Maiden Voyage

by Sarah Jane

  Abby shook her head. She hadn’t even known Constance for a day, but that was long enough to know the girl could keep up both sides of a conversation with very little encouragement. Besides, before Abby could tell Constance what she knew about the first-class dining, the housemaid had moved on to other things. She was scanning the servants’ hall, peering at each man in turn.

  “Too old. Too young. Too shy.” Her eyes traveled down the long table on the other side of the room. “Is that a wedding ring?” she asked aloud, squinting. “Not a single candidate in here,” she said with a dramatic sigh, then brightened. “But maybe some of the ship’s officers are single …” She waggled her eyebrows at Abby before taking another large bite.

  Abby smiled down at her plate. She liked Constance in spite of herself, and in spite of the challenges having a roommate created with Felix. It wasn’t easy keeping her brother a secret in their shared berth.

  Taking advantage of Constance’s chewing, Abby interjected in the girl’s endless monologue. “Did you hear we’re taking on more passengers here in France?” she asked. The ship was docked off the coast of Cherbourg to load passengers and mail. “Maybe your future husband is amongst them,” she added in a teasing tone. “He could be boarding right this moment!”

  Constance’s eyebrows darted upward. “Well, perhaps we should go greet him!” she declared, lurching to her feet. But a moment later she was scowling down at Abby. “Oh, you’ve barely had a bite,” she pouted. It was true—Abby’s plate was more than half-full.

  “It’s perfectly all right. You go on,” Abby said. “I want to stay for pudding anyway.”

  Constance pushed in her chair and leaned down to whisper in Abby’s ear. “Ooh, wait. Perhaps I was wrong about there not being any candidates in here. That there is a lad with promise!” Candace pointed toward a steward clearing plates—the same boy who had heard her talking to Felix through her cabin door! He looked up and caught both girls staring directly at him.

  Abby tried to look away before the steward could recognize her, to no avail. They locked eyes. The steward began to smile, but Abby pulled her gaze away and concentrated on her potatoes.

  “If only he were a bit older,” Constance sighed, unaware of Abby’s rosy cheeks. “Or I were a bit younger …” She continued to talk to herself as she headed out of the dining room.

  Abby kept her eyes cast down until Constance and the steward were both gone. Then, discretely, she opened the linen napkin in her lap and loaded it with as much of the food left on her plate as she could. She would have relished eating every bite of the delicious dinner herself, but the thought of the hungry boy waiting in her cabin kept her from doing so. When she’d squirreled everything away, she tied the ends of the napkin together and tucked the makeshift sack of food into the waistband of her skirt. She held her breath as she made her way out of the dining room and didn’t let it out until she reached her cabin.

  Isabella turned in her bunk to face the wall of her dark third-class quarters. She could hear the heavy sleep breathing of her bunkmates—a Swedish mother and her four children—and also the ship’s engines, because the cabin was situated on a lower deck in the stern of the ship. With its freshly painted paneled walls and spotless linoleum floor, their berth was much nicer than the tiny apartment she’d shared with her parents. Isabella had never slept on linens as crisp and white as those provided by the White Star Line. The cotton blankets were even woven with the company’s logo!

  Unfortunately, the beautiful new bedding did nothing to help Isabella sleep, and the fine cabin did not assuage her feelings of hopelessness and loss. Living with a family in tight quarters—two bunks were stacked against three of the walls—was heartbreaking. The chatter and camaraderie of the five relations only made her feel more alone.

  Silent tears leaked from Isabella’s eyes and soaked into her pillow. She wanted to sleep, to forget that she was on a huge boat in an even bigger ocean going to a country she’d never seen. Everyone she came in contact with would be a stranger!

  My parents needed to be rid of me, she thought, racking her brain for the reason they had sent her away. But it didn’t sound right, not even in her mind. She had done all that she could to not be a burden, to help her family—especially after the strike. She stayed home from school to do chores. She took in mending and helped her mother with the wash when her hands got too red and raw from the lye soap. Even working together, their efforts only resulted in a few pennies—perhaps it was not enough to make a difference.

  So many questions swirled in her head. One loomed larger than the rest. What will become of me in America?

  Slipping her hand underneath her pillow, Isabella touched the sealed letter her mother had pressed into her hands at the dock. The one she had promised not to open for six more days.

  Six days. An eternity.

  Isabella was not going to sleep. She rolled over again, got out of her bunk, and dressed as silently as she could. The Swedish family slept on as Isabella quietly unlatched the door and made her way through the maze of corridors and stairways to the third-class areas on the upper decks of the ship.

  Out on the poop deck, the sky was changing color from inky black to peachy gray. Soon the sun would peek over the endless ocean horizon.

  Isabella gazed out, leaning on the ship rail for support. Two nights with hardly any sleep had left her a bit weak. Clutching the letter in both hands, she could not keep from trembling. She’d promised she would not open it … not until they neared New York. But the letter was her only hope for answers, and her questions were torture. Besides, she reasoned, her mother was not here … she would never even know that Isabella had broken her promise.

  Sliding a shaky finger under the flap of the envelope, she broke the seal. Inside were two documents: a letter in her mother’s faltering hand, and another singed piece of paper folded behind it.

  Isabella heard her mother’s voice in her head as she slowly read …

  My Dearest Daughter,

  I never thought the day would come when I would have to tell you this, for although you are the heart of my heart and will forever be my darling daughter, you were not born to me and your father. It has been our greatest honor and duty to raise you as our dear child. We had no offspring of our own and adopted you when you were just a few days old.

  In these difficult times, we wondered if we had done you a disservice, as we cannot provide the education, luxuries, or pleasures in life that you deserve. You are a clever girl, Isabella, strong and smart. With opportunities you will surely go far. It breaks my heart that Francis and I are unable to give you those opportunities.

  When a lady’s maid appeared at our doorstep with news, and proof of your birth parents, that truth became even more apparent. You are the daughter of Phillip and Elisabeth Miles. They are people of means, and the parents who can grant you the life that we cannot. Your father and I were not sure how to share this news with you, or with the Miles family. When we found out that they had booked passage aboard Titanic to travel to America, we knew that we needed to make sure you sailed with them.

  Find them, dear girl. Tell them who you are. They could not be so callous as to turn you away. In America you can become what you never could here, shackled by your old and ailing parents. (I hope you do not mind that I call us that, this last time.) Our future is uncertain and bleak and it is this harsh future that we release you from. Please know we love you and want only the best for you and your future.

  Your loving Mama and Papa

  Isabella stared down at the letter, her tears falling onto the parchment. She couldn’t believe her own eyes. For several moments all she could do was sob. Then, with quaking shoulders, she looked at the second singed document. Though one corner was completely burned away, she was able to read several lines: Certificate of Registry of Birth. County of London. Isabel Miles, born on the ninth day of September, 1899, to Phillip Miles and Elisabeth Miles.

  Could it be true? It has to be! It was the only answer
Isabella had, but it brought many new questions. She drew a ragged breath. She was not who she thought she was …

  Isabella longed for the comfort of her mother—the only one she had ever known—Ruth James. She clutched the birth certificate to her chest and stared out at the gray dawn. She was farther from her home than she’d ever been, but they were not yet on the open ocean. Could she stow away on one of the tenders bringing mail and passengers to the Titanic from Queenstown? How difficult would it be to get back to land undetected? To find her way home?

  It was more than a little daunting to think of getting off the boat in Ireland. Isabella had no idea how to get back to London from there, nor did she have the money to do so. Besides, if she were to disembark, her parents’ investment—their entire savings—would be wasted. Isabella swallowed a sob. The choice had already been made. She had to stay on board.

  “Are you all right there, miss?” a passing crewman asked on his deck rounds.

  Isabella nodded and the crewman hurried on in the chilly morning air. She stuffed the letter back into the envelope and the envelope back into her pocket. She had to gather her wits and her fortitude. She had to reach for the bright future her parents envisioned for her—even if she couldn’t envision it for herself.

  Phillip and Elisabeth Miles were her real parents, and they were on board the Titanic.

  Her future was in their hands.

  “Let’s just take a little stroll,” Lucy suggested when she and her mother had finished their breakfast. Well, she had eaten breakfast … her mother had only poked disinterestedly at the food Abigail had brought to their rooms on a tray. But Lucy had a full belly and was eager to explore the ship. Yesterday’s tour, cut short by her mother’s desire to rest, had only skimmed the Titanic’s surface. Lucy hadn’t yet seen the Turkish bath, the salons, the gymnasium, or had a chance to relax in a lounge chair on one of the first-class promenades.

  She folded her napkin and stood up. “I’m sure some fresh air will do us all good.” She smiled in the direction of her father, who had his head buried in a newspaper. “Father, would you like to come with us?” she asked. “There are so many society people on board. Perhaps we will run into someone you know—maybe a business associate,” she added more boldly when he did not respond.

  Phillip thrust the paper aside and glared at Lucy. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “We don’t know anyone on board.”

  Elisabeth dabbed her mouth with her napkin and folded it into a neat triangle. “Well, there was that man who was calling to you from the dock yesterday,” she said mildly. “Perhaps he was boarding.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Phillip repeated more sharply. “There was no man.”

  Elisabeth set her napkin across her plate and looked at her husband quizzically. “Phillip, he was calling your name,” she insisted, sitting up taller.

  Lucy’s father scowled. “I think your nerves are making you delusional again, Elisabeth,” he said. “Perhaps we should take you to the ship’s doctor. I’ve heard Dr. O’Loughlin is a fine surgeon. Maybe he will have a tonic that will succeed in keeping you rational.”

  Lucy saw her mother shrink back and felt a flash of anger. Her father could be so cruel! And her mother was not delusional—she’d seen the man on the dock, too! She heard him call her father’s name, clear as anything. Lucy opened her mouth to tell her father this, but he cut her off before she could start.

  “Don’t you go agreeing with your mother just to make her feel better, Lucy,” he said crossly. Lucy recognized his tone and knew at once what it meant. If she pressed he would begin to shout, further upsetting her mother. Her mother would then take to her bed for the rest of the day and possibly the rest of the crossing. She’d seen him disregard his wife before. He frequently brushed off her thoughts and requests like annoyances, a habit Lucy attributed to stress over his business dealings. But there was no denying that he was being especially insensitive now. Nevertheless, she sighed quietly and held her tongue. The last thing she wanted on their Titanic holiday was a row.

  “I suppose I could have been mistaken,” Lucy said, finding herself unwilling to fully back down.

  Her father nodded curtly, slapped his folded newspaper onto the settee, and stood. “Perhaps, since you aren’t feeling well, you should spend the day inside,” he suggested, addressing his wife without looking at her. He leaned in and gave Lucy a kiss on the forehead. Lucy said nothing as she watched her father gather his coat and walk brusquely away from them, nearly colliding with Abigail, who was coming through the doorway that connected the sitting room and bedrooms with her arms full of hats and coats.

  “You’re forever in the way!” he barked, scowling at the maid. “And they won’t be needing those. You should be clearing the dishes!” Brushing her aside, he strode out of the stateroom.

  Lucy forced a smile for the startled girl. She was glad to see her. Abigail was certainly better company than her sour father.

  “He’s in a mood, isn’t he?” Abigail said, nodding toward the closed door.

  Lucy blinked in surprise. Abigail’s mother, O’Rourke, never would have uttered a word against her master—she wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow! But the younger maid spoke the truth—her father was in a mood. Permanently, it seemed!

  “Never mind him. It’s a glorious morning and I think the two of you should take in some fresh sea air. I’ve heard that the covered promenade on A deck is especially lovely, and some time outside will no doubt do you heaps of good,” Abigail said as she offered up the hats and coats.

  Lucy’s heart swelled with gratitude as her mother stood and let Abigail help her into her overcoat. “Yes,” she said. “I believe a walk and some air will do us all good.”

  “I’ll join you on deck as soon as I’ve tidied up,” Abby told Mistress Elisabeth and Miss Lucy. “I’m afraid I’ve got a few things left to do.”

  Elisabeth nodded. “We will have a nice stroll and then perhaps a rest on the covered promenade,” she said. “When you’ve finished, you can look for us there.”

  Abby fiddled with her skirt nervously. “I’ll meet you just as soon as I can, ma’am,” she said as she turned away. She stacked the plates and cups onto the White Star Line tray, taking notice of Mistress Miles’s untouched food. She draped a napkin across the scones, butter, jam, and fruit and listened for the stateroom door to close. The uneaten breakfast would be perfect for Felix—she hadn’t managed to get anything out of the servants’ dining room earlier, and her poor brother was probably starving! He was always starving.

  As soon as the door latched and her employers were off, Abby wrapped the food in a napkin. She gathered the heavy silver warming trays and their lids, balancing them carefully, and hurried to return them to the serving rooms. She returned to the stateroom just as quickly, rushing to fetch the food she’d set aside before anyone happened upon it. She was jumpy as a rabbit as she started down the maze of passages once more to deliver Felix’s breakfast. Though she looked around anxiously as she went, Abby did not see Miss Lucy until she was descending toward B deck. A moment later she heard her name being called. “Abigail!”

  Abby gulped and quickly hid the napkin of food under her apron.

  “Where are you off to?” Miss Lucy asked, peering at her from the top stair. “We’re up here on the promenade as you suggested.”

  Abby flushed. “So sorry, Miss. I just returned the food trays and … I … well, this ship is so large it has me all topsy-turvy. I think I got a bit lost.”

  Miss Lucy smiled. “It can be confusing,” she admitted, holding out her coat. “It’s warmer out than I expected, so I won’t be needing this,” she said. “Would you mind taking it back to the stateroom?”

  Abby nodded and took the heavy outer garment with one hand, holding it to hide the lump under her apron. “Of course not, Miss.”

  “Thank you. And please feel free to leave a bit of the work for later if it means you can join us for a wander? Mother so enjoys your company, and it wou
ld be good to get more familiar with the ship.”

  Abby was pleased by the comment but displeased by the pastry crumbs she saw rubbing from her fingers onto the fine wool of the green overcoat. “Of course, Miss. Thank you, Miss.” She sounded like a dolt, but she would say anything to get Miss Lucy to go back to her mother so she could deliver Felix’s manhandled breakfast. His stomach was probably growling like a bear’s.

  Abby watched Miss Lucy depart, waiting until she turned a corner. Then she spun around and hurried past the ornately carved clock and down the three flights of the Grand Staircase to D deck.

  As she rushed toward her cabin, Abby crossed her fingers and said a silent prayer that Constance was out watching passengers arrive from Queenstown, Ireland, where they had moored—the last stop to take on mail and passengers before heading out on the long crossing. She was anxious for Constance’s absence, though not because her berthmate loved to prattle on and on … and on. Abby was, in fact, grateful for her rambling roommate—Constance’s constant talk helped to mask Felix’s noise. Their first night on board had been cramped and stuffy in the upper bunk with the heavy curtain drawn tight. Sharing her pillow with a pair of kicking feet was no picnic, either, but they’d survived.

  Before she left to get breakfast and dress Lucy and Elisabeth, she’d whispered to Felix to stay put and stay quiet. He’d rolled over and pointed toward his mouth to indicate that he was hungry. Of course.

  “I’ll be back with food as soon as I can,” she’d said softly, but that was well over two hours ago.

  She was out of breath as she pushed open the door to cabin D22. “I’ve got scones, Felix,” she said once she’d made certain Constance was gone. The curtain was still drawn around the upper bunk. Perhaps Felix had stretched out and slept on. She set the coat down on the long sofa and brushed the crumbs off before pulling aside the curtain. “Wake up, Fe—” The words evaporated and Abby stood with her mouth open.