by Kim Izzo
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked.
“I can’t shake the thought of those people,” she cried softly. “Struggling for their lives in the water. And we knew all along it might happen and we did so little . . .”
“Oh darling, you can’t think like that,” Dorothy said soothingly. “We did what was possible. The Germans are a horrid people. Sometimes these things happen no matter how much you try to stop them. Life is tragic at the best of times and with the war, it’s tragic most of the time.”
“I hate the war,” Isabel exclaimed. She also hated secrets. Since starting her job she had come to terms with her own. Now she had to do the same with her country’s.
“We all do.”
Dorothy returned to her seat. The truth was that Isabel didn’t hate the war, not entirely. She hated the cruelty and loss of life but the war had given her the opportunity to do a job she loved. As difficult as it was to reconcile those two things in her mind the truth was that the war had saved her from a hard and unfulfilling life.
She forced a smile at Dorothy. “Then we best get back to winning it.”
MAY 14
Sydney
The scream shook Sydney awake. She sat bolt upright in bed. It was another of her nightmares. The dreams had plagued her since the sinking. Night after night she’d woken up terrified and in a cold sweat having relived those hours in the water. Sarah clinging to her ankle, the little boy and his tiny coat, the sounds of the dying, it all flooded through her subconscious until she couldn’t take it anymore and she shook herself free of sleep. But then the scream shot through the darkness again. She recognized it this time. It was the blood-curdling screech of a barn owl. She closed her eyes in relief. Since arriving at Rathfon Hall she’d had to get accustomed to the sounds of the English countryside. The first time she’d heard an owl scream she’d rung the servant’s bell. The poor lady’s maid had dashed up to her room still wearing her nightshirt expecting Sydney had taken ill only to find her cowering beneath the covers.
“I heard a scream,” she’d told the maid. “Like someone was being murdered.”
The lady’s maid had smiled kindly. She was a stout woman with blond ringlets streaked with grey and a patient manner to go along with her quiet, steady voice. “It’s only an owl, Miss Sinclair. The estate is full of them.”
“An owl?” Sydney had asked incredulously. “Making that hideous sound?”
The maid smiled at her. It took all her patience when foreigners questioned her knowledge of England. “Yes. It’s a barn owl.”
Sydney had slowly crept up from beneath the sheets. “Thank you. You may go.”
The lady’s maid nodded. “Good night, Miss Sinclair. I will see you in the morning.”
Sydney had heard the owls many times since that first incident but it never ceased to terrify her. She stepped out of bed and went to the window and drew back the heavy damask curtains. The night sky was black as pitch. There was no sign of life in the skies or trees outside the window. The owl had apparently moved on. She went back to bed and tried in vain to return to sleep but it was no use. Every night was the same. She was afraid to sleep because then she might dream of Brooke and that horrible free fall before they landed in the sea. Her poor sister. Why had she perished? She must have been so frightened as she swirled violently in the water and was sucked down with the churning of the ship. Sydney made a fist. She would never have been strong enough to hold Brooke; even if her sister hadn’t let go of her hand, they’d have been torn apart by the force of the sea. Though in truth they were torn apart before the torpedo strike, even if she hated to admit it. Edward had already torn them apart, no matter how unintentionally, no matter how many times she reminded herself that no one was to blame. Brooke had died knowing that her sister had betrayed her. She fought away the image of Brooke in her wedding gown that fateful afternoon. It was all Sydney could do not to hate herself for falling in love with Edward. She recalled Walter’s words to her and tried to reconcile them to her feelings of guilt but it was no use. What was between her and Edward had been destroyed with the Lusitania. But there was one thing she could do for him and his family and when the sun rose this morning it would be done.
Edward
The sunlight cast a speckled pattern across the library, giving the entire room the dapples of a dark bay stallion. The sun also dotted Edward’s face as he peered out the window waiting to see Sydney ride into view, but he didn’t need the aid of the sun to cast a shadow over him. He tried to banish the memory of the man who had attacked him in the water. Whoever he was, he knew the end was coming and was determined to stay alive. Edward wasn’t even sure what had happened in the end. The last thing he recalled was being pummelled on the head and then the next thing he knew he was lifted into a lifeboat.
He would never forget the stunning image of a middle-aged woman at the oars, giving orders. Her name was Elizabeth Duckworth, a third class passenger and, according to a man on board, she had been on another lifeboat and had helped row away from the scene before being picked up by a fishing smack. Once on board that vessel, Duckworth asked the fishing boat captain to return to the site for survivors. But he had told her in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t spare a soul. “You can spare me!” she had shouted, and leapt back into the lifeboat. Along with a couple of men she returned to the scene and picked up about forty survivors who otherwise would have drowned—Edward amongst them. He was eternally grateful. As he had looked at that stern but courageous woman, who had acted when none of the men would, his mind had immediately gone to Sydney. How these two would get along.
Mrs. Duckworth had continued to row all the way to the fishing smack, which Edward saw was called the Peel 12. As they were lifted aboard, a wave of cheers went up for Mrs. Duckworth. He was forced to lie down as another woman passenger helped bandage him up. Try as he might he couldn’t recall what had transpired between the man’s attack in the water and the arrival of Mrs. Duckworth’s lifeboat. The truth was lost forever.
But as he stood safe and sound at Rathfon Hall the darkness that welled within him went beyond his personal story. The massive loss of life he had witnessed had deepened it. The faces of the dying haunted him: the anguish and horror, the shock and fear that passed across their faces with the realization that the end had come. Yet the human body, or perhaps the human soul, rarely gave up without a fight, its instinct for survival kicking in to thrash and gasp to the last breath, despite knowing it was no match for Mother Nature. This capacity for survival had impressed him. It seemed a trite point. But he could do something with it. He could carry it with him to the Western Front. The sinking was his first battle of the war and he felt prepared for what he would see in France. The glamour of war had been scraped off entirely. Since his return home, when what was left of his “gang” had come around, still bent on glory for all, he had listened politely. But he saw that Sydney couldn’t handle their ideas and their foolish enthusiasm for killing and on one occasion it had forced her to retreat from the dinner table.
“She’s been through a lot,” Lady Northbrook had explained to the young men that night. The men had nodded in understanding, never thinking for a moment that Edward had also suffered.
“You must be devastated to lose your fiancée,” Lord Stratham, a boyhood friend, had said consolingly. “But you’ll get those Jerrys and avenge her.”
“Hear! Hear!” went around the table.
They meant well. They couldn’t know. No one could. And it seemed to Edward that no one would ever know the truth. It had died with Brooke. The truth and the dream had disappeared below the surface. Sydney had been kind but also cold to him and seemed to avoid being alone with him. She had taken care to spend time with Georgina but her zest for politics had ebbed somewhat. Still the two young women had enjoyed each other’s company and it brought Edward joy to see the two women he cherished most getting along so well. If they were to marry he was convinced Sydney would guide Georgina into a life that was fully her ow
n. But if was a large word. He stared down at the diamond-and-sapphire ring he had been fiddling with all morning. The real Thorpe-Tracey engagement ring that Brooke had decided wasn’t grand enough. He hadn’t yet shown it to Sydney. There never seemed to be a right time.
At last Sydney appeared. Each morning he’d made it his habit to watch her ride across the fields to the house from this very window. It was his only opportunity to see her, observe her, without an audience, without her knowing he was watching. She dismounted and handed the horse over to the stableboy. Her hair was askew beneath her hat. He smiled at the memory it brought to him. The pin he had removed from her hair, the back of her neck, bare and inviting. He daren’t think of holding her or kissing her or making love to her. It was a sensation that was nearly as painful as the sinking.
Sydney
Despite the nightmares and the memories of her ordeal, she couldn’t deny that Rathfon Hall was a glorious place in springtime. The gardens wore massive blooms and the trees and shrubs were varying shades of emerald and citrine. The grounds were kept immaculately as were the stables and Sydney had taken the opportunity to ride out every morning. Astride a horse was the only time she found peace and she was grateful when Edward had not pushed to join her and she was able to gallop across the fields unaccompanied.
His parents were very gracious to her. Sydney adored Georgina. She was a lovely girl who, regardless of her own tragic circumstances, was full of life. When Sydney had arrived after the tragedy she had shown Georgina the scarf.
“I’d borrowed it from my sister,” she had fibbed. “She adored it as do I. It was by chance I was wearing it that afternoon.”
Georgina had pressed the scarf into Sydney’s hand. “Then you must keep it.”
The family had welcomed her with sympathetic hearts, leaving her to grieve in private but inviting her to whatever social gatherings she was comfortable attending. The lady’s maid had been sent to London and had brought home a dozen dresses from the shops, including some breathtaking gowns. Sydney liked the gauzy Lucile gowns the best and given that their designer, Lady Duff Gordon, was a Titanic survivor, it made sense to choose from her collection.
Sydney thought of her mourning clothes safely packed in a trunk in the attic of the Fifth Avenue brownstone. She had thought it silly to hang on to them at the time. By the time a family member passes next they will be out of fashion. Of course she never thought . . .
As she entered the home from the courtyard a footman greeted her bearing a telegram. It was exactly on time. She thanked him and rushed up the stairs to her room. It was from Mr. Garrett.
Dear Sydney,
I have done what you asked and the papers will arrive sometime today from a solicitor who is travelling up from London. But I must take this opportunity to object one final time. If you change your mind after the papers are signed it will be too late. My condolences once again and you must understand I’m also grieving Brooke’s loss.
Yours faithfully,
E. Garrett
Sydney was relieved by the news. It wouldn’t be long before she could tell Edward and his family her decision and then . . . she’d think of that later.
It was nearly four p.m. when she came into the drawing room for tea and found Edward waiting for her. The face she adored so was gaunt and pallid. It had only been a week since the tragedy and he hadn’t recovered any more than she had.
“Darling,” he said. “Before my parents and Georgina come in I want to know how you are, really. You have avoided being alone with me ever since you got here and I can’t tolerate it any longer. We must talk.”
Being alone with him again and talking was the last thing she wanted to do in this moment. “I’m managing, Edward. And I’m not avoiding you. Not really.”
His expression turned grave. Her coldness had stung him. “That’s all you can say? I love you, Sydney. We still have each other. We survived. You can’t go on living with the dead.”
“Don’t say that,” she said coolly. Hearing Edward say nearly the same words as Walter irritated her. Did no one besides her need to grieve? “My sister, Alfred, Hannah, all of them are gone and you ask me to behave like what? A girl in love on a Sunday picnic?”
He looked wounded. “I never said nor implied any such thing. But I miss you,” he said. “You know I leave in a few days for the army.” With no wedding to delay him the army had moved up the start date of Edward’s commission.
“I know,” she said quietly, and went to sit down on a pink chintz chair with too many cushions to be comfortable. She had tried to keep the thought of him going to war at bay. Even if it were wrong to love him and marry him, she would always care for him. “And I sail for New York with Brooke’s body. She will be buried next to our parents.”
“It will be a difficult journey for you,” he said solemnly. “For many reasons.”
“Yes, I have no desire to sail the North Atlantic so soon after what happened,” she said. The idea was horrifying. What if there was another submarine attack? The world had protested the Lusitania attack vehemently and Germany, which had celebrated it at first as a victory, was making noises of regret. But if they had murdered so many civilians for their cause already why should they be trusted not to do so again? She was booked on an American steamer but there was no guarantee. The thought of New York and home was her only solace.
Edward knelt at her side imploring her to look at him, which she did against her better judgment. “Before you begin your journey we should tell my family that we plan to marry,” he said eagerly. “I know it can’t be arranged before I go to the front so we’ll have to hope . . .” His voice trailed off into thoughts of battlefields and muddy trenches.
Sydney studied his face. How could she tell him now when he faced war as a soldier? But she was spared the decision by the entrance of the butler.
“There is a gentleman for Miss Sinclair,” he said with the gravity of a bishop. “I’ve put him in the library.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “I will follow you there.” She hardly looked at Edward.
“Who is it?” he asked suspiciously.
“I will let you know when my business with him is done,” she answered with the tone of a banker, and followed Mr. Thompson out of the drawing room and down the gallery to the library. A footman swept open the door and Sydney entered to find a short and thin man of about forty waiting for her. His checkered suit was smart and he wore a flower in his lapel. It wasn’t a carnation like poor Alfred had favoured, but a white rose.
“Miss Sinclair,” he began, and extended his hand. “I want to begin by saying how sorry I am for your loss. But I think you’ll find everything in order.”
“Thank you. Please let’s sit down,” she said, and directed him to a writing table.
By the time Sydney returned to the drawing room Lord and Lady Northbrook and Georgina had joined Edward and were waiting for her. She hadn’t wanted them to wait. The tea would be cold and then the servants would be made to scramble all over again to get it right.
“Oh Sydney! I have such a surprise,” Georgina gushed.
Sydney couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s enthusiasm. “Then you must show me.”
Georgina wheeled herself over to a large gramophone. “I want to play something for you.”
Sydney smiled. “I can’t wait to hear it,” she said, and sat down opposite Edward. He was staring at her. It pained her to see him like this and know she was the reason.
Georgina put the record on the turntable and carefully placed the needle down. “I hope you love it as much as I do. It’s all the way from America.”
What followed were the unmistakable opening notes of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” Sydney held on to her composure for as long as she could but then the tears streamed down her face. Georgina saw her reaction and pulled the needle off the record so quickly it screeched.
“You don’t like it?” Georgina asked, disappointed.
The tears blurred Sydney’
s vision and she wiped them away as fast as they came. “Just the opposite. I love it. It reminds me . . . I’m sorry, I just can’t listen to that song again.”
Georgina remained silent as she wheeled back to her mother.
“Let’s serve tea, shall we?” Lady Northbrook suggested.
The family had danced around Sydney all week and yet another tearful breakdown had caused an awkward few moments of silence. She longed for her own space in New York.
“That’s a splendid idea,” Lord Northbrook added. And on cue the footmen began to pour tea and offer sandwiches to them.
“Are you all right?” Edward asked.
“Yes,” Sydney answered. “Georgina, I’m sorry. It’s just that the song reminds me of a friend, a girl about twelve, who drowned.”
Lord and Lady Northbrook exchanged glances. Georgina looked like she might cry. “How awful. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have,” Sydney said. “But please enjoy the record after I’ve gone home.” She forced a smile and peered into her teacup. It was time to tell them. If only Edward wasn’t staring at her the way he was. She would direct her eyesight to Lord Northbrook. After all this affected him most immediately.
“Since we’re all here, I have something to say,” she announced, hoping her voice would hold steady.
“Yes, my dear,” Lord Northbrook said, and took a bite out of a sandwich.
“This afternoon I had a visitor. He is a solicitor from London sent by Mr. Garrett,” she started.
“Your financial adviser?” Lord Northbrook asked, wanting confirmation.
“My guardian,” she corrected. Just say the words. “I know how much Rathfon Hall means to your family, Lord Northbrook, and I am going to help you keep it.”
Lord and Lady Northbrook exchanged glances again but quickly returned to fixate on the American with the large purse. Edward clutched the corner of the sofa.
“And how do you propose to do that?” Lord Northbrook asked. “My understanding was that Edward would only be entitled to the Sinclair fortune after the marriage took place. Sadly, that was not to be.”
