Even as I tried to shrug emotion away, the truth hit me like a physical blow. I could hardly breathe. Looking up into Lucinda’s eyes, all at once I knew what Curtis meant.
She leaned towards me. ‘I can see that you loved her…’
I blinked and nodded, swallowing hard as my vision blurred. ‘Forgive me,’ I managed at last, ‘I know a gentleman should never ask the year of a lady’s birth, but…?’
We read each other’s thoughts. The silence seemed to vibrate as it stretched between us. Her words were so soft they were barely there. ‘I was born on the first day of December, ‘83…’
I last saw Dorothea in April.
Overwhelmed, aware of people close by, I found my handkerchief, made a play of blowing my nose. ‘Might we talk later, my dear? For now, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me…’
‘Of course.’ Her eyes were brimming too. ‘I understand,’ she whispered, and I saw then that she did.
‘Thank God,’ I murmured, and pressed my daughter’s hand.
18
I made my way blindly to my quarters. Once inside I closed both doors. If anyone wanted me they would have to knock.
Choked by emotion, I took refuge in my bedroom, sank down in the chair and wept. Pulling myself together, I imagined the bout was over, only to be overwhelmed afresh moments later. It went on for half an hour or more, a release of grief and joy coupled with anguish. Lucinda – my daughter! But Dorothea – oh God, Dorothea…
I could barely contemplate what she’d been through. I remembered the letter she’d left in Li’s hands, understanding everything now. Recalling the way I’d blamed her, I wept again.
Hypocrite. I’d gone to the house to bring it to an end, anyway. So what would have happened if she hadn’t run off to London? If she’d stayed to tell me she was expecting my child? I couldn’t have abandoned her then. Had she known, the last time we met? That day of the picnic: was the tale of an aborted pregnancy just an attempt to throw sand in my eyes? I remembered her face, its stony expression; her hands on the reins, the casual shrug as she told me about losing a child. As though I, a mere man, could know nothing of such pain. Well, I thought, I’d learned since.
Memory cast up painful images, venting emotions I’d imagined were dead. That last night at the hotel, the way she’d wept in the aftermath of love, body-wrenching sobs that were as startling as they were sudden. I thought I’d hurt her, but she clung, wordlessly, stroking, kissing, wrapping herself around me as though she would never let me go. And when, at the last, I had to leave, she held on to my arm, my hand, the very tips of my fingers, like someone afraid of drowning.
Yet all unknown to me, she was the one making plans to leave.
I thought of that letter, the smudges on it. Better we part now, was clear enough; and then the indecipherable line. Did she say I love you, and then think better of it?
Dorothea – oh, my love, how you almost destroyed me. I wept again, remembering.
No point. No point wishing it could have been different. If I’d stayed, given up my career for her, could it have worked, would we have been happy? Suspecting not, I dried my eyes, tried to banish the regrets.
Even so, I had a terrible aching void where my heart should be; an ache for the daughter I’d not known about, the years we’d missed; not least the suffering she had experienced. I longed to hold her, pour out my sorrow, beg her forgiveness.
Needing to pull myself together, I poured a stiff, restorative measure of whisky. As my mind veered from Lucinda to Dorothea and back to that letter, I remembered something. Amongst the books and thick jerseys at the bottom of my sea-chest there had been a small box. Had Paintin unpacked it when I joined? Hastily, I checked the place where my studs and cufflinks were kept. I felt to the back, even pulled the drawer out, but no, it was not there.
Having gone through every drawer I sat back on my heels and swore. No doubt still in my sea-chest, locked in the hold with the officers’ luggage. But picturing the contents I’d boarded with, I turned to the deep drawer beneath the bed. Inside were two thick white knitted jerseys with a pile of sea-boot socks. Underneath, in the back corner, I found it: the little box. Inside, a scrap of soft, discoloured cotton protected the gold chain that Dorothea had enclosed in that letter almost thirty years ago.
As I ran it through my fingers, I caught Eleanor’s gaze. It seemed I even felt her presence in the room.
Flinching against a sudden burn of guilt, I wondered how I would tell her. What would she say? I had always kept Hong Kong and Dorothea to myself – not just from a sense of shame, but because of the connection with Harry Jones…
19
Strange tales, unseen forces, coincidences. That was what Futrelle and Frank Millet were talking about when they came to see me. Frank claimed most people had at least one odd story to relate. I found myself wondering what their reaction would be if I were to tell them my tale.
That Harry Jones’s death had led to a passionate liaison with Dorothea was one thing, but for years I’d felt uneasy about the link between Jones and Eleanor. Now, faced with the consequences, I burned with remorse, not knowing how to explain. Once, not long after our first meeting, she’d asked about that first trip. I was suitably vague, brushing off any suggestion that I’d been at all heroic in caring for young Harry, a man she’d never met. So he disappeared, conveniently for me, into the wash of time and memory.
It wasn’t exactly guilt that stopped my tongue; not then. If I’m honest, at that time Dorothea was far from forgotten, and I had no wish to reveal the agonies she’d inflicted. Besides, it seemed to me that if Eleanor had known about Dorothea, she might have felt diminished; and there was no need for that.
Eleanor was everything Dorothea was not. They were both beautiful, but where Dorothea was sharp, Eleanor was soft; where one’s glance was veiled, secretive, the other’s was fresh, open, honest. But Eleanor had nothing to hide.
Eleanor’s smile – well, that was the first thing I noticed when I saw them waiting to cross the road. I can see her now, talking and laughing as though she hadn’t a care in the world. I thought then, what a gorgeous girl. It was one of those moments when you long to know everything there is to know about a woman – and it must have been obvious because when I caught her eye she blushed and looked away. Her companion hurried her on. I followed them with my eyes, admiring the neat shape of her waist, the slight sway of her hips, until they rounded a corner and disappeared from view.
I was feeling good that day but she put a tune on my lips and a spring in my step as I continued towards Lime Street to meet Joe’s train. He’d been to Hanley on family business and we had much to discuss. The girl went from my mind.
We were planning to share a meal before he continued home on the ferry and I went back on duty. It was back in ’85, and I’d just been promoted again – this time to 1st Officer of the Republic. The liner was not new – in fact at 15 years old she was getting to be an old lady – but she was on the Atlantic run, and that to me was all that mattered. We were due to sail for New York the following day, and I knew I’d not be back in Liverpool for several weeks.
My brother had kept in touch with the Jones family in a casual way. They were wine and spirit merchants, with premises close to the docks; but by the time Joe came ashore, the business was in the hands of Harry Jones’s elder brother, Thomas. Although I ran into members of the family occasionally, in the aftermath of Dorothea I kept well clear of the shop on Castle Street.
It was not difficult – as a navigating officer with White Star, I had nothing to do with the purchasing of victuals. Since coming ashore, however, Joe had become quite the businessman, supplying various small shipping companies with their requirements, from bacon to bolts and barrel ends, including the best in Scotch and Irish whiskies. My brother’s ambition was for a way in with the bigger companies, and since White Star was part of the story, he wanted me to meet Mr Thomas Jones again. ‘Just to remind him,’ he said, ‘of who you are and which company y
ou’re working for.’
I would have preferred not to, but it was hard to refuse. So we made our way towards Castle Street, a broad thoroughfare running parallel to the docks. Wm Jones & Sons occupied an old building, the entrance set back between bow-fronted windows. As I set foot on the step, the door was opened by someone inside; and there, about to leave the premises, was the gorgeous girl I had set eyes on not half an hour previously.
We stood and gazed at each other, she with her sister at her shoulder, me with my brother at mine, locked on the threshold like clockwork figures.
Thomas Jones jerked us into motion. ‘Good morning, Captain Hancock, Mr Smith,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Do come in, if my nieces will allow it. We try not to conduct business in the doorway!’
By then I had taken in every aspect of her appearance, fine features, pretty mouth, beautiful eyes – were they grey or dark green? – and the glossy brown curls which framed her face. She was wearing – well, something that echoed the mysterious colour of her eyes. Her cheeks deepened to rose as she stepped back for us to enter.
I bowed and thanked her and moved forward into the shop. Thomas Jones embarked upon a round of introductions. Eleanor Pennington was the remarkable one – the other was her sister, Mary Jane. We stood in the shop and chatted for several minutes, during which time Thomas explained – to my deep embarrassment – our connection with his younger brother Harry. It was a profound relief to discover the girls had no memory of either Harry or the tragedy, and that Thomas was not a blood relative but their uncle by marriage. After that I felt able to relax a little.
The sisters were in Liverpool for the day. They planned to do some shopping in town, but Uncle Tom had promised to escort them along the Landing Stage first, to view the ships, before going on to have some dinner at the George Hotel.
Joe, bless him, hardly missed a beat. ‘My brother, here,’ he said, ‘is 1st Officer aboard the Republic…’ He turned to me. ‘If the ladies like to look at ships, Ted, perhaps we could have a look at yours?’
‘By all means,’ I agreed. ‘If they have time?’ Of course I was looking at the lovely Eleanor, who was blushing and looking to her sister. But she seemed more concerned about their shopping list.
‘Come now, Mary Jane,’ her uncle chided, ‘it’s not every day you have chance to see one of White Star’s famous liners!’
She gave in at that, and a few minutes later we were all walking down towards the quays, past George’s Dock and onto the Landing Stage. RMS Republic was alongside, her sails furled, masts and buff-and-black funnel impressive above the white superstructure and black hull. She dwarfed the other vessels berthed nearby.
It was gratifying to receive compliments, although having only recently been appointed I couldn’t claim praise for how the ship looked on that sunny September day. As we boarded, cargo and stores were still being loaded; the 2nd Officer raised his eyebrows as he saw me coming along the deck. ‘I thought you were off today, sir?’ Then he noticed the ladies and smiled.
‘On duty later,’ I said equably, and led my little party up the external steps to the bridge. By then I was used to showing people around ships, and had no difficulty keeping up a commentary. Miss Eleanor, I could see, was paying particular attention. As I finished explaining the various instruments, she asked tentatively, ‘But how do you know where you are, Mr Smith, when you’re out of sight of land?’
Hoping to impress, I said, ‘Well, Miss Eleanor, we have our lighthouses in the sky. We know where the sun, the moon, the stars and planets are, every second of the day. So we take sights – at first light, noon and evening – and work out the latitude and longitude mathematically. We mark the position on the chart, and from there it’s a simple matter of fixing direction and course by the ship’s compass.’
Most people were satisfied with that. Miss Eleanor was different. With a nod and a shy smile she thanked me; but then, biting her lip and colouring to the roots of her rich brown hair, she looked up and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is it always accurate? I mean, how easy is it to be wrong?’
Mary Jane clicked her tongue, and on the edge of my vision I was aware of the sharp look she gave her sister. I could have lied, said we rarely made a mistake, but gazing into Eleanor’s eyes I felt she deserved better.
‘Very easy,’ I said. ‘Which is why all the deck officers take sights. If there are discrepancies, we check each other’s figures. A small error in the middle of the ocean doesn’t matter much over a day or two – but it does matter close to land. Especially,’ I added, ‘if the weather is poor.’
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I can imagine. It must be very difficult. Thank you for being honest.’
I felt ten feet tall at that. Then Mary Jane wanted to know how long it took to cross the Atlantic, and Thomas Jones was interested in the ship’s speed, so I found myself explaining that too.
‘She’ll do about 14 knots using sail as well as steam,’ I said, ‘and depending on the weather, it’s about a six week round trip. Of course we’re always keen to make faster crossings. Quite apart from the satisfaction of getting there in good time, we carry the Royal Mails across to New York, and the US mail back again. The contract pays well, so we don’t want to lose it!’
We were on the main deck when Eleanor asked what the cold frame was for. Joe and I smiled when we realized she meant the skylight over the steerage accommodation, but I loved her keen interest.
Looking down, we could see the outlines of tables, bunks and benches. ‘No separate cabins for steerage passengers, I’m afraid – just dormitories. But there are portholes along the side of the ship, and this skylight – as you see – has wooden shutters to protect it in bad weather.’
‘But I thought…’ She looked around. ‘It’s not very far down, is it?’
‘No – it’s the same deck as our Saloon.’ Suddenly, I realized what she meant. ‘Steerage only means aft, close to the steering mechanism. It can be noisy, especially in rough weather, which is why richer folk choose to travel amidships.’ But while the lovely Eleanor Pennington was giving me her entire attention – which pleased me enormously – I could tell she was still mystified.
‘Weight goes in first,’ I explained. ‘The engines and boilers are on the double bottom plates, then the heaviest cargo goes in fore and aft in ways to ensure it won’t move. It has to be worked out carefully otherwise the ship could develop a list and turn over. Don’t you see,’ I went on, ‘people are very light, they move about all the time – so they can’t be lodged far down in the ship.’
Joe said something about it being a pity in some cases, which made us laugh. As I used my master key to open one of the staterooms, he commented that passenger cabins had changed beyond recognition since his days at sea. With their proper beds and curtains, there was no comparison with the Spartan facilities offered aboard sailing ships. At that, like a magician performing his favourite trick, I flicked a switch and the lights came on – to my delight, the girls gave little squeals of astonishment. Electricity was still a rarity ashore.
Having repeated the trick a couple of times, I led my little party on, through Republic’s main reception area and down a fine oak staircase to the dining saloon. With its lamps and paintings and long refectory tables, I thought the room worthy of a gentleman’s residence. Evidently, so did Miss Eleanor. When she whispered, ‘Isn’t it grand?’ I could have kissed her.
She was so clearly enjoying herself – even looking into the galleys where all the food was prepared – that I could have kept things going all day. But the mention of sumptuous meals prompted Mr Jones to glance at his watch. He asked if Joe and I would like to join them for dinner at the George Hotel – it was the least they could do, he declared, after such a fascinating morning. Joe deferred to me, but there was no need. He could see I was smitten.
As I was locking up, Mary Jane asked, ‘Do you have family in Liverpool, Mr Smith?’
I smiled. ‘No, miss. Just my brother in Birkenhead.’
‘I see,’ she replied, but it was hard to decide whether she thought my single status a good thing or a bad.
A little while later, as we followed Thomas and his nieces into the hotel, Joe nodded in Miss Eleanor’s direction. ‘A shame you’re away tomorrow,’ he murmured. ‘You could have made some progress there.’
His words echoed my thoughts. I was already wondering when and how I might see her again.
~~~
I’m sure we enjoyed an excellent meal – the food at the George was always good – but my attention was on Miss Eleanor Pennington. She had such an expressive face, I found myself watching emotions come and go like light across the ocean. The joyous nature of her smile set my heart dancing. Having spent the last hour spouting forth about the ship, I was content to sit back, to look and listen while the girls chatted with their uncle.
I gathered there was a brother, John, and a younger sister, Martha. Their mother, Sarah, was sister to Thomas Jones’s late wife, and their father, William Pennington, was a farmer. Home was at Winwick, about halfway between Liverpool and Manchester. I had journeyed in that direction a few times by train. Knowing nothing of farming I could not have said whether it was good land or bad, but since the girls were well-dressed and well-spoken, I imagined it was good.
It seemed all the Penningtons were involved with the farm in some capacity or other. Their work depended on the time of year.
‘We make butter and cheese all year round,’ Eleanor said. ‘Not big amounts, you understand. At the moment we’re bottling fruit. September is always a busy time, so it’s nice to have a day off,’ she added with an impish smile for her Uncle Thomas, who was quick to praise the samples they’d brought.
Joe was drawn forth about his experiences as a sailing-ship master – Thomas Jones had clearly been entertained before, and was happy to let his nieces share the more exciting aspects of my brother’s early life.
The Master's Tale--A Novel of the Titanic Page 17
