Unspeakable (3 page)

“What do you know about upper class?” I didn't like her tone. Or her suggestion that all upper class are brats or that I couldn't serve them. If anyone knew what an upper-class person wanted, surely it would be me. I
was
upper class, or had been, once.

She laughed and busied herself with her cap, securing it in place with four hairpins. “Nothing personal, Ellen, but you don't know your galley from your glory hole. And if there's one thing rich people expect, it's a servant who knows the place.” She tilted her head. “A servant who knows
her
place.”

“She has the right idea.” Kate nodded at Meg. “Look at her, all eager to please. You must have served first class before, love. Am I right?”

Meg hesitated and glanced at me. “Um, I've only ever worked as a maid. For Lady Hardy.”

“We both did,” I added. “As maids. I'm a maid, too.”

“Oh?” Kate seemed amused by my overinsistence. “Just the one mistress, then?”

“And her young grandniece,” Meg added. Her eyes flickered from Kate's to mine, terrified she'd said too much.

“Let me guess,” Kate continued, smoothing down her apron and brushing her hands together. “Rich, spoiled brat who speaks of nothing but her clothes and her hair and her debutante dress?”

Meg said nothing and stared at the floor, but her blush made Kate laugh.

“Do you know the Hardys?” I asked. It hadn't occurred to me that anyone but Chief Steward Gaade knew my family. And even he didn't know the whole story.

“No.” Kate shook her head. “But they're all the same, aren't they?”

I thought of my old friends. Of our visits that summer before everything changed. And we did talk of clothes and hair and dresses. Until Declan Moore appeared. Then all I spoke of was him. And look where it got me.

“Hurry up and change into your uniforms or Jones will have our heads.” Kate moved to the doorway. “I'll meet you at the stairwell down the hall. Can't have you lost already.” She smiled and closed the door behind her.

“She seems nice,” Meg said.

“She seems like a bossy know-it-all,” I grumbled, folding my arms. “Just what I need.”

“Exactly.” She opened up her bag and put her meagre items in her newly acquired drawer. “I mean, who better to teach us than someone who knows everything?”

I slumped into my bunk. This was going to be a long trip.

THE DAY AFTER

May 30, 1914

Rimouski, Quebec

Chapter Three

THE WHISTLE SHRIEKED
as the train pulled into the station, steam puffing in the afternoon chill. It felt cold for May. Maybe it was just me. I hadn't stopped shaking since I'd arrived in this small town yesterday, and no amount of hot tea or quilts or roaring fires helped. I doubted I'd ever feel warm again.

“
Tiens
,” Monique said, taking off her shawl and draping it across my shoulders. Willing her warmth into me.

About three hundred of us stood on the platform, clad in the homespun generosity of those hard-working strangers who literally gave us the clothes off their backs. Even the richest men among us, who had worn nothing but ties and tails on the ship, now sported farmers' jeans and mackinaw jackets, their wives in calico and old bonnets. We were not first or third class. Passengers or crew. Not anymore. We were victims. Only victims.

I scanned their faces one more time—spending a bit more of my hope. But not too much. I'd always thought I had hope in endless supply. But I knew now I didn't. Hope
was a fistful of pennies. Each prayer and every wish meant tossing one more penny into the depths. Every time, it cost me. I knew that soon enough I wouldn't have any hope left, and a part of me was afraid to waste it. But there was no sign of either of them.

The doors to the cars opened and, numbly, I followed the crowd onto the train. We didn't want to think. Just tell us what to do. Where to go.
Take this dress. Drink this tea. Take this train to Quebec. Take that ocean liner back to Liverpool
. It didn't matter that getting on another boat was the last thing any of us wanted to do.
And what then?
I pictured old Bates in his butler uniform, leaning against the car as he waited for us at the Liverpool docks, how he used to fuss over whatever small trinket Meg brought him back from across the sea. This time, all I'd be bringing him was the news that Meg, his only granddaughter, was never coming home.

Take this seat
. Yes. That was enough for now.

I leaned my forehead on the cool window and closed my eyes.

Jim was there, as always. In that moment. His face before me. His arms around me. And his eyes, those eyes, seeing right inside me. Even now I could almost feel his warmth, almost smell his scent as he drew me inside his peacoat. His voice, strong and sure.

“
You
are my hope … and I won't lose you, Ellie. I won't.”

That was the last time I saw him. For all I knew, he—

I opened my eyes.

No
.

Don't go there
.

All I had was a fistful of memories. Stolen moments at the
ship's rail. Wishes. Hopes that he felt the same way about me. I knew it was him I wanted above all else. I just never knew for sure if he felt the same.

I never told him my truths. I never asked for his.

The train lurched forward. Through the window, I saw Monique raise her hand to me as we pulled away.

I never said thank you. I never said goodbye. I suppose I never said a lot of things these past few days.

And now it was too late.

“Ellen!” The young girl clambered up on the seat beside me, her blue eyes wide in their dark pockets. She wore a sailor dress of white with blue trim, a gift, no doubt, from some family in Rimouski.

“Gracie.” I managed a smile. The man with her wasn't her father. I recognized him as one of the Salvationists, but when I glanced behind him, there was no sign of Bandmaster Hanagan or his wife, Edith. He met my eyes and shook his head—a tiny movement that said it all.

“Ernie Pugmire,” he said, offering me his hand. He sat across from Gracie.

“Well, well,” a man said, as he stepped between us and settled in the empty seat across from me, “you must be Gracie Hanagan.” The reporter from the shed, Wyatt Steele. How the hell did he get in here? Instinctively, I rested my hand on Gracie's leg.

“Can you not leave us in peace?” I snapped. “She's a child, Mr. Steele. A
victim
.”

“She's no victim.” He smiled at Gracie. “She's a
survivor
.”

Gracie sat a little taller, strengthened by his words. “How do you know my name?” she asked shyly.

“Why, you're famous. One of the four children who survived.”

My stomach sank.
Only four?

There were over one hundred and thirty-five children on board. I remembered the way the young boys cheered when the huge ship sounded one long blast from its tall stacks before pulling away from the Quebec docks; the bonneted babes mesmerized by their mothers' hankies fluttering as they waved to those ashore; the little ones skipping around the deck, dancing to the music as Gracie's father led the Salvation Army Band, trumpets and trombones winking in the sunlight.

Could they really be gone? All of them—but three and Gracie?

“The world wants to hear your story, Gracie,” Steele continued with his familiar sales pitch. But I wasn't having any of it.

“I doubt her parents would've wanted her … ” My voice trailed off as she turned to me. I'd just mentioned her parents. Spoken of them in the past tense. But it didn't seem to bother her.

“It's all right, Ellen. I want to tell Mr. Steele my story,” Gracie explained. “We can ask permission when we get to Quebec. Mama and Papa aren't on this special train, but they'll be on the next one.”

I met Ernie's sad eyes. He hadn't told her—or perhaps he had, and like the rest of us, Gracie didn't want to hear it.

I faced Steele. “How many people … survived?”

He pulled out a black leather notebook and flipped back through the pages, giving me the toll as if he were merely telling the time. “Four hundred and sixty-five.”

We'd sailed from Quebec with 1477 souls aboard. I didn't let myself do the math that would surely tell me over a thousand were dead. Instead, I clung to the fact that four hundred and sixty-five were alive. Four hundred and sixty-five had made it.

Maybe he had, too.

Maybe even Meg. She could very well be coming on the next train with the Hanagans. Hope flickered in my heart and I cupped myself around it, protecting it against all reality that might snuff it out.

I didn't like the man or his mission, but Steele was right about one thing at least—Gracie's very presence gave hope to us all.

Chapter Four