The Light in the Darkness 1

by Carla Louise Robinson

  “Hear, hear!” William chanted, and both Jack and Madeleine smiled, though Madeleine’s chin quivered slightly, accentuating her chin dimple.

  “That’s very kind of you, Maggie,” Madeleine said, smiling through glistening tears. Georgiana was astounded by her friend’s beauty, even when her face wore the mask of devastation. “Thank you for your kindness. There are times where I believe I’m not sure that I deserve it; sometimes I wonder if I have earnt the reputation that has marked me so. Jack tells me I’m silly of course, but it’s been dreadfully painful. I’ve lost more than one friend, and I am no longer as close with my family as I once was.”

  “I don’t care much for rumours,” declared Georgiana, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. She did care for rumours, liking to gossip over high tea, but that was different. She didn’t necessarily believe them, unless they were, of course, about people Georgiana detested. Those were the rumours she relished, envisioning those she disliked coming to harm’s way, benefitting from karma. “I care that the two people sitting before me are kind and generous.”

  The couple smiled again, and Madeleine whispered a quiet “thank you”, though it was drowned out by Maggie’s declaration that “breakfast would be a hell of a lot better if you jimmied up some of those eclairs, Luigi!” and Georgiana broke out into a laugh, finally unable to contain herself – especially when Luigi obliged, summing a sampling of chocolate and vanilla eclairs accompanied with crème fraîche.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thursday, April 11th, 1912

  Claire

  Claire stared up at the enormous ship with trepidation and squeezed her niece’s hand tightly; she had never seen something constructed by man that was so prodigious before, and it frightened her a trifle, not that she would ever confess it. Claire liked to say that nothing disconcerted her, though that could not be further from the truth. In a sense, everything terrified her now. Nora’s parents – and consequently, Claire’s sister and brother-in-law – had died in hasty succession of each other. Claire’s brother-in-law had been killed in an accident at work; he’d been working on the shipyard when a pile of crates had been knocked and had fallen on him and three others. He had suffered for three days before he’d eventually passed, his lungs and ribs crushed, rendering him unable to breathe. It had been two years passed since her brother-in-law’s death; less than one since Shailagh’s.

  Shailagh, Claire’s once-effervescent older sister, had then fallen into a profound desolation; as the sole breadwinner for an already destitute house was deceased, Nora’s immediate future solely depended on her mother. Morose though Shailagh was, she’d been a proud Irish woman, and she’d quickly returned to work in a textile factory, knowing it was necessary for her daughter’s survival, which superseded Shailagh’s personal feelings about the harsh, dangerous work. While some daughters could return home, that year their mother was dealing with death and sickness at every turn and could not pull herself out of her own melancholia.

  Alas, Shailagh had managed to find service facilely by reason of the influenza epidemic, which she in turn promptly caught. Nora, who was only five, did not know to call for a doctor. By the time anyone knew of Shailagh’s condition, it was too late, with the fever taking her already weakened body, and Nora was now an orphan, having lost her parents before she’d barely scratched five.

  Claire’s parents hadn’t recovered; Shailagh was the fifth child they had lost in three years. They feared that Ireland wasn’t the best place for them, and perhaps they were cursed, Papists living in a Protestant world. Claire’s family had long-suffered as a result; it was a double-edged sword; being Papist meant you believed Protestants were heretics, yet as you were the minority, Protestants were able to take from you, your rights stripped as you were paid less for the same work. Her parents had then decided to muster up all their savings to afford Claire and Nora a passage on any ship immigrating to England; a coal strike, and in Claire’s opinion, luck, saw them travel on the Titanic. Claire’s Ma and Da had hoped to follow, but it would take months, if not a year, for them to save for another voyage, and a lot could happen in such a period, as Claire well learnt.

  After all, three winters prior, Claire had five siblings, not one. She had three older brothers, as well as a thirteen-year-old sister. One of her brothers had been killed by a protestant gang – though justice had never been served, and nor was it likely to be – one had always been weakly, though no one had ever known the cause; a fever swiftly took him; the eldest lost in a war fighting for the British, though it was a war he did not believe in; and her sister befell the same influenza that would, a few cruel months later, take her second one.

  Her parents, frightfully superstitious in all manner of God’s work (as good Catholics were, Claire thought), believed that it was no longer safe to remain in Ireland, that God was beckoning them to a new beginning. While Claire was not sure she believed it so, her Ma claimed God frequently spoke to her, insisting this was the way forward; that the trials, tribulations and losses were His way of testing them and their faith, and now they needed to heed His warning about travelling to the vast lands of America, where the roads were paved with gold, or so they said. They said a lot of things – many of which Claire thought untrue – but Claire did know this; America promised her family a sincere, fresh beginning, where they could live happily as Catholics, free from persecution. If only more countries behaved as America does, Claire thought dully. If Ireland had half America’s class, she would not need to leave it, and she would still have at least one brother. Maybe more, as her family would not have been driven to such poverty.

  Her village, however, was a tight knit one. As a result, they’d quickly raised the funds within their own house, and with some help with the good Reverend and the donations of kind strangers at Sunday Mass that shared money they could not afford to give, before Claire and Nora were booked on the safest passage to America. Originally, it had been a cheaper liner, but the coal strike had brought Claire and Nora luck they could not have hoped for. Even Claire had heard of the Olympic’s grandeur. While she had heard naught of the Titanic before she’d learnt of her passage, she’d also been quick to learn it was the sister ship of the Olympic, which passed through Queenstown weekly. Olympic was a beautiful ship; she’d heard all the fanfare the year before and had been even lucky enough to spy some of her furnishings in an old, scattered paper that had fallen on the gravel road. If Titanic had even half of Olympic’s grandeur, the week-long trip to New York would be the best week of Claire and Nora’s lives thus far, and perhaps evermore.

  Claire and Nora, after clearing immigration and quarantine upon arrival in New York at Ellis Island, were to stay with her Ma’s cousins, who’d emigrated to America in the ’70s, hoping to escape the devastations of the famine that had plagued so many Irishmen. Claire had heard of the harrowing tales of An Gorta Mor from her parents; she recalled their stories of the sand streets that were littered with the almost-dead, their bodies ghostly skeletons, weakened so they could barely lift their heads, even when offered food or water. People ate whatever they could, including their beloved pets; there were rumours that the Catholics had eaten their own kin, though that had been likely spread by Protestants, as it was not valid. The crop in every land, in every village, on every plain (particularly potatoes, which had been a proper source of nutrition for the Irish) rotted in the earth, leaking brown and black mucus, befuddling the picker with a foul smell. Those that could afford to flee fled; those who couldn’t rebelled against the English, blaming their destitution against Queen Victoria’s lack of care, which, though Claire did not know Queen Victoria at all as she’d passed long before her own birth, seemed a little fair, as the Queen had not helped her subjects as she should have. Her Ma had blamed the Queen, who she faulted for being Protestant, and scolded for marrying a German, was furious when she said Victoria had not appeared in Ireland until millions of their people had starved to death. With shaking anger, her Ma recalled that millio
ns had died while Queen Victoria wined, dined and danced with dinners that could feed her entire parish for a week. While the famine had all but ended before Claire’s birth, her country was not yet recovered; many were destitute, unable to find work, and most of the people that lived in her county were sick, malnourished, and deformed. Those who had survived the Hard Times seemingly never recovered mentally or in physicality; their legs oft deformed, they somehow looked both starved and bloated at the same time, no matter how much they had eaten, nor how many years since the starving had passed. Her grandparents would not accept even a small waste of food; everything, to them, was for eating, Claire remembered. Though it had been some years now since they had died, Claire missed them sorely. Catholics, persecuted over the years by a country who had turned its back on the religion of God so the Heretic Anne Boleyn (the Great Whore) could turn Good King Henry’s head, luring him the way Eve had tempted Adam in the Garden of Eden, had suffered worse. Being Catholic in a Protestant world oft meant not being able to own lands properly, and pestilence had readily struck any that had not starved. The country was disorderly, torn apart by the losses of wealth and family combined; plenty turned to crime, and with many Protestants blaming Papists for God’s wrath, murder roamed each village, sometimes running rampant and without any kind of just cause; famine’s supreme victory was in creating brain madness.

  Her Ma’s cousins appeared relatively lucrative, cultivating a quaint farm out in Wisconsin, freely able to follow their faith, and were reputable names within their parish community. They would be meeting Claire and Nora after they arrived in New York the following Wednesday, and were staying in a nearby hotel until Claire and Nora cleared customs, though Claire was sure they would not come on Wednesday, but perhaps a few days later, to ensure the booking fee was less. Claire knew her probable time at immigration was likely three to five days; a considerable difference to the others that were boarding with her. Ellen and Jack were to take a steam train to Chicago, before then travelling to Wisconsin, but once there, Claire would have Ellen and Jack Hacker to help her raise Nora, providing them both with a secure setup. Ellen spoke fondly of taking them in, in her letters, and Claire wondered if it was because she had few children of her own. Claire’s Ma had always said Ellen had been envious of her Ma’s brood.

  Claire hoped to get work with a nearby silk shop; Ellen had already sent the shop in question some of Claire’s work, and the owner was keen to meet with her. With any fortune, she’d have a job shortly after touching American soil; delicate Irish embroidery was something that was sought after where she was heading, with many wealthy Americans willing to pay a pretty penny for something so elegant. While many Americans and British had taken to industrial machines, many women in Ireland were forced to contend with their hands and needles, and as thus, had never lost their skills to embroider in a fashion that a machine simply could not recreate.

  As the pair approached the Titanic on the small tender boat – they were on the America, not the Ireland – uneasiness began to fill Claire’s mind, and she wiped her sweaty palms on her dull brown dress (not her most beautiful in her small wardrobe, but comfortable and suitable for travelling) – though the action did little to calm the panic raging in Claire’s mind. She felt dizzy as she stared up at the ship, her neck cracking as she tried to see all four funnels, and found that she could not.

  “It’s okay,” Nora whispered to Claire’s surprise. Nora hadn’t spoken many words on their long voyage from their small hometown to Queenstown; her parents’ deaths in quick succession had robbed the little child of her voice.

  Or, rather, it removed Nora’s want to use said voice. She chose to speak infrequently, and her speech would come and go at a moment’s notice. Force meant she would not talk for days, at times, even weeks or months. Claire had long learnt that it was best to let her be, as painful as it was. Perhaps the trick was working, Claire prayed, as Nora’s sentence had been the third she’d spoken on their long journey to Queenstown. Claire didn’t exactly blame her niece; sometimes, if given choice, she would choose silence, too. Though, at Claire’s age, if she chose silence as a defensive weapon, she’d be labelled as someone who’d been taken by the madness, and ostracised.

  Nora was a tiny little thing, with her long, curly dark hair flying unruly in the brisk wind as the small tender ship steamed towards the Titanic. Nora’s features were far more delicate and feminine than Claire’s, whose oval angular face, coated with freckles, and high, sharp cheekbones gave her the appearance of a slightly malnourished, firm woman; one whose features appeared to much intimidate the men she’d known in her village, and she was sure better suited if she’d been born a boy. She had not the refined beauty her older sister, Shailagh, nor her younger one, Bronte, had inherited, much to her detriment.

  Nora, who had inherited her late mother’s graceful beauty, had tiny, Fae-like features, and her long hair, which was often left untied and untamed, accentuated her soft features, making her look like a princess of the Fae, the way Shailagh had when she was a babe. Sometimes, Claire’s heart ached when she looked at her niece, as she was so reminded of everything that she had lost.

  While Nora was likely to grow up to be as beautiful as her mother had been, Claire, on the other hand, had not been successful in securing the same good looks as her dear sister. She was taller than most of the girls in her hometown, thus giving her already too-thin body a gangly, spindly insect-like appearance. She had long fingers, and quite flat feet, making her an appalling dancer, even though she loved nothing more than to dance to soulful Irish music, a guilty sin of hers. “Devil-music” her mothered called it; Claire felt that was harsh, as the music was simply an excellent beat. Claire’s eyes were ice-blue and were enraptured in almond, slanted eyes, which were arguably her best feature, and the one most commented upon. While Claire’s eyelashes were fair, her eyebrows were a contrasty dark brown, far darker than her reddish-brown hair, that hung straight; it couldn’t even curl properly.

  While Nora had inherited her mother’s cute button nose, Claire had inherited her Da’s thick, Roman one, though she’d been blessed with a large bump her father did not share on the bridge. Both girls had inherited Claire’s mother’s lips, though Nora’s mouth was constantly downturned, illuminating a prominent and distinctive pout that appeared to grow larger every day, only made her beauty more prominent and distinct. Nora was the type of child strangers loved, often stopping to compliment her captivating and bewitching charm. Nora always smiled gracefully, and to the delight of strangers, curtsied. The curtsying was an act of fortuity, when a well-to-do family approached her, exclaiming her beauty. She was small and unsure of what to do, hence the bow; the stranger had laughed, and the habit had been borne. Since losing Shailagh and Jack, Nora still did the same when confronted with strangers, though she never spoke, usually smiling while sucking her thumb, something almost seemed to delight strangers more. On the rare occasion someone did ask why the child was voiceless (sometimes rudely, and loudly, whispering, “Is the girl dumb?”), Claire would simply shrug and whisper back, “She’s been that way since losin’ her parents,” and a look of sorrow would fill the person’s face as they bewailed their question. Claire had begun to enjoy that look, and took pleasure in the person’s changed demeanour; she wished people understood the gravity and consequence of asking some questions, however innocuous they first appeared. Questions that seemed harmless were not so when people were in difficult situations, and often those difficult situations were invisible to the naked eye. A stranger might pity Claire for being a starving young mother, who had perhaps shamed herself. They might even assume she was a nanny, like many whom had been hired for the journey to New York where parents had perished; they were unlikely to realise Claire carried with her the death of six siblings – five of which had been lost within three years – and the “ward” she was accompanying to the New World was her dear and only niece.

  Unlike Nora, whose age and position afforded her the luxury of not p
ulling one’s hair up, Claire’s hair was carefully curled as best as she could – she had not been blessed with naturally curly hair, as was the fashion; her hair straight with nary a wave – tucked under a white straw hat her Ma had given her as a departure gift. It had been her Ma’s most precious possession: It sported two white roses with a pink one front and centre. Claire’s Ma had worn the hat on the day of her wedding, making the hat all the more precious, especially when Claire was unaware when – or if – she’d next see her parents. She did not have a picture of her family, and she knew that with time images of loved ones faded, so she had tried to commit their images to mind. Knowing that if she did not see her parents again, she’d lose their images entirely, she had committed their memory to two items each: Her mother’s hat and her father’s rosary, which was always in her pocket or around her neck, so as to never lose it.