The Captain's Daughter (8 page)

She kept bouncing the baby on her knee, barely hoping someone would recognize her but no one did, walking past with dazed looks on their faces.
She has no one and you have no one, where’s the harm in passing her off as your own?
The battle for and against keeping Ella raged in May’s mind like a fever. They had to salvage something out of this terrible event. If Ella was orphaned, she might be adopted by rich Americans and given every luxury far beyond May’s means. What did she have? She had nothing to offer her but love.

But what if the baby was dumped in an orphanage? They would do their best for her but house mothers were busy and surrounded by needy children. There was never enough attention to go around. May could all too easily recall the pushing and shoving, the second-hand toys, the same grey uniform and regimented routines. Even hair was bobbed and cropped to save time. No one was going to cut off these beautiful black curls.

May took a deep breath. What was done was done. There was no going back now.

After the remembrance service, the survivors crowded together in the First Class saloon. May and Celeste stood in silence with the other shocked passengers and crew. It was whispered that some survivors had died on the ship and would be buried later in the afternoon. Celeste, who’d had no information so far, made for the purser’s office to check once again if anyone had heard of Mrs Grant. The news was good. She was somewhere in the ship’s infirmary suffering from exposure. Celeste rushed to visit her but the old lady was asleep under sedation. Then she made for the laundry, collected Ella’s dry clothes and was given a bright dress from one of the
Carpathia’s
passengers, a soft woollen garment with darted bodice that fitted her like a glove. She swapped it for her own black garment, which was pressed and sponged down. Instinctively Celeste knew that May, so recently widowed, would prefer to wear mourning rather than the brighter colour, and Celeste was willing to pass on to her the warm and dry black dress.

She clutched the baby clothes and sniffed the fresh scent of clean laundry. How could plain little May have produced such a beauty? How she longed for a chance to have another child of her own but Grover was adamant that one son and heir was an elegant sufficiency.

Their life in Akron seemed so far away. She thought back to when they’d met in London, at a dinner party given by her grandfather, a retired bishop, in London, for visiting American Episcopalians. Grover had been on a business trip for the Diamond Rubber Company and had come along with a friend, sweeping her off her feet with roses and gifts, putting a ring on her finger before she had a chance to blink, and had her on the first ship to New York. It all seemed such a long time ago.

All marriages take time to settle down, but theirs was taking longer than most. Their worlds were far apart but Roddy was such a joy. She must wire to tell them she was safe but how would Grover understand what she’d just been through? The screams of those drowning souls would echo in her ears for the rest of her days. The sight of the sinking ship flashed before her eyes as if it was still happening. How could things ever be the same after this?

As Celeste passed through the dining room she noticed a group of women sitting round on the floor, wrapped in furs and paisley shawls, listening to a large woman holding forth.

‘Now, ladies, we can’t just sit here and do nothing. Before we leave this ship we must form a committee and make some firm resolutions. This disaster is going to shake the world and heads must roll for what went on last night. Here are all these poor souls without a stitch on their backs, not a cent in their pockets. Who’s going to see they get justice? How will they make out when we dock in New York if we don’t get to work right now?’

‘But, Mrs Brown, the White Star Line is responsible for their welfare, not us,’ said another lady, standing by her side.

The stout woman shook her head and held up her hand. ‘I’ve known what it’s like not to have a dime to my name. America can make men rich or make beggars of them. I was lucky, my husband struck gold, but I know one thing: if you don’t shout, you don’t get!’

Celeste moved closer. The woman was on fire with indignation, voicing just the sort of sentiments she was feeling herself. Surprisingly she felt bold enough to add her tuppence worth.

‘You’re so right. I was on a boat where a poor woman was dragged from the sea. Everything she possesses is gone – her husband, their tickets, their money. Her baby was rescued, praise the Lord, but she is destitute.’

Mrs Brown turned towards the new arrival and smiled. ‘There, you see . . . Welcome. Don’t you just love that accent? Come and join us, sister. We need women like you to stand up and be counted. Who will thank Captain Rostron and the crew of the
Carpathia
if we don’t? Who will see that the immigrants get recompensed, if not us? When we land, it’s going to be chaos at first. Everyone will want to help now, but when the poor souls disperse, someone has to follow up and see that their needs are met.’

‘But, Margaret, dear, isn’t it too soon to be taking responsibility for such things? The government will want to do that,’ said a First Class passenger wrapped in fox furs.

‘Ethel, the government is an ass! Pardon my French. It’s women who do the caring. Always have, always will. We must make sure that no one goes hungry because of this disaster. Kids must get a proper education. How many pas have been lost, rich ones as well as poor? How many orphans has the
Titanic
made? Who’ll bury those poor frozen bodies of the poor? It all needs a woman’s compassion. Charity can be awful cold. I’ll pass round a paper. Sign your names, add your addresses and what you are prepared to do and give for the unfortunates amongst us.’

‘But some of us have lost everything too,’ one woman sobbed.

‘I know, sister, but the good Lord helps those who help themselves. It’s better to get organized now, before we all scatter to the far corners of this great country of ours. You must spread the word, sisters! Tell your story and get the tins rattling. Doing something is better than weeping into your coffee.’

Celeste started to clap, enthused by Margaret Brown’s rousing words. She couldn’t stand by and not get involved, not when she had seen how bad things were for the sick and destitute on board. There were those so shocked they wandered around like ghosts. How would they ever stand up for themselves?

When the impromptu meeting dispersed, Mrs Brown made her way to Celeste, a beaming smile on her face. ‘And where’re you heading, sister?’

‘Back to Akron, Ohio. I like what you said. I’d like to help,’ Celeste replied.

‘I heard there are some poor folks heading for Rubber Town who lost their menfolk. We lost Walter Douglas of Quaker Oats fame. His wife is over there, do you know her?’ She pointed to a woman weeping in a corner. ‘Still in shock but she’ll come round. I want to make sure we thank the crew properly, not just some letter but a real token of our appreciation,’ she added.

‘Like a medal, perhaps?’ Celeste offered.

‘You’ve got it! A medal struck for each of the crew presented at a ceremony . . . not now, of course. It’ll take some organizing . . . you interested?’ Margaret Brown fixed her with a look that demanded no excuses.

‘But I live in Ohio.’

‘So? I’m out west . . . There are trains. We’ll hold another meeting before we leave. Welcome aboard. You are . . . ?’

‘Mrs Grover Parkes.’

‘But who are you? First names only on my watch . . .’

‘Celestine Rose . . . Celeste . . .’ She hesitated, nervous now about what she was letting herself in for.

‘What a heavenly name,’ Margaret Brown chuckled as she led her round the room chatting to other supporters. ‘You’re English. There’s a lot of them on board, see if you can corner them and don’t take no for an answer. If they won’t help, at least get a donation off them or an address where we can badger them later with our appeal.’

Celeste sighed at this gutsy larger-than-life lady who was making a beeline for the Astor contingent. The confidence was bursting out of her.

If only she could be more like that, she mused. If only she didn’t feel every ounce of her own self worth had been ground out of her over these past years by Grover’s constant criticism. He’d take one look at Mrs Brown and dismiss her as an interfering do-gooder with more money than sense. Well, he was wrong. She was the sort of woman who got things done and Celeste would be sticking close to her no matter what, hoping some of that brash, go-getting confidence might rub off on herself.

May was dozing when Celeste returned and she awoke with a start. She fingered the two-piece black dress folded over Celeste’s arm with a sigh. ‘How can I ever thank you? What lovely cloth.’

Celeste said nothing about how important it was to Grover that she dressed to suit her station in life. She must always look like a suitable consort to a successful businessman, clad in only the best fabrics and trimmings. Appearance was everything to Grover, Celeste thought darkly. And as the
Titanic
so terribly demonstrated, appearances could be deceptive.

‘Let’s see how it fits you. We can always take up the hem.’

May hung back. ‘There are women walking round in skirts made out of blankets over there. This is too good for me.’

‘Nonsense. Here are the baby’s clothes, all spick and span. The lace on her nightdress is exquisite. It’s hand done, and the bonnet too . . . Are you a lacemaker?’

May looked up. ‘Oh, that,’ she said flatly ‘It was a gift. I was once in service in Lostock outside Bolton to the wife of a cotton mill owner. When she heard about the baby, she gave me a load of stuff. It must be one of hers.’ May amazed herself with the speed and confidence with which she concocted this dreadful lie. She’d never seen such fancy lace in her life.

‘They look like heirlooms. I haven’t seen anything like it before.’

‘I suppose it is rather grand for a little ’un,’ May blushed. ‘I’ll be right now, I reckon. Go and get yourself some tea. You’ve been so kind. We’ll manage somehow.’

Celeste was not easily shifted, however. ‘We started this together so we’ll finish it too. I have all the time in the world. You need help and information. I can find you a place to stay in New York. You’ve enough on your plate with Ella to see to.’

‘Are you always this bossy?’ May smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth.

‘Only when I’m right,’ the lady replied, smiling. ‘I surprise myself sometimes. I’d like you to get those hands checked over again.’ She took hold of May’s hands and inspected the swollen fingers. ‘A warm bath might ease them. I can see to Ella. She’s such a darling, how old is she?’

‘A year in May,’ May answered swiftly and then wished she hadn’t.

‘Really? She’s very small. Roddy was twice her size at that age.’

‘She was a seven monther, a tiny thing at birth and so she is a bit behind others.’ How could she let such lies trip off her tongue?

‘I’d love a little girl. Perhaps one day . . .’ Celeste looked wistful and far away. ‘Roddy’s nearly three. They grow so fast, don’t they? Don’t forget to wire your family back home to tell them that you are safe.’

‘We’ve no family, not now, not ever. There were just the three of us. Ella’s all I’ve got left.’

‘Oh, that’s terrible and so unfair. I’m so sorry. But there’s your relative in Idaho.’

‘Uncle George? I’ve never met him. He bought the ticket for us but Joe had everything in his coat.’ Tears were welling up in her eyes now. ‘I don’t even know exactly where we were going. Isn’t that terrible? Joe did everything like that. I didn’t really want to come.’ The tears flowed down her cheeks unchecked.

‘Let it out, May. You need to cry. You’ve held yourself together so bravely. If this Uncle George sponsored you, officials will have his address. I’ll make sure they know.’

‘I don’t deserve your kindness, Celeste. I’m making a fool of myself,’ May sniffed.

‘Don’t be silly. They’re holding a special burial service for those who’ve died on the ship. I think we should go. It will help. My father’s a clergyman and he says saying goodbye helps. Standing side by side together we can support each other.’

‘Oughtn’t you to be up there?’ May looked to where many First Class passengers were gathered in groups, talking, smoking.

‘May, we’re in this together.’ Celeste held out her hand. It was too much for May and she cried again.

‘Joe’s never coming back, is he?’

‘There’s always hope. Maybe another ship picked survivors up.’

May sighed and swallowed her tears. ‘He’s gone. I can feel it here,’ she whispered, touching her heart. ‘I should have gone with them.’

‘Don’t say that! Think of Ella. She needs you more than ever now.’

May fingered the baby’s head and whispered, ‘You’re right. Every baby needs a mother. I may not be your flesh and blood,’ she sighed, looking into the little stranger’s eyes, ‘but I’ll do my best.’

Lower Manhattan

He was going to be late for his shift but Angelo Bartolini lingered, putting the finishing touches to his apartment off Baxter Street. He’d been counting off the days on his Holy Saints calendar. He couldn’t wait to see Maria again, and meet his new baby daughter, but he didn’t want her to be disappointed with the two rooms so he was giving them a lick of paint.

His uncle Salvi and aunt Anna had helped him furnish the tiny home with a bed, a crib, a table, two chairs and a cabin chest for their clothes. It had to be finished before their arrival on Wednesday. As he stood back to admire his handiwork, he smiled. This was as grand as a palace, with new lace curtains waiting to be hung, and a bowl of fresh fruit from Salvi’s stall on Mulberry Street. Everything had to be perfect for their reunion.

He fingered the postcard in his dungarees pocket. There was a picture of the most magnificent ship in the world; his wife and baby were travelling to New York in style to begin their new life together. It was such a good omen for their future happiness.

How long they’d put off this reunion, first because of the baby and then because he wanted only the best for his wife. They would not be sharing rooms with anyone else. The Mulberry District was noisy, dusty, full of their compatriots trying to scratch a living. The streets of New York might be paved with gold but it was the Italians who had to do the paving.