Unspeakable (31 page)

Without another word, Jim turned and walked away, just like he had in Quebec. No matter how much he said I meant to him, he would not tell me his story. And, unlike Steele, I had nothing to give that might persuade him. Except my love.

I guess it just wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.

I stood on the shore, Faith at my feet, and watched Jim Farrow leave me. Again. The pain of it as fresh as the day in Quebec. As the night on the
Empress
.

Maybe he is right
, I thought, watching him walk out of my life, a lone figure walking the rocky shore.
Maybe it's better this way. Because if this is love, I want no part of it
.

It just hurts too much
.

BY THE TIME I'D DROPPED OFF FAITH
at the Buckleys' and walked the many blocks back to Strandview Manor, I was spent. Overwhelmed, really, by the day I'd had. Maybe that's why the for-sale sign in the garden upset me so.

I turned my back to it as I entered the gate, choosing instead to focus on the roses. I cupped one in my hand,
marvelled at the layers of pink-tipped petals circling the still-blooming bud. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and inhaled deeply, holding its sweetness inside me. But I couldn't keep it. Any more than I could keep the flowers from fading. Sighing, I let go of the breath and blossom, thinking of Mrs. Winters's trellis.

What good is a trellis if the whole garden is being sold out from beneath you?

Father's ultimatum. Charlotte's hatred. Mrs. Buckley's negligence. Jim's secrets. Steele's article. All of it threatened the life I was working so hard to build.

Bates met me by the rose bush. We stood in silence for a few moments, just taking it in—hydrangea, lupins, pansies, and roses of every colour. A garden that would soon be someone else's.

I sighed. “Is it supposed to be this hard, Bates? Life?”

“Oh, it's work, right enough,” he said. And didn't he know it. The man had worked tirelessly for decades. “But it's always full of surprises, too, isn't it?”

I thought of the many surprises I'd had just in these last few hours.

“Did you have a good picnic with your daughter?” His old blue eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled. “I bet she loved the jam tarts.”

I laughed at the memory of chasing after her as she bolted free, naked and filthy with jam and sand. Her joy in that moment. Despite the terrible experience she'd had only ten minutes before, she'd already let it go. Not that she hadn't learned from it. Faith was very cautious as I brought her to the water's edge to wash her down. But the trauma had not
kept her from splashing again—or from making the most of a jam tart. Her resilience amazed me. It inspired me.

“You should've seen her,” I said. “Jam from her head to her toes.”

He laughed.

“Thank you, Bates,” I said, thinking of all we'd weathered together. “For … well, for everything.”

He laid his thick-knuckled hand on mine and squeezed.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. “Mr. Cronin dropped this off while you were out.”

I figured it was routine paperwork from the will reading, but when I opened it I found a cheque. A large one. I looked up at Bates in shock. “What—what is this?”

“I believe your aunt called them royalties.” He glanced at the number and smiled. “But I'd say it's a nice surprise.”

Chapter Forty-Four

“I CAN DO IT, LILY,”
I chided as she cleared away my plates. “Good Lord, I've cleared away enough dishes to know I'm no better than anyone else.” I'd taken to eating with them in the kitchen. It seemed silly to be sitting all alone at the dining table, and besides, I enjoyed their banter and bustle.

“Oh, it's no bother, miss.”

“Ellie,” I corrected. She smiled as she scraped the egg and toast crust into the bin. Bates entered, his face grim as he held out the paper. “You'd best read it for yourself.”

My stomach sank as I took it from him. It was bound to happen, my article. It was only a matter of time. I'd exposed my secrets, my sins, my soul to Steele. And he, in turn, would expose them to the world. A headline that would change everything. And indeed it did, but it wasn't about me. And it wasn't just my world that had changed.

AUGUST 4, 1914—BRITAIN DECLARES WAR

Lily and Bates sat as I read the details.

“What does it mean?” Lily asked, her young face fearful.

“It means we will do what we must. As always.” Bates nodded, fortified no doubt by the wisdom of his years. “We stand up for what is right, no matter what the cost.”

LATER THAT AFTERNOON
, I sat at the piano, Faith on my knees, ready for a war of my own. Ready to make my stand. Faith banged the piano keys with her chubby hands. After a few minutes of simply thrilling in the din she created, she began picking notes, making sense of it. I walked my fingers up and down the scale and she pushed my hands away, eager to try for herself.

Father entered through the front door, calling for Bates to get him a drink. He'd arrived back from London in a foul mood earlier today before setting out again to finalize his business here in Liverpool. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Faith on my lap. And so it began.

“Who is that?” He pointed at her, as if I'd let in the mangy mongrel from the back alley. As if he didn't know exactly who she was.

I kept my calm, though it had disappointed me that he hadn't softened at the sight of her. I'd hoped he might. She was his granddaughter, after all. His only one.

I stood and put Faith on the ground and handed her her stuffed bunny. I'd dressed her in a new pink frock, white bow at the back and a matching one in her dark hair. Yet he looked at her as though she were nothing more than a dirty street urchin. I realized then he'd never see her, never see either of us for who we truly were. It didn't hurt anymore, but I did feel sad, in a way. For him. For what he'd never know.

Bates appeared and handed the drink to my father, now sitting in the chair. He swigged it back and thrust out the glass for another. “Hurry up, man.” He scowled. “For a man who requires a reference, you move very slow.”

“Oh, about that, sir,” Bates replied, refilling the glass. “I won't be needing a letter after all.” He said nothing more as he placed the decanter on the sideboard and left the room.

“About time that old codger threw in the hat,” my father muttered. “Never liked him anyway.”

He turned his attention to me, purposely avoiding where Faith played at my feet. I waited him out.

Finally he spoke. “Ellen, you have blatantly disregarded my wishes.”

I didn't bite.

He pointed his finger at her, even though his gaze did not follow. “I told you that child was not welcome in my house.”

With Faith in the room, her gentle smile, her joyful heart, his hatred of her only seemed all the more ridiculous. She stood and toddled over to him, gripping the knee of his trousers in her fist as she looked up at him. No doubt his moustache fascinated her, but perhaps she knew on some instinctive level what he refused to accept. That they were family.

He clenched his jaw, not giving her a glance. After a moment or two, I leaned over and held out my hand to her and she toddled back.

“Your grandmother would have loved you,” I said, lifting her to my lap. “You have Gran's eyes, so you do.”

He cleared his throat and stood, silent as he looked out the window, hands clasped behind his back. Finally, he spoke.
“If you defy me, Ellen, if you insist on keeping this child …” He turned to face me, angry again. “I have no choice but to turn you out of my home.”

“There's always a choice, Father.” I stroked Faith's soft hair. Inhaled her sweetness and kissed her head. “I've made mine.”

“Foolish girl!” He spat the accusations. “Letting your heart rule your head—never thinking about the future! Living only for the moment!”

I stood to face him, lifting Faith and settling her across my hip. “This moment
is
what it's all about. If I've learned anything from all I've lost, from grief, from nearly dying on that ship, it's that I want to live. To love. Don't you see? It's not about how much money you can squirrel away.”

“Blast, girl, it
is
about the money!” he thundered, turning from me. “When are you going to open your eyes and see—”

“When are you?” I sidestepped back into his field of vision and he finally looked at Faith's face next to mine. Looked in her eyes—Mam's eyes.

But he stayed blind.

Resolute, he looked back at me and saw only the daughter who bucked even as he tried to rein me in. “You know my wishes. Is that what you want then? To be thrown on the street?”

“I have plans,” I said. “I'd just hoped you would have been a part of them.”

“Plans?” he scoffed. “As a maid for those Morgans? You think I don't know what you've been up to? I've sent a letter to the colonel. Told him you will not be back. No daughter of mine is working as a servant. I won't have it.”

“You needn't have bothered,” I said, enraged that he had. How dare he? “I already quit yesterday.”

“Yes, well …” He seemed put off that I'd stolen his thunder. “So what now, Ellen? Will you work as a lowly stewardess again? Maybe you can sneak the child on as a stowaway?”

So he did know about the
Empress
after all. It wasn't the judgment in his eyes that hurt me. I didn't care if he saw me as a lady or a labourer. What hurt was that he knew what I'd gone through in the sinking, the horrors of it had been in all the papers, yet not once had he reached out to me. For the first time, I wondered if he even knew how. For he'd been just as distant, just as cold, when I'd lost my mother. Something shifted inside me as I looked at him now—an overwhelming feeling, not the shame or regret he usually stirred. This time it was pity. I felt sorry for him, for his blindness, his small-mindedness. For all that he'd missed and was still missing. He didn't get it. He really didn't. He thought he was stoic. Strong. Even now. When I needed him the most, he was never there. And I realized in that moment, I no longer needed him at all.

“Your time is up,” he continued. “I demand that you stop all this foolishness and come home. Quit your playing as maid and mother. It's over now.” He paused, giving weight to his pronouncement. “Strandview Manor has been sold.”

“Yes,” I said, voice calm. “I know.”

Perhaps he'd expected me to cave or beg. To cry, at least, as the old Ellen would have done. My self-control only infuriated him all the more.

“Don't be ridiculous! I just came from Cronin's office. It
just happened this morning.” He scoffed at me. “How could you possibly know?”

“Because, Father, I am the one who bought it.”

I'D TAKEN THE CHEQUE
to Cronin's office the day Bates had given it to me. Surely there'd been some mistake.

“No,” Cronin assured me. “No mistake. You inherited your aunt's literary legacy.”

“Her books in her study?” I asked.

“Well, yes, I suppose, but also the dividends and royalties from her own writing.” He'd pointed to a shelf behind his desk where, for the first time, I noticed he kept one of every Garrett Dean adventure. “Signed copies. Those alone would be worth a mint to a collector. Not that I'd ever part with them. Nearly fifty books, published in several countries and languages. Most of them bestsellers. Yes, quite the body of work.” He seemed proud. “I represented her on every one of those contracts.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Cronin?”

He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “I'm saying, Miss Hardy, that not only was your aunt a very successful author, she was a rich woman. And now, so are you.”

This didn't make sense. “I thought my father inherited her estate.”