Unspeakable (13 page)

I LOOKED AROUND THE DINING HALL
at the uniformed staff gathered for Gaade's address. No, I didn't want this servant's life, not by a long shot, but I knew I'd still be locked in the Magdalene Asylum, trapped in that hell, if it wasn't for Aunt Geraldine. How I hated that place and all it stood for. In my grief and pain, I hadn't seen Aunt Geraldine's rescue for what it was. Hadn't seen her for who she was. Even in the last few visits back, I never noticed her illness. Though it seemed obvious now. Her weight loss. Her lack of energy. Even her skin had a slight yellowish tinge. It wasn't just old age. I decided that, like Gaade, this was going to be my last trip, too. Aunt Geraldine needed me to take care of her. It's what my mother would do, but more than that, it was what I wanted to do, what I needed to do for my aunt. I'd made up my mind. And for the first time, I wasn't going to let her tell me otherwise.

Gaade handed out the saloon passenger lists, which we were to put in each room: small seven-page booklets
that included not only basic information for the passengers on our route or how to send a wireless message, but also, more importantly, the names of who's who in first and second class. No doubt there would be much scrambling, as always, on that first afternoon, particularly for the first-class stewards as their guests jostled for the best seats with the best people for dinner. Gaade reviewed the manifest: 1057 passengers—87 in first class and 717 in third. Of the 253 in second, 170 were Salvation Army officers and their families, heading over to a big convention at the Albert Hall in London—or so Gaade said. I scanned my assigned rooms and sure enough most passengers were captain, major, or lieutenant something or other.

“Are they military?” Meg asked. I'd wondered, myself. But Gaade told us the Salvation Army was more like an army for God. That Salvationists were about charity, compassion, and giving to their fellow man.

“So long as they're as generous to their stewardesses,” Kate whispered beside me. “I'm no running meself ragged for a bloody blessing.”

“Did he say the Irvings?” Gwen grabbed my arm. “Oh, I've read all about them, Laurence and Mabel—what a talented couple. And glamorous, too. The
Tatler
said they've just done a three-month tour of Canada.” Her eyes were wide with awe. “Fancy that, Ellie, having real celebrities travel home on our ship!”

Gaade read a few more from the passenger list, of note, Sir Henry Seton-Karr, a wealthy gentleman and sportsman; Ethel Paton, a socialite from Sherbrooke; Major Lyman, a millionaire from Montreal. I always noticed that the majority
of our passengers, all those Russians, Italians, Irish, Swedes, Scots, and who knows what—the hundreds of working-class immigrants—got little or no mention. They simply boarded as anonymously as they left.

THAT AFTERNOON
, Captain Kendall ran the lifesaving drills we always did the day before sailing. As usual, the crew swiftly made it to their posts, swinging out and lowering the eighteen two-ton steel lifeboats that lined the decks, making ready by the extra collapsibles, or cranking closed the many watertight doors. The two in the stokehold level at the very bottom of the ship were shut by engine-room controls that dropped the huge doors like a guillotine, or so Jim had told me one time, but the other twenty-two on the ship were cranked by hand. Men raced to the deck above each door and pulled down a three-foot metal key from its brace on the bulkhead. The key, a T-bar of sorts, fit into the hole in the floor and by turning it, a man worked the gears that closed the heavy horizontal door. Timothy liked to brag that he'd made it to the Upper Deck and shut Door 86 in less than three minutes. Meg, at least, seemed impressed.

My first lifeboat drill scared me, to be honest. What with the wailing siren and everyone running to their stations. But more than that, it was the sudden realization—boats can sink. You'd think the sheer size of this gigantic contraption would make that obvious, that and the fact that steel doesn't float.
Titanic
proved that two years ago and she was supposed to be unsinkable. But maybe it was the very size of the
Empress
, the steadiness of her under my feet, the sense that we were in a small city and not a man-made boat in the middle of
the ocean, for even now after a drill, denial always lulled my mind into assuming we were never really at risk.

When the siren sounded, the stewardess's job was to inform and help the passengers. Simple enough, I suppose. In the drills, Matron Jones had us knock on our assigned cabins and go in and touch the life vests in the closets while saying to the empty room, “Please put on your life vest and proceed to the Upper Deck. Captain's orders.” It seemed a ridiculous thing to practise, really. A waste of time, given all we had to get ready for the next day's sailing. Kate and I often met in the hallway between cabins and rolled our eyes.

By the day's end—with beds made, drills run, storerooms stocked, menus printed, tables set, linens pressed, brass polished, and crew spent—the
Empress
sat secure in her moorings and in the knowledge that she was shipshape for another leg of the journey. With no passengers to serve, I stole away to the railing, eager for some time to think. Jim was somewhere on the ship. I figured he was among the blackened lads calling to each other as they ran the last barrows of coal up the lowermost gangway. Perhaps he was with the same gang staggering in later that night, falling-down drunk from their last binge. Their bawdy songs and colourful cursing drifted up to where I still stood, alone at the rail. One of them stopped and looked up at me. Or maybe I just wished he did. Either way, Jim never showed up that night.

I leaned on the rail and looked at the glowing lights of Quebec City's cafés and restaurants lining its cobbled streets. Beneath the shadow of the Château Frontenac, two tiny lights drifted together and I realized they were probably the illuminated cars of the
funiculaire
on their last run. They came
together seemingly as one for a brief moment and then moved on to settle at opposite ends. Upper and Lower Town—such different worlds.

I took one last look at the cityscape, knowing I'd probably never see it again. Wondering if I'd ever see Jim again, either.

THE SECOND INTERVIEW

June 1914

Strandview Manor, Liverpool

Chapter Sixteen

MONDAY CAME AND WENT
, and Steele never showed up for our second interview. Instead, I got a note saying he had to do an interview up north. This whole deal with Steele was a bad idea, especially if he was going to be bringing my father into it. Wasn't it enough that I told him about the ship? What did it matter how I ended up on it? Or why? Those were my secrets, a shame I never wanted to revisit, let alone speak about. My gut told me to quit, to have nothing more to do with this manipulative man. But my heart told me Steele knew something more about Jim, and in truth, I'd do anything to find it out.

Steele knew that, too.

I'd already learned some of Jim's secrets in the few entries I'd read—how he felt about his nickname, about his father, and a bit about me. The last passage was different, though, for he'd written about nightmares. About drowning and feeling stalked by the sea. I wondered why he'd put it down on paper if it scared him so.

I picked up the other entry Steele had left on his last visit.

I'd read it a million times since Steele left it with me, but even now it was hard to read. Not just because they were Jim's words, but because the entry had come from near the start of his journal, before we'd even met. Whoever he was writing about, it wasn't me.

I didn't want to know about
her
. Why torture myself ? Why read Jim's private thoughts about someone else? But there had to be something in there, some answers to all my questions. Something I'd missed. I gripped the page with both hands, forcing myself to read it once more.

The yellowed sheet trembled in my hand. I thought I might be sick. Had I eaten anything, I probably would have retched. But this was sickness of the heart, really. Not the stomach.

I flipped the page, feeling that familar sense of dismay and relief to see that was all he had written.

Who was she? Was he with her now? Was he thinking of her then, on our last night together?

Was he thinking of her when he kissed me?

I SPENT THOSE LONG DAYS
waiting for Steele's return from Ireland with both hope and dread, swinging between extremes like the brass pendulum of the mantel clock. I did not care to go out—for where would I go? And no one cared to come over—for who had I left? And so I sat in my chair listening to the tick of the clock until I thought I might explode. Lily and Bates went about their usual routines, structuring their days by duties. Dusting. Driving to market. Dinners. Dishes. Delivering me cup after cup of tea that sat unsipped on the side table until it was stone cold. I envied them their chores, actually. As mundane and monotonous as servants' duties were, they provided purpose. Something to occupy the hands and mind, at least for a little while. A reason to get up in the morning, even if only to grumble about it. I missed that.

“Would you like to come to market with Lily and me?” Bates asked from the hall. “It's a fine afternoon. Perhaps a stroll around the park after?”

“No, you go on ahead. I have some things to do here,” I lied, for the only thing I could do was wait. Wait and worry.

WHEN STEELE FINALLY ARRIVED
on Thursday, a week since our last interview, I made him wait. I sat at the vanity table in my bedroom as Lily showed him to the front room. She
told me he was waiting downstairs. Truth be told, I wanted to rush down and get the door myself, I was that eager to have someone else to talk to, even if it was Steele. But on the other hand, my stomach churned over what he would ask today—about why I was on that ship, about how I survived, about that night. It amazed me how the man could both pull and repel me. And how I was starting to feel the same way about information on Jim. I wanted to know everything Steele knew about Jim, I wanted more journal entries, I wanted the truth—and yet, it terrified me.