Maiden Voyage

by Sarah Jane

  The bunk was empty!

  “Felix?” she called, quickly scanning the rest of her quarters. “Felix!”

  There was no answer, and no Felix!

  Worry crawled up Abby’s spine like a parade of spiders. If Felix were discovered, they’d be thrown off the boat in Queenstown—or worse!

  Abby paced in front of the washbasin. What on earth made her think she could keep her feisty little brother in a single room for an entire week? She hadn’t even managed a full day! She looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror. It was the reflection of a young girl in far, far over her head. Tears sprang to her eyes and she watched her chin begin to quiver. She was doing her best, but her best would never be enough to fill her mother’s capable shoes. Abby’s legs suddenly felt weak, as if she might actually fall down. She missed her mother so much!

  The girl in the mirror wanted her mother back, and also wanted answers. She’d jumped so quickly into her mother’s shoes that she hadn’t had time to wonder how or why her mother had died so suddenly.

  Perhaps Abby should not have accepted the job Master Miles offered. Everything had happened at once. Phillip Miles informed her of her mother’s passing and offered Abby her mother’s position in the same meeting (after making it quite clear he was doing her a grand favor taking on an orphan with no prospects). She’d been stunned, unable to think. Was that manipulation on Master Miles’s part? It seemed entirely possible. Though her mother loved Mistress Elisabeth and Miss Lucy, she had also confided in Abby that she did not like or trust Master Miles—a feeling that seemed to have intensified shortly before she died.

  Abby remembered finding her mother sitting up late one night just a few weeks before she disappeared. She had come into their tiny sitting room to spend a bit of quiet time together, as they liked to do after Felix was asleep. But that night Maggie O’Rourke was preoccupied. She was sitting very still, staring at a scorched piece of paper and talking to herself.

  “Mama?” Abby had called softly.

  Maggie had looked up then, as if she were coming out of a trance. She had blinked at Abby and opened her arms wide. She’d embraced her tightly, muttering in Abby’s ear about never giving her up. It was such a strange thing to say—her mother was not a worrier, even after her father passed away. Maggie O’Rourke was quick to laugh, and first to count her blessings. Hearing her sound so frightened had made Abby feel unsettled. She’d hugged her mother back extra tightly. “You won’t ever have to give me up,” Abby had said, and it was true.

  It would be Abby and Felix who’d be forced to give up their mother. Less than a month later she was lost to them forever.

  The truth was that even if she’d been thinking clearly, Abby did not have a choice about Master Miles’s offer. She had to care for her brother. She had to care for herself. She was both mother and sister now. As she gazed at the grief-stricken, angry girl looking back at her, Abby realized that Master Miles must have known that she could not refuse. She forced herself to stand taller.

  “Don’t worry, Mama. We will make it to America,” she vowed. She felt for her mother’s savings, which were tied in a small bundle around her waist. It wasn’t much, but it would give them a start. In America she would send Felix to school. She would work as a maid, or doing laundry, or in one of the factories that were popping up in New York. She and her brother would build a new life …

  But first she had to find him.

  Isabella pulled her best dress—a gray brocade her mother had taken in as washing that was never retrieved—from her carpetbag. She smoothed it with her small hands, noting the worn fabric and wrinkles. By far the finest dress she had ever owned, it was also tired—as tired as she was, she realized woefully.

  Never mind, she told herself. If she was going to search for Phillip Miles—in the areas of the ship where her well-to-do biological father might actually be—she had to present herself differently. Third-class passengers were not permitted to mingle in first- or even second-class areas.

  She tried not to think too much about what she was attempting, or what it would require, as she washed as best she could over the small sink in her berth. As lovely and new as the accommodations on the Titanic were, the entire third class only had two bathtubs! Fortunately, Isabella was practiced at bathing without a tub, and her mother had had the good sense to pack a small scrap of soap. It was also fortunate that the Swedish family she shared her cabin with was already on the steerage deck at the stern, so she didn’t have to contend with curious eyes watching her twist and pin her hair up and back, doing her best to imitate the sophisticated styles she’d seen on the streets of London.

  After working for nearly an hour, Isabella looked herself over in the mirror. She didn’t have any jewelry, and her hair was unwashed. Her appearance was far from first class, but would have to do. She steeled herself with a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and left the cabin.

  Isabella practiced holding her head high as she made her way through the maze of stairs and passageways up to the gates to the second-class boat decks. A young male passenger in britches tipped his hat as she passed, letting out a low whistle. He was probably mocking her for taking on airs. She ignored him, but her flushing cheeks did not.

  You musn’t react to anything, she told herself as she approached the doors leading out of steerage. You must appear calm no matter what. Though not locked, the gates were intended to keep third-class passengers in third class. Isabella’s heart hammered in her chest as she pressed herself against the wall around the corner from a gate and waited for an opportunity to slip past the crewman on duty.

  Luck was on her side, for this particular crewman was busy talking to another passenger. Dressed in dirty work pants and a wrinkled button-down shirt, the large man holding the crewman’s attention had an angry-looking scar on his left cheek and a frustrated lilt to his voice.

  The steward looked the man up and down. “I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed beyond this point—those areas can only be accessed by first- and second-class passengers.”

  “I’ve got some business with someone in first class,” the man said.

  “If you write a message I might be able to deliver it for you … How badly do you need it delivered?” the guard asked in a knowing tone.

  “I don’t have any money to give you, but I’m telling you, this is urgent,” the man said, his hands balling into fists.

  “And I’m telling you that I might be able to get a message through … if the price is right.”

  The scarred man raised his hand and Isabella stepped back for a moment, worried that the conversation was about to come to blows.

  The guard threw back his shoulders and shifted away from Isabella, circling the man. His hands were also raised, and when his back was turned Isabella saw her chance.

  “You’re not allowed through here, sir,” the guard repeated as Isabella slipped by the both of them and scurried up the stairs.

  The third-class deck, the one Isabella stood on when she’d learned she was not really Isabella James, was at the noisy rear of the ship and downwind of the massive smokestacks. The second-class promenade and boat deck were just forward of that and led to the first-class promenade, which was airier without the clutter of lifeboats. Since the Titanic was currently moored off Queenstown, Ireland, several bumboats were lined up at the Titanic’s stern, and merchants had come aboard to try and sell their wares to wealthy first-class passengers. This was lucky, for the commotion created by the merchants allowed Isabella to continue into first class undetected.

  Her heart hammered in her chest as she strolled past the vocal merchants. They seemed almost desperate to sell their china dishes, crystal, and small souvenirs. She herself was enchanted by the ornate Irish lace. She watched as an obviously wealthy man purchased a beautiful shawl, delicate as a snowflake, and had to hide her gasp at the price. It was more than her father earned in a year!

  No, a perfectly normal sum of money, she corrected herself, lifting her chin a
bit higher and reminding herself who she was supposed to be.

  Isabella nodded and smiled at the people she passed as she walked, just as she had seen ladies in London do on the rare occasions that she’d traveled with her mother to the more prosperous parts of the city. The passengers she passed appeared to accept her as one of their own, or at least didn’t pay her any mind.

  Even if the first-class areas hadn’t been clearly demarcated by the presence of merchants, Isabella would have known that she was in first class in a heartbeat. The wealth was palpable. The women’s pastel gowns were sumptuous, finely made, and heavy with beading. They all wore hats decorated with feathers and jeweled pins or carried parasols to shade their fair skin. The men were nearly as pale as the women in their tailored suits, high vests, and long coats. Everyone looked well polished, right down to their button-up boots. Isabella was suddenly grateful that the gown she wore was a bit too long, as it did an excellent job hiding her shabby everyday pair. She walked slowly and in what she hoped was a ladylike manner, searching the passengers’ faces for … she didn’t know quite what. Some feeling of recognition?

  She’d never really considered that she didn’t look much like the parents who’d raised her. She had always assumed that their ruddier complexions were due to their years of hard work outdoors, and though she didn’t share it yet, she would. Her mother, Ruth, said Isabella’s curls were a gift of the angels—an answer to her secret longings for curly hair when she was young. Isabella scanned the well-to-do crowd, discretely looking for features like her own.

  Her instinct was to avoid the gazes of the wealthy passengers strolling the decks, but her intelligence told her just the opposite. She boldly made eye contact with a woman carrying a Pekinese, smiling at the pup’s long ears and stubby, wrinkled snout. But when she looked into the face of the woman, her nose was wrinkled as well. Isabella flushed in embarrassment and quickened her pace.

  Perhaps she was not passing in first class after all!

  With Miss Lucy’s coat folded over her arm, Abby frantically searched the second-class areas of the Titanic for her brother. Unfortunately, there were several second-class areas, and they weren’t necessarily close together! She quickly walked the covered promenade on C deck, peeking in at the library where women sat reading or playing games while keeping a watchful eye on their children through the windows. She dashed down the red carpeted stairs—which, though not quite as grand as the staircase in first, were still very fine—to D deck, where the second-class dining room was, and arrived out of breath. Why oh why did she have to be on the biggest ship ever built?

  Breathe, Abigail, she told herself. You know perfectly well that panicking won’t help. She looked around the large and largely empty dining room and tried to think like a seven-year-old boy—what would Felix want to see most? She walked the boat deck on the very top of the ship, with its massive ventilation stacks and neatly tied lifeboats. She silently prayed that her daring little brother hadn’t ventured down into the bowels of the ship to get a glimpse of the massive engines gulping coal, but the moment it occurred to her she knew that’s exactly where he would go!

  Don’t imagine the worst, she scolded herself. But she couldn’t help it. She lifted her skirts and hurried back to the stairs. She was certain there would be no access to the very bottom of the ship through first class, but she’d heard about the swimming pool, heated by the boilers, on F deck. If she could get to the pool, there might be access to the boilers nearby.

  After several wrong turns Abby found the pool. She’d hardly gotten a glimpse inside the tiled, portal-windowed room that housed the heated saltwater bath when she was shooed along. It was the hour designated for women’s swimming, however, so Felix wouldn’t be there, and she’d seen enough to be certain that there was no entrance to the boilers.

  She was tempted to give up, when she spotted a man in a dark worker’s uniform turning down a narrow passage. She followed him into the crew’s quarters and knew at once that she was on the right path. Men smudged with soot and dressed in filthy clothes were making their way through increasingly narrow corridors. The ship’s boilers had to be fed day and night and the men, likely coming off their shift, were too tired to care about an out-of-place lady’s maid. A few of them commented to one another, but Abby didn’t understand what they said. And she could only think of one thing: finding Felix.

  Following the trail of soot left by the workers, Abby descended a narrow stairwell. The very bottom of the boat was freezing cold near the outer hull, but when she got closer to the boilers she began to feel sweat beading on her forehead. How could anyone work in this heat for hours on end?

  Up ahead, the stokers coming on shift knocked on a closed door. A moment later, it opened and Abby caught a glimpse of a massive boiler room. Five enormous, two-sided drums glowed fiery red inside while rugged-looking men shoveled in coal and carted wheelbarrows filled with the black fuel. The workers looked minuscule next to the huge furnaces! The man at the door gave Abby a funny look, but she already knew she would not be allowed in.

  “I’m looking for my brother,” she yelled over the deafening noise of the fire and the engines. The man looked confused for a moment, and Abby held out her hand to show Felix’s height. “A boy!” she yelled again.

  Suddenly understanding, the man grinned and nodded. Abby felt her heart swell with hope and hugged the coat she still held close to her chest. He had seen him! He pointed a dirty finger at the ceiling. Yes, Felix had come down, but he wasn’t here any longer. He’d sent him back up. Oh, and after she’d come all this way!

  Abby forced a small smile and nodded her thanks. She felt dizzy, and wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved or worried. When she got her hands on her brother—if she got her hands on her brother—she would hug him and throttle him in equal measure. But she would have to halt her search for now and return to her duties, or risk drawing Miss Lucy and Mistress Elisabeth’s suspicions … if she hadn’t already.

  By the time she got to the base of the Grand Staircase, she was so exhausted she decided to ride the electric elevators.

  “Curse you, Felix O’Rourke!” she muttered as she hurried to the first-class promenade. She spied Miss Lucy and Mistress Elisabeth almost immediately, relaxing on lounge chairs in the early afternoon sun. She was about to approach when she realized with annoyance that she was holding Miss Lucy’s coat—the one she was supposed to take back to the still untidied stateroom! She could not be seen with it, or Miss Lucy would surely wonder what she’d been doing all this time. She folded it neatly over the back of a chair to retrieve later, not a moment before Miss Lucy spotted her.

  “Abigail!” Miss Lucy called cheerfully.

  Abby willed her pounding heart to be still and made her way over to the Miles women, relieved that they did not seem upset over her long absence. In fact they were in high spirits.

  “You were so right, O’Rourke,” Lady Miles announced as she approached. “All this fresh air and sunshine is making me feel renewed.”

  Abby smiled genuinely, but saw that Miss Lucy looked concerned.

  “Should we go in for lunch?” she asked. “We mustn’t overdo.”

  Lady Miles tugged the brim of her hat down to better shield her face from the sun and turned to her daughter. “No. Let’s sit out for a bit longer,” she said. “Perhaps we could even take our luncheon here in the open air.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Mother!” Miss Lucy chimed. “Abigail, would you mind fetching us a tray?”

  “Not at all,” Abby replied, smiling and trying not to think of her tired legs and feet. Her mistresses were clearly enjoying themselves out on deck, as she’d hoped they would, and she wanted their pleasure to continue.

  “I’d love a blanket if you can bring me one,” Lady Elisabeth said. Abby found a tartan blanket on a nearby chair. As she was tucking it around her mistress’s legs, she noted that it was finely woven, double-layered, and bore the emblematic White Star insignia. She was just finishin
g smoothing the woolen blanket into place when she spotted a familiar figure out of the corner of her eye.

  Felix!

  Abby’s mouth gaped open. She quickly tried to position her body between her employers and her brother to block their view, but as she did her horror was amplified. Felix was not alone here in first class. He was being held up to the rail by the handsome steward—the same one who had caught her talking to her door not a day before!

  After receiving several more disdainful looks from first-class passengers—mostly female—Isabella knew she needed to do more to disguise her shabby appearance. Though the first-class passengers were too well bred to say anything, their scowls spoke volumes. She was not one of them, and they knew it. She was looking for a place to hide when she spied an unattended overcoat draped over a lounge chair on the promenade. She bravely snatched it up and put it on, as if she’d left it there herself. She buttoned the coat up to the collar, hiding her dress entirely. The green wool was incredibly soft, and she stroked the collar absently, admiring it.

  Don’t be conspicuous! she reminded herself when she realized what she was doing. But it was difficult not to swoon over the finely made garment. She looked down at herself in the coat. By some stroke of luck it fit her remarkably well, and wrapped in its opulence she looked every bit as “first class” as the passengers around her. Certain she could fit in now, she felt herself relax a tiny bit.

  Unfortunately, her relief was thwarted by the realization that she still had a significant problem. She’d already walked past dozens and dozens of passengers. She’d looked into their faces, peering at their chins and eyes for clues. Each one was a stranger. How, on such a massive ship carrying over one thousand passengers, would she ever find her birth parents? And even if she should locate them, how could she identify them? How would she know them? She had no photo, no information at all about what they looked like. All she had was her father’s name. It wasn’t as if the passengers had them stamped on their foreheads!