Unspeakable (2 page)

“Actually,” I said, lifting my hand to cover the lens, “I do mind.”

“Wyatt Steele,
New York Times
.” The taller man held out his hand. I didn't take it. “The world wants to hear your story, Miss …” He fished for my name and once again came
up empty. But he wouldn't be deterred. He flipped open his notebook. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

I eyed the door, considered what was behind it. “Let me ask
you
something. What business do you men have in there?”

“Memorial postcard,” the short man said.

“What?” I looked at him in disbelief. “You actually took a picture of the dead … for a
postcard
?” The rage surged from a place deep inside me. “Did you ask them if they minded?”

“Just doing my job.” He shrugged. “The public have a right to know.”

“And what about the deceased?” I snapped, pointing at the shed. “Do they not have any rights? To dignity? To privacy? To respect?”

“They deserve to have their story told,” Steele answered. “By someone who was there, by someone who survived.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Don't you think you owe them that?”

“Get away from me,” I yelled, shrinking away, “you—you vultures!”

Monique stepped in and, in no uncertain terms, put the men in their place. I don't know if Steele spoke French, but he got the message just the same. She took me to her home then, murmuring her words of comfort, tucking me under her wing. I let her fuss. Let her stoke up a roaring fire and wrap me in a thick quilt. Let her make a cup of tea I wouldn't drink and back-bacon sandwiches I wouldn't eat.

Maybe at least one of us would feel like she was doing
something
.

They thought I was sleeping in the guest room—as if I would ever sleep soundly again. I heard Monique puttering
about making Claude's tea, the spoon clinking on his cup, the knife scraping his sandwich in two. And the halting sound of his voice. This tough old farmer, reduced to tears as he told his wife what he'd done that day. What he'd help carry from the ship decks to the shed. I didn't understand a word of French, but I knew exactly what he said.

For now we all spoke grief.

FOUR MONTHS BEFORE

January 1914

Strandview Manor, Liverpool

Chapter Two

GRIEF WAS NO STRANGER TO ME
. I'd known more than my share of it in my short eighteen years. My mother. My father's love. My innocence. My hope. All of it had been stolen from me. In many ways, I was a victim long before the
Empress
tragedy. I'd arrived on the steps of my great-aunt's Liverpool house two months before with nothing but my losses. And I hadn't the will or the strength to do anything more than wallow. To bury myself under the covers and never come out.

But apparently, Aunt Geraldine had other plans.

“You can't make me,” I yelled from my bed that damp December morning, gripping the quilts in my fists as I burrowed deeper. “I won't do it!”

Aunt Geraldine ripped the bedding back and dumped it on the floor. Her strength surprised me. So did her temper. Not just because she was ancient, like some wizened apple doll, in her eighties at least, but because my aunt rarely came out of her study. I'd ignored her these past long weeks. Why
couldn't she do me the same courtesy? Hadn't she done that for most of my life?

She pointed her finger at me as I sat shivering in my nightie. “You will go on that ship, Ellen Hardy, and you will work hard, bloody hard. Mr. Gaade is doing you a favour taking you on at all.”

“Some favour,” I sulked.

“You will learn to be grateful for all you do have,” she continued, as if I had anything to be thankful about. “Maybe, just maybe, you will learn how to make a life for yourself.”

“As a stewardess?” I couldn't believe her. What kind of life was that? Outraged, I bolted from the bed and stood before her. Though we were the same size, my great-aunt's greatness seemed to loom over me, snuffing out whatever my words might have sparked.

Her young maid dropped to her knees to gather up my bedding, tending to my every need as she had since I'd arrived. Fetching tea. Bringing trays. Warming water bottles.

“Leave it, Meg,” Aunt Geraldine said, and the quiet girl stood. “Ellen will do it.”

Meg curtseyed and left.

“You can't write my life. You can't just order me about.” I crossed my arms. “I'm not some halfwit maid you can—”

I never saw my aunt's slap coming, but I still remember its sting. How it made both of us watery-eyed. I raised my trembling hand to my burning cheek. No one had ever slapped me before. Not even my father, though he surely must have wanted to after what I'd done. I felt hot with the memories, the shame, the smouldering flush of a victim who is powerless to do anything but burn.

“Why didn't you just leave me where I was?” I said, defeated, as she turned to go. “You've only traded one jail for another.”

She rested her wrinkled hand on the doorknob and, slumping, looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes were tired. Her face, sunken. For the first time, Aunt Geraldine seemed as old as she truly was. “I promised your mother I'd watch over you.”

“Well,” I said, gloating somewhat in the small power of my words, “I'd say she's sorely disappointed, isn't she?”

“Yes,” Aunt Geraldine said softly, her eyes meeting mine. “I'd say she is.”

She paused. “You know, Ellen, I always thought you had more of your mother in you. I guess I was wrong.”

TRUE TO HER WORD
, within the week Aunt Geraldine had me signed on, suited up, and shipped out as a stewardess on the ocean liner the
Empress of Ireland
. And her maid along with me. That's all Meg was to me then. My aunt's hired help. Her eyes on the ship. I'd no idea then that Meg would become so much more. That I would become a victim of a shipwreck because of my aunt's actions, or that I'd survive it because of Meg's.

Oh, Meg. She always had a wide-eyed wonder about her. So something as grand as the
Empress of Ireland
literally left her speechless. As soon as we boarded, bags in hand, the stiffly starched Matron Jones led us for what seemed like miles, through passageways and back stairs from one long hall to another. Meg followed, fascinated by the grand dining
halls, the stocked library, the lush carpets and rich wood panelling—even the bloody doorknobs were worth a mention. Everywhere she turned she seemed even more amazed, but all I felt was trapped. Meg saw grandeur. I saw work. More places to clean. More places to get lost. I'd never be able to find my way around.

“Is this the front of the ship?” Meg asked, trying to get her bearings.

“The
bow
—yes,” Matron Jones corrected. Her dark skirts swished as she marched. Her keys jangled on her belt like a jailer's. “Stewardesses' cabins are located on the Shelter Deck.”

Meg's smile widened. Perhaps it was being referred to as a
stewardess
or the idea of having a
cabin
on the
Shelter Deck
. But I knew neither were going to be as glorious as Meg imagined. Not by a long shot. Not for me, anyway. Matron Jones finally stopped outside a door and knocked brusquely before entering. As soon as it opened, I knew there had to be some mistake. This wasn't a room, it was a cupboard. A closet of bunk beds.

“Them's the new girls?” A short stewardess stood at the small sink between the bunks patting her reddish-brown hair. She looked to be in her early thirties. Solid. Ruddy. She reminded me of a potato.

“Kate, this is Ellen Ryan and Meg Bates,” Matron Jones replied in her clipped voice. She glanced at us. “Change and report to the galley in five minutes.” She left as abruptly as she spoke.

I didn't like being ordered about by this old goat. And hated even more that this was my life now.

“Well, here's the grand tour.” Kate flourished her arm, taking in the tiny room, the two sets of bunk beds, their green curtains swagged up either side. “ Bed. Bed. Bed. Bed. Sink. Closet.”

“It's lovely,” Meg gushed. “And look, there're little drawers right by our bed. We can each have our own.”

A tantrum roiled in my stomach. I didn't want my own drawer. I wanted, I needed, my own bloody room, not to be shelved away like one of my aunt's books.
“
This is our room … I mean, for all
three
of us?”

Kate snorted at the ridiculousness of it and I felt my shoulders relax. Clearly there was some mistake.

“Actually, we're four. Gwen is upstairs giving the toilets another swish. I dunno the fuss, really. But you know, some passengers can be so finicky—every bowl must sparkle, even the one for their shite.”

The already cramped walls started to close in. This can't be happening. How could Aunt Geraldine do this to me?

“Don't worry,” Kate said, no doubt reading my expression, “we hardly ever spend time in here other than sleeping or dressing. The passengers keep us hopping.”

That didn't make me feel any better.

“You working second class?” Kate asked.

Meg looked at me, unsure.

“Probably,” Kate concluded. “Funny, they don't normally sign them on so young. Or pretty. Most of us are working widows or spinsters.” She tilted her head at us. “What are you, eighteen?”

Meg clutched her bag and nodded enthusiastically. “Lady Hardy knows Chief Steward Gaade so she put in a—”

I glared at her blathering our business. My business.

She blushed again and added lamely, “… good word for us.”

Had the girl no sense? I'd told her not to speak of it.

“Either way,” Kate concluded, “I doubt Gaade will let you wet-behind-the-ears serve first.” She lifted a white apron from her bunk and slipped it over her dark uniform, efficiently knotting it in a looping bow in the back before adjusting her white cuffs and collar. I hated the sight of the drab uniform, the knowledge that I'd be forced to wear it every day, like some inmate. “The last thing the chief steward needs is for you to piss off some upper-class brat.”