Essie tried to still the guilt and loss and longing churning in her belly. She would not let it feed into the little one. She was not going to allow him—a mistake—to define her or her baby. She needed to find a way to live with her own regret and guilt but give this baby the clean slate it deserved. With that she strode up the gangplank and stepped onto the steamer, ready to depart for her new life.
When she turned back, Freddie had been pushed into the shadows by a sea of dark coats elbowing each other out of the way. She could barely make out her brother’s pale features.
The wind stung her face—her cheeks were wet with tears—and she took the sharp sea air deep into her lungs. A lone seagull swooped and shrieked overhead, piercing the low hum of family farewells and whispered words.
Essie couldn’t know, of course, what lay ahead on the Atlantic or in her new country. But she gripped the handrail and surprised herself by praying to the shuddering steamer, the captain, and the calm officer with the kind eyes to deliver her safely to land—to her new life.
Chapter 32
Essie hadn’t planned on falling in love during the voyage, but that was what happened.
The first officer—Mr. Niall Kirby—managed to secure a “spare” cabin and saw her safely ensconced on the top deck. When he left her alone in the gleaming cabin with its plush carpet and feather pillows, she tucked her tattered suitcase under a table, collapsed onto the huge bed, and slept for eight hours. When she awoke to a dark cabin with her boots and coat still on, she tugged them off and went back to sleep again until morning.
Essie hadn’t realized the toll that caring for her mother and the girls had taken. All her energy had been expended on protecting and nurturing them. Her desperation for Gertie to finish school and to keep Ma from the workhouse had drained her. Edward had offered her an idyll: a brief, shining moment of happiness and attention; a glimpse at an alternative life.
But his love had been no more hers to keep than the ring he gave her and the jewels Freddie found over on Cheapside.
First Officer Kirby, however, quickly proved that his primary concern was for her comfort and safety.
It was easy to love Niall. He took time to make life aboard the RMS Laconda a little better for everyone. Whether it be arranging a walking stick and a firm arm for the unstable Mr. Henry as he took his evening constitutional, moving a family from third class to another spare cabin in first class so their ailing child could recover with the aid of the ship’s doctor, or the little jug of Guinness and dry crackers he arranged for the cook to leave in Essie’s cabin when he noticed she couldn’t stomach her dinner of sausages and mash in the dining room.
“You need to keep your strength up. For you . . . and the little one.”
Shocked, Essie looked up and met his gaze.
“How did you . . .” Essie spluttered.
The first officer shrugged and gracefully steered around the topic. “Big fat red cheeks, my sister’s lad has . . .” The officer’s cheeks turned a deep pink that spread all the way to his ears. She would later recognize it as an endearing family trait.
“It’ll be worth it, trust me,” Niall said softly.
And just like that, she did.
Essie trusted Niall’s kindness, his steady goodness and sincerity.
And Niall trusted Essie enough not to dig up the muck and mistakes of her past.
And so, in a mid-Atlantic swell, they agreed to draw a line under the past and step over it together. They were married by the captain on the bridge on a bright Friday afternoon with a handful of curious well-wishers as witnesses. Niall had offered to wait and book a church when they were ashore in Boston, but Essie declined.
First Officer Niall Kirby declared one evening as they walked around the top deck that his ambition was to start a shipping line of his very own.
“I mean our own,” he corrected himself. “Because I can’t . . . I won’t . . .” He paused. “What I mean to say is that this is my dream, but if it isn’t yours, or you want to be trying something else, then we can follow a different path.”
Essie didn’t doubt Niall for a moment. Instead, she pictured herself swinging a bottle of champagne to launch their first ship, just like she’d seen in the moving pictures.
“I can do the bookkeeping for your—our—ships.” Essie smiled. “My neighbor Mr. Yarwood was an accountant, and he showed me how to keep a ledger.” She grabbed her new husband’s warm hand, thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Yarwood sitting at the table in their yellow kitchen, helping the girls with their homework and coaxing Essie through columns of red and black.
Soon, she was going to have her own clean, neat kitchen with a husband and child to make it a home. That was her dream; anything more than that was a bonus.
Niall had been supportive until the day he died, bless his soul.
* * *
But on that first day aboard the RMS Laconda as the ship steamed away from Tilbury Docks—before she fell into a deep sleep—Essie had sat on the bed, little suitcase beside her, and reached into her apron pocket for her handkerchief to wipe away her tears.
Only then did she remember the sketches of the twins she’d rescued from the train platform. And in the other pocket was a small envelope containing a letter from Gertie.
Who would have thought that this letter would launch a hundred ships?
Chapter 33
Kate
BOSTON, PRESENT DAY
Kate and Marcus wound their way up the grand spiral staircase toward the Old State House library.
The volunteer archivist, wearing a tartan skirt, sensible shoes, and a warm smile, clapped her hands together. “Dr. Kirby! I’m Verity Doyle. This is exciting. I have to ask, are you curious about Niall Kirby’s logbooks for family research, or are you here in a professional capacity? I couldn’t help but look you up . . . I always love to know what people’s research specialties are. Curiosity keeps our world spinning, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed! It’s a bit of both, personal and professional. I’m not sure where one begins and the other ends, to be honest.”
“Well, no one has touched these for years, I’m sorry to say. It’s quite a story: a merchant seaman who goes on to own a ship and then a whole fleet. Those Kirbys sure did create something special; they were good people! While your great-grandparents grew up, so did Boston.”
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to say.”
“They left quite the legacy,” said Marcus as he stepped across to the bookshelf. “Not just here, but the women’s clinics, the schools . . .”
“They sure did,” said Kate. She sighed faintly, remembering the archive at the Serpentine, with the newspaper clippings detailing Gertrude’s achievements and the huge pile of letters the two women had exchanged, the photos, birthday cards, Joseph’s obituary, and Bella’s christening snaps. The ledger books brimming with images of trauma and loss and sadness. Two little girls at peace. Two candles. There was also undeniable joy, energy, and exuberance squeezed in on the same page, refusing to be snuffed out.
Gertrude and Essie had been given a chance at another life, and they had each seized the opportunity with both hands.
Kate studied Marcus as he surveyed the room. The line of his shoulders and chest just visible under his old V-neck T-shirt made her tummy tingle. But it was his easy manner that stilled her. He was thoughtful and kind, and had taken the time to coax her out of darkness. He’d shown her how he’d learned from his past and forgiven himself. He tried his best. That was enough.
The sturdy archivist pulled out a sheet that itemized everything in the collection. “We have bills of sale, logbooks, charts, a couple of private diaries.” She gestured to the shelf on which the leather-bound logbooks were stored and a cardboard archive box on the table. Then she looked at her watch and said, “I’m afraid I have a meeting, then some catalogs to finish. But please make yourself at home. All the material donated by your family is here.”
“Thanks again for allowing us access at short notice,”
said Kate as she walked Miss Doyle to the door.
Marcus was already at the bookshelf, scanning the spines of the logbooks. “November 1912 you say?” When he came to one labeled RMS Laconda he pulled it from the shelf and passed it to her.
Kate looked down at the faded cursive script. Most texts she read in museums had the translations attached at the front with a summary for academics. But as she opened the pages, she saw the annotations and sketches and realized this was a sailor’s personal logbook—a diary of sorts.
She ran her finger down the margin, marveling at Niall Kirby’s sketches. There were mackerel and black sea bass anatomically labeled and whale tails poking up above a wave. An entire page was devoted to a landscape featuring an island and rocky outcrop.
She leaned in to smell salt water and ink. The scent of her history.
Marcus began to read the columns: “Latitude, Longitude, Distance, Run . . .”
He turned a page and read what was before him, then sucked in his breath.
“Listen to this: Today I met the woman I’d like to marry. Esther Murphy, but she prefers Essie. Irish by birth, she has a smile I’d juggle forever to keep.”
He turned over some more pages. “Shipping info, a list of supplies . . . Oh, wait, we’re into mid-December 1912 in this section. That’s, what, two weeks later?”
He put the diary on the desk. On the left-hand page was a drawing of gulls swooping into waves. On the right-hand side was this entry:
In the two weeks I’ve taken to having the cook leave a pitcher of Guinness and some dry crackers in her cabin every night after our walk around the length of the deck.
E. thinks I haven’t noticed the dry-retching, the clammy hands and sweat at her temples. My mother and sister were both the same when they were with child . . .
“What? Essie was pregnant already? But they’d only just met.”
E. thinks I haven’t noticed . . .
But Essie had noticed. The story of how Essie agreed to marry Niall Kirby during the Atlantic crossing had become family folklore. It had been during the beginning of a storm, when the boat was lurching and heaving across the top of the swell. Essie was on deck clinging to the rails, wobbly with seasickness. Niall coaxed her back to the cabin, then went to fetch Guinness and dry crackers.
Kindness and hope, Katherine—that’s what you should look for in a man. Your great-grandfather Niall spent the entire Atlantic crossing tending to the ill, instructing the newer sailors on the ship on their ropes and seamanship, helping them practice navigation, fixing ropes . . . I never heard him raise his voice or utter a sharp word.
It was the same when Joseph was learning to sail the little dinghy or ride a bike. Or—heaven help me—learning to drive his first automobile. Niall was always there right by Joseph’s side, like a true father should be. Essie had smiled dreamily.
Kate’s great-grandfather may have showered Essie with gifts over the lifetime of their marriage, but whenever Essie spoke of Niall, it was with the easy tenderness of one who loved deeply and knew she was cared for in return. In Essie’s stories, it wasn’t the jewels that sparkled—it was Niall. Gestures were far more important to her than gemstones.
Niall had brought her a cup of Irish breakfast tea in bed every morning until the day he died. Set the table for their breakfast before he went to bed each night—always with a little vase of roses, or forget-me-nots he’d picked specially from the garden. He’d planted roses outside her window for summer, and bulbs for winter.
Kate’s breath started to shorten as her eyes ran over and over the same lines:
. . . the dry-retching, the clammy hands and sweat at her temples. My mother and sister were both the same when they were with child . . .
Kate too had experienced all of these symptoms when she was with child.
She placed both hands on her stomach and closed her eyes for a beat—wanting the pain to pass, but clinging to the memory of those first flutters. Loss and hope knotted in her stomach.
Chapter 34
Essie
LOUISBURG SQUARE, BOSTON, 1994
Essie lowered herself into the swinging chair on her stoop. In her hand was a glass of fresh lemonade brought to her on a tray by her dear friend and housekeeper, Mrs. Mackay.
It was a humid Sunday afternoon—the kind that promised a late afternoon squall off the Atlantic. But for now the sun was high and fuzzy, and Essie was grateful Mrs. Mackay’s lemonade was not too far off from sucking a lemon. She shook the glass to get the last drops, then fished out a few ice cubes and wrapped them in her handkerchief, before pressing them against her neck as she watched her great-granddaughters Molly and Katherine play soccer across the road. The relief was immediate. How those girls could keep running around the park in this steamy summer heat was beyond her.
Her son and grandson were in the backyard with their glamorous wives—no doubt burning expensive steak and laying out an elaborate lunch table with potato salad and corn with peppery lime butter. Once the dessert was cleared they were all going to have a little chat about the Sunny Banks Retirement Village being constructed in Cambridge. Glossy brochures had been left with her to have a think about two weeks ago after a similar lunch culminating in a far-too-sweet sticky date pudding.
Aside from the fact there was no “sunny bank” anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of Boston, Essie was not leaving her home. Her son and his offspring would never understand, of course. They just wanted her to be safe. Cared for. But how could Essie explain to her family—with their privilege, comfortable houses, and education—that this house was as much a part of her as her arm? It represented everything she’d longed for as a child in London. Shelter, books, food. Family.
Someday soon this house would be passed to the next generation. She hoped they’d fill it to the brim with children, laughter, and godawful plastic toys.
She loved it when these two energetic great-granddaughters visited and shrieked up and down the staircase, trailing sticky fingers down the wallpaper and carelessly spreading books and Legos across the floor for everyone else to trip over.
Molly had the ball, but Katherine was making a determined tilt for it. Long skittish limbs flew in all directions. Their skin glowed with summer tans, and their hair fell in loose ponytails at their shoulders. Katherine sliced a goal past her older sister, and they slapped hands and danced around with their hands in the air, shaking their skinny butts. Gloriously gleeful and cocky.
She thought about the sheep guts the boys had used in the back alleys of Southwark and how they too shook their fists when they scored. She recalled the wistful way Flora and Maggie had watched them, desperate to hoist up their skirts and join in.
Essie’s breath caught, and she thought of the twins with their bandy legs. It had been over eighty years, and still the grief made her bones ache. Gertie’s recent passing compounded her sadness, though it gave Essie some comfort that her sister had slipped away quietly in her sleep instead of enduring illness or pain.
Nobody told you that, as you got older, grief and joy ebbed and flowed like the tides.
This afternoon, these filthy girls running about in denim cutoffs and bare feet were perfect.
As the girls leaned their freckled faces in together to share a secret, Essie caught a glimpse of her sisters, and it filled her heart to know that Gertie, Flora, and Maggie’s blood—their spirit—ran through the veins of these glorious, healthy young girls. Molly and Katherine would finish school. Likely go to college. Choose their own paths.
Katherine—now bored with soccer—was climbing Christopher Columbus. She clutched at his rather bulbous nose and hauled a leg over his shoulder. What would become of them? Essie wondered. Molly was the more outspoken: precocious and articulate. Perhaps she’d become an attorney, like her great-great-aunt in London. Her younger sister, Katherine—now sitting on Columbus’s shoulders, lost in her own thoughts—was quieter, more thoughtful. She liked to sneak away to the library, burying her head in Essie’s books. Last w
eek she’d caught a pink-faced Katherine reading Jackie Collins when she’d insisted she needed to go upstairs and read Little Dorrit.
She was curious, too. Katherine loved nothing more than to sit at Essie’s dressing table, going through her jewelry box and asking her about each piece.
Just that morning, Katherine had sat beside Essie on the sofa, smelling of apples, sweat, and cut grass, and touched Essie’s sapphire earrings.
“What are these called?”
“Sapphires.”
“Are they from Grandpa Niall too?”
“Why, yes . . . he had the stones made into earrings.”
“I love the blue. They match your eyes. Blue is my lucky color.”
Essie’s breath had caught in her throat. Then she said, “Mine too.”
Essie pressed her hands to her eyes to suppress the tears that threatened. She had no right to cry. No claim to this grief since she’d left London all those years ago. She and Gertie—along with the Yarwoods—had made a pact to never speak of that night in Piccadilly Circus.
“You girls had best be moving on,” Mrs. Yarwood had advised in her tiny yellow kitchen. “It won’t be long before the police put two and two together. I’d say you could argue self-defense—we saw him raise a fist to you—but if his wealthy family decide to fight it, I’m afraid a judge would be more likely to side with them. You’ll be in jail before you know it, Essie.”
“But it was me . . .” sobbed Gertie.
“Shush, Gertie. You did the proper thing to save your sister. But, Essie, you need to get on that ship. There are likely people who would be able to connect you with Mr. Hepplestone.”
“I can’t! I won’t leave.”
“You must. Stay and you’ll go to jail. Try to see this as an opportunity. Make the most of it. Don’t be looking back with regret. Gertie can stay with us—she’s like our own.”
Essie’s heart broke all over again. “Thank you. For everything. I’d be very grateful if you could keep an eye on Gertie. Come, let’s get you home to bed now, Gertie. Mrs. Yarwood, I’d be grateful if you’d come with me while I settle Gertie, then I’ll explain to you and Ma my plan . . .”
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