Strange tales, unseen forces, coincidences. That was what Futrelle and Frank Millet were talking about when they came to see me. Frank claimed most people had at least one odd story to relate. I found myself wondering what their reaction would be if I were to tell them my tale.
That Harry Jones’s death had led to a passionate liaison with Dorothea was one thing, but for years I’d felt uneasy about the link between Jones and Eleanor. Now, faced with the consequences, I burned with remorse, not knowing how to explain. Once, not long after our first meeting, she’d asked about that first trip. I was suitably vague, brushing off any suggestion that I’d been at all heroic in caring for young Harry, a man she’d never met. So he disappeared, conveniently for me, into the wash of time and memory.
It wasn’t exactly guilt that stopped my tongue; not then. If I’m honest, at that time Dorothea was far from forgotten, and I had no wish to reveal the agonies she’d inflicted. Besides, it seemed to me that if Eleanor had known about Dorothea, she might have felt diminished; and there was no need for that.
Eleanor was everything Dorothea was not. They were both beautiful, but where Dorothea was sharp, Eleanor was soft; where one’s glance was veiled, secretive, the other’s was fresh, open, honest. But Eleanor had nothing to hide.
Eleanor’s smile – well, that was the first thing I noticed when I saw them waiting to cross the road. I can see her now, talking and laughing as though she hadn’t a care in the world. I thought then, what a gorgeous girl. It was one of those moments when you long to know everything there is to know about a woman – and it must have been obvious because when I caught her eye she blushed and looked away. Her companion hurried her on. I followed them with my eyes, admiring the neat shape of her waist, the slight sway of her hips, until they rounded a corner and disappeared from view.
I was feeling good that day but she put a tune on my lips and a spring in my step as I continued towards Lime Street to meet Joe’s train. He’d been to Hanley on family business and we had much to discuss. The girl went from my mind.
We were planning to share a meal before he continued home on the ferry and I went back on duty. It was back in ’85, and I’d just been promoted again – this time to 1st Officer of the Republic. The liner was not new – in fact at 15 years old she was getting to be an old lady – but she was on the Atlantic run, and that to me was all that mattered. We were due to sail for New York the following day, and I knew I’d not be back in Liverpool for several weeks.
My brother had kept in touch with the Jones family in a casual way. They were wine and spirit merchants, with premises close to the docks; but by the time Joe came ashore, the business was in the hands of Harry Jones’s elder brother, Thomas. Although I ran into members of the family occasionally, in the aftermath of Dorothea I kept well clear of the shop on Castle Street.
It was not difficult – as a navigating officer with White Star, I had nothing to do with the purchasing of victuals. Since coming ashore, however, Joe had become quite the businessman, supplying various small shipping companies with their requirements, from bacon to bolts and barrel ends, including the best in Scotch and Irish whiskies. My brother’s ambition was for a way in with the bigger companies, and since White Star was part of the story, he wanted me to meet Mr Thomas Jones again. ‘Just to remind him,’ he said, ‘of who you are and which company you’re working for.’
I would have preferred not to, but it was hard to refuse. So we made our way towards Castle Street, a broad thoroughfare running parallel to the docks. Wm Jones & Sons occupied an old building, the entrance set back between bow-fronted windows. As I set foot on the step, the door was opened by someone inside; and there, about to leave the premises, was the gorgeous girl I had set eyes on not half an hour previously.
We stood and gazed at each other, she with her sister at her shoulder, me with my brother at mine, locked on the threshold like clockwork figures.
Thomas Jones jerked us into motion. ‘Good morning, Captain Hancock, Mr Smith,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Do come in, if my nieces will allow it. We try not to conduct business in the doorway!’
By then I had taken in every aspect of her appearance, fine features, pretty mouth, beautiful eyes – were they grey or dark green? – and the glossy brown curls which framed her face. She was wearing – well, something that echoed the mysterious colour of her eyes. Her cheeks deepened to rose as she stepped back for us to enter.
I bowed and thanked her and moved forward into the shop. Thomas Jones embarked upon a round of introductions. Eleanor Pennington was the remarkable one – the other was her sister, Mary Jane. We stood in the shop and chatted for several minutes, during which time Thomas explained – to my deep embarrassment – our connection with his younger brother Harry. It was a profound relief to discover the girls had no memory of either Harry or the tragedy, and that Thomas was not a blood relative but their uncle by marriage. After that I felt able to relax a little.
The sisters were in Liverpool for the day. They planned to do some shopping in town, but Uncle Tom had promised to escort them along the Landing Stage first, to view the ships, before going on to have some dinner at the George Hotel.
Joe, bless him, hardly missed a beat. ‘My brother, here,’ he said, ‘is 1st Officer aboard the Republic…’ He turned to me. ‘If the ladies like to look at ships, Ted, perhaps we could have a look at yours?’
‘By all means,’ I agreed. ‘If they have time?’ Of course I was looking at the lovely Eleanor, who was blushing and looking to her sister. But she seemed more concerned about their shopping list.
‘Come now, Mary Jane,’ her uncle chided, ‘it’s not every day you have chance to see one of White Star’s famous liners!’
She gave in at that, and a few minutes later we were all walking down towards the quays, past George’s Dock and onto the Landing Stage. RMS Republic was alongside, her sails furled, masts and buff-and-black funnel impressive above the white superstructure and black hull. She dwarfed the other vessels berthed nearby.
It was gratifying to receive compliments, although having only recently been appointed I couldn’t claim praise for how the ship looked on that sunny September day. As we boarded, cargo and stores were still being loaded; the 2nd Officer raised his eyebrows as he saw me coming along the deck. ‘I thought you were off today, sir?’ Then he noticed the ladies and smiled.
‘On duty later,’ I said equably, and led my little party up the external steps to the bridge. By then I was used to showing people around ships, and had no difficulty keeping up a commentary. Miss Eleanor, I could see, was paying particular attention. As I finished explaining the various instruments, she asked tentatively, ‘But how do you know where you are, Mr Smith, when you’re out of sight of land?’
Hoping to impress, I said, ‘Well, Miss Eleanor, we have our lighthouses in the sky. We know where the sun, the moon, the stars and planets are, every second of the day. So we take sights – at first light, noon and evening – and work out the latitude and longitude mathematically. We mark the position on the chart, and from there it’s a simple matter of fixing direction and course by the ship’s compass.’
Most people were satisfied with that. Miss Eleanor was different. With a nod and a shy smile she thanked me; but then, biting her lip and colouring to the roots of her rich brown hair, she looked up and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is it always accurate? I mean, how easy is it to be wrong?’
Mary Jane clicked her tongue, and on the edge of my vision I was aware of the sharp look she gave her sister. I could have lied, said we rarely made a mistake, but gazing into Eleanor’s eyes I felt she deserved better.
‘Very easy,’ I said. ‘Which is why all the deck officers take sights. If there are discrepancies, we check each other’s figures. A small error in the middle of the ocean doesn’t matter much over a day or two – but it does matter close to land. Especially,’ I added, ‘if the weather is poor.’
‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I can imagine. It must be very difficult. Thank you for being honest.’
I felt ten feet tall at that. Then Mary Jane wanted to know how long it took to cross the Atlantic, and Thomas Jones was interested in the ship’s speed, so I found myself explaining that too.
‘She’ll do about 14 knots using sail as well as steam,’ I said, ‘and depending on the weather, it’s about a six week round trip. Of course we’re always keen to make faster crossings. Quite apart from the satisfaction of getting there in good time, we carry the Royal Mails across to New York, and the US mail back again. The contract pays well, so we don’t want to lose it!’
We were on the main deck when Eleanor asked what the cold frame was for. Joe and I smiled when we realized she meant the skylight over the steerage accommodation, but I loved her keen interest.
Looking down, we could see the outlines of tables, bunks and benches. ‘No separate cabins for steerage passengers, I’m afraid – just dormitories. But there are portholes along the side of the ship, and this skylight – as you see – has wooden shutters to protect it in bad weather.’
‘But I thought…’ She looked around. ‘It’s not very far down, is it?’
‘No – it’s the same deck as our Saloon.’ Suddenly, I realized what she meant. ‘Steerage only means aft, close to the steering mechanism. It can be noisy, especially in rough weather, which is why richer folk choose to travel amidships.’ But while the lovely Eleanor Pennington was giving me her entire attention – which pleased me enormously – I could tell she was still mystified.
‘Weight goes in first,’ I explained. ‘The engines and boilers are on the double bottom plates, then the heaviest cargo goes in fore and aft in ways to ensure it won’t move. It has to be worked out carefully otherwise the ship could develop a list and turn over. Don’t you see,’ I went on, ‘people are very light, they move about all the time – so they can’t be lodged far down in the ship.’
Joe said something about it being a pity in some cases, which made us laugh. As I used my master key to open one of the staterooms, he commented that passenger cabins had changed beyond recognition since his days at sea. With their proper beds and curtains, there was no comparison with the Spartan facilities offered aboard sailing ships. At that, like a magician performing his favourite trick, I flicked a switch and the lights came on – to my delight, the girls gave little squeals of astonishment. Electricity was still a rarity ashore.
Having repeated the trick a couple of times, I led my little party on, through Republic’s main reception area and down a fine oak staircase to the dining saloon. With its lamps and paintings and long refectory tables, I thought the room worthy of a gentleman’s residence. Evidently, so did Miss Eleanor. When she whispered, ‘Isn’t it grand?’ I could have kissed her.
She was so clearly enjoying herself – even looking into the galleys where all the food was prepared – that I could have kept things going all day. But the mention of sumptuous meals prompted Mr Jones to glance at his watch. He asked if Joe and I would like to join them for dinner at the George Hotel – it was the least they could do, he declared, after such a fascinating morning. Joe deferred to me, but there was no need. He could see I was smitten.
As I was locking up, Mary Jane asked, ‘Do you have family in Liverpool, Mr Smith?’
I smiled. ‘No, miss. Just my brother in Birkenhead.’
‘I see,’ she replied, but it was hard to decide whether she thought my single status a good thing or a bad.
A little while later, as we followed Thomas and his nieces into the hotel, Joe nodded in Miss Eleanor’s direction. ‘A shame you’re away tomorrow,’ he murmured. ‘You could have made some progress there.’
His words echoed my thoughts. I was already wondering when and how I might see her again.
~~~
I’m sure we enjoyed an excellent meal – the food at the George was always good – but my attention was on Miss Eleanor Pennington. She had such an expressive face, I found myself watching emotions come and go like light across the ocean. The joyous nature of her smile set my heart dancing. Having spent the last hour spouting forth about the ship, I was content to sit back, to look and listen while the girls chatted with their uncle.
I gathered there was a brother, John, and a younger sister, Martha. Their mother, Sarah, was sister to Thomas Jones’s late wife, and their father, William Pennington, was a farmer. Home was at Winwick, about halfway between Liverpool and Manchester. I had journeyed in that direction a few times by train. Knowing nothing of farming I could not have said whether it was good land or bad, but since the girls were well-dressed and well-spoken, I imagined it was good.
It seemed all the Penningtons were involved with the farm in some capacity or other. Their work depended on the time of year.
‘We make butter and cheese all year round,’ Eleanor said. ‘Not big amounts, you understand. At the moment we’re bottling fruit. September is always a busy time, so it’s nice to have a day off,’ she added with an impish smile for her Uncle Thomas, who was quick to praise the samples they’d brought.
Joe was drawn forth about his experiences as a sailing-ship master – Thomas Jones had clearly been entertained before, and was happy to let his nieces share the more exciting aspects of my brother’s early life.
‘Were you born in Liverpool, sir?’ Eleanor asked Joe. ‘Have there always been seafarers in your family?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. My father was a potter from Stoke-on-Trent – he died when I was a boy. Then my mother married Ted’s father, and when I left school I was expected to go into the potteries too. I didn’t want that,’ he said frankly, ‘it wasn’t for me. So I ran away to Liverpool, to a seafaring cousin of my mother’s, and signed on aboard his ship.’
‘Joe went off to sea when he was fourteen,’ I said. ‘As you can imagine, our mother was not best pleased when I wanted to do the same.’
Eleanor smiled and nodded sympathetically. ‘In winter-time, when Mother complains about Father coming home soaking wet and covered in mud, he always tells her to be thankful he chose the land and not the sea for a living…’
‘That’s true,’ Mary Jane said pointedly. ‘From what we hear it’s a dangerous profession.’
‘It can be,’ I agreed, sensing some kind of undercurrent. I wondered how she could resemble her sister and yet be so different. ‘But I imagine farming has its dangers too. You’re at the mercy of wind and weather just the same.’
‘Not quite,’ she replied primly. ‘We knew some people who took ship for America. It went down somewhere off Canada, I think, and everyone drowned.’
Joe and I exchanged a look. Suddenly, much was explained.
Blushing, Eleanor frowned at her sister, and turned to me. ‘The Prestons lived in our village,’ she explained. ‘They had five children. Their daughter Lizzie was my age.’
On the periphery of my vision I was aware of Joe’s eyes on me, but my gaze was for Eleanor. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What ship, can you remember?’
‘Yes. It stuck in my mind because they were crossing the Atlantic on a ship of the same name.’
I knew it at once. In Liverpool at the time, studying for my Mate’s Ticket, I’d heard the newspaper boy calling out details no seafarer could forget. ‘The Atlantic, yes – she foundered off Halifax in ’73. A terrible tragedy – almost 600 lost their lives. I’m so sorry,’ I added gently, ‘for the loss of your friends.’
The morning’s good beginning seemed liable to collapse. When Eleanor said she’d always wondered what the ship was like, Joe shot a warning glance in my direction, but something told me she would never accept a lie or half-truth. Even so, I weighed my words. ‘Well, Miss Eleanor,’ I began, clearing my throat, ‘the Atlantic belonged to White Star. We’ve just been looking round her sister-ship. I have to say, Republic is as close to her in looks as makes no difference.’
There was a silence. Eleanor’s eyes widened. I wondered how much more would be helpful. ‘Nothing wrong with the ship,’ I said firmly, as Mary Jane began to protest. ‘There was a terrible storm, it was the middle of the night and they were out of fuel. No doubt an error of navigation took them onto the rocks.
‘Marine engines have been modified in the last ten years,’ I assured them. ‘They’re much more reliable now. And lessons have been learned. Nowadays, the amount of coal we take on is always over and above what we need.’ I forced a smile, eager to play down the worst aspects. ‘There are dangers, I cannot deny it. But we do all in our power to keep everyone safe.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Thomas Jones said.
‘Sadly, a disaster always makes the headlines. But think of all the voyages that pass unremarked, the ships and passengers you never hear about.’ As my listeners nodded, eager to be reassured, I added lightly, ‘I swear to you, every time I come into Liverpool, the traffic is worse. These days, I reckon crossing the road is riskier than crossing the ocean!’
With rueful laughter, everyone agreed, and the serious talk was over. The deep-sea grey of Eleanor’s eyes was suddenly greener, catching the light when she smiled at me.
As we were leaving, under cover of more general conversation, she said quietly, ‘I confess I haven’t thought of Lizzie Preston and that awful tragedy in years. But something in the newspaper brought it to mind the other day. And suddenly, here we are in Liverpool, meeting you, Mr Smith, and invited to look round your ship. Almost a twin of the other. A strange coincidence, don’t you think?’
Aware of more than that, I nodded.
‘And I’ve never been aboard a ship before…’
‘What did you think of it?’ I ventured.
Glancing up at me, she blushed and smiled and began pulling on her gloves. ‘It was very exciting,’ she said demurely.