The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  ‘All I’m saying is we have some lace baby clothes in the airing cupboard at home that came from the Titanic, and the shoe, well, there’s one of them too.’

  ‘Not any more. I cut them up for my dolls,’ Clare said.

  ‘So whose clothes were they?’ Patti asked. ‘I don’t get it. Why the disappearing act?’

  Celeste sipped her umpteenth espresso and sighed. What a strange evening, everyone wondering what was going on, curious, asking questions. Ella had hidden in her room refusing to return, overwhelmed by the turn of events.

  ‘I was there the night a baby was rescued. I believed what I was told, that it was the captain who put the baby into the lifeboat. May grabbed on to her as her own. That is certain, but memory is such a strange thing. It plays tricks and a person can see what they’ve seen or what they think they’ve seen. Now I can’t recall any of it. The rest . . .’

  ‘But what baby?’ Patti turned to Kathleen. ‘What is going on here?’

  ‘Are you saying what I think you are saying, Mom?’ asked Roddy.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure now, but when I saw the little shoe . . . It may be just a coincidence.’

  ‘There’s one thing that won’t lie and that’s those baby clothes, what’s left of them,’ Archie said. ‘I’m surprised the mice haven’t got to them by now.’

  ‘Surely there’ll be something left in the case,’ she said, turning to Clare, who shrugged.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Celeste said. ‘It’s not our history, or at least it’s not mine. Your mother will know what to do. Let her sleep on it all. She’ll do what’s right. We must give her space to work this out for herself. She has always been so loyal to May. She will tell us the rest when she’s ready.’

  ‘Come on, it’s time for bed. Tomorrow could be an interesting day,’ Archie said.

  ‘But what is going on, what with the baby shoe? Whose is it?’ Patti cried impatiently.

  ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings,’ said her husband.

  127

  Ella woke with the vestiges of the strangest dream still in her mind. She was in a large empty house, walking along a gallery filled with pictures on the walls, of ships and churches and landscapes. As she walked around these treasures of memory, her feet echoed on the marble floor. It was cold, the wind rattled the doors and she was afraid. She saw a picture of an aeroplane skimming over the water and another of a great ship sinking into the ocean. She could taste the salt water in her mouth and feel the chill. She was thrashing and bobbing and then swimming along this neverending gallery until she found herself pulled towards a secret corner where a woman was smiling, opening a door. She knew that face, a face she’d cherished all her life. May was nodding and smiling as she opened the door to wave her through to safety and daybreak.

  She made her way to Clare’s room.

  ‘Now you know everything,’ Ella said as she lay on the bed next to her daughter. ‘I did want to tell you earlier but it’s such a sad story. Then that business with the shoe last night . . .’

  ‘Do you think they’re a pair?’

  ‘I don’t know, they’re very similar. There’s a way we might find out, though.’

  ‘It’s all a bit spooky. Could we really be Bartolinis? That would make Patti your stepsister . . . Wait till we tell everyone we’re Italian.’

  ‘No! This is a private matter between us for the moment. There must be no fuss in the papers. This is our secret. It may be all just a coincidence,’ Ella warned, not wanting to raise false hopes. ‘We have to find out more about the lace.’

  ‘There’s not much left, I’m afraid, but that border on my tennis slip.’

  ‘There’ll be enough. We’ll go into Sansepolcro and check out the lace shops, take a closer look. We might find the key to it all there.’

  After a breakfast of leftover puddings and cake, they piled into two cars and set off for the walled city. Patti and Kathleen were curious, dying to ask more questions, but Ella just smiled and kept saying, ‘Wait and see.’ How different she felt this morning after the dream; free to look round at the hazy beauty of the hillsides, the golden light on the houses as if looking at it for the first time. Could this really be her birthplace?

  How many other Tuscan wives from the district were on the Titanic? It would be easy enough to trace through the records, and the knowledge that her own father might be alive made her heart leap with excitement, but she must be sure. No point in raising his hopes only to dash them again.

  There were many small lace shops off the piazzas but the biggest one had windows full of drapes, tablecloths, sheets edged with lace borders, napkins, and baby linens.

  Patti was in like a shot, wanting to buy up all the stock, rattling away in broken Italian making herself understood.

  ‘Ask about the designs,’ Ella asked. ‘Who does this work?’

  The lady was fulsome, pleased that the tourists were purchasing souvenirs. ‘You must go to the scuola di merletto. Speak to Signora Petri and her husband. They set up the school many years ago. The girls win many gold medals, their work is the best in Italy. She will tell you their story.’

  Celeste caught up with Ella as they made for the little school. ‘Are you all right? Did you sleep? I didn’t, not when I saw that shoe. It has to be the same as yours.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Ella whispered. ‘The truth is in the lace somewhere. Without any of ours, we can’t prove anything. You’ve seen it more times than I have, I never liked to look. It reminded me of May being ill. Do you think you can recognize any of the patterns? My mind’s gone blank but I’ve told Clare all I know this morning.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. If nothing else, she knows now. I remember how angry you were—’

  ‘Shush, I know. I was so upset but now it’s time we laid all this to rest one way or another.’

  They stopped off for coffee, regrouped and made their way to the school where girls were sitting round the room twisting their bobbins on their cushions, looking up at this strange posse of foreigners. The room dripped with lace panels, tablecloths, collars, displays in cabinets, certificates on the walls, pictures of lace dresses. It was the finest work Ella had ever seen.

  Patti explained their mission to learn about lace making and the history of the patterns on display. They were shown motifs and pattern books, and one of the girls demonstrated how the lace was pricked out according to Signor Petri’s designs. Ella could see animals, flowers, stars, even people in their borders. She asked Kathleen to show them the shoe they had kept from last night.

  ‘Is this from the region?’ Patti asked.

  ‘Yes, our girls do this fine work for special shoes, baptisms, sometimes for funerals. It’s an old one.’

  Patti explained its strange history. ‘Do you know who might have made it?’

  Signora Petri shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. It’s a common design, the edging looks local but there’s not enough to identify one of our designs. You have more?’

  Patti nodded. ‘There’s my wedding veil in the States, and in England perhaps . . . ?’ She looked to Ella, who nodded.

  ‘If you can send me some examples, I might be able to trace it through our records. There’s nothing distinctive in this, I’m sorry,’ she added.

  Ella looked around the room with a fluttering feeling inside her stomach. Did my mother work here? If they had stayed in Italy, would this be where I would be working too?

  They left feeling flat. ‘Let’s cheer ourselves up with ice cream,’ suggested Celeste. ‘My legs are telling me it’s time to sit down.’

  Ella’s mind was racing. It would take months for their samples to be posted and checked and she was impatient to find out more.

  There must be someone who could help. They were halfway back to the car when the answer shot into her head. Of course, how simple! There might still be samples closer than theirs to be found but this time they must go alone.

  128

  The next morning
Ella took the car back down to the walled town to find the office of Piero Marcellini. If he was surprised to see her, he showed no sign of it, sending out for espresso and seating her in a comfortable old leather chair.

  ‘To what do I owe the honour?’ he smiled.

  She told him everything she knew about her history and why the little shoe had upset her so much. She told him about the lacework and how she had tried to identify it.

  ‘I can’t say any more to the Bartolinis until I am sure. Angelo, Patti’s father in New York, knows nothing of this. I need someone to find Maria Caprese’s family, Angelo’s first wife. There may be some lace still here that might be identified as hers. I want to know if there is anything that might link us to her. Whatever we find out must remain in the family. It is not for public consumption, ever.’ She looked up at him. ‘If you would translate for us and be our witness, I would be most grateful.’

  ‘I would be delighted to help. The family will be easy enough to trace. We’re very good at registering people, Il Duce saw to that. Tonight perhaps, we can drive out . . .’

  Ella could see where this was leading. ‘Clare must come too. It is important she be part of this. I have kept her in the dark too long.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Shall I call for you?’

  ‘No, we will come to you.’

  ‘Why all the mystery?’ Clare laughed as they sneaked out after their siesta into the car.

  ‘Just an idea to speed up things, I hope. We’re going on a visit, not sure where yet, but Piero is taking us.’

  ‘I’m not playing gooseberry, am I? I wondered why you’re all dressed up . . .’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Ella smiled, knowing Clare missed nothing. ‘But this is important and we need a witness, just in case . . .’

  ‘Now you are intriguing me.’

  ‘We are going to visit Maria Bartolini’s family home. There may be some of her lace there. It’s worth a try.’

  Piero drove them into the hills in his sleek car that purred its way to just outside Anghiari, not far from where they had visited Patti’s grandparents, the ones who had sheltered Roddy in the war. Higher and higher they rose to a small hamlet, a cluster of little stone houses clinging onto the side of a hill. Hens and ducks scattered at their approach, dogs barked and faces appeared at the doors. Piero asked directions to the Caprese house and was pointed to a tiny cottage, little more than a room with stairs into a loft. A women in black opened the door, listened to Piero rattling off their story and beckoned them through the door with a toothless grin.

  Inside it was so dark it was hard to make out more than a table, a stove and someone stirring in the corner. It was an ancient lady bent double.

  ‘This is Maria’s mother, Alessia. She’s very deaf now and her eyesight is not what it was, and Katerina here is her late son’s wife. She says she never knew her sister-in-law. I am trying to establish if they have anything of Maria’s to show you but I don’t think the old lady can hear me.’ Piero was doing his best but it was not looking hopeful.

  ‘Do they have any photographs?’ Ella asked him to translate.

  Katerina pointed to a rough wall full of sepia portraits of long-departed ancestors, men in uniforms, matrons in stiff dresses. The family had seen better days and now the two widows were scratching a living, as so many had to since the war.

  In the far corner was a photo of a young girl with dried flowers pinned round the frame like a halo. Dangling from the end was a postcard with a picture Ella recognized only too well. Her heart was beating faster as she drew closer, sensing she was looking towards something she’d never dared to dream of before.

  It was Maria’s eyes that drew her into the face, eyes she would have known anywhere, eyes she’d seen so many times in the mirror and the shape of the lips and the narrow dent above them. It was the face that once had been her own face that now was her daughter’s.

  Piero peered too and then stepped back, looking at both of them, smiling. ‘You don’t need any lace, do you? Just look at the three of you. Look, Katerina, what do you see?’

  Katerina looked and smiled, and took the picture off the wall to hand to the old woman shouting in her ear. They crossed themselves, shaking their heads, crying, laughing. Ella felt the tears rising as she kneeled before the old woman. ‘Nonna? I am Maria’s daughter . . .’ Her grandmother stretched out a bony claw to greet her.

  She stared across at Piero, grateful for his intervention, breathless at this discovery. Katerina was rushing for cups and a bottle of wine.

  Clare kept looking at the picture amazed. ‘This is where it all began,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing.’

  Ella nodded. But not where it ends, she thought.

  129

  New York, December 1959

  ‘Come on, Papa, get dressed. We don’t want to be late for our guests,’ Patti was chivvying her father from his fireside. ‘Into your suit and new shirt. It’s cold outside so wrap up.’

  ‘Plenty of time yet,’ Angelo muttered, reluctant to get out of his chair. He didn’t want to go down to the docks to meet the Queen Mary from Southampton, even if Roddy’s relatives were on board. Why couldn’t he just stay here in the warm and let them all get on with it? It was bad enough they had to decamp to Patti’s house for a traditional Christmas in the country. What a fuss they were all making.

  Ever since their return from Italy in the fall, there’d been talk of nothing else but the vacation, and who they met and what they did, and what a pity he hadn’t been able to join them. The house was full of fancy lace and expensive glass souvenirs. It was bad enough he didn’t go with them and now his heart was playing tricks again. Winter was coming and his bones ached. Did they want to kill him off, sending him down to the water’s edge? What he needed at his time of life was peace and quiet, not a house full of noisy kids and strangers who didn’t speak his language.

  The harbour held nothing but bad memories. One ship was the same as any other. Why couldn’t they just pick him up on the way out to Springfield or, better still, leave him here to sulk?

  Now he was bundled into the station wagon, piled with presents and food, all the festive fuss Kathleen had been cooking up. He caught her winking at him. ‘It’s gonna be a Christmas Eve to remember this year.’

  What was so different from any other year? They’d eat too much, drink too much, get indigestion, sleep it off and then it would be back to feet of hard snow for months. Much as he loved his wife and daughter, they sure were playing up today.

  ‘Have you shaved properly? We want you looking your best.’

  ‘Huh!’ he snapped. ‘What’s so special about today? But if I catch my death standing at the dock, then it’ll be one for your calendar right enough.’

  ‘And a Merry Christmas to you, Papa,’ Patti laughed.

  Ella and Clare hung over the rails waiting for the liner to make its way through New York harbour, staring up at the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, speechless at the sights before them. So much had changed since their return from Italy.

  Clare was now reading History at Durham and on her Christmas holiday. Ella had returned to Lichfield knowing she would not be staying there much longer now she had found the other part of herself.

  Celeste, Archie and Selwyn were thrilled by their discoveries, and Roddy and Patti, along with Kathleen, were being kindness itself, keeping the secret under wraps for the sake of the one man who would complete their story.

  Ella had wanted to jump on a plane to meet him right away but there were commissions to fulfil and she had needed time to settle into her new identity and find out more about her heritage in private.

  Her Italian lessons were proving useful. She’d sent the lace pieces for verification and for confirmation of what she already knew. Patti had sent Maria’s wedding veil, as further proof that they were made by one and the same person.

  Ella had seen for herself the Titanic passenger list. There was no other Tuscan woman on board but Maria Bartolini with a ba
by daughter, Alessia Elisabetta, no one of the same age or description. To her delight she found she was younger by months than she’d first thought.

  Piero Marcellini was being a good friend in all of this, translating her letters to Katerina and old Alessia, passing on her gifts and photographs taken of them all together. In fact, he was becoming far more than a friend to her but that was for the future, not now.

  This was the moment she’d been waiting for. But as she hung over the side taking in all the sights and sounds of the busy waterway, she thought of that first voyage she’d made in a stranger’s arms, in borrowed clothes on the saddest of all arrivals back in 1912. How could they not pass close to the Titanic’s last sighting without praying for all those lost souls, for her mother and her foster mother, and all the love that had brought them to this moment? What had been done by May had been done out of love and she’d long forgiven her, as she’d forgiven Anthony for leaving her.

  That time was past. It had been an emotional journey and now it would reach a climax. Ella shivered at the thought of meeting her real father. She’d rehearsed it so many times, had practiced over and over in her head the words she would say.

  Would Angelo be disappointed? Or confused or disbelieving? She hoped the shock would not be too much for him.

  The story had been in the lace all along; finding who she was had taken almost a lifetime of strange happenings that threaded them all together. Captain Smith had saved a baby, May had taken her in and Angelo had never given up hope. Frank had sacrificed his life for Roddy’s freedom and had brought him to Patti: all these twisting threads made up her story and it had all begun with those little shoes.

  Angelo stared up at the liner without emotion at first, but the smells of the dock, the oil and fumes, the gulls crying and the general bustle brought back such a terrible feeling of desolation. Why were they making him come here when they knew how much it distressed him? Why hadn’t these English visitors come by plane?