“Look at us,” he chided. “Finally free of that damn ship and what do we do? We stand at a railing.
“Come on,” he said, like an excited child. “Today we’re doing things you can’t do on a bloody ship.”
We walked all over the town that sunny afternoon, around the Château Frontenac, the grand hotel perched atop the cliff, and along the stretch of boardwalk. We followed the stone wall snaking its way through the city, along cobblestoned streets, past shops and cafés where couples sipped cool drinks at bistro tables.
“Ice cream?” Jim asked, nodding at the shop.
“I’d bloody kill for one,” I said, fanning my face.
Jim laughed. “Well, then it’s a good thing I have enough money for two.”
Wisps of hair stuck to my forehead and I pushed them back with the back of my hand.
“You think this is hot?” he teased. “Try visiting the stokehold.”
He moved closer to me and leaned in, bringing his face to mine. His smiling mouth puckered and, for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me, right here, right now. I thought I could want nothing more. Until I felt the breeze as he gently blew on my face. I closed my eyes, revelling in the coolness of it on my forehead. Down my cheek. My jaw. My neck. Covering me in goosebumps that were not from the cold.
He stopped and I opened my eyes, swooning slightly.
Jim smiled, suddenly shy. “Why don’t you go wait in the shade?” He nodded at the park across the road. “I’ll meet you there.”
The benches were full of tourists and townsfolk out enjoying the day, so I sat on the lawn in the shadow of an apple tree. I slipped off my shoes and wriggled my toes in the cool grass. Leaning back on my elbows, I breathed the air, sweet with blossom, and closed my eyes, imagining that whisper of a breeze was Jim.
When I opened my eyes, Jim was standing in the middle of the street, two ice-cream cones in his hands, just watching me. I smiled and he smiled back.
“Your ice cream is melting.” I nodded at the drips running down his fist onto the cobblestones, and noticing them, he rushed over with the cones.
“I seem to have a problem with sweets, don’t I?” he laughed as he wiped his sticky hands.
We laughed and ate, savouring the time together as much as the ice cream.
“It’s such a pretty city. Why would they build a wall in the middle of it?” I asked.
Jim explained how it used to enclose Old Quebec, but the city had outgrown its borders, spilling out for miles beyond. And I thought for a moment about boundaries made to keep others out and how freeing it must be to break past them.
We sat in silence eating our ice cream and watching the people come and go. Mothers and children. Fathers and sons.
“Tell me about your family, Jim,” I said, when I’d finished my cone.
He stiffened beside me. “Why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess, I just wanted to know about them.” About you, I thou ght.
“I don’t want to talk about them now.”
“But is your father—”
“My father is dead,” he snapped. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I just … I don’t like to talk about it.”
A blossom fell on my skirt, and I picked it up and twiddled it in my fingers.
Should I breach this wall?
“My mother died, too,” I said, quietly. “I know how it feels.”
He fidgeted, clearly agitated by the topic. Then he stood and dumped the rest of his cone in the rubbish bin. “We’d better be going if we want to get back in time.”
I stood before him. “Jim, I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s your story. I just wanted to know more about it.”
He looked at me with that intensity I’d seen in the doctor’s office the first day we met. “My father drowned two years ago.” He clenched his jaw and looked away for a second. “End of story.”
It surprised me how fresh and raw his grief still was. “That’s his story, Jim. Not yours.”
“It’s my story,” he said. “And I live it every day.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have asked.” God knows, there were many questions I’d never want to answer. Not to him. Not to anyone. I had walls of my own. “No one has the right to make you talk about something you don’t want to.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” He took the apple blossom from my fingers and tucked it behind my ear. “You’re perfect. What dark secrets could Ellie Ryan possibly have?”
I cringed inside as he said it. Ryan wasn’t even my real name. And he knew nothing of my secret shame. Jim was right. Why talk about it?
Stooping, I picked up my shoes. “You promised we’d do things you can’t do on a ship. And I’ve got one more—race me!” I bolted barefoot across the cool grass, not caring who saw or how unladylike it truly was. My father had always scolded me for running in the fields.
It was the last thing Jim expected, and I hoped it might give me enough of a lead to reach the far side first. But Jim was all muscle. All leg. Within seconds, he was beside me, matching my stride, taunting me with that smile as we sprinted across the sprawling lawn.
Both of us running full tilt, running from the past.
“WHAT A PERFECT DAY,” I sighed as we took the funiculaire back down and my spirits fell with it. “I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to go back to that horrid ship life.”
Jim seemed hurt.
“I don’t mean you.” I took his hand, emboldened by our day together. “Jim, you’re what gets me through the days—”
He looked away from me, a frown settling on his brow.
“It’s just—” I continued, trying to put words on the feeling. “Don’t you think there’s something more?”
He stood in silence.
“No.” He gently pulled his hand away and turned from me, staring out at the distant Empress. “Not for me.”
I never understood his moodiness. But this time was worse. So absolute. So sudden. Other than the talk of his father, things seemed to be going so well.
“I can’t—” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I can’t do this.” The tighter he clenched his jaw, the more his lip seemed to tremble.
He wasn’t making sense. My mind couldn’t grasp what he meant, but my heart somehow knew. It clenched painfully in its knowing and, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he finally said, “with you.”
A numbness spread from my core, protecting me from the sting of his message. But I forced myself to move, stepping in front of him again so that he had to face me. And I forced him to tell me. “What are you saying, Jim?”
The car slid down into the shadow of the town and stopped at the bottom, but that sinking feeling continued.
“It’s not right. Us.” He hung his head, avoiding my eyes. “I just … I can’t anymore.”
The doors opened and he sidestepped past me, off the car, past the gate, and just kept walking. Stunned, I followed him for a few steps and then stopped on the curb.
Jim was a hard man to read, closed, almost secretive. But today at the top of the hill, I felt a real connection. I saw the real Jim—a man I could love. The way his strong hands gripped me tight as I leaned over the edge and lingered on my waist long after I’d stopped. The way he caressed me with his breath, held me with his eyes. I hadn’t imagined all that. He wanted me, too. I knew it. I just did.
Then why?
I watched his broad back move through the dwindling crowd. The X of his suspenders, black against his white shirt, grew smaller and smaller with the distance between us. Head down, hands in his pockets, he seemed sad, all right. Regretful. I don’t know, almost … guilty?
I’d felt more alive today than I had in months and I knew he did, too. Jim did want me—might even love me. But what did it matter? He said it wasn’t right. We weren’t right. And that was that.
There is someone else. A voice whispered inside me and wouldn’t be quieted. Anot
her woman.
My stomach tightened into a sailor’s knot, twisting until I doubted it would ever come undone. Jim Farrow had his secrets. Deep ones. But we never talked about them. Maybe they had to do with his father. But for all I knew, his secrets could have been about his girlfriend waiting for him in Liverpool.
Or his wife.
I didn’t realize I was crying until the old woman from the stall touched my arm. I looked down to see her holding out a broken flower. One she’d never sell. One no one would want. Shaking her head, she said something in French and patted my arm before hobbling back to her seat.
And when I looked back, Jim was gone.
TWO DAYS BEFORE
May 27, 1914
Quebec Harbour
Chapter Fourteen
THE GIRLS HAD HOUNDED ME for details when I got back yesterday. I sloughed it off, made them think it was nothing. He was nothing. Said I was too tired to talk about it. But Meg saw through my facade. She knew how I looked when my heart had been broken. She’d seen it before at Strandview Manor. But even if I had wanted to talk, the next day we simply hadn’t the time. The Wednesday before a sailing was always busy. Gaade and Matron Jones kept us running. It helped to keep my mind off things somewhat. Gaade was in total control of everyone and everything, checking the refrigerators, meeting with bakers and cooks, telling the butchers how to prepare the seven thousand pounds of fresh beef and pork and what to do with the twelve hundred chickens ready for roasting. It boggled the mind, really, and Gaade managed it all—every one of us in the stewarding department, every baker and bartender, cook and culinary expert, fell under his command and rose to his high standards.
He gathered the stewarding department in the second-class dining room, where we stood at attention as he gave us his usual spiel on what he expected of us. But this time he added that after a life of service at sea, this was to be his last sailing as chief steward. The Empress’s owners, Canadian Pacific Railway, had offered him a job as port steward in Liverpool, and so he wanted his last voyage to be top-notch. We owed that to him, at least. He’d dedicated himself to the Empress, and though he had nothing to do with what happened in the engine room or captain’s wheelhouse, Gaade was the one who managed smooth sailing for all the passengers by overseeing every detail from morning to night. Gaade wasn’t Captain Kendall, but to my thinking, his role was just as important.
Gaade had approached me in the galley that morning while I was having a quick cup of tea in the corner. Given the hundreds under his command, I was surprised he’d remember my name, and his words shocked me even more. “Ellen, I know you didn’t start here under the best terms, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of how far you’ve come.”
“Thank you, sir.” It meant a lot to me to hear him say that.
“Your aunt would be proud of you.”
I doubted it. Whatever earned Aunt Geraldine’s praise was something I clearly did not possess. Given what I’d put her through this past year, her lack of esteem for me was no surprise. We’d never been close, but she seemed to be more distant each time I returned to Strandview Manor between sailings, spending more time locked in her study, clacking away on her typewriter. Come to think of it, I don’t even remember her getting up to say goodbye to me this last time. I guess I just didn’t matter.
“How is she faring?” Gaade asked. His concern made me wonder if they were closer friends than I thought. Close enough to get me hired in the first place.
“Oh, well, you know Aunt Geraldine.” I lifted my teacup to take a sip.
Gaade shook his head as he continued, “It’s a wretched illness, liver cancer.”
Cancer? I froze, cup midair, and looked at him in shock.
“She’s an incredible person, your aunt,” he hastily added. “Strongest woman I know. If anyone can beat this, it’s Geraldine Hardy.”
A steward called for him and Gaade left me standing alone in the corner.
Aunt Geraldine has cancer?
The first thing that hit me was anger.
Why didn’t she tell me?
But why would she? She was my father’s aunt. As her grandniece, I no doubt seemed a child to her. And I had been childish. Sulking about my problems, throwing temper tantrums when she made decisions for me—like signing me on with the Empress. Or months before, signing me into the Magdalene Asylum and, worse yet, leaving me there for so long.
Gaade didn’t know it, but he had given me two truths in the galley that morning, both of which I needed to know. One: I was a lot stronger than I thought. Looking back, I had come a long way in these past five months. And two: As strong as my aunt was, she needed me. Looking forward, I realized that if I served anyone, it should be her.
Chapter Fifteen
I LOOKED AROUND THE DINING HALL at the uniformed staff gathered for Gaade’s address. No, I didn’t want this servant’s life, not by a long shot, but I knew I’d still be locked in the Magdalene Asylum, trapped in that hell, if it wasn’t for Aunt Geraldine. How I hated that place and all it stood for. In my grief and pain, I hadn’t seen Aunt Geraldine’s rescue for what it was. Hadn’t seen her for who she was. Even in the last few visits back, I never noticed her illness. Though it seemed obvious now. Her weight loss. Her lack of energy. Even her skin had a slight yellowish tinge. It wasn’t just old age. I decided that, like Gaade, this was going to be my last trip, too. Aunt Geraldine needed me to take care of her. It’s what my mother would do, but more than that, it was what I wanted to do, what I needed to do for my aunt. I’d made up my mind. And for the first time, I wasn’t going to let her tell me otherwise.
Gaade handed out the saloon passenger lists, which we were to put in each room: small seven-page booklets that included not only basic information for the passengers on our route or how to send a wireless message, but also, more importantly, the names of who’s who in first and second class. No doubt there would be much scrambling, as always, on that first afternoon, particularly for the first-class stewards as their guests jostled for the best seats with the best people for dinner. Gaade reviewed the manifest: 1057 passengers—87 in first class and 717 in third. Of the 253 in second, 170 were Salvation Army officers and their families, heading over to a big convention at the Albert Hall in London—or so Gaade said. I scanned my assigned rooms and sure enough most passengers were captain, major, or lieutenant something or other.
“Are they military?” Meg asked. I’d wondered, myself. But Gaade told us the Salvation Army was more like an army for God. That Salvationists were about charity, compassion, and giving to their fellow man.
“So long as they’re as generous to their stewardesses,” Kate whispered beside me. “I’m no running meself ragged for a bloody blessing.”
“Did he say the Irvings?” Gwen grabbed my arm. “Oh, I’ve read all about them, Laurence and Mabel—what a talented couple. And glamorous, too. The Tatler said they’ve just done a three-month tour of Canada.” Her eyes were wide with awe. “Fancy that, Ellie, having real celebrities travel home on our ship!”
Gaade read a few more from the passenger list, of note, Sir Henry Seton-Karr, a wealthy gentleman and sportsman; Ethel Paton, a socialite from Sherbrooke; Major Lyman, a millionaire from Montreal. I always noticed that the majority of our passengers, all those Russians, Italians, Irish, Swedes, Scots, and who knows what—the hundreds of working-class immigrants—got little or no mention. They simply boarded as anonymously as they left.
THAT AFTERNOON, Captain Kendall ran the lifesaving drills we always did the day before sailing. As usual, the crew swiftly made it to their posts, swinging out and lowering the eighteen two-ton steel lifeboats that lined the decks, making ready by the extra collapsibles, or cranking closed the many watertight doors. The two in the stokehold level at the very bottom of the ship were shut by engine-room controls that dropped the huge doors like a guillotine, or so Jim had told me one time, but the other twenty-two on the ship were cranked by hand. Men raced to the deck above each door and pulled down a thre
e-foot metal key from its brace on the bulkhead. The key, a T-bar of sorts, fit into the hole in the floor and by turning it, a man worked the gears that closed the heavy horizontal door. Timothy liked to brag that he’d made it to the Upper Deck and shut Door 86 in less than three minutes. Meg, at least, seemed impressed.
My first lifeboat drill scared me, to be honest. What with the wailing siren and everyone running to their stations. But more than that, it was the sudden realization—boats can sink. You’d think the sheer size of this gigantic contraption would make that obvious, that and the fact that steel doesn’t float. Titanic proved that two years ago and she was supposed to be unsinkable. But maybe it was the very size of the Empress, the steadiness of her under my feet, the sense that we were in a small city and not a man-made boat in the middle of the ocean, for even now after a drill, denial always lulled my mind into assuming we were never really at risk.
When the siren sounded, the stewardess’s job was to inform and help the passengers. Simple enough, I suppose. In the drills, Matron Jones had us knock on our assigned cabins and go in and touch the life vests in the closets while saying to the empty room, “Please put on your life vest and proceed to the Upper Deck. Captain’s orders.” It seemed a ridiculous thing to practise, really. A waste of time, given all we had to get ready for the next day’s sailing. Kate and I often met in the hallway between cabins and rolled our eyes.
By the day’s end—with beds made, drills run, storerooms stocked, menus printed, tables set, linens pressed, brass polished, and crew spent—the Empress sat secure in her moorings and in the knowledge that she was shipshape for another leg of the journey. With no passengers to serve, I stole away to the railing, eager for some time to think. Jim was somewhere on the ship. I figured he was among the blackened lads calling to each other as they ran the last barrows of coal up the lowermost gangway. Perhaps he was with the same gang staggering in later that night, falling-down drunk from their last binge. Their bawdy songs and colourful cursing drifted up to where I still stood, alone at the rail. One of them stopped and looked up at me. Or maybe I just wished he did. Either way, Jim never showed up that night.
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