The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  ‘But Pa should do that,’ he argued.

  ‘Not Pa, Father . . . I told you before, we don’t live with Father any more, and won’t for a very long time.’

  In truth, Roddy could hardly recall his father’s face. It was over a year since they’d fled south. At first they had lived in a room crammed with other women, sleeping on a camp bed on the floor until Celeste found them a little house to rent in D Street at the back of Capitol Hill close to Eastern Market. Roddy had to go to the public school down the road, coming home with bruises until one of her friends taught him some self-defence moves which had proved useful to her when they were cornered on suffrage marches.

  They attended rallies but Celeste made sure they stood at the back and melted into the crowd when it got noisy or there were photographers taking snaps. Roddy liked walking down the Mall and standing outside the White House gates, crushed up with other kids. While the mothers were huddled together, they got to play ball or sneak off while all the shouting was going on.

  But Thursdays were his bugbear, when she earned extra, taking girls through their paces so they walked and talked like little ladies, not the noisy cackling hens who jumped down the porch steps when they closed the door after the two hours of refinement they must endure.

  It was through contacts at St John’s Episcopal Church that Celeste had had the idea of this class. Sometimes the President and his family came to worship. Newly married officers’ wives came in the evening to learn how to set the table with forks and knives, or how to greet people. Others came for elocution lessons, wanting to copy her accent. They liked the way the English spoke in a slow, quiet, deliberate manner, and everybody who came wanted to be seen as refined.

  Had she done right to rob Roddy of a normal family life? They were poor now. She counted out the dollars and put some in the special tin: ‘For when we go home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘It’s across the ocean in a city called Lichfield.’

  Home was where her brothers lived, she sighed, not smiling in their smart uniforms from her mantlepiece. Sometimes she’d pull out an atlas and point to the pink bits belonging to England. ‘One day we’ll go home, where we’ll be safe, Roddy, one day soon,’ she whispered.

  Sometimes Celeste wept with tiredness. It was hard keeping up appearances. Eastern Market was smart, full of naval families living in elegant, expensive houses. She felt she was split in two, pretending to be a colonial widow fallen on hard times and a modern office worker with bobbed hair and shortened skirts. It had taken such an effort to escape from Akron, and Grover’s clutches, and then having to reinvent herself here, hide her true identity and live a life of lies, was so difficult. But it was so much easier to bear than her life with Grover.

  How glad she was to have sent the letter to England from Halifax, the letter to Grover ending her marriage. She could still recall every word she’d said, sitting in the train station with a writing pad on her lap, crying as she poured out her feelings.

  I have no reason to return to the life of misery and humiliation I’ve endured at your hands and I have no intention of letting my son grow up with such a vile example.

  You may wonder where I found the nerve to defy you in this way but believe me, when I saw the bravery of those wonderful men who stepped aside so women and children might be saved on that fateful night two years ago, I couldn’t recognize you as being one of them.

  Sitting in that lifeboat, I knew in my heart you would have made every excuse to wheedle your way onto those lifeboats to save yourself, as did so many of the First Class men . . . How I wished you gone from my life before then but, unlike those poor souls who never got to say farewell to their beloved spouses, I am giving you the courtesy of ending our marriage with some explanation.

  By the time you read this, I will be far away, back with my own countrymen, in a place where I do not have to fear saying one wrong word in case my arms are bruised and my spirit beaten. Look to your conscience as to what makes you behave in such a sick and offensive manner, like a child who cannot get its way without tantrums.

  How you fooled me into thinking you so charming and courteous when we were courting. How kind you were at first, but then it was as if once I was securely yours, separated from all who loved me, some devil sprang into your soul and made you cruel, cold and angry when all I wanted was to give you love and affection, to bear your children and be a good wife.

  It took a near drowning to make me realize you will never change unless you look deep into your cold heart and get rid of such a demon. Until that time I will not be subjected to such a monstrous regime as was our marriage, nor must my child ever have to bear witness to your cruelty. The risk to him if he ever defies you does not bear thinking about.

  Did no one ever tell you that we catch more flies with honey than vinegar? A kind word goes a long way, a loving gesture can work miracles in a woman’s heart. I fear you are sick and need the Great Physician who can cure all ailments of the soul. I don’t want to hear or see you again in this life. I have not kidnapped our child but released him into a more loving and caring family.

  Celestine

  It was a harsh letter for any man to receive but she would not alter one word of it. Once it was in the post, she felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her heart. There were no regrets, only sadness that the two of them had been so ill suited from the start and that her innocence and naivety had ensured his behaviour had gone unchecked for so long.

  May had done her part to throw Grover off the trail, sending Celeste’s letters as if from England. There were letters in his handwriting, from their lawyers, from Harriet, but they were gathering unopened until she could face them. He would not follow her during the war but when peace came, perhaps he might search them out. She must remain careful.

  When they first arrived in Washington, DC, Celeste had turned up at the offices of the suffrage society in desperation. There’d been a spate of arrests and force feedings, and a safe house was set up where women could recuperate from their ordeals out of the public eye. She’d offered her services as a dogsbody, anything to get a bed for them both. The condition in which some of her friends arrived shocked her. It was much worse than anything she’d endured because it was chosen and borne for their cause: emaciated bodies, swollen throats, eyes filled with fear and anguish from the treatments – how could her heart not go out to them? Having Roddy around gave some of the older suffragettes a source of amusement, helping them to forget their suffering for an hour or two.

  Working part time in the office, Celeste found herself alongside brave single women who broke every convention. They were militants, loud and courageous in their fight to get the vote and rights for female employees. She wondered if any of them would have been subjected to the humiliation she’d allowed for so long. They had borne imprisonment and public derision for the cause, sustained by friendship. She’d been starved of women’s company for such a long time.

  ‘When you put your hand to the plough you can’t put it down until you get it to the end of the row,’ their leader, Alice Paul, used to say.

  Celeste had put her hand to it the night she’d fled from Halifax, taken the long train south to Washington and sought out Margaret Tobin Brown’s advice by letter. They’d met in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, amidst the grandeur of marbled pillars and a floor that gleamed. Her words had given Celeste the courage to forge a new life.

  So far Grover hadn’t sought her out but she was always wary. It was Roddy he would snatch, not her. She assumed he’d hire private investigators to find her in England but where better to hide in the States than in the capital, amongst the crowds. She was free to work and was learning to live on her wits.

  Only May knew the truth and she did her best to glean news of the family as best she could while not pushing her for answers. Now Celeste must stick it out and stay her hand to the plough with this new life for her son’s sake. His future had been sacrificed for her bid for freedom. She couldn
’t afford to send him to private school. He was growing coarser, tougher and more defiant, and, at times, she saw a flash of Grover’s petulance in his eyes.

  What else could she do? She earned more on a Thursday and in the evening than from the humble office work she did all week. It kept them in decent clothes and in a reasonable property in a safe district. May had parcelled up a few pieces of precious china, which somehow arrived intact, much admired by her students. They still had the smell of home on them, mementoes she’d have to sell if times got tough.

  She steered clear of the few young English wives that she came across in church. They were all excited about building the new cathedral and busy raising funds. She had neither the money nor the interest in its erection, magnificent though it was going to be. She yearned for the ancient quietude of Lichfield. Their English voices reminded her of home and she wouldn’t relax until she and Roddy had made the journey back to England. This time she’d applied for the right documents to get an entry back home but the passport rules were stricter now and Roddy would have to go on hers. She claimed his father was dead and she was a widow. What else could she do? Every penny she could save went on tickets and preparations for this homecoming.

  How they’d live once they were there was no matter. One thing Celeste had learned over the past year was to survive on little, to exaggerate the truth where necessary and to take one day at a time. She hardly recognized who she’d become in a year: older, more suspicious of folk, careful with every dime and not so easily impressed by outward show.

  Why was she surprised? A woman who had defied the ocean and survived the Titanic sinking knew how precious life was. A woman who’d endured physical humiliation at the hands of a brutal husband valued the shutting of her own front door without fear. She may now be a woman who lived hand to mouth from month to month but she managed their meagre budget as if it was that of the State Treasury Department.

  One thing was certain: her aching hand was welded to this damned ploughshare and she was not turning back when the end of the row was almost in sight. No one was going to stop her and her son returning to where she belonged.

  50

  Lichfield

  June 1915

  Dear Friend,

  I beg you read the enclosed letter before you read my own. I don’t know what to say other than you have my deepest sympathy on your loss. Bertram was killed in action close to a place called Neuve Chapelle. Like so many students he was so eager to enlist. He came to say goodbye in his smart officer’s uniform. Now he has paid the ultimate sacrifice, as the papers say. They have a way of making death seem so clean and peaceful and dignified. We know otherwise.

  I know you will feel so helpless not being here to help your father but he has such good friends around him, many of them losing sons and grandsons too.

  Everyone is trying to be brave and keep cheerful with fundraising concerts and sewing bees for the troops. I am not one for those sorts of gatherings but I have a little job serving tea at the station to passing convoys of troops. How many of them will ever return home? Hearts are sad, money is tight and the winter was long, but the Lichfield blossoms don’t know there is a war on and cheer us no end.

  Ella continues to bloom and chatter. I have got her a place in Meriden House School, in the nursery, where she can play with other children. She loves to be in company but I am such a hermit, it’s not fair to hide her away. She is a comfort to your father, who spoils her with sweets I fear she will choke on. She is a constant worry and delight.

  I wish I could hold your hand at this sad time. War must end soon and you will be reunited once more with all you love. God protect you and comfort you in his loving arms,

  May

  PS. I have just read a terrible account of the sinking of the Cunarder Lusitania off the coast of Ireland. 1200 souls perished. Only we know how it must have been for those struggling in the water. I have not been able to sleep for the memories it brings back. There were Americans on board with children. The Hun will pay for this cruel act.

  51

  Washington

  January 1917

  Dear May,

  I hope the Christmas parcel arrived safely. You hear rumours of things going missing at the port. It was a good idea to number our letters so we can know the gaps. I hope the preserves and cans of butter and meat were useful. I hear things are pretty tight over there and I know my father has a sweet tooth.

  We are well enough. The news of Selwyn’s wounds in the Somme offensive brought me low but your assurance that he was on the mend in hospital gives me hope of a full recovery. I will write but Father hinted to me he was not ready yet for corresponding. I still can’t believe I will never see Bertie again in this life.

  Your new lodgings near Stowe Pool sound good with a fine view of the cathedral spires. One day I hope I will see those Three Ladies of the Vale for myself again.

  There is a chance of work in government offices if America comes into the war. I will have to expand the truth a bit. They won’t accept married women but a widow might just get an interview. I’m still doing the refinement classes. Friends of friends seem to like what I organize for them. I suggested we all read the same novel and discuss it together, which they thought hilarious at first. I’m sure some of my clients usually never read anything other than fashion journals, but it was a lively session.

  If America enters the conflict in Europe, surely this wretched war will come to an end. The might of this country has to be seen to be believed; millions of young men on the march will end the stalemate.

  Can I ask you in all honesty, does my father suspect anything? I ought to tell him our true position but I don’t want to burden him further with bad news. He has enough to worry about at the moment.

  My parents’ marriage was all you could ask for in love, friendship and trust. He will be so disappointed in me for not sticking to my vows. You are my ears and eyes, as always, and words can’t tell you what a relief it is to have someone who knows the truth.

  I hope the blouse fitted you, and little Ella will grow into the dress. They were clothes discarded by one of the rich wives in my class. Little does she know I wear some of them myself. Did Papa like our portrait? Roddy looked so smart in his sailor suit, don’t you think?

  I look forward to your next epistle. For someone who said they couldn’t write a letter, you put me to shame.

  Your dear friend,

  Celeste Rose

  Celeste didn’t know how badly Selwyn was injured, not so much in the body but the mind, May sighed. His father had visited the asylum where they treated wounded officers for something they called shell shock. He didn’t speak or listen. He just stared out of the window in another world, the canon had told her in confidence. She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I am glad that one of my children is safe away from all this mayhem,’ the canon told May. ‘I couldn’t bear for anything else to happen to them.’

  It was then that May offered to go and see to Red House herself. They were billeting soldiers there and Mrs Allen, the daily help, was none too happy with the state of their rooms. The garden was dug over for vegetables and Ella liked to play there and chase the rabbits. May was glad to get away from the college. Florrie Jessup never let up, mocking May’s accent, hiding her dusters and brushes, trying to goad her into a row. One of these days May would give her one she’d not forget. You don’t grow up in an orphanage without learning to defend yourself.

  When they were in the kitchen garden, she could forget college bullies and tidy it all up. Outdoor chores they may be, but keeping busy was the best tonic. She would watch Ella prancing around trying to be helpful. ‘Who is this dark child with the deep sparkling eyes? Where was she born? Who does she look like? Why is she happiest with pencils and paper in her hand, drawing pictures? How could I have snatched her for my own?’ she asked herself.

  The burden of this secret crept up on her more and more over the years. Did I do a wrong thing for a right reason or a wicke
d thing for my own selfish needs? Always at the back of her mind was the dreadful thought that someone somewhere might be mourning the loss of their child. Was it fate that brought them together? Was it fate that the Titanic should sink? These thoughts tore at her mind so that she feared that if she gave into them it would make her mad.

  Then she saw Ella digging up plants, making mischief in the borders. ‘Just stop that, young lady, put them back this minute!’ Ella was here and she was here, and nothing could change this now.

  52

  Boston, October 1917

  Private Angelo Bartolini woke to find himself in a hospital ward sweating, not knowing how he came to be prostrate. His throat was burning and there was a stone slab on his chest.

  ‘Welcome back to the land of the living, son. You’re one of the lucky few who cheated death.’ A man in a white coat was standing over him, feeling for his pulse.

  Angelo couldn’t reply. His brain couldn’t translate. It hurt to think as he stared up at the ceiling. One minute he was in the yard outside the barrack huts playing baseball, waiting for transport onto the ship for Europe. Where was he now? Everything was a blur of pain, heat and strange dreams. He’d seen Maria with outstretched arms waving him to her side, smiling, and he’d felt himself floating towards her and then . . . nothing.

  ‘You’ve had the flu, boy, a very bad dose, but you’ll live.’

  ‘Dove sono?’ he said. He’d been drafted in the first wave posted for infantry training, ready for the big push in France.

  ‘Speak English . . .’

  He could recall Kathleen waving him off at the station, little Frankie howling at the sight of him with cropped hair and in a strange uniform. Jacko was still a babe in arms. Angelo could have tried for exemption but he was a patriot, proud to serve. His family would look after their own. There was a medical, an inspection, then weeks of training to toughen up the new recruits for combat duty. They were all squashed in barrack huts with no air in the summer heat. There were colds and coughs aplenty but nothing like this. He remembered standing in a train to the port, feeling queasy and shivery, his limbs stiff and aching. By the time they stood down he’d crumpled to the floor, the stone flags came up to meet him and he’d flaked out. How long had he been here?