“What?” Jim met my eyes and held my gaze, though it seemed to cause him more discomfort than any wound.
I felt it too. Exposed. Seen. Known.
Could he read my shame as easily as I’d seen his? A heat spread across my cheeks and I looked away, busying myself with rinsing and wringing, pulling myself together before turning back to finish cleaning his brow. I cleared my throat. “Why do they call you Lucky?”
He said nothing.
“If you ask me, I’d say you’re pretty lucky to be alive. Falling into a fire like—”
Jim grabbed my wrist and I stopped. My pulse increased in his grip and I glanced at our hands, unsure if he felt that, too.
“I am not lucky.” His intensity radiated from his stare like an open furnace, but I didn’t shy from it. If anything, it drew me in.
He released my arm and moved to get up. “And I didn’t ask you.”
“Oh no you don’t.” I put my hand on his chest and pushed him down. Gentle, but firm. It surprised both of us, but I’d handled enough large animals on the farm that I suppose those ways came to me instinctively. I let my hand linger a moment longer, aware of the solid strength of his chest, the warmth of it, and the quickening of his heartbeat under my touch. Had he a mind to leave, I couldn’t stop him. The man was solid muscle. But he lay back once more and breathed deeply.
I didn’t know this stranger, but I knew something the men didn’t. Jim’s anger, the fight in him, was only escaping steam. In him I saw a driven, haunted soul, one fuelled by some great secret.
I knew because I was too.
I took my hand away and opened the tube Dr. Grant left on the counter. I squeezed the thick salve onto my fingertips. “I have to put on the ointment yet. It will help with the healing. You won’t scar as badly.”
He snorted but let me do my duties. When I finished, he simply stood and left. He didn’t want to be cleaned up, to be helped or healed. He just wanted to sit there and smoulder in all his unspoken pain.
It made me think he wished he’d burned more.
THREE WEEKS AFTER
June 1914
Strandview Manor, Liverpool
Chapter Six
“SHALL I OPEN THE WINDOW, MISS ELLEN?” Bates asked from the parlour doorway.
“No. I’m fine.” I poked the fire and sat in the wing chair, one of the few pieces of furniture not draped in dust covers. Though he’d uncovered the chair and parted the blue drapes, opening the view onto the front garden, the room still seemed like a morgue. The dining table and chairs, the china cabinet, the settee, all of it lay hidden under great white sheets. Even the piano in the centre of the room stood deathly silent. Hidden. This front room was never used. Most of them weren’t. Over the years, Aunt Geraldine had shut down Strandview Manor, closing it off room by room, storey by storey as she retreated eventually to her study in the turret. To the stories in her mind.
“Are you sure you don’t want Lily to clear away these dust covers?”
“No.” What was the point? For whom? It suited me to sit in dead rooms, shrouded in grief. I deserved no better.
“Mr. Cronin mentioned he’d need to discuss some legal matters … when you’re ready,” Bates added.
Poor Bates had been run off his feet answering the door, especially that first week after I’d returned, what with doctors and priests visiting Aunt Geraldine during the final days of her coma. Days when her body remained, but the woman inside was long gone. A shell of herself. I felt like that now, numbed, hollowed by grief and regrets. I’d no idea she’d been that ill. She’d been closed, withdrawn in our few conversations when I’d been back between crossings. I’d assumed it was me. That I’d disappointed her yet again. I’d been so caught up in my own story, I’d given no thought to hers.
The bell rang again. Bates’s voice mumbled in the hallway. “Just another reporter looking for Ellen Ryan,” he said as he returned. “I’ve told Lily to send them packing if they come around again.”
I sighed. Somehow these men had made the connection between the young Empress of Ireland stewardesses and Strandview Manor. Perhaps they’d gotten a peek at the job files at the Canadian Pacific Railway head office. Who knew—they were resourceful, those reporters, and relentless.
Thankfully, Aunt Geraldine had had the foresight to register me under Ryan, my mother’s maiden name. Only Meg, Aunt Geraldine, and Bates knew the truth—and two of them were dead now. Even Lily, the current young maid, believed Ellie Ryan was just a maid who used to work here. She didn’t connect that name to me. My secret was safe.
“Right, then,” Bates soldiered on. “Lily is here if you need anything.”
I nodded. At fourteen, Lily wasn’t much help. I was only four years older, but it felt like a lifetime. Bates had hired her to replace Meg when we set sail last year but the girl was hopeless. Still, it wasn’t Lily’s fault. She’d never fill Meg’s shoes as a maid. And no one could as a friend. Not after all Meg and I had gone through.
God, I missed her.
Bates nodded as if reading my thoughts. Meg was his granddaughter, his only family. How the old man must grieve. It was hard enough to say goodbye to Aunt Geraldine at her funeral yesterday, but she was elderly. And as I’d recently learned, she was ill. But the old should never have to bury the young—it isn’t right. Bates cleared his throat and propped his driver’s cap on his wispy white hair as he left. I wondered where he went, what he did with his free time now that Aunt Geraldine wasn’t here to order him about. Without Aunt Geraldine here to tell us, none of us knew what to do, really. As much as we hated her controlling ways, she was both rudder and sail. Controlling my life, and now, even her death. She’d taken care of every detail, right down to her funeral reception’s sandwiches. Who did she think was coming? I’d wondered when I saw the huge platters, for she’d outlived any friends and ignored acquaintances. She had no time for family—though she had only her nephew (my father) and me. Being the matriarch, living eighty long years, I suppose she could do what the hell she liked. And Great-Aunt Geraldine did exactly that.
The church had been full yesterday, true enough. Fans, I guessed. G.B. Hardy was a well-known novelist, though few, I suspect, knew the author was a spinster. Old women wrote household tips or fashion critiques, not adventure. But then again, Aunt Geraldine wasn’t a typical woman.
It surprised me that my father hadn’t come. They weren’t close, each one with strong opinions about the other; still, I’d thought he’d pay his respects. I didn’t know if I felt anger or relief at his absence. Maybe losing my mother years ago was grief enough to last him a lifetime. Maybe he just didn’t care. Did he know about the Empress? About me? I wondered. Either way, he wouldn’t have come to my funeral, that I knew. I was disowned. Dead to him already. He’d made that painfully clear when we last spoke nearly two years ago. My father had buried me with my shame.
I stared into the fire, unsure of what to do next. With the house. With my grief. With my life. I’d lost everyone that ever mattered to me, and I’d only realized how much after they’d gone.
The doorbell rang. Moments later, Lily appeared, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a pinstriped suit. I assumed it was Mr. Cronin, but as the fire’s glow lit his face and flickered in his dark eyes, I knew exactly who he was. And what he’d come for.
“Miss Ryan”—Wyatt Steele took off his hat and extended his hand—“good to see you again.”
I stood, rigid, and glared at Lily. “You were specifically told to turn away reporters asking for Ellie Ryan.”
“I’m sorry, miss.” Her huge blue eyes darted between us. “Only he asked to speak to you, Miss Hardy. He didn’t look nothing like them other reporters, neither.” She blushed, clearly taken in by his handsome charm. His dark eyes and bright smile. Foolish girl.
“I mean—” she blustered on.
“Oh, go get me some tea.” I waved her away.
“Make mine a whiskey,” Steele added as she scurried out. He turned and smiled
as though we were old friends. “I’m chilled to the bone. Does the sun never shine in Liverpool?” He sat on the wing chair on the other side of the fire and surveyed the room, his eyes observing every draped item, as if he knew in one glance what hid beneath. He stared at me with the same knowing appraisal. His confidence, his ease infuriated me. His very presence did. Who did he think he was, showing up here? Now?
“This is not a good time,” I said. “I just buried my great-aunt yesterday and—”
“Yes, my sympathies, Miss Ryan.” He paused. “Or do you prefer Miss Hardy?”
I stood there, wordless. Not only had he found me, he’d dug up my real name. What else did he know?
Lily appeared with our drinks. She handed Steele his whiskey and, hesitating at my clear annoyance, set my teacup on the end table. “Um … will there be anything else, Miss Ellen?”
I shook my head and she disappeared into the kitchen, seemingly grateful to get away. If only Steele picked up the hint.
Instead, he raised his glass. “To G.B. Hardy.” He took a swig. “Huge fan of her work. Brilliant writer. Loved her Garrett Dean novels. Climbing Kilimanjaro, sailing the Nile, hunting lions on safari—each great adventure was as real to me as if I’d lived it myself.” He stared into the fire, and for a moment he seemed like the boy he must have been. A scallywag if I ever saw one. “He was every boy’s hero. I wanted to be Garrett Dean.”
“And yet here you are,” I said, revelling in catching him off guard. “Hounding people in their grief. Heroic, indeed.”
He blinked a few times and I could almost see the shift in his eyes. A tightening intensity, like the slight turning of a telescope lens as he refocused upon his purpose.
“The paper sent me to do a feature on the British army,” he said. “War’s brewing, you know.”
I didn’t, actually. My personal hell had overshadowed all else.
“I saw the obituary. Thought I’d pay my respects at the funeral. Turns out G.B.’s grandniece is the mysterious Ellie Ryan.” He took another sip, eyeing me over the rim. “You’re a hard woman to find, Miss … Ellen.”
I swallowed, rattled by how easily he’d tracked me. “Well, now you’ve found me. Good for you. But you’ve wasted your time. I have nothing to say.” The words gushed as though it was myself I was convincing. He unsettled me, so he did. With his swarthy looks and arrogant swagger, he may look like Garrett Dean, I’d give him that, but to me he felt more like the lion’s roar in the black beyond. Circling. Closing in. As if he knew I was wounded and the fire was dwindling.
I grabbed the poker and rattled the embers. They flickered to life for a few seconds then throbbed orange.
“You are the only surviving stewardess of the sunken Empress of Ireland, Miss Ellen. As I said on the train, like it or not, you are famous. Readers want to know your story. And I want to be the one to tell it.” His eyes gleamed. “A profile piece like this, and I’d be a shoo-in for the editor’s chair.”
I shook my head as he spoke. Wasn’t he listening?
“I don’t want to talk to anyone about the Empress!” I just wanted to forget. To stop the flashbacks, the relentless nightmares. To never speak of it again. My heart thudded in my chest. “What makes you think I’d want to tell you anything?”
“Because I have something you want.”
My laugh echoed in the stillness of the dead room. I sounded like a madwoman. Perhaps I was. Perhaps insane people don’t even realize they truly are.
“You flatter yourself, Mr. Steele.” I tried to give my voice more of the confidence I lacked. “I assure you, you have nothing—”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black notebook. The edges were frayed now and the pages rippled with water damage, but I’d know it anywhere. Jim’s journal. The leather spine creaked as he opened the book and thumbed through the yellowed pages to where the thin red ribbon lay.
January 23, 1914
What sort of a fool stoker falls into his fire? I was so riled from the lads taunting me, I barely noticed how badly my arm was burned. I wish they’d just leave me alone. I didn’t even want them to bring me to Dr. Grant. But I’m glad they did. If they hadn’t brought me, I never would have spoken to her.
I saw her. Up close, and not from the shadows along the ship’s rail. I don’t know why she stands there each night all alone. I don’t know why I could never find the courage to talk to her. All I do know is that she’s even more beautiful than I thought.
And her name. It’s Ellie. Ellie Ryan.
I sank onto the edge of my seat, wordless, breathless, as Steele read from Jim’s journal.
He glanced up at me and turned the page.
She rubbed the ointment into my arm and I swear it hurt like the dickens. I nearly fainted with the pain of it. Still, I’d endure a thousand burns to have her look at me like that, to feel her touch me again. She warned me (like Mam would) to be sure to use the ointment Dr. Grant left. Said otherwise the burns would leave me scarred.
If only she knew the scars I have. Ones that no ointment will remove. No, she’d want nothing to do with me then.
I’d often wondered what he wrote in that small black book as he stood jotting at the rail while he waited for me at the end of our shifts. I swallowed and looked at Steele through my puddled tears. Jim carried that book with him always. How could it be here in Steele’s hands?
“Is he—” I couldn’t say it. As though voicing it made it real. It had been three weeks since the sinking. Three weeks since I saw or heard from Jim, but something in me refused to believe he was gone. He couldn’t be.
We sat in silence for a few moments as my mind raced.
“Miss Ellen, we each hold a story the other desperately wants.” Steele closed the book and held it like a winning ticket. “You tell me yours—and I will give you Jim’s.”
“How did you get the journal?” I blurted. “Did you see him? Do you know where he is?”
Steele smiled. “You have the mind of a journalist.”
“And you have the heart of a devil.”
“The choice is yours, Miss Ellen.” He shrugged. “You may have your privacy or your answers, but you can’t have it both ways.”
How could he? How could he sit there holding my heart as ransom? What kind of man does that?
No, there was no way I’d trust him with any of my secrets. Clearly, he had every intention of exposing them on the front page of the New York Times. My life would be ruined.
Sensing my hesitation, Steele slipped the journal back into his jacket pocket and stood.
But this was Jim, my Jim. My life already was ruined. I needed answers, and though Steele was obviously a poor excuse for a man, he was a skilled journalist. If there was any information to be had, he’d find it, as surely as he’d found me.
“Fine,” I exhaled in defeat. “I’ll do it … on one condition. You can’t use any of Jim’s journal in your piece.” It was bad enough Steele had read Jim’s private thoughts and I would be reading them too. I owed it to Jim to protect his innermost self, even if that meant exposing mine.
Steele considered the request. “All of your story?”
“Yes.” I held out my hand for the journal, willing to tell him anything, everything, just to have it. “Whatever you want.”
He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open to the ribbon. In one quick swipe he ripped out the yellowed page he’d just read. The sound tore my heart as though it were Jim himself we were dissecting. I suppose in some way we were.
He laid the ragged page in my palm, a drop of water to someone dying of thirst. “Surely you didn’t think I’d give you the whole book up front?”
“Surely you can give me something I don’t already know.” I looked at him, desperate for more.
Turning to the front pages, he tore out the first entry and handed it to me before slipping the book back inside his jacket. “Consider it a down payment. But you owe me, Miss Ellen. Remember that.”
He pulled a few
newspaper clippings from his satchel and laid them on the table. “Some samples of my work for the Times. One on the Empress based on my Rimouski interviews and a few on the Titanic from a few years ago.”
Then, donning his hat, he tipped it to me like the gentleman he was not. “I will be back tomorrow at ten for our interview.”
I didn’t see him leave. Didn’t notice the fire die or even hear Lily until she put Aunt Geraldine’s throw over my shoulders and eased me into the chair. I don’t know how long I’d been standing alone in that room staring at Jim’s cramped scrawl. Seeing, but not reading, his words as they slowly faded with the light.
Chapter Seven
COLD RAIN TAPPED AT THE WINDOWS as I sat in bed, the torn pages trembling in my fingers. Jim’s journal. His private thoughts. It felt wrong to read them and, yet, impossible not to. Perhaps they’d have the answers I longed for. If nothing else, they were at least Jim’s words. As Steele read them earlier, I could almost hear Jim’s deep voice speaking them inside my heart. A flicker of him—just enough to dispel the dark thoughts that threatened to pull me under.
I brought the papers closer to the bedside candle’s light. I’d been so struck by seeing Jim’s journal, at hearing my name read from it, it was only now as I reread that first entry that I realized the weight of Jim’s secret shame. What burdened him so? What had left him scarred long before the marks on his skin? Perhaps the journal had some answers. And even though I knew Jim wouldn’t have wanted me to know what he’d long kept hidden, I turned to the next page.
Unspeakable Page 3