Claire flushed, even though it hadn’t been an insult. It was hard to swallow, the idea that he saw her as a child, even if a lie had not passed his lips. She tried not to let it sting her; after all, he was right.
Cillian showing interest in her when she was but a child would be wrong, but at the same time, she imagined him in love with her his entire life, as she had been with him.
“What will happen when we dock? I did not even know you were travelling to America. How can we keep in touch? After I’m cleared at Ellis Island, I’m heading with my cousins. They will not let me go with you.”
“I will follow you,” he declared. “I’ll find work on farms, the way I always have. Perhaps I’ll even ask your cousins, see if they’re fine with me working on their farm. It’s been good, steady work for me – everyone needs a helping hand, especially when the seasons change. It doesn’t matter where I’m headed, Claire. I want to be with you, and I won’t sacrifice the second chance God has blessed me with for anything.”
Claire hoped her Cousin Aisling and Cousin Sean would approve; they wouldn’t likely know an awful lot about Cillian. Her mother wrote her sisters and cousins frequently, and she would’ve mentioned Cillian in her letters. Likely, she would have talked of taking him in when he’d lost his kin; she doubted she would have confessed her sin of dismissing him from her household for daring to live when her son had not. Regardless, her Ma’s initial declaration of love, claiming Cillian as her own, would have been what she wrote, she would not have dared to write the confession that she had turned her back on the boy she’d once called son.
“I want that, too,” Claire breathed. “I would follow you, you understand, but I cannot. I am too young to be without guardian, and even if I wasn’t, I could not bear to leave Nora yet, not after all she’s suffered. She doesn’t even know Cousin Aisling or Cousin Sean. For that matter, neither do I.” Claire had heard stories, but she’d never seen any pictures. The family had not been able to afford such a luxury before they had set sail; there were no baby photos in the house, not even ones after her siblings had passed. Her Ma and Da couldn’t afford it, as much as they would have liked to. As far as Claire was aware, they’d never sent a pocket photo, either. She only knew them by her Ma’s description, and the times had changed since then.
Cousin Sean was said to be handsome and strapping, with curly red hair, that her mother once compared lovingly to Cillian’s. He was a slight, lean man, she’d said, shorter than most. Cousin Aisling stood half an inch above him, and even when everyone had suffered from the famine, she was always twice his slight size. Aisling had long, dark hair, though she wondered if it would be greying now. Cousin Aisling wrote long letters to her Ma, detailing the life of America, and their small, yet successful, farm. They would sometimes send money back, as much as they could afford, but it wasn’t enough to help them through the harsh winters Ireland bore down. Sometimes, her Ma would have to choose between heat and food. Neither were an optimal choice.
That was the way ’twas, however, and Claire knew there was no point in complaining. God had a plan, and it was in that plan Claire had to trust.
The pair lined up and helped themselves to the sizeable breakfast; already, Claire hoped she’d gained a pound or two. She’d made it her mission to eat as very much as she could, knowing that she’d likely never see such endless bounds of food again, not even on the Cousins’ Farm. Claire grabbed herself ham and eggs, fried tripe and onions – a favourite of hers, and it was smothered in a rich gravy – bread, butter and a warm hot tea. Cillian took everything she did, plus vegetable stew and two cups of bitter coffee. As Claire watched Cillian shovel the food inside his mouth, she wondered how he stayed so muscular; he looked unlike most of the men she’d known, who were frequently lean; some had developed deformities due to extreme malnutrition during the Hard Times. Cillian had somehow avoided all of that, though she did not understand how. She had not; she felt her cheeks would always retain a sunken impression, and her bones had never had an ounce of meat upon them, leaving her to resemble a spindly stick insect, and not a young woman.
“I would not ask you to abandon Nora, Claire,” Cillian spoke, his mouth filled with egg. “Nor would I dare risk your honour by taking you from your Cousins. No, it’s for me to follow you, should you wish it.”
Claire took Cillian’s hand. “I wish it,” she said.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Saturday, April 13th, 1912
Barrett
Barrett sighed, looking at the red-hot hull of the ship; it had only warped further since Titanic had left port a few days prior.
It’d taken several double shifts (fucking Bell, Barrett thought) on his part to get the coal fire to extinguish – a feat he hadn’t expected to accomplish. However, the Captain had ordered full steam ahead, and for once, Barrett had struggled to keep up with the shovelling of coal into the boilers. As a result, he and his men had managed to eliminate the burning coal to keep up with the turbine’s demands. Now that the fire had been eradicated, it was easier for both Barrett and Chief Engineer Bell to inspect the damage; it’d been worse than Bell had first realised. Barrett realised even the watertight doors had been warped; one had twisted aft, the other forward; they were no longer perfectly straight. He frowned, waiting for Chief Engineer Bell’s assessment; watertight doors were a relatively new contraption; he hadn’t seen such technology on the New York or the Compania.
Shepherd, the current engineer on duty for Boiler Room Six, and far more friendly than Bell, joined them shortly, so that he could be aware of the assessment. While Bell was the Chief Engineer, Shepherd was one of the engineers that supervised stokehold ten, among Wilson and Hesketh. “It’ll hold,” Bell said firmly, his hazel eyes assessing the damage.
“The watertight doors, sir?” queried Shepherd. Barrett was pleased Shepherd had questioned them.
“It’ll hold until we reach New York,” he repeated. “Mr Andrews has made this ship into its own lifeboat, that’s the purpose. One partially damaged area will not affect the Titanic’s capability to sail. After all, it would do us all well to remember that Captain Smith and his prowess were able to steam Olympic back to port after her collision last year, and we’ve not hit a thing and we’re not about to. We all know how common coal fires are. The damage will be rectified, and the hull, once repaired, will be stronger than ever. I’m certain the Captain will order the tools once we reach New York; the men may be able to work on it during the ship’s return voyage to Southampton. Regardless, you know as well as I do, coal fires don’t sink ships.”
Barrett looked sceptical, but he was not an engineer, and he’d never had the chance to speak with Mr Andrews, though he’d heard a lot about the man, and had seen him every day of the journey so far. Mr Andrews, dressed in soiled blue overalls, always checked on the boiler rooms, ensuring the turbine engines were producing steam adequately. The engineers spoke fondly of him; Andrews was an Irishman, and had not lost his head during the magnificent creation of the Titanic. He, like Captain Smith, seemed to care genuinely for his crew. Both the engineers that he worked with, Shepherd and his second, Hesketh, would frequently join the man for dinner. Unlike Chief Engineer Bell, they were as dirty as any of the Black Gang, their teeth blackened by the day’s coal, their beady whites the only real visible thing about them. Shepherd had said that Mr Andrews hated sailing, as it took him away from his beloved wife.
Last night, Hesketh had let loose a little, and told a joke he said he’d read in the papers before he’d left his home, docking at Southampton, like most of the crew had. He was a few years older than Barrett, and unmarried. Like many men, Hesketh seemed to take the sea as his wife, and he’d had the privilege of serving on the Olympic before being shifted to the Titanic. Hesketh had the crew laughing with a joke about the Virgin Mary – Bell hadn’t been present, which Barrett was sure and certain the only reason for Hesketh’s tale.
“Me little wee son, he came home one day from school,” he had told, as i
f the joke was his. He didn’t have a son, just as he didn’t have the wife, but he played it up, and the men had loved it. Not every superior so readily dined with the Black Gang; the men had taken an immediate liking to the man. “So’s I asked him what he’d learnt in religion. I said to him, I did, ‘What’s Jesus’s mother’s name?’ and he replied, in his little tyke of a voice, ‘Mary.’ And I’m thinkin’, that’s good, that’s good. Then’s I asked, ‘And Jesus’s father’s name was?’ thinkin’ this one’s a gimme, ya know? But you know what the little bastard said? ‘The Verge.’ And I roared with laughter, and I was like, ‘What do you mean, ‘The Verge’? Because you can’t say to your five-year-old ‘what the fuck you thinkin’ mate’, you gotta be a bit more delicate than that, ya know, and he replies, the little shit, ‘You know, you’re always sayin’ ‘The Verge ’n Mary’.” In Barrett’s opinion, the best part was Hesketh putting on a harsh Manchesterian accent, but the men had laughed and clapped their knees regardless.
“Are you sure, sir?” questioned Barrett. “The steel’s strong, and if it gets the chance to cool, it’ll be stronger for it. But we’re steaming through ice-cold water, Chief Engineer Bell. If we are to strike something, it might not hold.”
Bell looked at Barrett as if he’d barely registered him. “Boy, we’re on the Titanic. I know your last posting was on that small steamer, but we’ve all worked on the Olympic before. Shep, Hesketh and I. In the unlikely chance we happenstance across something that could damage the ship, Captain Smith would easily be able to take her back to port, like he did before. There is no cause for alarm. We’re also in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. What on God’s green earth do you think we’re likely to strike? More water?”
Barrett nodded; overall, he agreed with the assessment. He wasn’t an engineer, and he could not presume to know what the hull on such a grand ship could hold. He was a fireman, and his knowledge lay in coal and turbine engines. The New York had been a small steamer; nothing had prepared Barrett for such a large ship, where the boilers were more prominent than houses. It had only been a few days, but already he felt proud to call the Titanic his home.
“Good work getting the fire out,” Bell said, before walking up the black steel ladders towards his regular post; both Hesketh and Shepherd nodded, too, and Barrett returned to shovelling coal, and ordering his firemen along.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Saturday, April 13th, 1912
Cecilia
“Sit,” Lord Gresham said, his tone cold. Cecilia felt as if the air had turned icy cold, though none of the portholes were open, nor was the deck to the promenade.
“Yes, Papa?” Cecilia replied, trying to keep her tone neutral. She could tell by his tone he was not to be trifled with; however, she was yet to know her crime. At least, not a sin her father would lay at her feet.
“You were seen,” her father spat.
“Seen?” breathed Cecilia, hoping her father was taunting her, and that she had not been recognised.
“Yes, seen.”
Cecilia turned to meet her mother’s eyes, so alike her own, and found she couldn’t. Her mother would not lift her head to meet her daughter’s eyes, and her cheek bore a distinct red mark of a palm.
Dread filled Cecilia; so they knew, and her mother had paid the price. The only decision left was for Cecilia to own her desire.
She sat defiantly in the chair, arching her back, “And?”
“And?” her father roared.
“I simply do not see what the problem is, Father,” Cecilia retorted. “I do not care that I was seen; nor do I care that you will disown me, as is your right. You’ve made it clear it’s what you would do, and what you would like to do. Here’s your chance.”
“I will not have this kind of insubordination in my house –”
“We’re not in your house –”
“For once in your life, hold your insolent tongue!” her father roared, hot air and spit flying in Cecilia’s face. For the first time in her life, she feared her father’s wrath, and what he might do to her. Would he hit her, like he so obviously had her mother? Cecilia glared at him, despising his hypocrisy and lack of control. Her father was a pestilence; stamping his feet like a tantruming toddler who had been told that they could not have dessert.
“What do you wish, Father?”
“You are to be married to the Vanderbilt boy, and I will not have you ruining the Gresham Estate, nor the Gresham name, over some stupid, foolish, inconsiderate dalliance!”
“I will not.”
“Excuse me?”
“I refuse,” Cecilia replied, her voice eerily calm. “You can’t make me; we both know you can’t. You can try, but I will fight you every step of the way. You think you know scandal?” Cecilia rose, and while she did not meet her father in stature, she met him in form. “You do not. I will rain down scandal from the very heavens themselves on this family, before I am forced to walk an altar. I will burn the entire family’s name to the ground, if I have to, Father, but I will not be held prisoner by you or anyone else.”
“Celia, please,” whispered Eleonora, and this time, her red-rimmed eyes met her daughter’s. “Please, harken your father’s warning. I could not bear to lose you; you are my baby. Do not speak like this.”
“You have already lost me,” Cecilia retorted. “Both of you. The moment you decided I was not worth the courtesy of being allowed any sort of freedom, the moment you arranged my marriage to a man I did not even know, you lost me. You told me I wasn’t good enough to make my own wishes, to have my own feelings; and whenever I expressed them, you told me I was mistaken. I am not mistaken. I wish nor want anything from either of you, and if you let me go in peace, I will not add to the scandal. I will remain quiet, and Henry and I will remain out of sight. But you cannot force me to marry a man I do not love, nor have any affection for. I won’t allow it.”
Her father’s face turned purple; she could tell he was contemplating his options. They were limited, being confined to the ship; though she could tell that he was wondering how it would benefit him.
“And I won’t allow you to make a fool out of me,” he hissed. “You are to be confined in your room until the end of the journey. I’ll have that maid you requested stand guard over you, as well as the valets and maids we brought. You will not have a moment’s peace until we dock Wednesday.”
“You surely can’t mean that, Papa,” gasped Cecilia. Aiobheen she could reason with, but her mother’s maid, and her father’s valet? “It won’t change anything. It won’t change my mind. By holding me hostage, all you’re doing is forcing my hand. I’ll tell Thomas as soon as we’ve landed. He won’t want a woman who was freely kissing another man the other night. And even if he does, his father won’t, and you know it.”
“You won’t leave this room,” her father roared. “You will be barred. You will marry Thomas Vanderbilt, or I’ll have you shipped to a nunnery.”
“You can’t. It’s 1912, not 1812, Papa.”
“I can, and I will. Bohee, Wilson, please escort my daughter to her room, and ensure the doors are locked. Then call for the little maid girl with the loud voice. I want her with Cecilia at all times. She is not to leave the room, and apart from family, she is to receive no visitors for the remaining course of the journey. If she tries to leave, inform me immediately. If need be, I will speak to the purser and have her door locked from the outside. If she sets foot outside her door, without my explicit approval, it will cost you your jobs.”
“Yes, Lord Gresham,” both replied, and Cecilia watched helplessly as she was taken back to her room, where the lock clicked softly in place.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Saturday, April 13th, 1912
Hazel
“He won’t let her out,” Aiobheen whispered, in hushed tones. The young girl had quickly become a friend to Hazel; they’d shared more than few meals together. The girl was quick and kind, two qualities that Hazel admired.
“No, he won’t,” Hazel nodded
, remembering Albert’s anger. He had struck his wife, when she’d pleaded with him to be calm, that everything could be salvaged. Her Lady Eleonora had been shocked; he had slapped her before, but rarely. It had been years since he had raised a hand to her Ladyship; so long that she forgot about the screaming matches they’d once shared, when the girls were young, and so was the marriage.
“She’s kind, Lady Cecilia,” Aiobheen mentioned. “I think it’s more than fair if she likes that Mr Henry Hamilton, if it’s not too bold to say.”
“It’s not,” Hazel replied, enjoying the gossip. She cared about Lady Cecilia, having seen her grown, as if she were her own. She wanted her happiness as much as she wanted her own.
“I don’t quite understand what Lord Albert’s issue is, though. That’s the problem really, isn’t it? I don’t understand. He’s wealthy and handsome, Mr Henry Hamilton is. He shares a bathroom, but that’s because he’s down in a berth on D Deck. But he has a berth, not a sparse cabin. He could have bought a cheaper ticket, had he so desired. He’s not a man who’s for wanting, that’s for sure. Perhaps he doesn’t have a title, and is no more than a Mister, but he’s a good-looking man, that’s for sure. That fine blonde hair, and those eyes?”
“I think you’re becoming too bold now,” cautioned Hazel.
“I am sorry, Hazel,” the girl replied demurely. “Sometimes my tongue runs away with me. I forget my place.”
Hazel waved a hand. “It’s nothing, child.”
“I don’t think it would be a sin to help her,” announced Aiobheen. Hazel stroke her cup of black tea.
“No, I don’t think it would,” she said, smiling as she sipped her drink.
TO BE CONTINUED
Book Two: Parts IV & V Coming April 14th, 2020
The Light in the Darkness 1 Page 33