Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter

by The Captain's Daughter (mobi)

  ‘How can we? Not after all these years . . . who cares about the Titanic now? Anyway, it’s not your place. You’re no relation to me!’ Ella snapped.

  ‘I never was. But you’re like a daughter to me nevertheless. I’m sorry. There was never going to be an easy time to tell you. I don’t know why I’m saying this now but Christmas is a strange time for families with so many memories. We all get so nostalgic for past times,’ Celeste offered, but Ella wasn’t listening.

  ‘You have a family. I have no one. You’ve just taken away everything I thought was mine. I hope you’re satisfied.’

  Archie came in at that moment with the silver tray, silently putting it on the table, looking up to see the two women glaring at each other. ‘Please don’t blame Celeste, Ella. This was my idea. It’s just gone on too long, and I’m glad it’s out in the open.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. Keep your bloody sherry. I’m going out.’ Ella stormed out and they heard the back door bang.

  Celeste sat down, winded. ‘Are you satisfied now, Archie McAdam, forcing me into a corner, confronting her like that? What a mess, an awful mess and all because you wanted answers because of your own insecurity. I hope you know what you’ve done.’

  ‘Be patient, all shall be well,’ he offered.

  ‘Don’t preach at me. It doesn’t suit you. The jack is out of the box now and there’s no shoving him back in. I’m off to bed . alone. You really can be the honest lodger for once. Good night.’

  Celeste tossed and turned for what felt like hours. She ought to go to Ella and comfort her. She ought to put a hot-water bottle in Archie’s cold spare bedroom, she thought. She ought . oh to hell with oughts. Tonight she’d think only of herself. She needed to sleep on all this but she was too tired and angry and frightened and uncertain about anything now. It would be a long night.

  Ella took the lamp out to the shed. This was her little bolthole, with its paraffin stove and chair and all her unfinished artwork. She felt nothing but a raging disbelief at what she’d just heard, a roar of denials in her ears, and yet she knew it was true. Ellen was the name her mother had called out in the hospital. ‘You’re not my child,’ she’d screamed at the seashore, all those years ago. It had to be true. Secrets and lies that had lain unspoken for years, making a mockery of all they’d done together. All that nonsense about Joe Smith the sailor lost at sea. Her mind was racing with incidents, conversations, half-broken sentences that had passed between them.

  It was as if all the stitches of her life were unravelling back into twisted, broken threads. With those few words Celeste had destroyed her history. Who am I? Who was I? Where did I come from? Was there anyone left who even knew?

  ‘You can’t think about this,’ she screamed out loud. ‘You’re a fake, a nobody, an impost-or!’ She found herself flinging her papers across the floor, scattering her tools, a chisel in her hand battering down on the face of a carving she’d been working on, the face in the stone that had somehow become her mother’s face. ‘I hate you all!’ she yelled, hammering into the plaster. Months of work were destroyed in a fury that fuelled itself until she stood exhausted, weeping, looking round at the devastation she’d wreaked. ‘I’m not staying here

  ‘Oh yes you are, young lady. You’ll clear up this mess. All this good work destroyed in a tantrum.’ Uncle Selwyn walked in and focused his lamp over the chaos. ‘What a bloody waste . . . Feel good, do you?’

  ‘Go away!’ she snapped.

  ‘So you know the truth and you’re angry. Quite right too . . . Everyone holding out on you . . . So you’re not who you thought you were?’

  ‘You don’t understand, how could you?’ Ella was feeling small and stupid now. ‘Don’t you tell me what I can or can’t understand. I thought I was a gentleman and a

  lawyer, a fine upstanding man of the city, but when I stood on that trench ladder to go over the top, I found I was just another man: a beast, a killer, an unthinking automaton leading men into carnage, seeing them blown to shreds of bone and sinew. I am a man who bay-oneted strangers in a fury of rage. The man who came back from no man’s land to roll call was not the man who went over the top. I’ve spent years trying to find out who I am and more besides.

  ‘So you were given life, given a home and love by a stranger? Did you ever consider her a stranger? Didn’t May give you her last penny? She may not have been your blood mother but don’t you dare say she didn’t care for you . You’ve had a shock, a terrible shock, and it’s changed a lot of things. You can’t unlearn this knowledge. Sure, it’s a reason to feel sorry for yourself, a reason to sulk and take it out on all of us for what we withheld. Or, Ella – and this is the hard bit – you can get on with what you are good at, knowing someone somewhere gave you a wonderful gift: the observing eye and hands of an artist.’ Selwyn paced up and down, his eyes fixed on her. ‘While you work with these gifts, they live on. Destroy them and they die too. Is that what you want?

  Ella had never heard Selwyn make such a long speech. ‘But I want to know who I am. How can I not know who I am?’ Selwyn shrugged. ‘Fair enough but not tonight. There’s no one who can tell you all that

  on Boxing Day, now is there? It’s cold out here. Everyone’s gone to bed. I’ll make you some cocoa.’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘Thanks, I’ll do it myself. You always scald the milk and I hate the skin.’ She looked up, seeing him holding out his hands.

  ‘We were never related but you’ve always been special to me, and May too. Time for bed . . . Things will look better in the morning for all of us.’

  They picked their way down the frozen path by torchlight. Ella was feeling foolish, ex-hausted and empty. Selwyn was right. Finding who she really was would have to wait for another day. Yet shocked as she was, there was a tiny bit of her that had always known she was different in some way, that when she looked at her mother she’d wondered how she could have once belonged inside her body. It had made her feel so guilty and she’d learned to ignore that niggle in her head. Now she knew the truth and felt an odd sense of vindica-

  She stopped to stare up at the winter sky and the moon. Who am I? Where will I find out? Is there someone somewhere in the world who knows about me?

  Italy

  Maria’s mother was dressed in black from head to toe as she examined the baby shoe but her eyes were filmed over. ‘I can’t see. It is a pretty shoe but, I don’t know, every baby has shoes like this. The lace is fine but do not pin your hopes on such things.’

  ‘But Maria made such good lace,’ Angelo argued. Her words were giving him no comfort. ‘So do most of the girls in Anghiari and Sansepolcro. We have the Marcelli sisters to

  thank for that and their little scuola di merletto. Lace may only be thread and pins, but we’ve made so many beautiful pictures with it over the years: stars, animals, flowers, snowflakes. I remember how Maria used to sit with me at my cushion and watch how it was made. Now she is taken from us. It was God’s will.’

  This was not what he wanted to hear. ‘I thought you would know these things,’ he said, shoving his offering back into his pocket, embarrassed. It was never going to be an easy meeting. ‘I wish we had not given her the ticket,’ he sighed.

  ‘You wouldn’t have stopped her. She wanted to join you. For months she spent her spare hours making lace for the baby’s clothes, and collars and cuffs, extra work that she could sell. Look, you can see the smile on her face in the picture, and the fine lace of Alessia’s gown. She was so proud of her work, and the little one so dark like you.’

  Angelo knew every grain of that precious photograph by now but he stared at it again as Maria’s father filled his glass with rough wine. ‘Get that down your throat, son. We bear you no grudge. You did not sink that ship. It was too big for the ocean and it swallowed it. She was on the wrong vessel.’

  Angelo cried, ‘But it’s hard to live with this in my heart.’ ‘Then let it rest and live your life with your new family. We wish you all well. The son

  wants to b
e a priest? I should like to meet such a young man. But he is in America; that is good, for here he would be joining the young Blackshirts. Things are different here under Il Duce. Children are to be taught only what they want them to hear. The children of officials are pampered in leather and lace while others starve. It is not easy to speak your mind in the village in case someone complains to the mayor. They say it will be good for all of us to

  follow Il Duce. I think it’s better to live free where you are.’ Angelo hugged them both. He knew he’d never see them again. As he walked through

  the village, people stared, thinking him a stranger. He felt like one. He smiled and waved but they went inside and shut the door to him. How quiet it was compared to the bustle of New York streets, the smell of garlic and frying onions, the barking of voices in the cafés and on the sidewalks selling fruit, the honking of the motors impatient to be on their way. New York was home now.

  He made his way to a ridge high over the village where he could look down on the rooftops and across to the hills in the distance. It was here he’d kissed Maria for the first time, a lifetime ago. Now it was chilly, grey and misty, not green like in the spring, with new leaves and blossom and the scent of pine. Everything had its season, he sighed. Maria would always be springtime and he was now in the fall of his life. It was time to go home.

  May 1928

  Ella hung over the railings of the cross-channel ferry, breathing in the sharp air with relish. From Birmingham New Street to London, then to Dover and onwards to France – here was freedom at long last, after months of bickering and frustration with the Foresters. She knew she’d been a pain but what did they expect after holding out on all those secrets for months? It was the archdeacon’s wife who had come to the rescue, asking if Ella would be prepared

  to assist one of her friends in Paris as a mother ’s help for the summer. Hazel had been green with envy as she packed her new passport, tickets and currency,

  feeling so grown up to be travelling alone; well, almost. Celeste had insisted she tagged on to a party of art students from Lichfield who were doing a tour of the museums. Little did they know she’d thrown them off at Waterloo.

  This was her adventure, her chance to live a grown-up life without any interference from her guardians. She was being mean to them, she knew. Selwyn had bought her a beautiful leather case and Celeste had taken her into Birmingham for some summer clothes. Archie had found her some maps of Paris. ‘You must see Rodin’s work. I promise it won’t disap-point.’ As if she didn’t know that.

  They were nervous for her but the Reverend Mr Burgess was one of the chaplains at St George’s Anglican Church on the Rue Auguste Vaquerie. She was to be in charge of his two little girls, and there was to be a new baby soon. There would be time off to go to art classes and she had no compunction now in asking the Titanic Relief Fund for a grant to attend as part of her education.

  There had been a battle over this at first until Archie explained that no matter who she was, she had still suffered a great loss on the Titanic , as much as May. Poor Selwyn had gone to the trouble to seek out the original passenger list from the White Star Line, but she wasn’t ready to look at it. It would mean confessing to the mistake May had made, besmirching her memory and making her own identity a false one. Better to stay Ellen Smith for the time being. She didn’t want any more complications.

  The seagulls screeched overhead and Ella’s spirit lifted as she saw the French coast com-ing into view. No more bad memories, no more small-town gossip, she was on her way to a new country and new people, who knew nothing of her sadness. She couldn’t wait for this new life to begin.

  Part 4

  LINKING THREADS

  1928–1946

  Postcards from Paris, 1928

  Dear All

  I have arrived safely. The chaplain and his wife were there to meet me at Gare du Nord. Hermione and Ros-alind are being little angels so far. I can’t believe I’m living here in the heart of the city. The vicarage is so central. I can walk to the Arc de Triomphe down the Champs-Elysées to the Jardin des Tuileries. Please thank Mrs Simons so much for recommending me.

  Paris is the best tonic for the grumps. England seems so far away. It is everything I could wish for and more. The girls are coming with me to the parks and museums. I have to remember they are my charges and not let them run too wild. My French is improving every day and the shop windows are such a distraction – do not worry Parisian life is far too expensive on my allowance! The classes are good and I am meeting lots of other foreign students. We are going down to the south of France for the summer holidays. I can’t wait to see the Mediterranean.

  Best love,

  Ella

  Dear Roddy

  You don’t deserve a letter as you hardly ever write to me but I wanted to show off my address in France and all the places I have visited. My sculpture class is mind-blowing. Everyone is tons better than I am. I have so much to learn.

  I am collecting cathedrals: Notre-Dame. Rouen, Chartres, Tours, Orléans and Paris buildings are just one huge classroom.

  Our visit to Cannes was such a surprise. It was so hot and I am so brown now that people come up to me and think I’m a native. It’s funny how in the sunshine I feel like a lizard warming myself on stone walls. I will be sad when the autumn comes and I must return to more studies under grey skies. The little girls played on the plage and we swam in the sea every day. We have a new baby boy called Lionel, who has a nursemaid.

  It has been good to be away from everyone, standing on my own two feet, having to cope with emergencies, how to deal with men who sit too close to me on the Metro and want to feel up my skirts. I kick their shins hard and make them wince with shame, I hope. I wish I were a boy who could wander freely everywhere without worrying if I am being followed.

  I have become an expert at swearing in French under my breath when the art master criticizes my work. He has taught me to look at other work with a much more critical eye. There is just so much more to learn. I feel like a different person already.

  I try not to think about my mother too much. It only upsets me that she died so young and needlessly for the want of a doctor’s appointment. I’m sure she tried to treat herself to save a fee so money could be spent on me. I feel terrible how she went without to give me every advantage. She would never spend anything on herself. Now I am swanning around France like a debutante. I know it isn’t fair but I also know she would be happy for me.

  As I am sure you are aware, I now know all about the Titanic and how our mothers met. My mother had her reasons for not telling me. I sometimes think she was ashamed of being a survivor. All she claimed was her due pension so she could educate me.

  It’s all too late to understand things now. I suppose none of us understands our parents until we are parents ourselves. One day perhaps we’ll feel as protective, fearful and hurt about our own kids. But I hope it’s not for a long time.

  No, there is no Rudolf Valentino in my life, just Leon and Friedrich, who sometimes take me out to the cafés by the Seine after class. There is no spark, though. I haven’t time for romance. How about you, the big brother I never see?

  I was sorry to hear your grandma died. I know you were fond of her. Forgive me for rattling on about myself. You work very hard and Celeste is proud of you. The divorce is going through at long last. It’s long overdue but it will still cause a furore in the Close. Divorce is not as common in England as it is in your country and people don’t understand that to spend a lifetime in a bad marriage is pure hell. Better none at all, I should think. Neither of us will rush into that state of affairs, I’m sure.

  Do write back before I leave here.

  Love, Ella

  She hadn’t told Roddy the entire truth about May and the Titanic. No one knew but her guardians, and that was how it was going to stay. Yet it was strange how at home she felt on the Continent, in the sunshine, listening to the chatter of languages. She was getting used to shopkeepers assuming she wa
s local and jabbering at her in French so fast she could only nod and smile and shrug her shoulders.

  Once on the beach at Cannes she heard a family laughing and screaming at their children and for a second she thought she knew what they were saying, as if some distant memory at the back of her mind recognized the words. She turned to hear more but they had passed on down the beach out of earshot. She didn’t even know what nationality they were. It was unsettling for a minute until she was distracted by Hermione nearly burying poor Roz in the sand.

  One thing she knew now was that this would not be her last trip abroad. She’d go to Spain, Italy, Switzerland . wherever she might find work or classes. If she was going to be a professional artist then she must learn her craft the hard way by training her eye to be critical and observant. Her work was amateur and conventional. She must learn from the classics, and that meant travelling. She must retain her identity and claim more funds. The Titanic had taken away so many lives, now it must pay for those it left behind, whoever they actually were.

  June 1932

  Celeste peered at her outline in the long mirror, pleased with the result. Aquamarine suited her colouring. Her wedding dress was cut on the bias with a flowing jacket and beaded trim. Her little silk hat clung to her waved hair, anchored by hatpins. It was a simple ensemble, ideal for a registry office wedding. She was glad her parents weren’t alive to see her wed in such a cloak-and-dagger way. How different from last time, with all the pomp and ceremony of a cathedral service.

  Grover had fought them all the way in the divorce. It had taken years of petty and ridicu-lous negotiations to make him sign. He’d finally left Akron for Cleveland after losing his position in some company dispute. Then Roddy had written saying he’d found a wealthy widow, and suddenly his signature on the divorce papers was secure.

  She was hurt Roddy was not coming over for the occasion but he said he just couldn’t leave Will and Freight Express. He’d sent them First Class tickets for their honeymoon pas-sage to New York instead, and they would come on later to visit him. She couldn’t help but feel it was a gesture borne of guilt but at least they would see each other.