1609366867
Authors: Janice Thompson
JANICE THOMPSON
Summerside Press
TM
Minneapolis 55378
Queen of the Waves
© 2012 by Janice Hanna Thompson
ISBN 978-1-60936-686-5
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Scripture references are from The Holy ible, King James Version (KJV).
Though this story is based on actual events, it is a work of fiction.
Cover design by Lookout Design |
www.lookoutdesign.com
Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group |
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Summerside Press
TM
is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Printed in USA.
Contents
Dedication
To my fellow passengers in the “Queen of the Waves” Facebook group, particularly our “captain,” Cathy Peeling, the great-niece of real
Titanic
captain Edward Smith. Cathy, I praise the Lord for bringing us together and praise Him even more for raising you up from your “near-drowning” experience to new life! What great plans He must have for you. To all of my “Queen of the Waves” friends, thank you! You made my virtual
Titanic
cruise enjoyable on every level. I will never forget the night we reenacted the sinking of the ship. Thanks for trusting me to see you safely to shore. I’ve loved every minute.
In Memory of
Manca Karun. While visiting the
Titanic
museum in Branson, Missouri, I was given a pretend boarding pass with the name
Manca Karun
on it. Turned out Manca was a real passenger aboard the
Titanic
. I wouldn’t find out until the end whether she survived the journey. I did learn that she was four years old, from Slovenia, and traveled third class. At the end of my tour I breathed a sigh of relief when I discovered that Manca survived the trip by climbing down the side of the
Titanic
into a lifeboat. I wish I’d known you, Manca. This book is dedicated to your memory and to the memory of those who traveled aboard the Queen of the Ocean for her ill-fated voyage.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed,
and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;
though the waters thereof roar and be troubled,
though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.
P
SALM
46:1–3
Chapter One
Friday, March 8, 1912
Gloucestershire County, England
Tessa Bowen’s dingy gray skirt tangled around her legs as she reached to grab hold of the feisty sow. “Easy now, Countess.” She held on tight to the noisy porker’s ear, guiding her back into the pen and then slamming the gate shut. With the back of her hand, Tessa brushed the loose hairs from around her face as she scolded herself for not paying closer attention to the rambunctious animal.
She glanced about, heaviness gripping her heart as she noticed the upturned crate in the corner of the littered stall. The naughty Countess seemed determined to break free from her confines these days. Tessa could certainly understand that. Empathize, even. Still, how would the piglets ever get adequate nutrition if their mama continued to fuss her way out of the farrowing crates? And how could Tessa’s family raise the pigs to their proper slaughtering weight with the stalls in such continual disarray? No doubt this would infuriate Papa. He would have her head when he saw the mess. Tessa’s knees ached, just thinking of the penance she would have to do.
She busied herself by tending to the piglets and making sure none had been harmed in the old sow’s tirade. With the exception of a bit of mud, they appeared to be in tolerable shape. Tessa
reached for the runt and held it as one might cradle a babe, listening to his tiny grunts and squeals. His nearness brought her some degree of comfort, as always. Still, he did not appear to be in a cuddling mood this morning, as was evidenced by his squirming and kicking.
“I understand,” she whispered as she ran a fingertip over the piglet’s head and down his back. “It’s not much of a life, is it?”
No, indeed, it was not, whether one lived in the stall or the broken-down house nearby. Tessa did her best not to sigh aloud as she rose and placed the little porker back among the others in the litter. He let out another grunt. She felt like doing the same.
Waggling her finger in his direction, she pretended to scold. “Now, settle down, all of you, else I’ll have to tell the lord and master of the house. And we all know what
he
will do.” Her nerves jumbled as the words were spoken. Yes, she knew exactly what Pa would do, though the piglets wouldn’t be the ones to pay the price. She would.
From a distance Mum approached, a passel of chickens scurrying about her feet, squawking and seemingly making a nuisance of themselves as usual. Maggie, the family’s unkempt sheepdog, followed close behind. Mum clucked her tongue as she entered the messy stall and glanced Tessa’s way. “Look at you, girl. You’ve been rolling in the mud with Countess again, eh?”
“Not of my own choosing, Mum.” Tessa did her best to brush the mud spots from her skirt and then examined a tear in the hem that caught her eye. “The slippery she-devil got away from me and headed straight for the farrowing crates. Before I knew it, she’d upturned them and made a mess. Guess she’s tired of nursing the litter. She wants to escape from her life.”
“A predicament we can all sympathize with, of course.” Mum
reached for the rake and gripped it tightly. “But what can be done about it now, other than tidy up and pretend it never happened?”
A shrug followed on Tessa’s end. She dare not respond with a fast quip for fear it would lead to a scolding from her mother. Right now she needed someone on her side.
“Your father will come undone when he sees the mess in here.” Mum handed her the near-toothless rake. “Clean up as best you can so as not to alarm him. You know how he is.”
Yes. She certainly knew what her father was like, not just on days like this, but most other days besides. Swished and soused from drink, as her mother would call it. Hung over from several hours at the pub, ready to grumble at anyone who crossed him… and worse still, zealous in his religiosity. What was it about strong drink that made her father fervent about spiritual matters? She could not say. The man seemed bent on preaching while intoxicated. Tessa shuddered, thinking about the sermon to come.
“He just got home from the pub and he’s in a sour mood, so get to work mucking this stall, girl.” Mum turned her attention back to the errant chickens, shooing them into the side yard where they belonged.
Tessa made quick work of tidying up the stall. With straw flying through the air, her thoughts were finally free to drift back to the novel she’d been reading. She had committed the story to memory, of course. Living it out in her imagination brought hours of comfort. Through the lives of the characters, she could escape her drab life and replace it with a far more luxurious one.
She envisioned the stall a fine room in a castle, one complete with electric lights and indoor plumbing. A well-stocked wardrobe held a fine collection of dresses—only the most expensive. From Paris, naturally. Or Italy. Tessa curtsied, imagining herself
the object of a handsome beau, one intent on marrying her and offering her a grand life. Tossing her braids over her shoulders, she released a girlish giggle.
Behind her, the gate slammed. Tessa turned, her heart rising to her throat as Pa staggered her way with his shoulders slumped forward. He drew nearer still, stumbling over Countess in the process and releasing a string of curses. His gaze shifted from the sow to the broken pen, then up to Tessa’s muddy face.
“You good-fer-nuthin’ girl.” Her father’s words carried the usual slur. Tessa shrank into the corner, hoping to avoid the inevitable sting of the back of his hand as it swung near her cheek. “Dinna I tell ya to tend to that sow afore she tore the place to shreds? What’er ya doin’ lettin’ ’er loose like this?”
