The Captain's Daughter (17 page)

Ella was all that mattered now. She must succeed and have her chances so that the theft of her true identity could be justified. Only when that happened would May find some peace.

It was here, the day Angelo was dreading. He rose early for work, glancing with sadness at the little shrine in the corner with its shoe and photograph. He was sharing a room with Salvi’s boys. They insisted he live with them now that he’d lost his apartment, after complaints to the landlord about his rowdy all-night carousing with drunken friends and falling behind with his rent.

‘No Bartolini sleeps on the street while I am alive. My brother would kill me,’ said his uncle. ‘But you find a job and pull up your boot strings or else.’

Slowly Angelo had sobered up enough to hold down a job again. It was a chilly clear spring morning, and from the rooftop in Manhattan he sat staring out over the city skyline, over the skyscrapers to the bridges and the river stretching out into the harbour, recalling that terrible night a year ago. How had he survived such loss, such pain and emptiness?

He turned up to work each day and climbed onto cranes and up scaffolding, perching high above the building sites. Work was key, work was comfort and he built up his reputation once more as a stevedore who was reliable and trustworthy enough to be sought out and chosen above other more experienced local men.

Today he would finish early, put on his best shirt and jacket, and head to Mulberry Street and Old St Patrick’s for the special Mass. There, he would light a candle for Maria and their little one alongside other grieving relatives.

He knew many of the Irish by sight now, the old women and young girls, the red-haired navvies who kneeled alongside him. St Pat’s was like a lighthouse in the darkness, somewhere to sit and smell the incense and feel safe in this loud brash city.

Angelo liked the old cathedral better than the big new one. It reminded him of home. The stonework was cool to his touch. Father Bernardo had seen them all through such a difficult time like a true shepherd, but this was a Mass that brought back such memories of that night in the rain last April.

The girl in the plaid shawl sat in front of him again, her coppery curls caught up in a bunch that fell down her back. He’d seen her in the street at the parade. She was weeping so hard one of the sisters touched her arm.

‘Now, Kathleen, they’re all with the angels now . . . I know it’s hard but they wouldn’t want you to take on so.’

Angelo struggled to stay in control of his own tears. He knew only too well what she was feeling right now. When the service was over he got up to leave but the sisters were directing them into the parish room. ‘What you’re needing now is a strong cup of tea. It’s laid on in the back. Come on, Angelo, you as well. After a hard day’s work you must be thirsty.’

He would rather have downed a barrel of whiskey but he smiled and made his way with the others. They all sat around awkwardly, strangers connected by this terrible chain of events. He nearly choked on the sweet milky tea. The girl in the shawl looked across at him and smiled. She had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, like polished marble. He smiled back and her cheeks flushed.

‘My sister, Mary Louise, got on the ship at Queenstown,’ she whispered. ‘And you?’

‘My wife,’ he replied. ‘Maria and our
bambina
from Italy at Cherbourg.’

‘You poor man.’ She shook her head in sympathy. ‘It never goes away, does it?’

Suddenly he was glad he’d changed his shirt and trimmed the wildness out of his black hair; relieved that Anna insisted he shake off the dust of the building site before he came to Mass.

Everyone was sitting, drinking, making polite conversation in their own languages. In a few moments they’d all go their separate ways for another year.

On the steps of the cathedral, the Irish girl hesitated, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, giving him a chance to catch up with her. It was not yet dark and he felt himself drawn to her side. ‘It’s a
bella notte
, a good night for a walk around the block, a
passeggiata
, in my country,’ he offered, towering over her tiny frame.

‘Yes, to be sure, it’s too nice to be indoors,’ she replied. They both looked at each other shyly, and then turned away.

‘I’m Kathleen O’Leary And you are . . . ?’ She paused. ‘I can’t walk with a stranger.’

Angelo bowed, lifting his cap. ‘Angelo Bartolini,’ he replied as they took a few steps towards the sidewalk and the bustle of Manhattan at night.

They didn’t see Father Bernardo smiling a benediction on their meeting as he watched Kathleen take Angelo’s arm, nor hear the kindly priest muttering to himself, ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform
.
’

November 1913

Celeste locked this latest letter in her bureau, unsettled by May’s news. Perhaps it was time to cajole Grover into a family trip. It was worth a try. An English Christmas would do them all good.

She chose her moment carefully. Dinner had been perfect, with every attention to detail he liked: his favourite chicken pot pie followed by canned peaches and cream. Roddy was in his nursery and all was well.

‘I’d like to visit Papa and my brothers for Christmas. We could all go together,’ she smiled at Grover as they sat opposite each other. ‘There’s talk of war in Europe. Papa’s not been in good health and he’d love to see little Roderick. It’s been such a hard year here with those terrible floods in March, the Ohio and Eyrie canal destroyed and those poor Akron folk drowned. I’ve been so busy with the Relief Committee. The doctor suggests perhaps a change of scene will do me good.’

There was a silence as Grover slowly put down his linen napkin and gave her a hard glare.

‘You get plenty of that with your trips south. I would think you were sick of trains, and boats, for that matter. Your place is here at home at Christmas.’

‘I know that, but my father would love us to go over.’

‘Your brothers are quite capable of keeping him company.’

‘He misses me, and Roddy would love to see the old country and his grandpa.’

‘You’re not taking my boy across the Atlantic, not now, not ever, and certainly not to that godforsaken little island full of fog and rain. I’m too busy to accompany you. Let him make the journey over here for a change . . .’ Grover dismissed her plea and reached for the cigar box.

‘Oh, but it’s so special in the cathedral. Please think about it. Roddy must meet his grandfather.’

‘He’s got all the grandparents he needs here. You go if you want to – at your own expense. The boy stays with Susan like he did last time.’

‘But May says in her letter—’ The words were out before she could bite them back.

‘May! I’m sick of that name. Why you’ve picked up this snivelling little scrap to play Lady Bountiful with beats me. Don’t think I don’t know that you still send her extravagant parcels. Mother says you are in and out of the linen shops spending your allowance on girl’s dresses,’ he snapped.

‘Perhaps if I had a girl of my own . . .’ She paused, seeing his eyebrow rise at this defiance. There would be trouble bringing up this subject again. Grover never made love to her without making the point of putting on those dreadful rubbers.

‘Here we go again. All you think about is babies. We’ve got our son and heir. He’s out of diapers now and becoming more like a human being every day. I am not having you growing fat and ugly again and drooling over cribs like some ignorant peasant. It’s not as if you even enjoy making babies, is it? You’re a cold English spinster at heart. I should never have married you.’

Stay calm, don’t respond, Celeste urged herself, but the anger flared up like a wild horse on the rampage, and the words were out of her mouth before she could rein them in.

‘And you are a cruel bully who shows no mercy in getting what he wants when he wants it, no matter how tired or ill I feel. You know I’ve always wanted a larger family. How can you deny me another child?’

Grover was up out of his chair in a second and he grabbed her by the hair, pulling out the padding and the combs. ‘You go too far, madam. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been reading in secret: women’s suffrage and women’s rights pamphlets. I’m not having that garbage in this house! I let you squander your time with the
Titanic
Committee because at least you meet the right people there. Contacts like them with husbands in power will help our company. The other mob are just a bunch of blue stockings. I don’t want you going near them. They are man haters, the lot of them. There’s only one place for a woman like that and it’s on a bed with her legs in the air. They need to know their place and so must you.’ He pulled her from her seat, out into the hall and across to the stairs.

‘No, please, not now, you’ll wake Roddy. Just calm down. We have to talk this through . . .’

She was not going to say she was sorry for speaking her mind. She pulled back but he pushed her forward, grabbing her again by the hair. ‘Get up there and shut up! You should know by now, you do not argue with me. Move it!’

‘No, I will not!’ she shouted, not caring who heard her. He slapped her hard across the cheek, dragged her the last few yards to the bedroom, punching her in the stomach as he threw her on the bed.

‘You, madam, are my wife and I will fuck you when and where I please.’

Celeste struggled to free herself from his determined grasp. ‘This isn’t right. What did I say to make you do this? I won’t submit to this degradation any more . . .’

‘Oh, yes, you will!’ She saw the hatred in his eyes but a moment’s hesitation too. This was her chance.

‘Why do you hate me, Grover? What have I ever done that makes you do these things to me? There has to be a better way than this,’ she pleaded, trying to reason with him. When she turned her face she saw his eyes glinting as if he was in another place, looking at her as if she was the scrapings off his shoe.

‘There you go again with your fancy airs and graces, all prim and proper. I should’ve known better than to take on a parson’s daughter. You’ve never been a real woman to me. You’re so flat-chested and skinny, you look down your nose at my family as if they are nothing.’

‘I’ve never ever done that, and worry has stripped the flesh off me,’ she protested. His reply was a punch to her jaw and she felt her remaining strength crumble.

‘Don’t argue with me! Shut up or there’ll be more where that came from. I am your husband. You owe me everything, bed and board. You are
nothing
without me. Women like you are nothing but simpering ninnies.’

‘I bet you don’t say that about the girls at Lily’s Place downtown,’ she whispered. ‘Is that where you have most of your fun?’

‘What of it? Those girls know how to please a man, not like you, you frigid bitch. You think you’re so special . . . a survivor of the
Titanic.
Let me tell you, I wish you were at the bottom of the ocean . . . It’s always Roddy first and foremost, or Margaret Brown and her fancy cronies. I’m sick of you looking down your nose at me. I didn’t pick you out of the crowd to make a fool of me.’

‘That’s not fair and it’s not true. Are you saying you’re jealous of our son or my other life? It doesn’t have to be this way. I thought you’d be proud that I’m helping others. Why are you so angry? Please, you’re hurting me . . . We can talk this over,’ she gasped, but it was a mistake.

‘I’ll show you just what hurt is!’ he said, throwing her onto her stomach, pulling up her skirt, ripping her underwear and pulling her legs apart.

‘No, no, please. Not that again,’ she moaned. But there was no arguing. She had no strength left to fight him. She felt her supper gagging in her throat. There was nothing left but to bury her face in the counterpane and submit to the agony. But she would not cry out, or move or show him how much he was hurting her. Even as she gasped for breath and tasted the silk of the bedding on her swollen mouth, she vowed he would never do this to her again. She would kill him first.

Never had she felt so alone, yet a fire inside was burning. I hate you, she repeated like a prayer over and over again until his pumping ceased
. I will find a way out. I didn’t survive the
Titanic
to end up like this.

Afterwards she lay on the bed, exhausted but defiant.
If my brothers knew what Grover was really like . . . But how can I ever tell of such dirty shaming? How can I explain such a terrible mistake made in all innocence? How easy it is to believe what is on the surface is the real Grover inside.
Did he only see her as a prize and trophy or an obedient pet? How could she let Roddy grow up with such an example of what it meant to be a man?