“Oh, it’s no bother, miss.”
“Ellie,” I corrected. She smiled as she scraped the egg and toast crust into the bin. Bates entered, his face grim as he held out the paper. “You’d best read it for yourself.”
My stomach sank as I took it from him. It was bound to happen, my article. It was only a matter of time. I’d exposed my secrets, my sins, my soul to Steele. And he, in turn, would expose them to the world. A headline that would change everything. And indeed it did, but it wasn’t about me. And it wasn’t just my world that had changed.
AUGUST 4, 1914—BRITAIN DECLARES WAR
Lily and Bates sat as I read the details.
“What does it mean?” Lily asked, her young face fearful.
“It means we will do what we must. As always.” Bates nodded, fortified no doubt by the wisdom of his years. “We stand up for what is right, no matter what the cost.”
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I sat at the piano, Faith on my knees, ready for a war of my own. Ready to make my stand. Faith banged the piano keys with her chubby hands. After a few minutes of simply thrilling in the din she created, she began picking notes, making sense of it. I walked my fingers up and down the scale and she pushed my hands away, eager to try for herself.
Father entered through the front door, calling for Bates to get him a drink. He’d arrived back from London in a foul mood earlier today before setting out again to finalize his business here in Liverpool. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Faith on my lap. And so it began.
“Who is that?” He pointed at her, as if I’d let in the mangy mongrel from the back alley. As if he didn’t know exactly who she was.
I kept my calm, though it had disappointed me that he hadn’t softened at the sight of her. I’d hoped he might. She was his granddaughter, after all. His only one.
I stood and put Faith on the ground and handed her her stuffed bunny. I’d dressed her in a new pink frock, white bow at the back and a matching one in her dark hair. Yet he looked at her as though she were nothing more than a dirty street urchin. I realized then he’d never see her, never see either of us for who we truly were. It didn’t hurt anymore, but I did feel sad, in a way. For him. For what he’d never know.
Bates appeared and handed the drink to my father, now sitting in the chair. He swigged it back and thrust out the glass for another. “Hurry up, man.” He scowled. “For a man who requires a reference, you move very slow.”
“Oh, about that, sir,” Bates replied, refilling the glass. “I won’t be needing a letter after all.” He said nothing more as he placed the decanter on the sideboard and left the room.
“About time that old codger threw in the hat,” my father muttered. “Never liked him anyway.”
He turned his attention to me, purposely avoiding where Faith played at my feet. I waited him out.
Finally he spoke. “Ellen, you have blatantly disregarded my wishes.”
I didn’t bite.
He pointed his finger at her, even though his gaze did not follow. “I told you that child was not welcome in my house.”
With Faith in the room, her gentle smile, her joyful heart, his hatred of her only seemed all the more ridiculous. She stood and toddled over to him, gripping the knee of his trousers in her fist as she looked up at him. No doubt his moustache fascinated her, but perhaps she knew on some instinctive level what he refused to accept. That they were family.
He clenched his jaw, not giving her a glance. After a moment or two, I leaned over and held out my hand to her and she toddled back.
“Your grandmother would have loved you,” I said, lifting her to my lap. “You have Gran’s eyes, so you do.”
He cleared his throat and stood, silent as he looked out the window, hands clasped behind his back. Finally, he spoke. “If you defy me, Ellen, if you insist on keeping this child …” He turned to face me, angry again. “I have no choice but to turn you out of my home.”
“There’s always a choice, Father.” I stroked Faith’s soft hair. Inhaled her sweetness and kissed her head. “I’ve made mine.”
“Foolish girl!” He spat the accusations. “Letting your heart rule your head—never thinking about the future! Living only for the moment!”
I stood to face him, lifting Faith and settling her across my hip. “This moment is what it’s all about. If I’ve learned anything from all I’ve lost, from grief, from nearly dying on that ship, it’s that I want to live. To love. Don’t you see? It’s not about how much money you can squirrel away.”
“Blast, girl, it is about the money!” he thundered, turning from me. “When are you going to open your eyes and see—”
“When are you?” I sidestepped back into his field of vision and he finally looked at Faith’s face next to mine. Looked in her eyes—Mam’s eyes.
But he stayed blind.
Resolute, he looked back at me and saw only the daughter who bucked even as he tried to rein me in. “You know my wishes. Is that what you want then? To be thrown on the street?”
“I have plans,” I said. “I’d just hoped you would have been a part of them.”
“Plans?” he scoffed. “As a maid for those Morgans? You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to? I’ve sent a letter to the colonel. Told him you will not be back. No daughter of mine is working as a servant. I won’t have it.”
“You needn’t have bothered,” I said, enraged that he had. How dare he? “I already quit yesterday.”
“Yes, well …” He seemed put off that I’d stolen his thunder. “So what now, Ellen? Will you work as a lowly stewardess again? Maybe you can sneak the child on as a stowaway?”
So he did know about the Empress after all. It wasn’t the judgment in his eyes that hurt me. I didn’t care if he saw me as a lady or a labourer. What hurt was that he knew what I’d gone through in the sinking, the horrors of it had been in all the papers, yet not once had he reached out to me. For the first time, I wondered if he even knew how. For he’d been just as distant, just as cold, when I’d lost my mother. Something shifted inside me as I looked at him now—an overwhelming feeling, not the shame or regret he usually stirred. This time it was pity. I felt sorry for him, for his blindness, his small-mindedness. For all that he’d missed and was still missing. He didn’t get it. He really didn’t. He thought he was stoic. Strong. Even now. When I needed him the most, he was never there. And I realized in that moment, I no longer needed him at all.
“Your time is up,” he continued. “I demand that you stop all this foolishness and come home. Quit your playing as maid and mother. It’s over now.” He paused, giving weight to his pronouncement. “Strandview Manor has been sold.”
“Yes,” I said, voice calm. “I know.”
Perhaps he’d expected me to cave or beg. To cry, at least, as the old Ellen would have done. My self-control only infuriated him all the more.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I just came from Cronin’s office. It just happened this morning.” He scoffed at me. “How could you possibly know?”
“Because, Father, I am the one who bought it.”
I’D TAKEN THE CHEQUE to Cronin’s office the day Bates had given it to me. Surely there’d been some mistake.
“No,” Cronin assured me. “No mistake. You inherited your aunt’s literary legacy.”
“Her books in her study?” I asked.
“Well, yes, I suppose, but also the dividends and royalties from her own writing.” He’d pointed to a shelf behind his desk where, for the first time, I noticed he kept one of every Garrett Dean adventure. “Signed copies. Those alone would be worth a mint to a collector. Not that I’d ever part with them. Nearly fifty books, published in several countries and languages. Most of them bestsellers. Yes, quite the body of work.” He seemed proud. “I represented her on every one of those contracts.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Cronin?”
He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “I’m saying, Miss Hardy, that not only was your aunt a very successful author, she
was a rich woman. And now, so are you.”
This didn’t make sense. “I thought my father inherited her estate.”
“Her estate, yes. But I believe you’ve inherited something far more valuable and enduring. Her books are classics. They will never go out of print. They will never stop earning royalties. To put it bluntly, every copy that sells earns you money.” He nodded at the cheque in my hand. “You can expect to receive one of those every six months. And that’s not even considering the recent inquiries on the rights to scripts. Her death has only increased public interest. Just imagine that. A film based on her book—a Dean adventure headlining at the theatre.” He shook his head and smiled. “Oh, she would have loved that!”
“I never dreamed—” I sank slowly into the chair. So this was her literary legacy. A hope and promise for my future. And for my child … and her life to come.
“Actually …” Mr. Cronin paused before continuing. “I’m glad that you’re here. I’ve had an offer on the house. A little less than the asking price. I didn’t want to be presumptuous, but I know you’re living there. Have you … have you considered putting in a bid yourself ?”
“You mean buy Strandview Manor?” Could this really happen? Was he serious? “Can I? I mean—do I have enough—” I held out the cheque in my hand, like a child with a fistful of pennies in a sweet shop.
He raised his eyebrows over his round glasses, amused by my innocence, for I knew neither the asking price nor the real value of what was now mine.
“Miss Hardy,” he explained, a grandfatherly smile on his face, “with the royalties and the investments, not to mention the rights you now own, you, my dear, have enough to buy Strandview Manor ten times over.”
Chapter Forty-Five
“NO KIDDING?” Steele shook his head as I told him of the recent events. “And that’s when you told him you’d bought the house?”
We sat on our bench at the park. It would always be that now, our bench. Even if he never sat here again.
“He’d no idea the literary legacy was worth so much. He saw it as my aunt’s hobby—and an unladylike one at that. You should have seen his face, Steele. I’ve never seen my father at a loss for words.” What was there to say? I’d found a way to keep Strandview Manor and my daughter. All my father could take from me was himself, and sadly, he did just that.
“He told me I would never be welcome in his house,” I said, still stung by his words. “And I said he would always be welcome in ours.”
“You never know,” Steele said. “Dear old dad might surprise you one day.”
I doubted it. But at least I had no regrets. I’d said all I wanted. It was up to my father now.
The one person I still had regrets about was Jim. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day on the shore nearly a week ago. I couldn’t stop thinking of him. Of what he’d said. Of all I hadn’t.
The two boys from our kite adventures ran up the path to join us. “Did you bring it?” they asked Steele, their freckled faces bright beneath their cowlicks.
Steele took a folded newspaper from the satchel at his feet and peeled off one sheet.
“That’s not a boat!” the younger one whined. “It’s only a bit of paper.”
“Hush up, Tommy.” The taller lad elbowed Tommy. “Will you make us a boat, then, Wyatt?”
“Tell you what, boys. I’ll do you one better.” Steele spread the newsprint on the gravel at our feet. “I’ll show you how to make one.”
Tommy groaned. Learning how was not part of his plan—he wanted the boat was all.
“That way when I’m gone,” Steele continued, eyeing them both, “you boys can make your own boats. As many as you want.”
He creased and folded the paper, slowly explaining step by step. Then as if by magic, he flipped the pleats and popped them open into a—
“Boat! It’s a boat!” Tommy snatched it and took off for the pond.
“Did you get it, Harry?” Steele asked the older boy who still stood before us. “Will you remember how?”
“I’m not sure.” Harry scratched his head. “I think so.”
“Show me.” Steele handed the lad the rest of the newspaper. Sure enough, fold by fold, Harry made his own boat. He held it up proudly, his face smudged with newsprint but aglow with pride.
“That, my boy, is one tight ship.” Steele patted him on the shoulder. “Well, go on then. Give it a go.”
Harry ran to join Tommy, who stood at the water gingerly launching his vessel. The paper crafts lingered at the edge but the boys prodded them with sticks, urging them over deeper waters. Sure enough, the boats caught the light breeze and rode the gentle ripples to the middle of the pond as the lads cheered them on.
“Writer. Kite flier. Shipbuilder. A man of many talents,” I teased.
“I’m just glad someone has finally found a use for those damn articles. Speaking of which—” He leaned over and rummaged through his satchel once more. “Here.” He gave me a file.
“The article?” My heart raced as I took it. I didn’t want to read it. Didn’t want to see how he’d spun my story, what angle he’d taken, what hook, what sensationalized secrets he’d set out in black and white. I swallowed as I opened the file.
I had to look. I had to know.
But inside it wasn’t an article; instead, I found a dozen pictures. I lifted up the large prints and stared at the first one: Faith and I reaching to each other in Barnardo’s garden, our faces full of joy. Our first meeting. He’d captured that moment and all the feelings that went with it. It amazed me how much a photo could say.
“A thousand words,” Steele said, beside me.
I moved on to the next picture. Faith and I sitting on the chair, several of the same pose—surely one of these would be the shot he’d run with the article. Then I came to the one of Faith and me caught right after our muck about. I held it up and laughed at the state of us. Our knees and hands muddied, our skirts stained, and the both of us with that same elfish grin, filthy and loving it.
“She looks just like you there,” Steele said.
I’d never seen us together before, never noticed how similar we truly were.
The last two photographs were taken here at the park, on the day I flew the kite. In the first one, I’d been caught running and turning in the foreground, hat blown free as I clutched the bobbin overhead, skirts billowing behind. In the distance, I saw Steele frozen mid-leap and mid-yell as he launched the kite in the air.
“But who—”
“I gave Harry the camera,” Steele explained. “He’s not half-bad.”
I skimmed the picture again, chuckling at the fun in it before slipping it to the back. “See?” I eyed Steele. “I told you I could fly a kite.”
My breath caught at the next picture, at the memory of that moment. This one was a close-up of me and Steele together. He stood behind, his arm around me, tugging on the kite string. My hair fell in loose wisps across my face, caught up in the wind. Caught up in the moment. Our gaze was upwards at the kite in the sky, our faces full of wonder and excitement. I hadn’t even seen Harry there with the camera.
“That’s a great shot,” Steele said.
It seemed so intimate, and yet, it wasn’t. Not really. But it had captured Steele’s childlike exuberance. And the moment I’d found mine again. The girl I was. The girl I now know I still am.
Under the last picture lay notebooks. Three black leather flip books, each filled with page after page of his sloping scrawl. Steele’s notes. In the margins, he’d scribbled one-word questions—Collision? Meg? Barnardo’s? Some were circled or underlined twice, but each one like a signpost along the journey we’d just taken. Clues he’d collected to help me find my way through that difficult telling.
Why was he giving it to me now? I looked up at him, unsure what this meant.
“It’s a damn interesting story, especially when you add heiress to the end.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as he looked at the boys. “But I won’t be w
riting it.”
“But …” I looked at the notebooks and back at him. “I don’t—I don’t understand,” I stammered. “Don’t you need an article?”
“I have one—a great feature on Dr. Barnardo and his orphanages. I even got some great shots of Winters and the home. It’s running in the Times and I sold it to the London Illustrated News, too. Winters will love that.”
“But what about the editor’s job?” He’d told me my story would get him that coveted position.
“Chained to a desk while everyone else gets the scoop?” He waved away the idea. “That’s not for me. No, I already told them I’m not interested.”
Confused, I looked back at the notebooks, thumbing slowly through the pages.
“It’s all there,” he said. “Every word of it. And the research, too.” He paused. “Don’t get me wrong, the world does need your story—God, and what a story it is. Of struggle and loss. Of survival and perseverance. Of finding Faith and hope and love. Great title, by the way.” He looked at me and smiled his lopsided grin. “But I realized the story isn’t mine to tell, Ellen. It’s yours.”
I sat there, at a loss for words. I would never have known my story if it wasn’t for him. Though I’d hated him at first for making me speak all I’d thought unspeakable, Steele had helped me find my voice. He’d helped me find my daughter. He’d helped me find myself. Like a midwife, he’d been there coaching me through the pain and labour of birthing my truth, and in the end, he’d handed it back to me.
“Oh, and I got you a little something.” He handed me a package wrapped in brown paper. I opened it to find a book of piano music.
I read the cover and smiled. “Ragtime Favourites by Scott Joplin.”
“And for the record, a piano is not furniture,” he said. “You’d better know how to play at least one of those by the next time I’m in Liverpool.”
I laughed and promised I would. “When will you be back this way?”
He shrugged. “That depends on the war.”
The world was changing. None of us knew what lay ahead. But it didn’t faze Steele.
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