Unspeakable (14 page)

I stroked my hair a few more times before setting the silver-handled brush on the vanity. A part of me wondered if Steele left me waiting on purpose. Was it part of his plan? Some American swagger.

He's a journalist
, I said to myself.
You are a source. Nothing more
.

I stared at myself in the mirror, the dark circles under my grey eyes, the lines worry had etched into my stony face, like dates on a headstone—a marker to commemorate that someone under here had lived, once. Eighteen years old—I nearly laughed. More like eighty. What did I have but solitary days rambling around in this empty old house like Aunt Geraldine? At least she had her writing.

I pulled back my thick curls and twisted them into a bun, tightly pinning it down. If only I could restrain my anxious mind as easily.

The music caught me by surprise. It bounced up the stairwell like an unruly child, lively, full of rabble-rousing fun—a foreign sound in this house.

Is that the piano?

I'd quite forgotten we even had one under that dust cover.

But who—

Steele!

I bolted to my feet and marched down the stairs and into the room where, sure enough, there he sat at the piano bench. Playing with fervour. His thick brown hair fell over his brow, tousled from bobbing. Lily stood at his side clapping in time, eyes aglow.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, though it was obvious.

“Ragtime.” He closed his eyes, smiled as he said it. “Joplin's ‘Ragtime Dance.' Ain't it something?”

“Are you … are you playing my piano?” I blurted, realizing the ridiculousness of my question as soon as it had left my lips. Lily froze and scurried away, but Steele only glanced up at me with that half-smile of his as his hands continued to jump around the keys. He played with strength and precision from note to note, thrumming a bass line that felt as vibrant as a heartbeat. I never knew that old piano had it in her. Aunt Geraldine had only ever played classical, though not very well or very often. And all I ever got out of it were those godawful scales. Up and down and up and down from one end of the keyboard to the other. I always saw this piano as a punishment. But this ragtime Steele played on it was loose and bold, almost sensual in its teasing pace. It invited me to saunter along with it. With him. I could lose myself in it and that unnerved me. Instead, I folded my arms.

“I don't know how they do things in America,” I said as his fingers found the final chords. My raised voice seemed too loud, too forced. Good Lord, I was even sounding like Aunt Geraldine. “But here in England we don't lift up someone
else's dust skirt and just … fiddle about.” I blushed at my choice of words and his delight in my discomfort.

He grinned and ran his hand over the glossy black top, admiring the instrument's smooth surface, its solidness, its shine. His strong fingers seemed to flow over the wood's curves. “This one is a beaut. I just couldn't help myself.”

“Well, it seems as if you did.” I meant to sound accusing, but my words only made him smile.

Steele drummed his fingers in the air. “I love to hear my typewriter clacking out a story—it's like the sound of my mind. But there's nothing like striking piano keys.” He stood and moved closer to me, face flushed and eyes alive. “That's all heart. Do you know what I mean?”

I didn't. Not really. Though my heart was still pounding from the drive of his tune. He moved toward me. I stepped back a bit, unsure of his intentions. Or mine. He'd flustered me, so he had, with all his playful nonsense. His hand reached around me and grabbed his satchel from where it lay atop the piano.

“I'm sorry,” he said, like a scolded schoolboy. His eyes still sparkling with the fun of his misdemeanour. “You're right. I should have asked first.” He sighed. “It just seemed a shame, really, to leave it hidden away in the corner of this old house.” He slipped the bag over his shoulder and put his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the room, letting his eyes drift from one dust-covered shape to another. Ghosts of themselves. “I dunno.” He shrugged. “What was she saving it all for?”

I knew what he meant, but it annoyed me that he'd voiced it. That in some way, he'd disparaged the way of things.
Slighted my aunt. Insulted me. Even worse, that he was right. I looked away.

“Listen,” he continued, eagerly. “Why don't we get out of here for a bit? It'll do you good to get some air and I'd love to see a bit of the town. We can—”

“I don't think so.” My words came short. Was he seriously asking me on a date? Now? “The deal was a trade of stories, Mr. Steele. Not to be your tour guide.” I sat on the edge of my chair by the fireplace, spine as rigid as a poker. I had no desire to talk about that night, but I knew I had to if I wanted to learn what he knew about Jim. Was he alive? Injured? Dying?

As if I'd tripped a switch, that boyishness shut off and he became a reporter again. “Yes, I suppose we each have our deadlines.”

I cringed a bit at the literalness of the word, hoping it wasn't too late for me. Too late for Jim.

“My editor said he'd like the article for the July supplement,” he continued. “That gives me just a few weeks to pull this together
and
get him the bit on the British army.”

“Yes,” I agreed, less enthusiastically. Wishing I could “pull this together” as easily as he seemed to think he could. Mine was just another story, one of many he juggled. Mind you, he just had to write it. I had to carry it. To bear it. To live with it.

I sighed. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can be on your way.”

Though truth be told, deep down, some small part of me wanted neither.

“
TAKE ME BACK TO HER LAST SAILING
,” Steele said once we'd settled ourselves in our seats.

I paused. “Where do I start?”

He could see I was reluctant to go back. To remember.

“She's docked at Quebec City,” he said. “The passengers are all aboard now and the captain's given the order to ready the ship.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, the sound of the bugle echoing in my memory. The sound of the start of another voyage.

Only this one would be our last.

SAILING DAY

May 28, 1914

Quebec Harbour

Chapter Seventeen

4:00 P.M
.

“
ALL ASHORE THAT'S GOING ASHORE!
”

The bugle blew once more, alerting the passengers that the
Empress
was readying to cast off. The stewards busied themselves with the mounds of baggage stacked high on deck, still to be sorted. There were trunks and crates, boxes and luggage of all shapes and sizes, for the upper class did not travel light. Granted, they tagged much of their baggage as “unwanted,” meaning it had to be moved to the bottom of the ship for storage in the cargo hold. But you may bet they'd want something or other out of it during the voyage, and the poor stewards would have to lug it all the way back up to their staterooms.

“Are we being raided by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?” an elderly woman beside me asked, confounded by all the men milling around the deck in red tunics and Mountie-style stetsons.

“They're Salvation Army, ma'am,” I explained.

She didn't seem convinced, at least not until the band members, about forty of them, collected their instruments from the luggage pile and gathered round the bandmaster. They raised them to their lips, the brass glinting in the afternoon light. Bandmaster Hanagan threw out his arms and with a flourish launched the men in a perfect rendition of “O Canada.” The old lady next to me sang along, even more thrilled when they followed up with “Auld Lang Syne.”

Maybe it was the loud music, or maybe it was some other sixth sense about her ninth life, but Emmy, our ship's cat, deserted us then. Billy left his bundle of baggage and ran down the gangway after her, but as soon as he dropped her on deck, she bolted again. Before anyone could follow, Captain Kendall gave the order for all lines to be cast off.

The flags snapped in the breeze as the ship pulled away to the cheer of the crowds waving from decks and docks. Bandmaster Hanagan raised his arms one more time, cuing his men for another serenade. This time the air was wistful, almost sad.

God be with you till we meet again …
the people sang.

It might have been the song, or Emmy leaving, the fear of losing Aunt Geraldine, or of having lost Jim's affections. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew this would be my last voyage, though not for the reasons I'd expected. But despite the sun and celebrating, despite all the reasons to smile, I felt a chill run through me as they sang the last few lines.

The
Empress
's whistle sounded low and loud, making me jump as it drowned out their singing.

The foreboding lasted only a moment; I hadn't the time to give it a second thought. Mrs. Hanagan, the bandmaster's wife, needed help finding her room. She laughed as I told her about my first time following Matron Jones through the maze of corridors. Had that really been only five months back? It seemed so long ago. A small hand slipped into mine and I looked down to find Mrs. Hanagan's daughter walking beside me. She looked about seven years old.

“You must be Gracie,” I said, much to her surprise.

“How did you know?”

“Oh, it's my job to know my passengers.” I slipped a toffee from my apron pocket and held it out to her. “I'll bet you like these, too.”

Gracie smiled as she took it, tucking it inside her cheek.

We navigated our way through the ship to the starboard side of the Upper Deck, near the back, travelling down the fanned staircase and up a side alleyway. “Here we are. Cabin 442. This is you.” I opened the door to the room I'd cleaned in preparation for them. A pair of bunk beds hid behind the green curtains on the left. On the right was a sofa bed. Directly across from us stood a dark wooden armoire. Gracie pulled on the handles and the doors opened down to reveal a pair of sink-sized porcelain bowls.