The Light in the Darkness 2

by Carla Louise Robinson

  Perhaps it would even be good for the child, Hazel thought, it would give her a fresh new beginning.

  “Your mother needs you,” Hazel replied, deciding proactive was a better choice than giving advice she was not quite sure she believed in. “She has not spoken, nor has she eaten. She has barely moved. If it weren’t for the Mickey Finn, she would not be sleeping. I know you have lost much, Lady Cecilia, but your Lady Mother has lost quite a deal more. A husband and a daughter, in the same night? A parent isn’t built to bury their own,” she added, knowingly. Parents who lost children belonged to their own community, finding solace in the idea that everything they ever knew had fundamentally changed. Hazel had seen the haunted look in Mrs Ryerson’s eyes. Her son had been killed in an automobile accident, and Mrs Ryerson had not been able to leave her room for much of her journey. Hazel had seen Mrs Ryerson on deck with her children; her husband, like so many, had not survived.

  Hazel could not believe the woman was still functioning, but she supposed she felt it necessary, especially with children not yet grown.

  To be sure, Hazel knew that many more had lost everything; plenty of third-class passengers had nothing that had survived their journey, beyond what they owned. Many didn’t speak English, and the Carpathia’s translator was limited. Some of the passengers were able to assist with a few of the survivors; others were impossible to understand.

  “You are right,” Lady Cecilia finally replied. “Mama does need me. She does not seem to be in this world currently. And with Eliana’s pregnancy … no, you are right. I need to find my strength and save the ones I love, not bask in self-pity.”

  Hazel smiled, helping Lady Cecilia to her feet. She wasn’t sure Lady Cecilia was capable of keeping her word – it wasn’t cruelty, just reality; the young child had lost a sister, a brother, a father, and a male companion; how could she ever truly be okay? – but she knew Lady Cecilia meant it.

  And Hazel knew she’d be by Lady Cecilia’s side, helping her build up her strength as she came to terms with the new world order, one where her sister and father weren’t alive.

  This time, it wasn’t Hazel’s sense of loyalty and duty tying her to the Gresham family; it was the realisation that she, too, had lost members of her family.

  Hazel would not forfeit the only family that remained to her.

  She did not think she could bear it.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Wednesday, April 17th, 1912

  Rostron

  Rostron shut the door to the Wireless Room; he tried not to judge too harshly the fact that the young Marconi officer, Bride, whose feet and legs were ravaged with frostbite, had not left his post, dedicating every waking moment to the assistance of Cottman, and Ismay spent his time in isolation. The men worked in silence; sometimes, Rostron knew, the comfort of a person beside you was all you needed.

  Sometimes, there weren’t words to be said.

  Ismay, on the other hand, had not left his cabin the entire voyage, and Rostron thought it lame that the man, so broken and inert, Rostron barely thought him man. Rostron sighed, making his way to Ismay’s cabin.

  Perhaps it was not so unreasonable.

  He himself had not thought the Titanic could come to any great harm, why would Ismay? He wasn’t a captain, officer or builder. Rostron had spent his entire life at sea and had not ever laid eyes on the massacre that lay before him.

  He doubted any man had.

  Still, Ismay’s resigned attitude unnerved Rostron.

  Rostron knocked on Ismay’s cabin door; a moment later, he heard Ismay’s voice. “Yes, Captain?” Ismay asked. His voice was almost toneless. Rostron noted that Ismay’s brown eyes were glassy and red, and a jab of sympathy rushed toward the man.

  “We should be prepared to make port at New York tomorrow, around 23, 23.30 hours. I’ve had the boys send word to New York, so that the Red Cross and anyone who is able can attend to the passengers’ needs when we dock. There are many without anything.”

  Ismay nodded but didn’t add anything. His face remained unchanged, and he wondered if Ismay had even heard him speak. “I have tried detaining the journalist, but he is adamant on collecting stories. We’ve tried to ration the paper, making sure he does not have any. It has been tiresome.”

  Ismay nodded again; this time, however, he closed his eyes. “The press will be all over this. Are the words of what has been said?”

  “Cottman said that the New York Times printed that there were 1,500 dead. They did not seem to know names, however. They seemed unsure of Mrs Astor’s survival, at the very least. And she was not the only notable name.”

  Ismay nodded again. Rostron did not have the heart to say that Ismay’s name had been one of the many notable names that had splashed across the newspapers; many of them were referring to him as ‘J Brute Ismay’, which Rostron did not think was fair. Perhaps if the men writing the headlines, the stories painting Ismay as a cold-hearted Jew, who pushed women and children aside to gain a seat, saw the Ismay Rostron saw, no decent man could curse him. The man had cursed himself, and was intent on living a life of punishment, without joy or fulfillment. Rostron’s men had heard Ismay’s sobs, and they had reported that he had turned food away, saying that there were others that could benefit from his meals.

  Not that that was not true; the Carpathia’s rations were stretched as thin as possible. Every meal was basic, and everyone had strict rations. Toiler paper was running dangerously low, and Rostron did not care to think what might happen if they ran out before they reached New York.

  “The press will likely be at port,” Rostron added. “It is unavoidable. I have kept everything sealed as tightly as possible, allowing nothing without permissions to be sent or received. I’ve kept that dastardly journalist banned from the Marconi room, and talked to our boys, ensuring his messages are not sent through, regardless of what he pays. But if there’s people there to assist, there will be press there to intrude.”

  Ismay nodded, closing his eyes once more. He did not speak, though Rostron knew there weren’t words that needed saying.

  “Is that all, Captain?” Ismay questioned. He hadn’t bothered opening his eyes.

  “Yes,” Rostron replied, because there wasn’t more that could be said. “I will bid you leave, Mr Ismay. I shall return if any further news should be conveyed with you.”

  Ismay nodded, not adding his goodbye.

  Rostron headed for the Bridge.

  He could not wait for the Carpathia to arrive in New York.

  He felt the survivors’ lives depended on it.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Wednesday, 17th April, 1912

  Eliana

  “It’s time for dinner,” Eliana called. Albert was playing with Mrs Rothschild’s Pomeranian, though she found Primrose to be writing something. She waved to Mrs Rothschild, and gestured to Albert that he had five minutes, as she dropped to her knees.

  She was wearing the same dress she had the night her husband had died; many of the Carpathia’s passengers had given their spare clothing to the Titanic survivors. Eliana had refused; some people, like Celia, were only in their nightgowns.

  Unlike Celia, however, many of them would not be able to afford an entire new wardrobe for every season, custom made for her figure; she found herself thinking of those in steerage.

  “What are you writing, Prim?” Eliana asked.

  “A letter for daddy,” Primrose said, smiling brightly. “He said he would not be long, but it’s been terribly long. And, at first, I was fun to share a room with Uncle William and Granny and Aunt Celia, but now it’s getting boring. Aunt Celia cries in the night, and William snores. He sounds like daddy, but he’s not daddy.”

  Eliana turned away, so that her daughter would not spy the tears within her eyes. When she spoke, she sounded as if she had taken a cold. “I know, sweetheart. And if your father could be here, with us, right now, he would want that more than anything. You know that, right, my darling?”

  Primrose
nodded, her fair eyebrows knitting together. “Of course, Mummy,” she said. “Daddy always keeps his word.”

  Eliana swallowed. “Yes, daddy does, doesn’t he?” she looked at the floor. “I am sure and certain we will see daddy again shortly. We have not yet arrived in New York, now, have we?”

  Primrose shook her head.

  “See? It is like I told you; I am sure he is with another vessel, and all will be well. Now, I bid you run along and collect Albie. It is time we take for dinner, okay?” Eliana kissed her daughter’s cheek as Primrose ran to grab her brother. She stopped to talk with Mrs Rothschild, and Eliana smiled as she patted the small Pomeranian.

  Eliana picked up her daughter’s note. It was written, in her scrawly handwriting that was barely legible, littered with spelling errors, and began to cry.

  Dear Daddy,

  I am waiting like you told me to, and I am being a good girl like I promise you I would be. Mummy and Albert are very sad. So am I. Where are you, Daddy? You said we would be together soon. I miss you, Daddy.

  Love, Prim

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Thursday, April 18th, 1912

  Bride

  Carlos Hurd was once again in the Marconi officer, pleading with Bride to send him a message. “The world has a right to know,” he pleaded, and it wasn’t the first time Bride had heard Hurd’s plea. It also wasn’t the first time he’d been offered a substantial bribe – more money than he made in an entire year, in fact – but Bride had orders from Captain Rostron.

  He wasn’t sure he agreed with Rostron’s position. For that matter, he wasn’t sure of Hurd’s, either. He agreed that the world had a right to know – and for sure and certain, Bride wanted to help tell them. He wanted to say that Jack Phillips was among the best he ever knew, and that he stayed at his post until the last. He would tell how he tried keeping Jack out of the water, but his arms were too tired, his body too cold, and Jack too heavy.

  He wanted people to know how awful it had been.

  The screams.

  The brutality.

  The loss.

  Many passengers seemed more than willing to share their story with Hurd, telling them of what happened, what they saw, what they heard. Hardly anyone seemed to dislike the journalist, even after Rostron had posted a listing saying he had not authorised Hurd’s interviews. It hadn’t deterred Hurd; he simply just wrote on scraps of paper he begged and borrowed.

  “It’s more than you’ll ever make, and you know it,” Hurd pushed. “These stories, Harry. They’re … they’re frightful. I cannot believe what you all experienced; what you all laid witness to. And the world … the world is going to want to know. This shan’t pass in a news cycle, Harry. It will be the story of the year.”

  Bride knew Hurd wasn’t lying. Many of the passengers seemed eager to share their stories, just as Bride was. He couldn’t say what made him so determined, except that he knew the truth would help him heal.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Hurd, truly,” Bride replied. “It is not my decision. It was Captain Rostron’s specific edict that we do now allow any press-related to pass.”

  “That’s horseradish and you know it! The nerve of that man!” Hurd swore, though Bride did not object. He thought if Cottman were not on his break – from which he was likely to return shortly – he would have been furious with the passenger’s behaviour. Cottman seemed to admire Rostron’s bravery, of which he kept reminding Bride of.

  It irked Bride because he felt the real heroes were those that didn’t survive the night, but he couldn’t say it, because he would not be alive if it were not for Captain Rostron’s heroism.

  No one else had been able to heed Titanic’s call. The ships around them had been slow to respond, many with disbelief.

  Bride had tried not to sleep; in his dreams, he wondered if Jack would be beside him of Evans had remembered to heed his emergency call.

  If any of the officers, at all, had seen the rockets of distress that had fired that night.

  “I cannot,” Bride shrugged. There wasn’t more to say. He could not risk Rostron finding out that he had, in part, leaked the news about the Titanic’s dead. He had sent Doctor Blackmarr’s message – for a pricey fee, and a not-well-disguised bribe – as a ‘personal’ survivor’s message – the only ones that Rostron had allowed. It had cost Blackmarr £8.66 to send: “Carpathia picked up seven hundred Titanic, mostly women. Over two thousand lost. Ice berg continuous mass twenty five miles. Chicagoans this ship well.”

  He doubted the rigid man would be pleased that the reports of the high death rate had been elicited under the guise of a personal message, but that was what Blackmarr had requested, and he had paid for the privilege to do so.

  “Fine,” Hurd huffed. “I know we’re arriving in New York tonight. I still have everything – all the interviews. The only difference is you won’t get a slice of the pie.”

  “As you should,” Bride said. “That is not of my concern. I have been given a job, and it is the Captain’s explicit order. I am sorry, Mr Hurd.”

  Hurd nodded, and left.

  For the first time, Bride felt calmness consume him; it would have been what Jack had done.

  And that mattered more than any money he could earn.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Monday, April 15th, 1912

  Georgiana

  Georgiana coughed and spluttered as she bobbed to the surface. Her body felt as if it had been stabbed by a million little knives, and she found she could scarcely move her arms or legs. Despite the pain, she already felt drowsy and disorientated, like she had the winter she’d fallen through the ice pond, and Eliana had saved her with the help of some servant boy. It was weird that Eliana’s face was filling Georgiana’s mind, and not William’s. She wanted to call out for William, but she was not sure where he was. She wasn’t even sure he’d been taken; she was sure and certain the water vortex had sucked her from William’s hands, but what if William had been strong enough to hold his own?

  Georgiana spied one of the chairs Mr Andrews had thrown off; she’d seen him, in his desperation, tearing anything and everything he could, just before the ship had made its final lurch, sometime after two. She managed to swim three paces to it, pulling herself up on the plum-red chaise. Her teeth were chattering, and she could not manage but to lift herself more than part-way out of the water. Georgiana’s arms no longer wanted to work, and she felt it impossible to grip. She wrapped her arms around the seat of the chair, before resting her head gently.

  Georgiana found her teeth chattering violently, and she doubted she could call out William’s name even if she tried. She lowered her head, desperately tired, her arms heavy.

  William would find her, she thought sleepily. William would find her, and they would get back on the Titanic, and everything would be happy and fine.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Cecilia

  Cecilia held Thomas Vanderbilt’s hand tightly; they were to be married come June. A year ago, Cecilia would not have thought it possible, especially after meeting Henry, but when she arrived in New York at Pier 54, in the drizzly rain, Thomas and his family had been there.

  Thomas had been kind, allowing Cecilia space and distance, never questioning her, never forcing anything from her. He never asked her what she heard, nor what happened that night. He needn’t have, anyway, Cecilia thought bitterly; even if the US Inquiries hadn’t adorned the papers, survivor’s testimonies had. She had been furious to see Bruce Ismay was vilified for his escape, but he seemed a harmless casualty in comparison to what she had lost.

  Not a day passed did she not think of her sister, Georgiana.

  Losing Henry was painful, and perhaps Cecilia had loved him. If she did, it was a different love than the one she now shared with Thomas. Thomas had become her best friend before he’d become her lover, and now, she could not imagine being closer to another human soul. He had held her when she cried, inconsolable; despite the White Star Line arranging p
assages back to England, the Gresham family had been reluctant to set sail. Eliana had decided to remain in America with Cecilia, stating she never wished to leave land again. Eleonora had eventually decided the same, not wanting to be parted from her daughters. William had taken one of the first trips back; he was unable to bear being around anyone, or anything, that remind him of Georgiana. He wasn’t present at the American memorial Cecilia was attending with her mother and older sister, but she hoped he would attend the British one. Cecilia had scarcely heard from her brother-in-law; he seemed to be fairing as well as her mother was, which was to say not at all.

  Cecilia was sure and certain she would be a broken woman as well, if it weren’t for Thomas. He’d given her Dash immediately, and she had spent every night sleeping with him. Dash never left her side, as if he understood that Cecilia could not bear ever to be alone.

  Cecilia doubted she could ever stand to be by herself in a confined space ever again.

  Thomas didn’t mind; he would sit with her, sometimes falling asleep on a couch – a soundless sleep, one that Cecilia would never again have – so that Cecilia would feel safe.

  It was one of the first ways she had fallen for him; he was selfless in a way she had not expected. He was shy, that was sure and certain, but his shyness only hid his most redeeming qualities. Thomas never forced himself in any way, nor raised his voice, nor pushed. He comforted her when she woke screaming, and held her when she would not stop crying. Thomas listened when she blamed herself, and never judged her story – Thomas was the only person Cecilia had confided the whole truth in. William had assumed she’d searched for Henry out of love, never realising Henry had been on the Boat Deck the entire time; she couldn’t bear to say that she would have escaped earlier if she had called to the steward, if she had not cared so much for a reputation no one would care to remember.