The Captain's Daughter (18 page)

It was then she turned to see Roddy’s sleepy face staring at her. He was holding his special teddy bear.

‘Why are you are lying like that? Are you sick, Mama?’ he asked as she tried to raise herself.

‘Yes, but back to bed now, darling.’

‘You woke me up. I heard shouting. Is Daddy angry again?’

‘No, no, just tired. He works so hard. He likes us to be quiet,’ she offered.
Why am I defending him? Only so that Roddy doesn’t know the truth.

‘What have you done to your face?’

Celeste winced as he touched her bleeding mouth. ‘Silly Mummy fell and banged her face,’ she said. This was new, a concerning development. Grover had never hit her on the face before. ‘Back to bed now.’ She tried to stand up but the room swam before her. With every ounce of strength she guided him back to the nursery.

No one else must see her like this. Her cheek was bruised, her lip busted and she looked a mess. Oh Lord, how was she going to explain this away?

If only there was someone she could trust here, someone who would give her the courage to tell the truth. But Grover had discouraged close friendships. He said the wives they knew were only out to get a promotion for their husbands.

Harriet and her husband might call tomorrow so she must stay in bed and claim a cold or something.

She must seek help. Someone somewhere would tell her what to do or point the way out of this living hell. But who? There were mature ladies in the Episcopalian church where she taught in the Sunday school. But since Grover’s promotion onto the board of the Diamond Match Company they’d set themselves apart from her, no matter how many friendly overtures she made. And how could she attend Matins looking like this? She considered wearing a thick veil, but she was now out of formal mourning.

There was only one woman in the country she trusted, whose shoulders were broad enough to carry her and her face showed she’d lived some and a lot more. Margaret Tobin Brown. She was living apart from her husband, so she must’ve seen life in all its shades of grey. Yet to talk behind Grover’s back was such a betrayal. For better or for worse; she’d made the marriage vow in all sincerity.

Grover had given her a new world, a comfortable life and a lovely son. In exchange for what? The appalling indignity she’d just endured? How did this battering tie in with the love of marriage; that two shall become one flesh? It was making her head spin with confusion.

Love was the only thing that mattered – not wealth or status, love – and there was precious little of that left on either side. She disappointed him and he disgusted her. There had to be an end to this and soon.

In the morning a bunch of cream and red roses appeared outside her bedroom door with no note. Was this an apology or a warning? Whatever it was, she was trapped in this gilded cage unless she could set herself free.

Angelo paced up and down the sidewalk in the snow waiting for the linen shop to close. He wouldn’t dare to go in, not with all those female clothes hanging in the window. For over six months now he’d been walking out with Kathleen O’Leary. He’d kept her a secret at first but now he wanted to take her to meet Uncle Salvi and Aunt Anna for supper.

Sometimes he felt it was too soon to be seeing another girl. He tried to explain that Maria would always be his wife and he wasn’t looking for anything other than friendship.

Kathleen had speared him with those green eyes of hers. ‘And what makes you think I’d be after anything more myself?’ she retorted. ‘If and when I marry it’ll be one of my own kind, full of Irish blarney.’ That had felt like a slap in the face until he saw the twinkle in her eyes.

The Irish and Italians might live and work cheek by jowl but the Irish had been over here longer, with their own customs, festivals and language. Even their Catholic devotions were more intense.

Angelo’s family were suspicious of the friendship at first but suggested he must bring Kathleen round for a look over. He hadn’t dared to subject her to the inquisition, not until he was sure that she was the one for him. Kathleen was a city girl, a shop girl living in a hostel with a family from Dublin. She’d been in service and come over to the States for the opportunity of a new life. She was as proud as she was pretty, with a mouth on her once she got over her initial shyness.

They’d been drifting along, going nowhere, sitting in cafés, walking in the park, going to the Moviedrome. It was time to firm up where they were heading. They hardly even held hands, and Angelo was confused.

He hugged his jacket round him against the chill of the evening. She was late. Had she stood him up?

Then there she was, scurrying out of the door, her hand clinging to her green beret, her hair tumbling around her face as usual. She wore a long jacket with a hobble skirt and neat boots: a smart city girl.

‘Where’s it tonight? It’s too cold to hang about,’ she said, linking her arm in his and making him feel ten feet tall.

‘Would you mind if we went to my uncle and aunt’s for supper? They like to meet my intended,’ he blurted out, and knew by the look on her face he’d not got his English right.

‘Is that your idea of a proposal? Is that how you did it first time around?’

Angelo shook his head confused. ‘We were in Italy. There are customs, meetings, arrangements, you know?’

‘No, I don’t know. I’m Irish and when a guy asks a girl to be his wife, he goes down on his knee and makes a meal of it. I’m not second-best. Good night!’ She spun round and made in the opposite direction, trying not to slide on the sidewalk ice.

‘Per favore, Katerina
, what I do wrong?’

‘Everything.’ She stopped and sighed. ‘You walk the soles off my shoes for six months and not a word of this, and now you want to parade me around strangers, with no warning, no chance to change my clothes. This is not Italy or Dublin. This is New York and we
both
have a say in making a marriage. If I’m only allowed to do this once, I’ll do it right. If you want to marry me, you will court me properly. You’ve got to persuade me to spend the rest of my life with you.’ She was walking back to him now.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘We’ll make it up as we go along. In America we can make everything different, if we choose.’

‘But I promised Anna I would bring you. She’s in America but it is still Italy too. She never met Maria. Please come.’

‘We’ll call there later. It’s still early take me somewhere special to mark our engagement,’ she smiled.

‘We could go to Battery Park?’ he offered.

‘In this weather? I thought Italian men were romancers?’

‘I don’t have much dollars, I have to pay my rent.’ How could he explain how every bit of his wages went on paying back his old debts.

‘That’s another rule. We share the tab, we go halves. I got my wage. Let’s find a hot dog stall and go wild.’

Angelo was shocked. ‘But it’s Friday, fish only.’

‘Forget that. We may be good Catholics but we’re not that holy. It’s not every night a girl gets herself engaged.’ When Kathleen laughed she lit up the street. ‘Come on, Romeo, show a girl a good time.’

His heart lifted. Kathleen would never be Maria. She was a fiery Irish girl with wild eyes and hair. But she would suit him well, and she was right. It was time to start anew. They were in America now.

March 1914

‘I’m not going back in that church again.’ May was spitting fumes as she banged the crockery down on Canon Forester’s sink. ‘Have you seen what the vicar wrote in the
Lichfield Mercury
about Captain Smith’s statue being unveiled in Museum Gardens? He says that the officers received a warning that there was ice in their path and yet the speed of the ship was not reduced.’ She paused. ‘Is this true? It wasn’t like that, I’m sure. Mr Fuller says we shouldn’t honour this captain above others. I don’t understand. We’ve
all
contributed to this statue. He did his duty and he saved my child.’

‘Then write to the paper and tell them, Mrs Smith. That will silence them. You can bear witness to his brave act,’ the canon replied.

‘Oh, I can’t, I’ve never written a letter to a paper before, not me . . .’ she hesitated. ‘It’s Ella that should be writing . . . not me.’

‘Then write on her behalf. Tell them your story. Celeste has written about what he did that night but she wasn’t sure if it really was Captain Smith in the water.’

‘Would you write on our behalf?’ she asked, but the canon shook his head.

‘I don’t think I ought to get involved in this argument. Feelings are running high about what really happened. There are those who say the captain was careless and improvident.’

‘Never!’ May put down her washing-up brush, all hot and bothered. ‘He came to the side of the boat and handed over the baby from the sea. They offered him a place onboard but he refused it . . . Celeste told me so . . . I didn’t actually see him but one of the crew did.’

‘It’s all hearsay my dear, but you must write on his behalf if you feel so strongly.’ His words gave her courage. She loved this kind old man; he never made her feel small or stupid.

‘I will, but you’ll have to check over the spellings, sir. I don’t want to make a fool of myself or sign my name in public.’

Over the next weeks the arguments piled up in the paper for and against the statue being placed in Lichfield. May bought notepaper and a new pen. She drafted letter after letter, evening after evening, saying nothing in church. To tell the vicar to his face he was wrong, that wouldn’t be proper coming from the likes of her. She started to attend the cathedral services instead.

Then came an anonymous letter in the paper, which drew her fury.

The gloves were off now. May tried to read the rest but her eyes steamed up with fury and exhaustion. This wasn’t fair. The dead couldn’t defend themselves. It wasn’t like that. He didn’t design the ship or put too few lifeboats on it. He didn’t ignore the warning shots and pass by like the Pharisees who let people drown. Everyone knew it was the
Californian
, the mystery ship on the horizon, that was to blame for not answering the distress call when it was nearby. Others said there was some other ship so close they could see its lights but it passed by on the other side too.

It wasn’t the captain who had roped off Third Class and put guards on the steps to the upper decks. There were so many conflicting stories in the papers. Which one did you believe?

If only Celeste were here, she’d write a proper letter. Perhaps May could write and ask her to send a wire to the papers to defend the captain. No use writing; it would take too long for a reply.

May wanted to tell the paper what she thought of them all but she felt unsettled enough, what with talk of war far away and troops in the garrison at Whittington on full alert. The college kitchens were awash with rumours. Florrie Jessup said there were spies round every corner but still this debate about the unveiling in the local paper dragged on, and still May couldn’t bring herself to write. What if she drew attention to herself and Ella? Since Florrie’s outburst, she’d been nowhere but the shops, the church and the Foresters’ house in Streethay She couldn’t take the risk of exposure.

At least other folk cleverer than her had sprung to the captain’s defence. But there was talk of a local petition against honouring him. She was disgusted.

One night, unable to sleep, she peered from her bedroom window where she could see the outline of the cathedral spires silhouetted against the dawn sky. The thought came to her that it was finally time to put pen to paper.

The ink was barely dry as May sealed the envelope and rushed out into the dark to post it in the box at the end of the street. It must be done before she lost her courage.

May searched through the
Lichfield Mercury
the following week to see her letter in print, but there was nothing. It was as if they had ignored her story as something fanciful. She should have signed her name, but she knew that that would bring people to her door: curious, nosy neighbours and staff asking more questions.

A week later disturbing news of war accompanied the announcement of the local unveiling ceremony. She and Ella would certainly make sure they paid their respects to Captain Smith. She was on her way to enquire about the ceremony when she called into the general post office for a stamp. It was then she found the one in her purse that should’ve been put on the envelope addressed to the newspaper.

So that was that then. The letter must never have been delivered. Her defence had gone unread. She felt such relief. She’d nearly given herself away in her fury. She would not be drawing attention to them both again. Her guard was back up.

Harriet came unannounced into Celeste’s bedroom wanting to know why she’d not been at church on Sunday. Celeste tried to hide her scars with her hand but she was too late.