Unspeakable (11 page)

“
ARE YOU SURE
you don't want me to come with you?” Meg asked as we stripped the bed. After the passengers disembarked, cleaning up was a huge undertaking, but at least we didn't have to be at anyone's beck and call. Meg and I found it quicker to clean the cabins together, and by now, with five months and ten crossings, our routine was as fast and efficient as an oiled engine running full steam. I shook a pillow out onto the mattress and held open the case as Meg bundled the dirty linens inside.

“I'll be fine,” I reassured her, stuffing in towels and face cloths. “I'll be with Jim.”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “In a town you don't know—with a man you shouldn't know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Now you sound like Matron Jones.”

On the first run of its spring–summer schedule, the
Empress
had just docked at Quebec City. Most of the year, we put in at Saint John, New Brunswick, but with the spring thaw, Quebec was our new port from May until November.
I wouldn't have thought the winter schedule ran so late in the year, but Will Sampson, the chief engineer, told Jim we'd encountered heavy ice floes in the Cabot Strait right as we entered the mouth of the St. Lawrence. The captain had even sent wireless messages warning other ships. It might be the third week of May, but the waters were still freezing, cold enough to carry ice at least.

“You're just jealous,” I teased, tossing the load of washing by the door and picking up the pile of fresh bedding I'd left on the chair. “Because your bookworm hasn't asked you on a date.”

We each grabbed two corners of the white sheet and moved to either side of the bed, snapping it open over the mattress. Within two minutes we'd tucked and smoothed the sheets, blanket, and coverlet. I shook the pillows into their cases and tossed her one.

“Jim didn't ask you neither,” she reminded me. And he hadn't. Not really.

On our last night together before docking, as the ship sailed along the St. Lawrence to Quebec City, I'd hinted that he might show me the town. Joked that it would be nice to see each other in daylight. But he'd remained quiet. Some nights he barely spoke at all. I never knew what to expect with Jim. That night, his silence left me feeling foolish for asking. I finally said I had to get some sleep and turned to leave. Docking day was always hectic, and I knew I'd be exhausted if I stayed out late clearly making an arse of myself. But I hated to go. We wouldn't see each other once we docked. Being at port meant even more work for both of us. Rooms to clean, coal bunkers to fill. We didn't sail again for a few more
days, but we'd surely spend those cleaning up from the last voyage and setting up for the next.

“Tuesday,” he'd said from the rail behind me, as I reached for the doorknob. “I'll be at the
funiculaire
at noon.”

I'D AGREED TO LET
Meg and Kate walk me ashore. They had the afternoon off and were keen to see the city. Eager to be out of uniform, we'd all worn our best dresses. I suppose anything was better than those horrid uniforms, but I felt self-conscious and nervously fiddled with the white pleated collar rimming the scoop neck.

“That periwinkle is your colour, Ellen,” Meg said. Even now, she knew just what I needed.

“Are you sure it's a date at all?” Gwen asked. I'd never told the girls about meeting Jim at the rail at night. They didn't know about Jim and me. Even I wasn't sure what we were exactly. I'd just said he'd invited me out to thank me for tending his arm. It seemed safe enough.

“What if he's there with the Black Gang?” Gwen continued. “You're not seriously going to go off gallivanting with that lot, are you?”

I had no idea what to expect. It had sounded like a question that night, like an invitation. But now, in the light of day, I wondered if I'd misheard him. My stomach twisted.

“What's a
funiculaire
, anyway?” Meg continued. “It sounds like something Dr. Grant would pull out of his doctor's bag.”

I laughed nervously.

“Is it a pub? A restaurant, do you think?” Gwen added. “Someplace romantic, at least?”

“Well, whatever it is, it's right there.” I nodded across the cobblestoned lane at the grey house with funiculaire in black letters above the door. An old woman dressed in black sat at a cart brimming with tulips of every colour. They reminded me of the gardens back home.

“Maybe he'll buy you a single red rose,” Gwen teased. “It means true love.”

“Maybe you've been reading too many
Tatler
magazines. Besides, why would he waste his hard-earned wages on something as silly as that?” I said, secretly hoping he might. I'd never had someone buy me flowers before. “Thanks for helping me find it. You can go now.”

Meg hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with leaving me, until Gwen linked her arm and urged her away. I watched them go until they disappeared in the crowd, half wanting to follow.

“Ellie.” His voice felt like a warm touch and I turned to find him standing behind me. He wore a white shirt tucked into his brown trousers; black suspenders ran up his wide chest and over his muscled shoulders. He wrung his cap in his hands. He'd scrubbed them clean, his face, too, for it glowed pink-cheeked like a child's on bath night. He'd even slicked his unruly curls, though they'd sprung up in the breeze. It carried his scent: soap and aftershave, faint cigarette smoke, and something else. Something fresh and strong—like the energy of a skittish horse. I met his eyes and his tentative smile spread to my face.

“You look—” we blurted at the same time and laughed.

“Sorry,” he added nervously, but he couldn't stop staring. “Ellie, you look … amazing.”

“Thanks.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. I'd worn it down. He'd never seen it like that. Never seen me like this. Sure, he'd seen me dozens of times with my coat thrown over my nightdress, my hair braided for bed. But somehow, standing here in the light of day, I felt more … exposed.

He scratched the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed as my eyes looked him over—up his long legs, across the breadth of his chest and the width of his raised arm. His sleeve tightened across the flexed muscle. In the sickbed of Dr. Grant's office, dirtied from the soot of the day, or hidden in the shadows of night, I'd never truly realized how handsome he was. How vibrant. How strong.

“Jim,” I whispered. “You're … you're—”

“Clean?”

I grinned and his eyes shone with amusement. “Ma always said I clean up good, though it does take some time,” he admitted, “and an awful lot of soap.”

We laughed again and the awkwardness left us. It was going to be all right. Day or night, dirty or not, he was still the same Jim.

I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow, falling in step with him as we headed to the grey house. “I always knew there was a man under all that soot.”

Chapter Thirteen

IT WASN'T A PUB OR A RESTAURANT AT ALL
. Turns out, the
funiculaire
is a train of sorts or a lift that runs straight up and down the steep cliff overlooking the town. Jim bought our tickets and we stepped into a small car that seemed to magically slide up the hill, taking us from Lower Town to Upper Town. We walked to the cliff edge and stopped at the palisade running alongside the boardwalk. The view was breathtaking. The St. Lawrence sparkled in the sunlight as it meandered past the cliff and out to the open sea miles away. Thick wooded hills edged the far side of the river, their green pierced here and there by church spires, each pinpointing another small town. Ships of all shapes and sizes sat moored in the harbour beneath us. I wondered which one was the
Empress
—they all seemed so small from here—and I gripped the rail and leaned over for a better look.

A cool breeze circled me and I teetered a bit, but Jim grabbed me even before I could steady myself.

“Careful, now.”

His broad hands felt sure and strong on my small waist and lingered even after I'd found my balance. I'd no fear of falling. In that moment, I felt like I might fly. Eventually, Jim let go and leaned his arms on the handrail.

“Look at us,” he chided. “Finally free of that damn ship and what do we do? We stand at a railing.

“Come on,” he said, like an excited child. “Today we're doing things you can't do on a bloody ship.”

We walked all over the town that sunny afternoon, around the Château Frontenac, the grand hotel perched atop the cliff, and along the stretch of boardwalk. We followed the stone wall snaking its way through the city, along cobblestoned streets, past shops and cafés where couples sipped cool drinks at bistro tables.

“Ice cream?” Jim asked, nodding at the shop.

“I'd bloody kill for one,” I said, fanning my face.

Jim laughed. “Well, then it's a good thing I have enough money for two.”

Wisps of hair stuck to my forehead and I pushed them back with the back of my hand.

“You think this is hot?” he teased. “Try visiting the stokehold.”

He moved closer to me and leaned in, bringing his face to mine. His smiling mouth puckered and, for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me, right here, right now. I thought I could want nothing more. Until I felt the breeze as he gently blew on my face. I closed my eyes, revelling in the coolness of it on my forehead. Down my cheek. My jaw. My neck. Covering me in goosebumps that were not from the cold.

He stopped and I opened my eyes, swooning slightly.

Jim smiled, suddenly shy. “Why don't you go wait in the shade?” He nodded at the park across the road. “I'll meet you there.”

The benches were full of tourists and townsfolk out enjoying the day, so I sat on the lawn in the shadow of an apple tree. I slipped off my shoes and wriggled my toes in the cool grass. Leaning back on my elbows, I breathed the air, sweet with blossom, and closed my eyes, imagining that whisper of a breeze was Jim.

When I opened my eyes, Jim was standing in the middle of the street, two ice-cream cones in his hands, just watching me. I smiled and he smiled back.

“Your ice cream is melting.” I nodded at the drips running down his fist onto the cobblestones, and noticing them, he rushed over with the cones.

“I seem to have a problem with sweets, don't I?” he laughed as he wiped his sticky hands.

We laughed and ate, savouring the time together as much as the ice cream.

“It's such a pretty city. Why would they build a wall in the middle of it?” I asked.

Jim explained how it used to enclose Old Quebec, but the city had outgrown its borders, spilling out for miles beyond. And I thought for a moment about boundaries made to keep others out and how freeing it must be to break past them.

We sat in silence eating our ice cream and watching the people come and go. Mothers and children. Fathers and sons.

“Tell me about your family, Jim,” I said, when I'd finished my cone.

He stiffened beside me. “Why?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. I guess, I just wanted to know about them.”
About you
, I thou ght.

“I don't want to talk about them now.”

“But is your father—”

“My father is dead,” he snapped. “I'm sorry, Ellie. I just … I don't like to talk about it.”

A blossom fell on my skirt, and I picked it up and twiddled it in my fingers.

Should I breach this wall?

“My mother died, too,” I said, quietly. “I know how it feels.”

He fidgeted, clearly agitated by the topic. Then he stood and dumped the rest of his cone in the rubbish bin. “We'd better be going if we want to get back in time.”

I stood before him. “Jim, I'm sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to pry. It's your story. I just wanted to know more about it.”

He looked at me with that intensity I'd seen in the doctor's office the first day we met. “My father drowned two years ago.” He clenched his jaw and looked away for a second. “End of story.”