The men began working harder, shovelling the coal faster and faster into the boiler rooms, and the trimmers started moving about, trying to complete their jobs more quickly, to help the firemen. Men jumped and slid down the long, black steel ladders, the small enclosed lights above lighting their way, so they didn’t fall.
Barrett’s shoulders and back already ached from the laborious and repetitive shovelling motion; he could not help but wonder if he’d dock in New York with a permanent hunch in his left shoulder.
Chapter Thirty-One
Thursday, April 11th, 1912
Cecilia
“Why must you treat him so?” hissed Cecilia. “You dislike him simply because he’s not a British aristocrat!”
“You’re mistaken, Cecilia darling,” Georgiana replied, rolling her eyes. “We’re British. It’s in our nature to dislike anything that doesn’t represent the English upper-class.”
“Georgiana!”
“Look, I’m sorry, but it’s true. I want to be supportive, but I can’t possibly be when I know that this could very well lead to your ruin. You’re already risking your reputation, and your agreeable arrangement. You know William’s omission did not convince Mama and Papa. They did not believe him honest.”
“So, you’re going to tell Mama and Papa?”
Georgiana sighed, sitting stiffly at the edge of the dining chair, where she was able to remove her gloves, being in the seclusion of her suite and in the presence of only her family.
“Of course I’m not,” Georgiana soothed. The tightness in Cecilia’s chest began to relent – though not as much as she’d hoped. “I won’t do that. I’ll keep my promise to you – though I’m telling you now, I don’t like it. And if I don’t like it, you know that Mama and Papa will loathe it. I do not have a good feeling about this, Celia, and I am concerned you have not considered everything that you should.”
“Do you think I’m fickle?” raged Cecilia. She was tired of Georgiana’s reminders about everything she could lose; she hadn’t lectured her sister when she’d sought after William. She’d helped to hide her sister’s letters, including ensuring the servants took the letters straight to Georgiana, instead of Papa. It wasn’t hard – after all, the servants kept the family secrets better than the family did.
Cecilia had supported it; in fact, she’d adored it. It reminded her of the reckless love of Romeo and Juliet, how they gave everything for each other, how they committed the ultimate sacrifice, to be with each. That’s how she imagined Georgiana and William: As star-crossed lovers, playing out her favourite fantasy in real life, living a romance that she would read about in the ancient fabled gods.
However, now Cecilia felt disillusioned. She felt betrayed by her sister’s continued disapproval, and aware that Georgiana, despite the hurdles she spoke of, had no real understanding of that Cecilia was conscious of what she would need to sacrifice to even have the opportunity of being Henry’s wife. She wasn’t a fool – she knew her parents wouldn’t approve, and they weren’t likely to come around, the way they had for Georgiana.
Georgiana had, after all, married someone with peerage, land, and money, even if it was below her initial status.
Henry had none of that; in fact, he’d fled his home country, becoming a refugee, a confession they had only both just learnt. Regardless of how much money he had, her parents would find that distasteful. And whilst her parents dined with Jewish friends, and shopped in Jewish stores, she wasn’t sure her parents would be tolerant of a Jewish husband, especially if a conversion was intended.
Cecilia, realising Georgiana’s open mouth meant she did not yet have a reply, took the opportunity to address her frustrations. “Do you honestly believe I’m so fickle that I’d care if I didn’t have a title? Do you think being addressed as Lady Cecilia matters so much to me? Because it doesn’t. I don’t care for the title or the clothes the way of the rest of you do. I care about marrying a man I love, which is an opportunity you received because of me!”
“Cecilia, you forget yourself,” Georgiana scolded her sister.
“No, Georgie, it’s you. I’m tired of this – your sister is right. We’ve heard your opinions. We know you don’t approve, and you never will. But you’ve agreed to your promise, to help accompany her if she wishes to see Henry, and I think it’s best we leave it at that. As long as she’s accompanied, and they keep it appropriate, it should be fine. But that means you must keep it strictly formal, Celia. No relaxing any of the rules, even if you normally would. Not for him.”
Cecilia glared at her brother-in-law, though she admittedly knew he was right; it was a fair compromise. And, what was she likely to do in less than a week? She wasn’t going to kiss a stranger; she wouldn’t dare. What if she was caught? Her entire reputation would be ruined, and she wouldn’t have a chance to have a say in her future.
At least, William was right about not taking that risk publicly. The ship was big enough that if they were discreet, they may be able to sneak moments of alone time, where Cecilia could have more earnest conversations with Henry, giving her a chance to know him better. And talking, even though she knew she shouldn’t do it unchaperoned with a man who was not family, seemed innocuous at best. Surely no one would fault her for wishing to have a discussion?
“I understand,” relented Cecilia, and she wondered if it were a sin to lie to her kin, even if her intentions were good and honourable. She wouldn’t behave any less than a lady of high status; she may wish to have some privacy, but she would not forget all sense and sensibilities.
“We’re going to take a turn about the Boat Deck,” Georgiana said, standing, putting her white gloves back on. “Would you like to accompany us? It’d do us all good to have a little walk before the bugler announces luncheon. I feel like I’ve eaten far more than usual, and that’s all we ever seem to do.”
“No, thank you,” replied Cecilia, heading towards her and her parents’ suite door. Cecilia had a smaller berth, though still fitted elegantly with a private bath, “I’d rather read a book.”
“Okay then,” Georgiana said. “I’ll see you at the Café Parisian for lunch at one-thirty, yes?”
Cecilia nodded her assent, before slipping through the door.
She had no intention of reading any book; she had every intention to plot out how she could successfully unite with Henry under the right pretences.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Thursday, 11th April, 1912
Adene
Adene clutched her young daughter’s hand tightly. She’d been waiting to see if she could see her companion, but she’d made an erroneous judgement; plenty of people were not only curious to see the coast of Ireland, but the rich had been taken with several vendors that had travelled alongside the tender ships, America and Ireland. With the crowd surrounding her, she hadn’t a chance of spying whoever would be sharing her berth with her.
After realising her miscalculation, she decided to lead Isla – to her dismay – away from the excitement of the embarking passengers, back towards their section, R. She followed the aft third-class staircase back down to F deck, passing both the common room and the Smoking Saloon, hoping that she would be able to reach her cabin before the other woman and her child had. She wanted to be a gracious companion, making friends with whoever was accompanying her and Isla to America.
However, when Isla and Adene arrived back to their room, she could hear their voices through the wooden door. She decided to knock first, giving her companion and her daughter a chance to secure privacy and offer permission before she entered.
“Yes?” came the young woman’s voice. To Adene, she sounded little older than a child.
“It’s Mrs Coffey, and my daughter, Isla. Is it okay to enter?”
“Of course!” came the startled reply. Whoever she’d been expecting, for some reason, it clearly hadn’t been her cabin mate.
Adene opened the door and Isla, who had suddenly taken a position of shyness unbecoming of her, ran to her bed, grabbin
g her small porcelain doll, though staring intently at the little girl on the other side of the room, who had taken to sucking her thumb. The little girl looked frightened, and while she had yet to speak, she appeared acutely aware of her surroundings, her eyes darting across the room, finding whoever was speaking, and occasionally, her eyes would linger on Isla’s porcelain doll.
“I’m Adene Coffey,” she said pleasantly, holding her hat in front of her. “And this is my daughter, Isla.”
“Claire,” the other woman offered, looking awkward, as if she wasn’t quite sure what the appropriate etiquette for introducing oneself to their cabin mates was. She knew it was improper for ladies to shake hands, but that was the extent of her knowledge. The rest was a learning curve, though she imagined it was a learning curve for Claire as well. She knew the girl in her care couldn’t possibly be the girl’s daughter – not if she’d had her when she was scarcely more than a child herself – which Claire soon confirmed. “This is my niece, Nora.”
The little girl appeared terrified and overwhelmed by everything surrounding her, her brown eyes wide as she sucked her thumb with vigour.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Adene offered, realising the poor young girl – who looked naught but a youth, barely older than a child – had lost her sibling, perhaps even more than one, and the girl had lost her parents.
Claire smiled pleasantly, but Adene recognised the haunting pain hidden behind her eyes; she had seen it every day since her husband’s passing when she looked in the mirror. She knew how that look haunted you, as you stared at yourself, wondering how you could so visibly and invisibly change, all at the same time. Everything changed when you lost someone; it wasn’t just the loss of the loved one, and your grief that accompanied it. It was the loss of self, of identity, of certainty, that helped plague and haunt its victims, as if they wore a scar, declaring what they’d lost.
Adene saw it in her own daughter’s eyes, an eternal reminder that she would never have her father with her, he would never again read a bedtime story to her, or make buckwheat pancakes on the days they had enough money for extra eggs and sugar, or hold her when she woke during the night, a terror striking her mind; and he would never have the opportunity to walk her down the aisle when she became her own woman.
Mortality wasn’t uncommon, Adene knew; this young woman before her – and her niece – had already experienced a pain so severe in their short lives that Adene couldn’t fathom. How could the little girl recover from the trauma she had already been subjected to?
“It will be luncheon soon,” Adene said, trying to fill the awkward silence. She wasn’t quite sure of what she should say; should she try and comfort the woman’s loss, or pretend it had not been mentioned? After all, the young girl had not relinquished any details about why she was travelling with her niece. Claire had not confided in what transpired, nor why she was travelling without any other family members. It hadn’t escaped Adene’s notice that there were large droves of people immigrating to America; whole families had packed everything they’d own. Some were refugees – many of the passengers fleeing Lebanon or Syria – while others, such as the Swedish family she’d encountered, were simply hoping to have a better life.
Though, if Adene was being fair on the young woman, it wasn’t as if she had confided why she was travelling sans husband; and she was by and sure that Claire recognised the same haunted look Adene and her daughter, Isla, shared. Like recognised like.
“That is wonderful news,” the redheaded girl replied, instantly brightening. Adene wasn’t surprised – she was so skinny, her bones looked jarring; she was all angles and edges, and had freckles that would have rivalled Anne Cuthbert’s, and her clothing looked too big for her petite body. She looked like she’d never had a substantial meal in her life; and if she hadn’t, she doubted the little girl had, either. “We had not the time to stop for a proper breakfast.”
Adene wasn’t sure if that was the entire truth, but did not want to trespass on the girl’s pride. She was sure and certain that the girl likely hadn’t eaten for days, and possibly neither had the child.
“Well, that won’t be a problem you’ll experience here,” Adene shared. “I’ve never seen so much food, and nor has my belly been so full. There’s foods I’ve never even had the luxury to eat. Last night, we gorged on rabbit pie. They even served plum pudding for dessert; well, I never. I’m not sure what is to be for lunch, but I’m certain it will be another delicious roast of some kind. Then, at dinner, they give us the cold leftovers as well.”
“They have dessert?” Claire’s brown eyes widened; Adene imagined the girl had never had dessert before of any kind.
“They did. They even had fruits and cheeses; can you imagine? Fresh fruits! Served in the middle of the ocean!”
Claire looked agog; though Adene noticed Nora, while silent, was taking the entire conversation in. She was young, but she was aware, and she was astute.
“Isla, would you like to show Nora Abigail?” confusion flicked across Claire’s face before she realised Adene was referring to the porcelain doll.
Nora’s eyes brightened, focusing intently on Abigail, though she still said nary a word.
Isla, however, whose excitement was beginning to build, wandered over to the other bunk bed. “This is Abigail,” she said, in the voice children frequently used when they wanted to sound older and more mature than they were. It pleased Adene that her daughter was so willing to try. Nora removed the thumb from her mouth – finally, thought Adene – and smiled, revealing a missing bottom tooth. Adene’s heart swelled; the girl was uncannily beautiful.
“She’s pretty,” Nora replied, her voice barely a whisper.
“You brush her hair like this,” Isla informed her, pulling out her comb, running it through the doll’s black hair. Nora watched Isla intently, as if the two were on a critical life-or-death mission. It warmed Adene to watch Isla behaving so maturely, taking Nora under her wing. It wasn’t a surprise to Adene; her daughter always had a kind, good heart. It was another way Nora reminded Adene of Robert; Robert was selfless, in the very definition of the word. She was sure and certain there were actual saints that weren’t as selfless as her Robert had been; Adene could not say the same for herself.
Adene smiled, leaving the girls to become acquainted, before turning to Claire. “It’s a bit of a jaunt to the galley as it’s more forward, and if you’ve missed breakfast, you and Nora must be quite starved. Did you want to make our way? It’s nearing one; they’ll sound the bugle soon. While the single men will likely fill the Dining Saloon – it’s like a Smoking Room, it’s just for young, single men – there’s mostly families here. I’ve dined with plenty of passengers. This morning we even had breakfast with a family who was fleeing Lebanon, though they didn’t say much to us. There’s some that can’t speak any English – I only know that the Haas family, across from us, are from Sweden because another Swedish family said so. They don’t speak an ounce of English, sadly. My point is, it’s largely families, not single men. If you’re wanting your tucker, we should be heading down. I know my little one will be hungry so, as I’m sure yours will, if she’s not had breakfast.”
Claire smiled, an understanding already forming between them. “That would be lovely.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Thursday, April 11th, 1912
Adene
Claire appeared pleased that the woman she was bunking with seemed to be kind. She had not pressed Claire for details about Nora’s parents’ passing, which pleased her; it suggested the woman not only understood, but respected, pride. A formidable sin, Claire knew, and her mother warned her it could be the greatest one to overcome. Living in true humility, her mother preached, was a difficult feat.
After rousing the girls – and allowing them to bring Abigail with them to the galley – they were heading through the innards of the ship.
“I was hoping that, maybe, we could split the girls between us. If you’re open to that, that is.”
“I could watch them sometimes,” Adene said hurriedly, worried that her friend would immediately reject the idea. Perhaps she did not want Nora out of her sight; or maybe she thought Adene’s intentions were nefarious. “If you wanted a break, to walk the ship or something. And, perhaps, you could watch my Isla at night? There’s only one bath – I’m not sure if the stewardess informed you – but at night, everyone is sleeping. There is no wait, no time limit. Isla is usually fast asleep, but without her father … well, if she wakes and I’m not there, I’m not sure she’ll be consolable. But if you’re there, and Nora’s there …”
Claire nodded, understanding dawning her freckled face. “That sounds a wonderful idea,” she mused. “I saw a friend, from what seems a lifetime ago, when I was boarding. I would like to speak to him again, if possible. I would gladly return the favour, should you grant me mine.”
Adene frowned; that had not been what she meant. Was the young girl a sordid type? She couldn’t risk leaving Isla in the hands of a wanton woman.
“I don’t think we’re –”
“He was my elder brother’s best friend.” The quiet tone of Claire’s voice, combined with the verb tense, told Adene everything she need to know. The girl wasn’t after some trivial flirtation; she likely wanted the comfort of a man that was probably a brother to her as much as her kin had been. It was one of the reasons why her husband was the better man, or had been; he wasn’t the type to rush to judgement, yet Adene always did.
“I am sorry,” breathed Adene, and she wondered if the brother Claire spoke of was Nora’s father. Claire must have read Adene’s thoughts – not that they would have been difficult to assess, given the fact that she immediately turned to look down upon Nora, and smiled gently.
“No, my brother wasn’t Nora’s father,” she whispered. “Nora’s the product of my older sister, Shailagh, who passed six months ago; the flu took her. My brother-in-law was taken by a shipping accident near a year before.” She drew a breath before continuing. “My brother, and his best friend, served in the war. As Cillian had lost his parents the year before, my parents took him in, hoping to raise him right, making sure he would not have to turn to the streets a beggar. But when he came home, and Patrick did not, my parents could not bear to look upon Cillian’s face. They refused him, and I have not seen him since. That is, until today. He, too, must be heading toward America. I am desperate to see him.”
The Light in the Darkness 1 Page 25