Once We Were

by Aundrea M Lopez

  Using his blacksmith strength, he lifted himself up the wall, using the pipe as his support. The window ledge perched just out of reach. His hand fumbled against it. He had to jump or he'd never reach it. He studied the drop below into the bushes. He had to risk it. He hurled for it, but his fingers slipped against the pigeon droppings littering the ledge. Mr. Hughes took a sip of tea as he watched Emmett fall bottom first into the rose bushes. “I'll fetch the shotgun, sir,” he offered.

  “What the devil is going on here?” Mr. Luckett demanded. Emmett scrambled out of the prickly bushes. “Who are you?”

  “Pardon my intrusion, Mr. Luckett,” Emmett said straightening up. “I will be brief.”

  “If you're not the gardener, you're a dead man.”

  “I'm not the gardener.”

  “Shotgun, Mr. Hughes.”

  “That won't be necessary.”

  “I'm a man of my word.”

  “I dare not test that.”

  “Was that you at my window? You have three seconds as I reload,” Mr. Luckett said opening the shotgun. “And after I shoot, I shall call the authorities.”

  “As if they've done you any good,” Emmett remarked. “I'm not here to threaten you, Mr. Luckett. I want to discuss this article.” Emmett held the newspaper out to him.

  Mr. Luckett fired a round. Emmett dived for the rose bushes. “As of now, that article is out of print. You leeches won't get a penny out of me!”

  “Money is not an issue, sir. Money I have. I've come to offer you my services.”

  “Who are you?” Mr. Luckett demanded. “What do I want from a man who fell from my window? And no games!” He fired another round. Emmet cowered.

  “I'm a lawyer, sir, an honors graduate from Harvard,” Emmett confessed. Mr. Luckett clicked another shell into place. Emmett spoke quickly. “I am here to help you find the missing heiress, Beatrice Luckett.”

  Mr. Luckett stared hard at him. “You know my daughter?”

  “We are acquainted. I am Fynn O'Riley's son. You were a patron of his.”

  “Oh yes. I remember you. Nitwit O'Riley?”

  “Emmett O'Riley, sir,” he corrected him.

  “Your offer hasn't gone unappreciated, but I don't require a lawyer. I wish to employ an expert investigator, not some lunatic in my rose bushes. Carry on.”

  “I wouldn't call myself an expert, but my experience in investigative cases qualifies me for this opportunity. Titanic was a devastation that shook us all. In devastating moments, we must all find a way to contribute. Since the sinking, I have worked with families of missing persons to find closure. I've created a portfolio of all the individuals I am tracking.”

  Emmett took a book from his inner pocket and carefully handed it over the shotgun. “There, you see. All missing victims. Five of which I have located and reunited with their families. It is the greatest service I've done my community. I feel your desperation in ways that no detective or police force can comprehend. I knew Beatrice Luckett personally. With all do respect, sir, what other option do you have?”

  “It is an honorable deed,” Mr. Luckett commented. He skimmed over the missing person posters taken from the allies. “But I won't pay for your services. I apologize, Mr. O'Riley.” He froze on a certain portrait, which wasn't a tattered poster, but an actual photograph. He studied the eyes of the girl in the picture. “This woman looks strikingly familiar. Where did you get this?”

  Emmett casually slipped the book from Mr. Luckett's hands. “Consider my services free of charge, sir. It would be an honor to assist you.”

  “You must want something for your generosity,” Mr. Luckett insisted.

  “No, sir,” Emmett replied. “I'll do it for free. This is something more personal than money.”

  Chapter 6

  The house had to go. If he couldn't burn it without being drug away in irons, he settled to sell it. “And put yourself out on the streets? I must inform you, sir, that a gentleman never rents,” Mr. Spruce objected. “At the very least, he settles for a country house and pays in cash to save his dignity.” Mr. Spruce's impractical logic surprised Ioan. He'd never been to New Hampshire and he rather liked the country house. It was simple. Its warm rustic ambiance reminded him of Wales. Mr. Spruce was dissatisfied with the simplicity but compromised when it included a clear shoreline view.

  As the sunlight slipped away, it became impossible to finish the deeds to his father's house. Ioan struck a match and lit a candle to illuminate his work. It did no good. The ocean seduced him below the balcony. He forgot the pen in his hand. He leaned against the balcony wall and stayed fixed on the sea. The waves whispered romantically as they caressed the rocks. His mistress had returned, though not as he remembered. She was hollow and dreamless.

  “Sir,” a woman wailed. “Sir, please, there aren't any more boats? What should I do for my son? He's only six. He can't swim.”

  Ioan stared at them bewildered.

  “Sir, please!” the woman sobbed.

  “Just give me a moment,” Ioan said, scanning the deck. Perhaps there were more boats on the other side.

  “Follow me!” he cried turning back to them. The boy perched on the railing and swung his feet. “Be brave, Jonathan. Mommy is right behind you. Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and it will all be well.” The boy nodded and gasped for breath.

  “No!” Ioan shouted, sprinting toward them. He reached for the boy's coat, but it slipped through his fingers. Mother and son plunged into the sea.

  “Mr. Saier, sir!” a woman cried, grabbing his shoulders. “Don't lean over so far! It's a long drop down!” He blinked. The empty shoreline stared back at him. He tried quieting his racing heart. “Who-who are you?” he questioned.

  “Kitty Dillsworth, sir. Your help,” she answered. “I came looking for that table there and found you. I'm sorry if I frightened you but you would’ve gone over.”

  “I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was using it,” Ioan grabbed the deeds and handed over the table.

  “No, you keep it. It's accounted for. There's been talk of burglaries. I like to keep inventory on everything in the house. Shall I fetch you a lamp? They're more efficient than candlelight.”

  “No, thank you, I was on my way up the wooden gwelly.”

  Mrs. Dillsworth blushed. “Sir, you can tell me a lot of things but you really shouldn't go bragging about your preferences. People will start to talk if they think you're bent.”

  “To bed. I meant I'm going to bed.”

  “Oh. Are you alright, sir? You look a bit pale.”

  “This balcony will remain closed, understand? No doors or windows will be open to the sea.”

  She looked him over sympathetically. “Won't you eat something?”

  “I'm fine, thank you.”

  “Something the matter with my cooking?” she demanded. “I gather you're not from around here. Perhaps I can make a dish popular to your mother country.”

  “I'm sure you do an excellent job,” Ioan complimented. “I'm not used to eating half as much.”

  “Well, I wasn't hired just for good looks, sir. You'd best be getting used to it. Here in America, the ladies like their men built like a brick shit house,” she winked. “Can I get you something hot to drink instead?”

  “If you insist, ma'am.”

  “You're a handsome polite gent. I'm going to enjoy working here. You do plan to stay, don't you?”

  “I don't know if I'll be on holiday much longer in America. There's nothing quite like the harsh realities of home.”

  “But you must like something about America that's kept you here,” she commented.

  Ioan was dumbfound for a reply. “I'll get you some tea. Life is not life without a cup of tea.” she said.

  “Will you see to it that Miss Harlow gets something to eat?” Ioan answered.

  “Miss Harlow?”

  “Yes. Last I checked she was in the middle room.”

  “You mean the sitting room? There's no lady down there, sir,” Mrs.
Dillsworth shook her head. “Just that Spruce character. I told him you must be off to bed by now, but he refuses to leave. Tracked dirt all over my polished floors and opened another bottle of whiskey when there was already one on the table. If he should go missing tonight, sir, I will do what I can to find you a new attorney.”

  Ioan marched downstairs to the drawing room. Mr. Spruce sat without care, tapping his cane to a melody in his head as he took a shot of whiskey. Ioan grabbed the bottle before he poured another one. “Tennessee Whiskey,” Mr. Spruce commented. “Now that's the drink of a man with a great deal on his mind.”

  “I don't waste my time with wine,” Ioan answered.

  “I'd imagine not. You're as vulgar as any lad out of a sailor's brig,” Mr. Spruce replied. “We have work to do if we want to introduce you back into society. My, this house is smaller than it looks. How do you manage?”

  “Do you realize what time it is?” Ioan demanded him. Cora stopped short at the doorway. He was the last person she wanted to see.

  “Why, it's 9 o'clock,” Mr. Spruce replied. “Of course, we can all read time, can't we, Miss Harlow? And don't flatter yourself, Mr. Saier. Do you think I gave up my Rhetorica, Ars Rhetorica passages just to see how you were getting along in your rabbit hole? I'll never understand you European men. This is practically a birdhouse. I'll see little bluejays flying by any minute.”

  “Please join us, Miss Harlow,” Ioan suggested.

  Cora reluctantly obeyed. “Before you go having a fit, it was only a moment-” she defended.

  “Three hours, 23 minutes, and 37 seconds to be exact,” Mr. Spruce interjected. “If I hadn't followed you, it would've been all night.”

  “I told you not to wander off alone,” Ioan said. “I said it over and over again. Cora, don't wander off alone.”

  “Perhaps she didn't understand your accent,” Mr. Spruce chuckled.

  “You really expect me to lock myself in this sitting room until you say don't?” she protested.

  “Yes!” Ioan declared. “If it means you're safe. Have you no idea what's going on out there?”

  “Yes, I am well aware of it,” Cora defended. “I don't need you to hold my hand.”

  “A bit too late for regrets,” Mr. Spruce said. He dropped a newspaper onto the table. Ioan stared bewildered from a photo. A crowd of journalists surrounded him around the hospital. Cora stood in front of him, her eyes turned away. Her expression as overwhelmed as his. The photo made no mistake about how tightly she held his hand. “Imagine the heading tomorrow if someone spots you sneaking into this house. Unwed. Unsupervised. You have no idea what you're playing with, Miss Harlow.”

  “They can't publish something like this. No one granted them permission,” Ioan protested.

  “It is a right of the press,” Mr. Spruce replied. “Let's hope no one recognized you at the train station, Miss Harlow.”

  “What in God's name were you doing at a train station?” Ioan declared.

  “I was going to tell you. Alone,” she said.

  “Madam, if you considered fleeing again, Mr. Saier and I both have a right to know. His reputation is at stake harboring you here. I know such virtues don't come naturally to you, but a little grace and courtesy are due.”

  “Spruce, that's enough,” Ioan defended.

  “She must understand that her barbaric society can't survive here. If she wants to fit in, the requirement is nothing less than a lady.”

  “Does he have to be here?” Cora cried.

  “Grace, Miss Harlow. I swear it won't kill you,” Mr. Spruce reminded her. “Besides, I wasn't finished talking. This morning, while having my black coffee, someone told me most unthinkable things. Is it true you confirmed your interview with the Senate Inquiry?”

  Cora stared at Ioan. “I'm sorry. You did what?”

  “I think it's time you left, Mr. Spruce,” Ioan suggested.

  “But I believe she asked for clarification,” Mr. Spruce replied. “Allow me to set the record straight, Miss Harlow. He just said yes to give his testimony to the United States Senate Inquiry Committee, who mean to investigate the reasons behind the Titanic disaster.”

  “Have you gone mad?” Cora cried.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Spruce,” Ioan said. “I trust you can find your way out.”

  “Ioan, don't you dare change the subject, you cheat,” Cora declared.

  “You mean he hasn't told you?” Mr. Spruce asked innocently.

  “I was going to tell you,” Ioan said. “When the time was right.”

  “Oh,” Cora nodded. “You mean never!”

  “This is not a public discussion,” Ioan said.

  “What's the difference?” Cora cried. “Apparently everyone else knows more than I do. What were you thinking? You will lose everything. You understand that, don't you?”

  “I understand that it's the right thing to do.”

  “You are not an American citizen. White Star Line is not American. This is none of their business.”

  “This isn't about citizenship. It has everything to do with a sense of humanity,” Ioan defended.

  “And tell them what exactly? What if they find you out? You expect them to just laugh it off?” she demanded.

  “They want the mechanical facts. They're not interested in my personal life. This is about saving one more life at sea. I have a chance to prevent something like this from happening again. I'll gladly give up my position as officer if it means saving every one of them.”

  “How is your contribution different from anyone else's?” Cora cried. “Titanic sank! It's gone! There's no getting it back! What more do they need to know?”

  “You don't understand. It's not the ship. This can't happen again. So many of them I couldn't save. No one deserves that nightmare. I can't stand back and watch another night like the one I saw. I won't do it.”

  “You can't just throw yourself mindlessly into the sea. You won't save anyone if you're drowning yourself. None of this is your fault. I know you feel guilty about it, but it won't bring anyone back. You're not being reasonable,” Cora pleaded.

  “It was my duty. I won't live with myself if I don't go,” Ioan answered. “I don't expect you to understand.”

  “Then I wish you had gone down with that ship,” Cora answered bitterly. “I'd rather pray for your soul at sea than watch you destroy yourself. I hope you're prepared to lose everything.” She slammed the doors behind her. Ioan stood silent. Mr. Spruce grinned. “You know, I like her more and more. She is absolutely perfect for you,” he said.

  “Will you get out of my house?” Ioan ordered. Mr. Spruce snatched the whiskey bottle as he took his leave. “Listen to her, Ioan. You are her heart. I'm sure she only means well.”

  Chapter 7

  Emmett grew impatient. He chased a dead end investigation. “Excuse me.” He stopped a man in the street. “I'm looking for this man.” He pointed randomly to his portfolio. “Have you seen this man?”

  “Can't help you,” the man answered. “There's enough posts around here to clean a man's arse for weeks.”

  “What about this woman? Her name is Beatrice Luckett. She would be about yeigh high, blue eyes, fiery red hair.”

  “Move along now, man. I got work to do.”

  The responses never changed.

  “Excuse me, but have you seen this woman?”

  “No, but look closely at this photograph,” a woman begged him. “Please tell me you've seen her. She would've been five years old today.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Emmett stopped a grungy man. “I only require a moment of your time.”

  “You got money to pay for it?”

  “If you identify the missing person in this photo, you'll be well compensated.” Emmett held up a poster. The tramp stared at it pensively. “Ya, I know him. I know the girl on the next one too. And this one. And this one. And this one.”

  Emmett raised an eyebrow. “Can you tell me their names?”

  “This one here, her name is....Sally. That's i
t. And that's Smith. This one here is Smithson. And this is Mr. Ping,” he stammered. “Alright, so I ain't no expert at remembering names, but it ain't no difference? You asked if I could identify 'em.”

  “Where is his new residence? This man. Mr. Ping, you said? Where is he staying?” Emmett pointed at Ioan's photo.

  “Davey Jones locker, obviously.”

  “Right. Get out of here.”

  “My pay?”

  Emmett marched away. He asked himself again and again why he was here. This was all one big stupid idea. After tea, he'd charge back to Massachusetts and never return. He strode pass the protestors outside the White Star Line American headquarters. A White Star Line employee scurried out the back door. He checked every corner.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Emmett called.

  “I'm sorry. I'm late for a meeting,” the man replied.

  “My name is Emmett O'Riley. I represent my client, Mr. Darcy Luckett. I need just a moment of your time to acquire some information.”

  “I am not qualified to speak on any White Star Line business outside this office. If you wait in line, a representative will see you shortly.”

  “I'm not here for compensation. My business is with this gentleman,” Emmett held up Ioan's photo. “He was a crewman on Titanic. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I don't know him personally. I've only seen his identification placard,” the man answered.

  “Is he still employed?”

  “I know he was recently promoted to a junior officer, but I have no information regarding his whereabouts. That is withheld for our workers' privacy.”

  “I understand. Privacy is highly valued these days. However, I desperately need to find this man for my client's sake. Has he boarded another ship since Titanic?”

  “A good many took a short leave after Titanic. I couldn't tell you where he is,” the man said. “However, I have it on good authority that some may participate in interviews at the U.S. Senate Inquiry. I'm not suppose to talk about that. Perhaps you could try there. I really must be going.” He glanced nervously at the protestors.