“Even as a child, she had a tender heart, she did.” He threw another fistful, like a sower with seed. “Always worrying about everyone else.” He sniffed.
Bates had no idea how true that was. I wondered if I should tell him that she’d given me the life vest. That I’d been with her when she drowned. That she’d sacrificed herself for me.
He drew out a hankie the size of a small tablecloth and blew his nose, two great honks and a quick swipe of either side, before tucking it back in his pocket.
“You’ve never asked about … that night.” I hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Or even if I should. I stared at the water, at the way the ripples reflected a distorted truth. “Did you want to know about Meg?”
He shrugged beside me. “It wouldn’t bring her back, would it?” he said wistfully. “No.” He dumped the last of the bag on the water’s edge and crumpled it before shoving it inside his pocket. “No sense in filling my head with how she died.” He cleared his throat and brushed his hands. “I’d rather remember how she lived. That’s what Meggie would want. Don’t you think, miss?”
“Yes,” I agreed. Bates was right. It’s what anyone would want.
I survived because of Meg. But at what cost? And for what good? She deserved to be here. Not me. No, the waters didn’t take me that night, but I was drowning, still, in survivor’s guilt.
BATES LEFT ME IN THE PARK and I sat on the bench overlooking the pond and the rolling green beyond. He would be back in an hour, and to be honest, I dreaded the thought of sitting cooped up in that empty house with nothing but the ticking clock to pass the time. Two young boys in short pants laughed as they ran with a kite, the red diamond bouncing and flopping on the ground behind. Though the breeze had died down, their fun had not. I smiled and turned my face to the sun. Closed my eyes for a moment.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” A shadow fell over me.
I looked up to find Steele standing in front of me, a little smile tugging at his lips. “It was.”
“Oh, come on now. Don’t be like that.” He sat beside me without bothering to wait for an invitation.
I glared, still angry at him for playing games, for rationing out whatever he knew about Jim. Even though I was as stingy with my story. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
He leaned back, crossing his arms and stretching his long legs. “I don’t, actually.”
“So you’re following me now?”
“No,” he argued. “My B&B is right across the street. I come here all the time.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh please. I doubt you’ve ever even been—”
“Wyatt!” the boys yelled and thundered toward us, their bright eyes dancing. “Can you launch us again?”
He glanced at me, face smug. “You were saying?”
I clenched my jaw. Would I never be free of this insufferable man?
The youngest of the freckle-faced boys handed Steele the kite and the three of them trotted out onto the green. As if on cue, a wind picked up, tousling Steele’s slicked hair as he stopped and turned. He seemed like a great big child himself with that goofy grin and messy hair as he yelled over to the boys at the bobbin end of the line.
“Okay, guys—on three.” Steele lifted the kite by the crossbar high over his head. “One … two …”
On three the boys bolted with Steele jogging behind, pacing himself to keep the string taut. He moved smooth and strong, with the confidence and steady stride of a thoroughbred horse. The red sheeting billowed slightly behind the kite’s frame. As it caught the wind, Steele thrust it upwards, stopping his canter to stare up at the sky. He stood, hand on his hip, the other shading his brow. I didn’t have to see his eyes to know they sparkled as he watched the kite swooping and soaring, its knotted tail waving behind as the boys raced over the knoll.
Steele grinned at me as he sauntered back to the bench. Mosey—that was the word. He moseyed over like the cocky cowboy he was.
“They only asked because you’re tall,” I snapped.
He smiled as he sat back down beside me. “Height has nothing to do with it. It’s sheer technique.”
I snorted. “How hard can it be?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never flown a kite before.”
I paused.
“Seriously?” He faced me. “You’ve never flown a kite?”
I folded my arms and jutted my chin. “I’ve never felt the need.”
Steele laughed then, a sound as warm as the sun, but it burned me, it did. For I knew he was laughing at me.
“What?” I demanded, sitting up and challenging him. “What’s so bloody funny?”
He shook his head as he rubbed the back of his neck, chuckles still bubbling up. “If you’ve never felt the need, then, Miss Ellen, you don’t know what you’re missing.” He stood and put his fingers to his lips, whistling once and waving the boys over. Within seconds they’d circled back to us, kite in hand. Steele took a small box or something from his bag and traded Harry for the kite. Then he turned to me.
“I’m not—” I blustered. “You can’t just—”
Ignoring me, he took my elbow and raised me from the bench. Led me onto the grass. “Come on. Just give it a go.”
Halfway up the knoll, I shrugged him off and straightened my shirt. “You think I can’t do this? I can do this. Any idiot can fly a kite. Give me that.” I snatched the bobbin of string from him and wound it out as he backed away, grinning. The thin line grew tense between us. I waited on the gentle slope as he stood wide-legged a little ways up it. A cool breeze blew the hairs from the back of my neck, flapped my skirt against my legs, and I turned to face it. Steele’s voice carried on it, urging me. Making my heart race.
One … two … three!
And I ran, legs pumping beneath my skirts, hands up, gripping the reel. My hat flew off as I gained speed, my hair falling out of its carefully pinned bun, but I didn’t care. The wind, the sun, the rush of it all—I felt like I did as a young girl riding Sugar in the green fields back home.
The line pulled and I glanced over my shoulder to see the diamond swooping up and up and up. I stopped and gazed into the sky, mesmerized by its freedom, as the spool spun wildly in my hands.
Suddenly, I felt him behind me, felt his strong hand on mine, slowing the bobbin even as my heart raced. His other arm reached around me, hot and solid. It flexed as he tugged on the string. Once. Twice. Just enough to make it soar even higher.
“Do you feel it now, Ellen?” he said into my dishevelled hair, his words warmed by a knowing smile. “Do you feel the need?”
THE THIRD INTERVIEW
July 1914
Strandview Manor, Liverpool
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THAT DAY IN THE PARK woke something in me. A memory. A rush. I didn’t know what it was exactly, only that Steele had stirred it up. Before Steele entered my sad life, things were stagnant but they were clear. But for the past few days I’d found that grief now clouded by other feelings. Murky with hope. A few times, I even caught myself anticipating our next interview. When I would see him again. And that feeling confused me even more.
At first I thought my eagerness was because he was going to tell me about Jim. I’d finally get my answers. But in my heart, I knew they were not going to make me feel any better. No, I wasn’t looking forward to that pain.
Was it simply having someone to talk to? Was it feeling heard? Was it being known?
Or was it perhaps Steele himself ?
I didn’t know.
As the meeting time approached, I fussed with my hair and changed into my lavender dress. Not for him, though. I’d finally had enough of black.
He seemed hesitant when I met him at the front door, satchel slung across his chest. I wondered if he’d been thinking of me these past two days. Of my article, I mean.
He took off his hat and even before we left the entryway blurted, “Ellen, I’m going to ask you something … and I want you to feel free to say no.” He paused and shut the fr
ont door behind him. “It’s been on my mind since the first day I came here and, well, I just have to ask.”
My heart quickened. Was it excitement? Nervousness? Panic? I didn’t know what he wanted. And worse still, what I wanted.
He glanced up the stairwell. “Can I see your aunt’s study?”
I breathed out. Relieved, actually.
“It’s just, I’m a huge fan,” he continued, eagerly. “And I’d love to see where she wrote all those stories.”
“Of course.” I smiled. “Follow me.”
We climbed the carpeted stairs and travelled the long hall to the far turret.
“So this is where it all happened,” Steele whispered in awe as we entered the study. He slowly walked the circular room, stopping to read a title or two from the hundreds of books shelved from ceiling to floor. They lined the turret like a wall of bricks, broken here and there for a window or a door. Aunt Geraldine had books on everything from The Flora and Fauna of the African Veldt to Tribal Customs and Warfare. She may never have gone there, but she knew everything a person could know about Africa.
Her great mahogany desk stood in the middle of the room atop an exotic-looking rug. As a child, I’d thought it a magic carpet, one that carried her off on her many adventures. But it was faded now, frayed and unravelled around the edges. Her black typewriter sat, as always, front and centre on her desk. The gold letters had worn off most of her black keys. It didn’t surprise me. Given the way she pounded them, I was surprised it had never jackhammered through the desk. It seemed strange to find it so silent. To know it would never tap another word.
Beside the typewriter lay a stack of paper. Thirty or so typed pages, face down. I ran my fingers along the white bumps of embossed letters. A braille I’d never know. This was Aunt Geraldine’s latest novel—the one she would never finish.
“I can’t believe I’m actually standing in G.B. Hardy’s study.” Steele stopped behind her chair and rested his hands on its back, but he wouldn’t sit in it, any more than I’d sit on the King’s throne.
I hadn’t planned on ever coming in this room again, really. Not that I’d ever been allowed in it much before. I’d always felt that I was intruding, trespassing on some sacred space of Aunt Geraldine’s. And though her creative mind always intrigued me, her sharp tongue and keen eye made me steer clear. As a young child, I did sneak in a few times and sat on the bay window ledge watching her work, watching the people on the street, making up stories of my own. There was always a fairy queen—a beautiful young woman disguised by the drab clothes she wore, burdened by a basket of laundry. She walked in the crowd, her secret strength unknown to all but me.
I moved from the desk and shifted the thick curtain to look out the latticed window into the empty street.
Where was she now—that fairy queen? Where was that little girl?
Aunt Geraldine never acknowledged my coming or going, but I remember finding a striped yellow pillow left on the sill for me. I glanced down, surprised to see the pillow, faded but still there. Even more surprised to see an envelope with my name written upon it in her hand.
“What’s that?” Steele asked.
“Nothing.” I slipped it into my pocket. I had promised him some memories, but not this one.
I suggested we go back to the front room downstairs. I knew what I had to tell him and I couldn’t do it in this room. A whisper of Aunt Geraldine’s lilac perfume hung in the air, as if she were still at her desk or pulling books down from her shelves. I couldn’t tell that story here—feeling her this close. It was hard enough living through it with her once.
Back in the front room, we took our usual seats. Steele smiled to see the dust covers had all been removed and the furniture beneath polished to a shine. “Doing some spring cleaning?”
I shrugged. “Lily and I freshened things up. Something to do. Plus I figured when the house goes up for sale it might help if it doesn’t look like a dusty warehouse.”
“Oh, so you’re selling?”
“I don’t know what is happening. The solicitors are still going through all her papers now. They said her estate would take longer to settle than most because of her writing career.” I knew I couldn’t stay here forever, but where could I go? It scared me to think about all that. But it was nothing compared to the fear I now felt—was I really going to tell him my story?
“All right, let’s get down to it.” He flipped open his black notebook, rifling through my many memories, stopping at a fresh page for this last one that I did not want to tell. My face burned at the thought. “So, Ellen. I’m guessing you weren’t there to research the life of a stewardess for your aunt.”
He looked up expectantly.
I didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want to remember. What did it matter why I was on the ship? Wasn’t living through that tragedy enough? Did he have to make me relive all my losses?
But to learn Jim’s story, I needed to hear Sampson’s. And to get that, I needed to tell mine.
I swallowed. “My aunt didn’t send me to the Empress because of her book.”
He smiled. “I figured as much.”
I paused and let my gaze flit around the room, settling on nothing.
“So,” he coaxed, “what really brought you to the Empress in the first place?”
I met his gaze and held my breath. “A baby.”
Steele raised his eyebrows. This wasn’t what he’d expected, and yet, it was exactly what he wanted. He leaned forward, eyes intense. “Whose baby?”
And with one word, my secret was out.
“Mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I COULD TELL YOU it was my aunt’s fault for signing me up on the ship, or my father’s fault for kicking me out of his home, but I’d say my life was ruined the day Declan Moore rode into it two years ago.
Tall, handsome, powerful—he was every young girl’s dream. All the girls envied me, that Declan Moore had chosen Hardy Estates to visit. He was purchasing six teams of horses for his father’s business, and everyone in Wicklow knew we had the best stock. The best by far. Normally, I had nothing to do with my father’s business dealings, but as I was out riding Spirit, Father waved me over and introduced us. Said he wanted to show Spirit to Mr. Moore, bragged about her beauty and strong lines. As Father rounded the horse, stroking and assessing her proudly, Declan agreed wholeheartedly—and when his eyes met mine, I realized it wasn’t Spirit that had caught his attention. It was me.
I was sixteen. Never even been kissed. I’d only just had my first dance and that was with Michael Devitt—a great oaf of a thing who didn’t know one foot from another. Declan might have been just three or four years older than me, but in my eyes, he was a man. A man who told me I was beautiful. I wanted his attention and the more he toyed with me, the more I flirted, completely ignorant to the danger of the fire I was stoking. If my father saw what was going on, he did nothing to stop it. In fact, I remember him inviting me to join them at dinner, encouraging us to go riding together.
“Bring Declan up to the meadow and give him a good run,” Father had said, taking me aside. “This deal will make the difference for Hardy Estates. He needs to really see the quality I’m offering.” I think he meant the filly—but now I’m not so sure. A match between Declan and me would have been in my best interests—he was, after all, the son of Colonel Moore, owner of the most successful carriage company in Dublin, and I, the sole heir of Hardy Stables and Estates. But looking back, it’s almost as if my father had trotted me out along with the horses to sweeten the deal.
Who does that to their sixteen-year-old daughter?
Led on by Declan’s experienced ways that knew when to spur my infatuation and when to gentle my doubts, ’twas as though I had blinders on and saw nothing but him. His love for me. Our future together. He made promises, saying all the right things to do all that was wrong. Kissing me, touching me, reassuring me when I pulled away, undressing me in the meadow where we lay on a blanket. I told him to stop, t
hat we should wait, but by the time I realized how far we’d gone, the danger of it all, it was too late. Is it rape, really, if I’ve followed him, kissed him, if I’m lying half-dressed underneath him?
“YES.” STEELE’S VOICE CUT INTO my story, pulling me back to the present.
I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t believe I’d just told him all of that—my dark secret. Good Lord, would it be in the paper?
“What he did was wrong, Ellen. Even if you were eighteen or were in a relationship, nothing gives a man the right to ignore your ‘no.’”
I looked at him then, surprised at the casualness of this conversation. People just didn’t talk about this kind of thing. Especially not in mixed company. But he was, as he said, a man focused on fact. The truth of the story. Even as he heard mine, there was no judgment in his eyes.
“Let me guess,” he continued, “he never did sign that deal with your father.”
“No.” I snorted. “No, he left the next day. And when my father didn’t hear from him and went up to Dublin himself weeks later, he learned Colonel Moore’s youngest son was notorious for fleecing breeders, for getting down payments on deals he had no business making. That his father had, in fact, disowned him six months before. And that the last he’d heard, Declan was on a boat to America.”
MY FATHER RANTED FOR WEEKS at the outrage of being swindled, of being stupid enough to fall for that whelp’s smooth talking. And just when his embarrassed outbursts seemed to subside, I realized why I had been feeling so poorly. It wasn’t a young girl’s broken heart, or a daughter’s guilty conscience—it was a pregnant woman’s shame. I’d been around horse breeding long enough to know the truth of it. I was carrying Declan Moore’s unwanted child. I was due in July. And worse than all of that, I had to tell my father.
I had hoped there might be a sliver of sympathy in him—hadn’t he, too, been conned by Moore? But as I stood before him in his study, as he glared at me, I could see in his eyes—the sin was entirely mine.
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