ entrance the same way when the staff came home late after attending the village fair.
She had to try. It could be her key to freedom.
Ava slipped the straightened bobby pin into the slender lock and fiddled with it. Pushing it this way and that, scraping it back and forth, pulling it in and out, the hollow grating sound echoing in her ears. She worked at it for several minutes, shaking the inner workings of the brass lock back and forth until she felt it almost give when—
‘Get away from that door!’ yelled a male voice, angry and terse.
Startled, Ava dropped the bobby pin and it rattled onto the cold floor. Even if she could make it work, she’d never get past the guard. Tears welled up in her eyes. Not even the most eccentric saint would help her now. Acting like a common thief she was, as if proving their accusations true by her foolish act.
All her efforts were useless. They had posted a guard outside her cabin.
Escape was impossible.
She plunged into a frightening darkness, then her emotions burst into a wild torrent of tears. In the long hours that followed, she sobbed her heart out.
Not even a prayer to help her.
Such was her heartbreak, the accusing voices rattling about in her head were strangely silent on this night.
As if they too knew her fate was sealed and only God Himself could save her.
19
14 April 1912
At Divine Service the following morning, Buck made his way down to D Deck in time to hear the first-class passengers singing ‘O God Our Help in Ages Past’. Captain Smith led the service from the ship’s own prayer book, while the Titanic’s musicians provided the accompaniment to the hymn.
In something of a surprise, Fiona was nowhere to be seen.
He had also expected to see Ava.
Buck tried to hide his disappointment, scouring the crowd, maneuvering his way through the rows of green velvet upholstered armchairs and wicker chairs set up as pews. He wanted to believe Ava would scurry in at the last minute, all wide-eyed, looking at everything in that crazy w
ay of hers he adored.
He mumbled the words of the hymn, his eyes still searching, but she never showed.
He prayed she hadn’t tried to attend Catholic services in second or third class. He admired her deep faith, but the likelihood of the ship’s officers spotting her there was too big a risk for her to take.
That didn’t explain the absence of the countess.
What was behind her lack of appearance? The day had begun with a little rain, but not enough to keep her away.
Obvious, isn’t it? Buck acknowledged. She was still angry with him for trying to take Ava to his bed.
Proper behavior or not, he was sorry he hadn’t.
Damnation, it was bad enough for a man to have to worry about one woman, let along two.
Ava and the countess.
After a soul-searching walk on deck after the service, Buck headed for the first-class dining saloon, clenching and unclenching his fists. There, he found Captain Smith and Mr Ismay engaged in conversation about the record speed the ship was making, giving Mr Ismay the opportunity to tell all within earshot he had no doubt they would beat the record set by the Titanic’s sister ship, the Olympic, on her maiden voyage.
The conversation took a turn when the captain read the wireless handed to him by a ship’s officer. He looked rather glum as he passed the note to Mr Ismay.
Another iceberg warning?
‘The Baltic is warning us about floating fields of ice,’ said Mr Ismay, showing the wireless to the two ladies hovering at his side.
‘Are you going to slow the ship down?’ asked Mrs Ryerson with concern.
‘This is the Titanic, madam,’ Mr Ismay boasted. ‘We’re going to run the ship faster to avoid the ice.’
His glib reply indicated no one should take the iceberg warnings seriously.
Buck did.
He’d smelled ice last night. Keen in the air. He had no doubt about it.
What surprised him more than Mr Ismay’s casual reference to icebergs was the absence of a customary lifeboat drill after Sunday services.
That disturbed him but he gave it no further mind when Mrs Cardeza and her son approached him, chatting about looking forward to luncheon and asking where the countess was today.
Buck made excuses for Fiona, saying she was busy filling out her baggage declaration sheet and assured the wealthy Philadelphia matron she’d make an appearance at the evening concert in the lounge.
God help him if Ava showed up, since he suspected Mr Lightoller may have pointed her out to Mrs Cardeza as the countess.
He’d deal with that scenario only if he had to.
Until then, he worried about Ava. Some men might consider a woman in her predicament fair game. Trey certainly did.
Not him. Ava had inspired greater things in him, a willingness to settle down.
God help him.
But how to attain his goal?
He could never be close to Ava and not want her.
She was bold, vibrant, yet with a humble look in her eyes as if she was in awe of everyone and everything around her. Alert, passionate eyes lit by her God-fearing soul.
In that moment, Buck made a decision. He didn’t care where she came from. A wretched shack with dirt floors or a lodging house sleeping ten to a room. He wanted to capture her body, her heart. Her mind. Damn it, he wanted her.
And to hell with what society thought.
What about his promise to Fiona not to see her again?
A promise he intended to keep only until he arranged otherwise. He didn’t wish to spoil the countess’s chance for a good match and a means to save her estate.
All these thoughts tormented him when he joined Trey for lunch in the first-class dining saloon.
‘Fiona kept to her cabin this morning,’ Trey told him as he scanned the bill of fare.
Buck remained silent. He had no doubt Fiona was still in a bother over discovering Ava in his cabin.
‘Then you didn’t talk to her?’ Buck asked him.
‘I didn’t see Ava either.’ A wistful sigh followed that he didn’t try to hide.
‘I didn’t ask you about the Irish girl.’ Buck ignored Trey’s amused expression and decided on the corned beef and vegetables, though he had little appetite.
‘You didn’t have to. That hungry look in your eyes told me what you really wanted to know.’ Trey smiled at him with not the slightest hint of embarrassment. ‘You needn’t worry, Buck. I’ve given up my quest to take Ava away from you. She’s too valuable to me.’
‘Explain yourself, Trey.’
Buck didn’t trust him. Ava could be easily duped by someone as smooth talking as Treyton Brady. Her eyes drinking in every new thing she saw.
Damn, she wasn’t safe from anyone.
‘I’ll fill you in on the details, old man, when we arrive in New York.’ Trey leaned closer, his thin mustache curving over his upper lip. ‘I shall tell you this much. My interest in Ava has nothing to do with nocturnal activities. I’ve come to an understanding with her that won’t tarnish her reputation.’
‘For your sake, Trey,’ Buck said, knitting his brows together, ‘I hope this isn’t another college prank.’
‘Really, Buck, you look as jealous as Fiona.’
‘Fiona? What do you mean?’
‘We had an argument over the girl last evening when Ava brought the countess her gloves.’ Trey flagged down the steward and added dumplings to his order.
‘You saw Ava last night?’ Buck asked, focusing on his friend with avid interest.
‘Yes. All I said to Fiona was that her lady’s maid was lovely to look at, which didn’t go over well.’ Trey fixed a look on him that clearly said he was surprised at her reaction.
‘That was all?’ Buck found it hard to believe Fiona would lose her temper over that. Or was there something else simmering in her brain that made her more jealous than he believed?
‘It didn’t help when I added that any man would fall in love with the girl, but she wasn’t the type you marry, simply have an affair with.’ Trey paused, thinking. ‘I lied. I’ve come to regard Ava as a woman any man would be lucky to have on his arm whether he was rich or poor, but I’d never tell Fiona that. I thought my casual observation would amuse the countess. Was I wrong. She insisted I take her back to her stateroom immediately.’
Buck laughed. ‘Women.’
Now he understood. Fiona believed he intended to have an affair with Ava, something he had flatly refused to do with her. No wonder Trey’s words had gotten under her skin.
‘Between you and me, Buck,’ Trey said seriously, ‘I intend to make certain my mother doesn’t change her mind about my marriage to the countess. Fiona is a decent sort and I don’t want to see her hurt.’
His words heartened Buck more than he let on.
‘Fiona needs a good man, Trey.’
‘True,’ he said wryly. ‘But she still loves you, Buck.’
‘I know,’ was all Buck said.
In a tiny two-berth cabin in steerage, Ava fetched the chamber pot and leaned over it. She shut her eyes tight and braced herself.
This was how she was going to spend the rest of the crossing to America?
Leaning over a slops bucket?
More was the pity, but she couldn’t stop the rumblings in her gut from rushing upward.
She retched into the plain blue pot, then gagged.
Sweet Jesus.
She sat very still, opening her eyes and staring at her hands clasped around the rim of the chamber pot. There wasn’t a sorrier sight than herself tossing up last night’s fine dinner.
Never had Ava experienced such a sick feeling. The lap of luxury it was and now this. Instead of being located amidships where the sailing was smooth, she was holed up in the bow.
Rolling… rolling… rolling.
Ava swore the ship rose and fell on a heavy rolling swell as she lay down on the lower bunk, praying for a quick end to her misery.
When it didn’t come, she grabbed her black beads
from inside her skirt pocket and started mumbling a rosary. No sooner did she say, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ the cabin door creaked open.
She sat up with a start, her head spinning round when she saw Mr Moody and a steward come in with a tray filled with vegetable soup, currant buns, tea and—
Boiled potatoes.
‘Aargh…’ she moaned at the sight of the cold, soggy potatoes, then turned over on the bunk.
‘Get up, girl, and eat your supper,’ Mr Moody ordered.
‘I can’t… I’m sick.’
The ship’s officer took a sniff and nodded to the steward. The man held his nose as he covered the chamber pot with a linen towel and left the cabin to empty it. Then Mr Moody set about the business that had brought him here.
‘The seaman found your third-class ticket and White Star contract when he apprehended you, Miss O’Reilly, but not your inspection card.’
A ring of perspiration beaded on his forehead where his cap ended. He was decidedly nervous. Why?
He held out his hand, waiting. ‘Your card, please.’
Ava moaned again. ‘It’s all a mistake, sir,’ she pleaded. ‘I swear on my sainted mother’s grave, I’m innocent of any crime.’
‘You must understand, miss, I’m just doing my duty.’ He was becoming agitated. ‘I must have your card. Now.’
‘I don’t have no inspection card,’ Ava said, holding her stomach and pushing away the tray of food. She opened the lid on the teapot and the hot steam warmed her cheeks.
Whatever she’d said, Mr Moody didn’t like it, his face clouding.
‘Blast it all, the captain isn’t going to like this. The ship will be put into quarantine for forty days if anyone finds out you didn’t go through the inspection process,’ he said. ‘No one will be able to get off the ship in New York. I can imagine what Mr Ismay will say, not to mention the bad publicity for the White Star Line.’ His voice took on an accusing tone when he said, ‘If you know what’s good for you, miss, you’ll not tell a soul about this.’
And with that he was gone.
The door slammed behind him, but instead of the click of the key, she heard the sound of a padlock being fixed into place on the outside of the door.