I have my daughter. And, I’ve got a job. Faith and hope.
… and love?
I glanced down at the seat where lovers had carved their initials and thought of Jim. Of our names, carved together and lost forever to the murky depths.
I thought of Steele, of the article he’d no doubt finished by now. His name and mine, together in black and white. Our deal was done. I’d probably never see him again. Though the thought of seeing that article made my stomach lurch.
Jim’s love. Steele’s friendship. Stories that might have been.
Chapter Forty-One
I WORKED HARD FOR THE MORGANS over the next week. I tried to serve them as Meg had served me, efficiently, quietly, anticipating every need. I’d come far since my early stewardess days. So it surprised me when Charlotte’s keen eye pointed out streaks I’d left on the front-hall mirror. I was sure I’d left it sparkling. The next day, Charlotte brought me a mudsplattered slip. “You dropped this when you took the washing off the line. Wash it again and try to be more careful.”
Had I dropped it? I wasn’t sure. I admit, I often got distracted by thoughts of Faith, of losing my home, of worrying about where I’d live next. But was I letting it affect my work? Whatever was going on, I couldn’t lose this job. I did everything I could to keep it. But as the complaints racked up, it was becoming clear to me that Charlotte was doing everything she could to get me fired.
Ironically, the more Charlotte complained about me to her mother, the more Lady Morgan took me under her wing. She loved to pull me from my duties and brag to her tea party about how well I was doing, how far I had come, how greatly I’d improved under her direction. “I’ll make something of her yet,” she’d say, clearly refusing to see that I was something already. To her, I was not only a maid, but a project, of sorts.
She seemed overly committed to proving I was an exceptional maid, whereas Charlotte had fully committed to proving I wasn’t.
“Ellen, will you come do my hair?” Charlotte called from her room the next morning. I wondered why she asked for me and not her lady’s maid, but I obeyed, careful to curl and pin each lock perfectly so she’d have nothing to complain about. Surprisingly, she loved it. And that made me even more suspicious.
“Fetch my pearls, will you?” She spoke with the voice of a stage actor, projecting it loudly even though I stood beside her. I searched the vanity and the jewellery box, but they were nowhere to be seen. “What? They’re missing? But I always leave them on my vanity,” she proclaimed, yet she never even glanced at the tabletop. She waved me away, but I wasn’t long at my dusting before Lady Morgan summoned me to her parlour. Charlotte stood behind her mother’s chair, as always, but this time, she looked triumphant. Wickedly so.
“You sent for me, Lady Morgan?” It was only as I folded my hands in front of me that I felt something in my apron pocket. I didn’t have to see it to know it was Charlotte’s pearl necklace, the one she’d obviously slipped into my pocket while I did her hair. The one she was clearly about to accuse me of stealing.
“Oh, Miss Charlotte,” I said, as if only just noticing her there. Before Lady Morgan could ask, before Charlotte could accuse, I reached in my pocket and pulled out the strand. “I found this under your bed when I was making it just now.”
Her furious look said it all.
“There, you see, Charlotte?” her mother tut-tutted. “You’ve always been such a careless girl.”
“I’m careless?” Charlotte blurted. “Don’t you know who she is? Don’t you know what she’s done? Ellen Hardy, Miss Hardy’s niece. Little miss high and mighty, and look at her now—a maid. With a child!” Her eyes flashed at me once more. “You don’t do a very good job of hiding your dirty secrets, Ellen. Particularly, when you parade them up and down the boardwalk.”
So she’d been spying on me. Let her. I had nothing to hide anymore.
“Well, of course, I know, silly girl,” her mother chided. “Where do you think I hired her? She’s one of those … Barnardo mothers.” She said it as though the words themselves were bitter. “But I can hardly head the fundraiser and not have one in my employ, now, can I?”
Lady Morgan may have been a benefactor of Barnardo’s; she no doubt gave the organization significant amounts of her money and time. A small price to pay to keep up her charitable image. Too bad she hadn’t learned that compassion was free.
I bit my tongue as Lady Morgan dismissed me. Charlotte followed me out and cornered me in the hall. “You and your little bastard might be mother’s favourite charity case right now, but not for long. And then you’ll be out on the street. There are a hundred other sad cases knocking on her door, just begging for her attention.”
“Like you?” The words popped out before I’d even fully thought them. They shocked me almost as much as Charlotte, and I left her standing there with her mouth gaping like a fish’s.
I still had a job with the Morgans—but not for long. Not if Charlotte had anything to do with it.
August 1914
Liverpool
Chapter Forty-Two
I LIVED FOR MY AFTERNOONS WITH FAITH. I could handle a hundred of Lady Morgan’s lectures or Charlotte’s temper tantrums if it meant I could keep having time with my daughter. I wasn’t sure what would happen if, or when, Charlotte got me fired. Would Mrs. Winters give me another chance? I didn’t care if I lost the job … but would I lose Faith, too?
She stood at the water’s edge throwing pebbles into the surf, cheering herself on with every kerplunk. It seemed she’d throw every stone upon the beach before she’d ever tire of it, but soon enough she was content to wade in the shallows, her toes like pink pebbles sinking in the sand as the water ebbed and flowed around her ankles. I wondered if this was her first time in the sea.
I’d been worried that I wouldn’t know how to mother, but wanting to protect her, to care for her, to make sure she was happy and healthy, it both pleased and surprised me how natural mothering felt. Loving her took no effort.
“Faith, come eat.” She toddled up the pebbled beach to where I sat on the plaid blanket a few feet away. I held out the sandwich and she leaned in to take a quick bite before dashing off, cheeks chocked, to splash some more. Lily had made us a picnic lunch—cucumber sandwiches, apples, and cheese, even little jam tarts. A last supper of sorts, I suppose, for today was Lily’s last day at Strandview Manor. I felt sorry to see her go, but my thoughts were overshadowed by the fact that my last day there was coming soon, and who knew when I could afford such a lovely spread again.
Though the house had not sold, there’d been several buyers interested. No doubt, my father would be back any day to wrap things up. To toss me out. I still had no idea where to go. Faith waded out a bit farther, the sunlight playing on her hair as the waves tugged on the hem of her skirt. The wind picked up, and with it the waves grew. “Not too far, now,” I warned. I’d been looking at boarding houses this past week, but it was hard to find a suitable one close to both my work and my daughter. And it was impossible to consider that in the near future, I might have neither.
Unsettled, I turned aside to pour myself some tea from the flask, only to spill it all over my hand and lap. It burned, still kettle hot, and I gasped, tossing cup and flask aside, spilling tea all over our lunch. It soaked into the blanket, turning the few triangles of sandwiches into a soggy mess.
Bloody brilliant! I cursed myself for being so careless.
“Oi!” a man’s voice shouted urgently, and I looked up to see Faith, waist deep, a wave bearing down upon her.
I’d only looked away for an instant. Just a few seconds. But a moment is all tragedy needs. I knew that more than anyone.
Time slowed, playing every detail like frames in a film. The wave looming. Water crashing into my daughter, washing over her. Faith’s dress like a white life vest against the dark. Her pink arm flailing. Her panicked face wide-eyed and going under.
Like Meg’s.
Stones rolled like marbles beneath my scrambling and I stumbled
as I ran the few feet between us. Those short seconds, that short distance, seemed to last forever.
The undertow pulled Faith’s little body farther out, tumbling her head over heels. She hadn’t come up yet. The man splashed into the water as I reached it, his hand already on my daughter, even as I grasped for her. He scooped her up and turning from me, ran back and laid her on the shore.
“Faith!” I screamed, hovering over them, sure I’d lost her. Her hair stuck across her face like blackened seaweed. Her eyes were closed. Skin, grey, and lips, blue-white—as still as the stones she lay upon.
I moved to pull her to me, but the man held out his arm, keeping me firmly behind as he bent over her to listen to her tiny chest. He sat up and kneaded it with the heel of his hand, like a round of dough. I wondered if it would ever rise again.
Dear God, not Faith. Not Faith, too.
“Wake up, love,” I cried. “Come on, Faith. Wake up!”
After seconds of eternal silence, water spurted from her slack lips and Faith coughed and gasped. The man lifted her to his shoulder, patting her as she heaved and gagged. “That’s it,” he said. “A nice deep breath now.”
I moved behind him, stroking her face in my hands as she gasped between retching. Breathing with her. “Breathe, love. Big breaths.” She coughed once more and then started to cry, the sound of it as joyful to me as the day I first heard it.
He turned to give her to me, then, and I saw the face of the man who’d saved my daughter’s life. A face I’d never forget. The man who gave my daughter back her breath and now took away mine.
For I was looking into the face of Jim Farrow.
Chapter Forty-Three
JIM TOOK MY ARM and helped me up the beach as I carried Faith. I felt as though I’d seen a ghost. But as he took up our blanket and wrapped it around me, his arms, his warmth, felt real enough. I slipped Faith’s sodden smock over her head and sat on the ground, bundling her tight in the blanket, as if to protect her from a world of danger. But she fought her way free and reached for the jam tarts. She was shaken yet fine, thank God.
But not me. I wrapped her again and stood in my wet clothes, trembling from the shock of what I’d nearly lost. Of what I’d found.
“You’re alive?” It seemed such a ridiculous question. For there he stood before me. The amazement at seeing him, the relief of it, was soon washed over by a wave of anger. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you find me? For the love of God, Jim. All this time I thought you were dead!”
But why would he come to me? Hadn’t he a wife and child of his own?
“I tried to, Ellie—”
My heart ached as he said my name. I thought I’d never hear it again.
“I went to your work, but the … the man at Strandview Manor said Ellen Ryan didn’t work there anymore.”
I lowered my eyes. Oh, Jim. I never even told you my real name.
“Is Faith … is she your daughter?” he asked.
I paused. I’d never told him about that story, either. About the farm, and Declan, and the Magdalene Asylum. “Yes,” I said, ashamed, but not of her, only of the fact that I’d kept it secret from the man who meant the most to me.
He clenched his jaw, seeming angry himself. “And the father?”
“Her father is out of our lives.” I looked at Faith. “All we have is each other.”
He considered this for a moment. “I can’t believe you never told me.”
This from someone who’d clearly done the same?
“Don’t judge me, Jim.” I met his eyes. “You have your secrets too, don’t you? All those nights at the rail, all the things you never said.” Now it was his turn to look away. “I read it in your journal.”
“You read my journal?” He ran his hand through his hair, flustered. “That was private. How did you even—”
“I got it from the reporter who interviewed William Sampson. It was in your coat—the one I brought back to your family.”
I paused, hoping he’d deny that they were. But he didn’t.
“Do you know how hard that was for me? To read about her, how she haunts your dreams, how you long for her? Even on that last night, Jim, when you kissed me. I read what you’d written moments before. How you’d decided to tell her everything and ask her to be yours.” My voice rose as it spilled out of me, all that hurt and betrayal.
“Who?” He stood before me dumbfounded.
He should know. He’d written the bloody words!
“The one from your journal? Long dark hair? Red ribbon?” How dare he deny it.
A glimmer of recognition dawned in his eyes. “It’s not what you think, Ellie.”
I pressed on. “Do you know what it was like to have her open the door and stand there with your child?” The pain of it still ached. I’d buried it deep, thought it was past, and it surprised me how fresh it still felt.
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Elizabeth and Penny.”
He blinked and frowned, puzzling it through. After all the ways we’d withheld our truths, I couldn’t believe we were doing it still.
“The mother of your child?” How dare he deny it even now. “Your family, Jim.”
“What … Libby? Do you mean Penny and Libby?” He shook his head. “Christ, Ellie, they’re my sisters.”
I paused. That was not what I’d expected.
Could it be true? I was terrified to let myself think it. To trust again. “Well … then … who were you writing about that last night, about the ring and telling her everything and—”
“You!” he blurted. “Damn it, Ellie … it was always you.”
My heart flapped inside me, my truth bursting to be free. Say it. Say it now. Tell him how you feel. I took a breath.
“But I don’t deserve you,” he continued, and I closed my mouth. “Not after all I’ve done.”
“What?” I wanted to tell him how much he meant to me. But I knew he needed to be honest first. This was it. His moment of truth. Would he say it? Would he trust me with that secret? “What did you do?”
“I—” He looked at me with such anguish in his eyes. “I—” He paused and slumped, defeated under the burden of his shame. “I can’t, Ellie. I just can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.”
Without another word, Jim turned and walked away, just like he had in Quebec. No matter how much he said I meant to him, he would not tell me his story. And, unlike Steele, I had nothing to give that might persuade him. Except my love.
I guess it just wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.
I stood on the shore, Faith at my feet, and watched Jim Farrow leave me. Again. The pain of it as fresh as the day in Quebec. As the night on the Empress.
Maybe he is right, I thought, watching him walk out of my life, a lone figure walking the rocky shore. Maybe it’s better this way. Because if this is love, I want no part of it.
It just hurts too much.
BY THE TIME I’D DROPPED OFF FAITH at the Buckleys’ and walked the many blocks back to Strandview Manor, I was spent. Overwhelmed, really, by the day I’d had. Maybe that’s why the for-sale sign in the garden upset me so.
I turned my back to it as I entered the gate, choosing instead to focus on the roses. I cupped one in my hand, marvelled at the layers of pink-tipped petals circling the still-blooming bud. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and inhaled deeply, holding its sweetness inside me. But I couldn’t keep it. Any more than I could keep the flowers from fading. Sighing, I let go of the breath and blossom, thinking of Mrs. Winters’s trellis.
What good is a trellis if the whole garden is being sold out from beneath you?
Father’s ultimatum. Charlotte’s hatred. Mrs. Buckley’s negligence. Jim’s secrets. Steele’s article. All of it threatened the life I was working so hard to build.
Bates met me by the rose bush. We stood in silence for a few moments, just taking it in—hydrangea, lupins, pansies, and roses of every colour. A garden that would soon be someone else
’s.
I sighed. “Is it supposed to be this hard, Bates? Life?”
“Oh, it’s work, right enough,” he said. And didn’t he know it. The man had worked tirelessly for decades. “But it’s always full of surprises, too, isn’t it?”
I thought of the many surprises I’d had just in these last few hours.
“Did you have a good picnic with your daughter?” His old blue eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled. “I bet she loved the jam tarts.”
I laughed at the memory of chasing after her as she bolted free, naked and filthy with jam and sand. Her joy in that moment. Despite the terrible experience she’d had only ten minutes before, she’d already let it go. Not that she hadn’t learned from it. Faith was very cautious as I brought her to the water’s edge to wash her down. But the trauma had not kept her from splashing again—or from making the most of a jam tart. Her resilience amazed me. It inspired me.
“You should’ve seen her,” I said. “Jam from her head to her toes.”
He laughed.
“Thank you, Bates,” I said, thinking of all we’d weathered together. “For … well, for everything.”
He laid his thick-knuckled hand on mine and squeezed.
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. “Mr. Cronin dropped this off while you were out.”
I figured it was routine paperwork from the will reading, but when I opened it I found a cheque. A large one. I looked up at Bates in shock. “What—what is this?”
“I believe your aunt called them royalties.” He glanced at the number and smiled. “But I’d say it’s a nice surprise.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“I CAN DO IT, LILY,” I chided as she cleared away my plates. “Good Lord, I’ve cleared away enough dishes to know I’m no better than anyone else.” I’d taken to eating with them in the kitchen. It seemed silly to be sitting all alone at the dining table, and besides, I enjoyed their banter and bustle.
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