The Light in the Darkness 1

by Carla Louise Robinson

  “Kids?” George wasn’t laughing this time; no one was; the statement was a sobering one. Howard knew many of the men laughed to prepare themselves; no one, bar the embalmer, was keen for tomorrow’s adventures and the horrors that awaited them.

  The idea that they would be seeing children was chilling to Howard; what had the wee ones done to offend God? Had it been man’s arrogance in building such a ship? Was this God’s way of teaching man a lesson, the way he had done with the Great Flood?

  “It’s what I heard,” the Lieutenant repeated. “Apparently, there’s more than one. One of the passengers messaged – Hitchens intercepted it, going over the wire – saying she saw a woman clutching a babe to her breast. Likely, it’ll be fodder for tomorrow’s news.”

  “A scene like that? Splashed all over the front of some newspaper tamorra? Real classy, that is,” Jonesy shook his head.

  Howard tried not to gasp, focusing his eyes instead on his almost-finished meal.

  “Are there really as many as they say?” George asked the question everyone was waiting for the answer, though none had dared ask it.

  The Lieutenant didn’t respond, his silence a confirmation.

  Tomorrow was to be a hard-working, gruesome endeavour, and he didn’t want to hear any more about the terrors that he would be forced to endure come morning. He was tasked with collecting the dead by way of a small cutter boat; he would ferry out, with another man or two, and ferry the dead back to Snow, the embalmer.

  For now, however, Howard was still famished after a long day’s work. He finished his stew before moving forward to return to the galley line, eager to fill his stomach after a long and laborious day, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that his hunger had very little to do with the desire to eat. It did no one’s soul any good to mourn for what could not be changed.

  Chapter Ten

  Wednesday, 10th April, 1912

  Cecilia

  As soon as she retired to her suite, Cecilia pressed the call-button above her bed to summon a stewardess to help her change, not because she was eager to make a good impression on her parents come luncheon, of which she could already hear the faint murmurings, perhaps of a brewing argument? – but she was desperately eager to leave the confines of her room and explore the ship. Regardless of what fate awaited her in New York, there was simply no point being morose about her journey when luxurious features surrounded her that she would typically have to travel to London or Paris to enjoy, and all of them seemed to exist in this seemingly miniature floating hotel. She’d never visited a Turkish bath before and had not dared yet utter the fact that she didn’t actually know its purpose. If Eliana discovered that Cecilia was utterly unaware of a Turkish bath’s functionality, she’d find it a cracking joke, and would mock her sister mercilessly for the entire trip.

  She might even bring it up when she met with Thomas in America. It would be undoubtedly embarrassing.

  “How may I help you, My Lady?” the stewardess asked, after knocking twice to enter. She sprouted a thick, rough Irish accent that somewhat mismatched her small, petite frame. Cecilia wasn’t tall, barely standing five foot three, but the woman in charge of assisting her was at least two inches shorter than her, looking more child than woman.

  Cecilia looked the girl up and down, smiling. She could be a friend. “I need to change. I need something to wear for luncheon.”

  “Of course, My Lady. What dress would you like to wear, miss?”

  Cecilia glanced at her wardrobe, where her garments had already been unpacked and arranged (likely by a steward, or her mother’s maid, Wilson), and were hanging elegantly in her closet, or the many she assumed a maid would have taken for pressing. Cecilia knew that pressing cost an additional fee and was not a part of any of the White Star Line tickets; however, it was a necessity for the Gresham family.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Cecilia mused. “Would you mind selecting one of the white tea dresses on the left there? Anyone that you like. It’s just that my own maid, Mary, usually does so for me – selecting my outfits, I mean. I’m really rather hopeless when it comes to fashion, and I don’t truly care for it, not the way Mama or my sisters do … oh, my gosh, I’m gibbering away to you like a nervous little Nelly. Please just ignore me – it’s just that I’m dying to explore this ship! There appears to be so much to do! Do you know, I’ve never even seen a gymnasium before? The very thing sounds rather foreign to me.”

  “I don’t mind at all, my lady,” murmured the stewardess, as she stepped forward. She held up the white gown she’d selected from Cecilia’s wide assortment: A beautiful white tea dress, with a V-neck that opened at the drape of her neck, the collars elegantly folded back, decorated with navy blue and white flowers. Small, delicate, barely-visible blush rose patterns adorned the white silk, and full, long white silk sleeves reached her wrists – which, once she was ready to leave her parlour suite, she would match with white-lace mesh gloves. The dress was finished off with a small, thin light-brown leather belt that boasted two generous white Akoya pearls as its buckle.

  “Oh, what a delightful choice!” squealed Cecilia, clapping her hands together; her Mama, at the very least, would be quite pleased with the choice. “Pray, tell me. What is your name?”

  “Miss O’Flanaghan, my lady,” the girl replied.

  “No, not the one given to you by your father; the one your beloved Mama blessed you with.”

  “Oh!” the girl flushed darkly, red splotches tainting her pale skin, as she began removing Cecilia’s outer dress garments, stripping her down to her stockings, corset and drawers. “I don’t know if that’s proper, my lady.”

  “Oh, go on! Please?” begged Cecilia. “It can just be between us. It will be pleasing knowing I could call upon a trusted acquaintance for my entire voyage, and I could ask Papa to requisition the Purser that you be my maid for the journey. And I’d see to it that Papa would generously compensate both you and the White Star Line for being so accommodating.” Cecilia was distinctly aware that combined with her begging, her voice had taken a whiny, desperate pitch, yet she pressed on. “Papa will be so relieved to know I’ve made a friend. He currently believes I’m under the unwieldy influence of the devil, which is to say, my sister.”

  “Aiobheen, miss,” the stewardess replied, ending the accompanying awkward silence.

  “Aiobheen,” repeated Cecilia, rolling the girl’s name delicately over her tongue, so that she could remember to pronounce it correctly when she would later call on her. “It’s stunning. What does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure, miss,” Aiobheen smiled. “I was named after my Grandmarman, on my Da’s side. And it’s ayy-veen, miss, not ee-veen.”

  Cecilia blushed lightly, acknowledging her slight gaff, before feeling Aiobheen begin to relax.

  “Does your lady wish to change her undergarments, as well?”

  “It’s Cecilia. Please, I insist.” Out of habit, Cecilia had almost included the formal title of Lady to her name, but she was glad she had resisted at the last moment; her young friend already seemed uncertain of the situation as it was. The formality would likely frighten her more than was necessary, especially since it was the beginning of the dawn of a new friendship, one that Cecilia aspired to keep.

  “No, though I will require a change of shoes to match my outfit.” Cecilia glanced at her silk tea dress – she would accompany it with a golden shawl and a small white hat – and relished at the fact that it would fit perfectly around her undergarments. While corsets were a matter of necessity at almost every time of day, the evening corsets were tighter, more fitted, and therefore dazzlingly constrictive at times, especially when a ten-course degustation was common among the Gresham family, happening virtually nightly. Cecilia often wondered what her parents might do if they didn’t host a dinner party so often; would they have a purpose?

  Aiobheen began fitting Cecilia ceremoniously, before reaching for white satin Mary Janes. “Would this be more to your liking, Miss Cecilia?”


  “Yes, Aiobheen, they will be perfect. Now, can you tell me more about this gymnasium and its electric camel? What even is an electric camel?”

  “I don’t know that much about the gymnasium, miss,” Aiobheen said. “Though it’s aft of the forward grand staircase, located on the starboard side of the Boat Deck. Mr McCawley is the physical instructor, and while he’s terribly strict on the men, he’s not so on the ladies and the young ones. Though, I’m sorry if it disappoints my lady, but the opening hours for women end at noon. The gymnasium is already closed for the day for women.”

  “Oh.” Cecilia felt downcast, even though she had no desire to participate in the gymnasium – whoever had dreamt up the idea of an electric camel? The entire thing sounded ghastly to her – she was curious to see the gymnasium. “Well, perhaps tomorrow. It’s not as if I’m interested in actually riding any of that terrifying machinery.”

  Aiobheen nodded in agreement as she began fastening the buckles on either side of Cecilia’s heels.

  “I think it’s something more the men enjoy, Miss Cecilia,” she said softly. “And while it’s of no consequence to a fine lady like you, it’s a shilling entrance fee. Though I’d be expectin’ the Reading Room to be more your taste, my lady. We have quite an extensive library collection; we feature all the best classics, including the Romantics, as well as some of the newer authors that keep emerging, though I’ve not had the time to read a book to its end in many years. And if you care to, you can write a letter or postcard, and have it delivered to the mailroom. It’s a special amenity for first-class passengers only; though only men can access the mailroom, I’m afraid. A steward would gladly assist you in the matter.”

  Cecilia tried to bite the urge to roll her eyes; men had the daftest ideas at times. She understood segregation regarding the gymnasium and swimming bath, but what on earth could possibly happen in a mailroom? Men thought women to be delicate, surmised Cecilia, yet women seemed capable of enduring things men could not imagine. Men – even ones of noble birth – have luxuries. They had possibilities and opportunities to make mistakes. They had the chance to change their status, something that was seldom afforded to women. Though it would be seen as improper and ungentlemanly, no one would turn a blind eye at a man who’d felt the urge to sow his seed whilst young; however, a woman could be tainted, forever haunted, by a man’s word and word alone. An elderly man, even poor, was a catch; an elderly woman was quickly discarded, especially if she were poor.

  “That does sound splendid,” agreed Cecilia. “I could borrow a book or two, giving me something to busy myself with while I’m walking the decks and if I require rest. I didn’t think to bring anything to read myself.”

  Aiobheen smiled brightly, a smile which Cecilia sincerely returned. “Pray, what are the Turkish baths, Aiobheen? I’ve heard much talk of them, but yet to understand their function.”

  “Well, there’s two different parts to it, my lady,” Aiobheen replied. “There’s the steam room, which undoubtedly, you would be quite familiar with. The Turkish bath itself, however, conducts electricity to brown one’s skin.”

  “Brown one’s skin?” Cecilia was horrified. Who would want to cook themselves, as if they were a tender roast lamb or a suckling pig?

  “Yes, my lady. The machine develops a brownness, similar to as if one has spent the day in the sun without a hat. The Americans seem quite fond of it; several of them have already scheduled bookings, my lady. They say it gives them a ‘warm summer glow’.”

  Cecilia tried not to look as if the maid had slapped her. Why anyone would want to deliberately tarnish their skin was beyond her. Americans had the most absurd ideas at times.

  “Oh,” was all Cecilia could offer after a spell. “That is quite different to what I had imagined.”

  “What had you imagined, if you don’t mind me asking, my lady?”

  “I’m not certain, but it certainly was not that.” The two women giggled, and then Cecilia paused.

  “I will ask for you to be requisitioned to my room, if that’s quite alright, Aiobheen. I’d very much like it if you’d attend directly on me for the voyage, if you feel that’s alright by you, of course. If so, I’ll likely return to my suite at five for a bath, where I will call you afterwards to fetch me the fresh hot water pitchers, before I change for an evening at the fancy little A La Carte restaurant you have on B Deck. I noticed it when we entered – we entered on B Deck, aft of the grand staircase. It wasn’t open, of course, but the doors were impossible to miss. If you find you have the time, I would appreciate you selecting a dress or two for me to choose from for dining. And that curled hairstyle, there, you see?” Cecilia pointed to an illustration of a model in La Mode. “I would like it styled that way for dinner, with the bow.”

  “I’d like that very much, Miss Cecilia,” Aiobheen smiled. “I will be sure to select a few choices for you, while proposing to you my favourite, as your Mary did for you. I have already practised that style and can say with certainty it will bring out the blue in your eyes with the way your hair curls across the side of your face.”

  “Excellent!” cried Cecilia, clasping her new acquaintance’s hands, a boldly intimate gesture she immediately regretted. “I believe we’ll be such fast friends, Aiobheen. I will leave my requisition with the Chief Purser immediately. That will be all, Aiobheen.” Aiobheen noted the dismissal in Cecilia’s tone, and took her leave, while Cecilia fitted her small, netted gloves and fine white hat, before leaving her suite to explore the upper decks.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday, April 10th, 1912

  Henry

  Henry was setting up his newly purchased Pathé camera, filming the hustle and bustle of the Titanic’s Boat Deck. He’d witnessed – and captured – the near-collision with the New York; he could not wait to return home to England to boast of the Captain’s prowess. Where the tugboats had missed, the Captain had not; Henry was astounded by the Captain’s quick-thinking; the reverse thrust of the engines had pushed the New York out of harm’s way, giving the tugs a second opportunity to lay claim to their escaped hostage, once again narrowly avoiding disaster. While it had been a spectacle to watch, and many of the passengers had openly gasped and pointed – though most had been afraid for the New York’s safety, not the Titanic’s – it now lay a forgotten incident, with couples strolling the deck hand in hand, children playing hopscotch or with spinning toys, and passengers laying in deck chairs, covered in warm red White Star Line blankets, reading books they’d borrowed from the ship’s library. Henry had filmed an older man who had since fallen asleep; a copy of a book – Henry couldn’t make out the title from a distance – lay fallen open on his blanket, his monocles hanging loosely from his large, crooked nose. Now, Henry was watching the orange sun casting a serene glow over the water, merging together. He wished he was able to capture the beauty of it.

  Henry, unlike most of the other passengers, was not eager for his own passage: He detested New York. As a Jewish-German immigrant, Henry had frequently found he was unwelcome in many places, particularly during the times he’d visited America. He had found out that many restaurants and hotels were closed to Jewish people, with signs above them stating ‘No Blacks, No Mexicans, No Jews’. For all the grandeur and tolerance America boasted, as the country that could make any man’s dream come real provided he worked for it, Henry had learnt that it was an illusion that America crowed, not one they actually adhered to. Henry had long found that many doors closed in front of his face; and while he could not say that England had been much better, they at least liked Germans. After Henry had changed his surname from Fraunthenal to Hamilton, he found that, due to his blonde hair and “non-Jewish” dominant features, he blended in easily in England, where there were plenty of Europeans, many of whom were more productive than the English.

  He was travelling to America to help assimilate his company with the Biograph Company’s, a prestigious celluloid company that had long been invented by William Kennedy Dickinson; a
nd it was an opportunity Henry could not, and would not, afford to miss. Begrudgingly, he’d bought a single cabin berth on D-Deck, forced to switch from a smaller steamer due to the coal strike, forgoing any private lavatories in the sake of a far lower price. Henry’s refugee status had made him grateful for what he did have, instead of what he did not, and he did not believe in spending money frivolously. He certainly didn’t feel the need to bathe every day, despite the rejuvenation he felt after every bath. For the most part, Henry thought it wasted precious time that could be spent on better things, like developing his still and moving photography, and making better acquaintances. According to his passenger manifest, more than one man was travelling with cine film, and Dorothy Gibson, the famed American actress, was boarding in Cherbourg. Henry hoped that he would find the actress agreeable; with any luck, she would be perfectly willing to establish a professional relationship. Even a small partnership with Dorothy Gibson could help put Henry’s name on the map, making his self-made company into something more.

  Into something that didn’t require Henry selling his footage to a more profitable company.

  Henry was focusing on a honeymoon couple, wandering hand in hand, when everything suddenly changed.

  It was then that he caught a glimpse of her; she was beautiful, vibrant, glowing. Her mouth was almost too large for her tiny face, and the way her lips crinkled suggested to Henry that she laughed more than she cried. She had large, upturned eyes, full, rosy cheeks, and a Roman nose that young Amy March would have been proud of. Despite her wandering unaccompanied – something rare for an unmarried woman, which she clearly was – he could tell that she was enjoying herself, and he found himself admiring the trait of her independence, even though many passengers were openly frowning and showing their disapproval. Some of them, though the lady seemed to pay them no real notice, seemed to know who she was just by sight, and Henry wished he’d paid more attention to high society instead of his photography for the first time in his life.