Harriet hated deceiving this caring little woman, but she dared not relinquish her pretence that she had lost her memory, despite the horrifying thoughts they had about her. For them ever to know her name meant that she could be found to be Brook’s wife, and he would learn the truth about the miscarriage she need never have had. She would do anything to prevent that, even if it meant letting the nuns continue in their delusions. Often she was unable to check her tears; the fact that she had lost the baby boy who would have been Brook’s precious son as well as hers hurt even more painfully because she herself had caused it. She longed to be able to confess the truth to her kindly carer, who kept assuring her when she found her weeping that it was not her fault that she had miscarried. The good Lord, she said, gave life, and it was His to take away as He thought fit. Harriet must not feel that she was being punished by God for trying to earn a living on the streets.
I
t was early on a surprisingly warm, early November morning when Sister Brigitte escorted Harriet on to the ferry boat tied up at Clarence Dock. The kindly nun, pink-cheeked and flustered, said for the umpteenth time, ‘You shouldn’t be travelling on your own, child. I know you think you can manage, but in that lovely gown we have mended and laundered for you, you look quite the lady who should be travelling with a maid. Are you quite sure you still cannot remember who you are? Looking after you as I have, I feel sure you are accustomed to such attentions.’
Harriet’s heart doubled its beat. Despite having begged the nuns to enquire after Bessie, who she had referred to as a friend, there had been no news of any kind. According to Sister Brigitte, there were accounts every day in the
Liverpool Daily Post
of thefts, assaults and drunken fights, but as Harriet did not know the name of the alley in which she and Bessie had been attacked, it had proved impossible to discover what had happened on the night of the fire.
The thought which from time to time crossed Harriet’s mind – that Bessie might have been killed by their attackers – filled her with distress, which added to her guilt over the loss of the baby she’d not known she was carrying. Part of her longed to be able to write to Brook and let him know what had transpired, but she did not dare risk the withdrawal of his love for her, or, indeed, want him to be worried and upset by what had befallen her when there was nothing he, at such a distance, could do about it.
Sister Brigitte was approaching an elderly lady with a great deal of luggage, about to board the ferry. A chill wind was blowing and Harriet shivered in her velvet mantle as she watched the two women talking. Beside her, another woman who appeared to be her maid was instructing one of the crew members as to which of the portmanteaux he must take to her mistress’ cabin. For a few moments Sister Brigitte remained in conversation with the passenger, during which they both turned to look at Harriet. Then the nun returned to her side.
‘The lady’s name is Lady Cavanagh,’ she told Harriet, adding happily, ‘and she has agreed to keep an eye on you during the voyage. She will ensure that her maid sees you safely into a hansom cab when you dock at Dublin Port. It is to be hoped your cabin is not too far from theirs. She will look for you there from time to time to ascertain you are all right. I told a little fib – I said you were a governess on your way to a new position.’
She gave a sigh. ‘I shall have to confess the lie,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘but I expect Father will give me as many penances as necessary to ensure God’s pardon!’
She still looked worried, wondering whether with Harriet’s loss of memory of her sister’s name as well as her own, she would really be able accurately to recall the route to her relative’s house. Privately, she had disagreed with Sister Mary Francis that Harriet was a ‘fallen woman’ whose dire situation had been brought about by a love affair disapproved of by her parents, and that she had run away with the unsuitable gentleman who had deserted her, thus forcing her on to the streets. This suspicion was reinforced by the number of times, whilst in her coma, that Harriet had called for someone whose name had sounded like Luke to ‘come back’ to her.
Now, despite Harriet’s assurance that she could clearly recall the route to her sister’s house, Sister Brigitte still doubted if her patient, whom she had grown fond of these past weeks, would ever in fact arrive safely. Mother Superior had refused to allow her to travel with Harriet to Ireland, so she had taken the precaution of giving her the name of the convent in Dublin where she must tell the cab driver to take her if she became lost.
She now clasped Harriet’s hands, saying, ‘May God go with you, child, and keep you free of sin.’
There were tears in Harriet’s eyes as she watched the warm-hearted nun who had taken such limitless care of her, often throughout the long nights, walk slowly down the gangplank and disappear amongst the milling crowds of sailors, dock workers and people on the jetty. She turned to find Lady Cavanagh staring at her.
‘Your nun told me you had been very ill,’ she said. ‘I hope you will not feel ill during our passage to Ireland. It can be very rough at times, you know.’
Harriet smiled. ‘It is kind of you to ask,’ she said. ‘As it happens, I am a very good sailor. Two years ago I crossed the English Channel in a gale, and …’ She broke off, aware that mention of her husband and their honeymoon might arouse this woman’s curiosity, and cause her to ask awkward questions such as why she was without her maid or, indeed, her husband or a relative to escort her.
‘I do assure you that Sister Brigitte was worrying about me quite unduly,’ Harriet said. ‘Please do not let me delay you as I am sure you want to get settled in your cabin. I will find a steward to show me to mine.’
Seeing the older woman hesitating, she added, ‘If I should have need of assistance, I can ask for his help, but thank you for your kind offer.’
Relieved that the young girl sounded so self-reliant, Lady Cavanagh departed to her cabin with her maid. A steward appeared to take Harriet to her cabin. Having deposited her few belongings in the small space available, she decided to find a sheltered spot on deck. A passing sailor opened out a deck chair for her and she settled down to watch the crew making preparations for departure. The sight brought back memories of similar occasions on her honeymoon and a deep pang of longing for Brook.
Her thoughts were distracted by the crowds of men, women and children pushing past her on their way down to steerage below deck. All were loaded with luggage for the journey. It was a full half hour later that she heard the sound of the boat’s engines throbbing as the steamer prepared to leave the dock.
A number of passengers were now braving the cold and were standing at the rails waving to their friends or relatives who had come to see them off. It was not long, however, before the steam packet had left the shelter of the dock walls and was heading out into a choppy sea.
Harriet could look down to the lowest deck, where the passengers were competing to take possession of one of the wooden-tiered bunks lining each side of the cramped interior. The only light came through the open hatchways. The noise of people talking and children shouting or crying was deafening as families climbed into the bunk beds which were stacked to the ceiling above in three tiers. Although Harriet’s cabin was tiny and there was only standing room beside the bunk, she did at least have the much-needed privacy she wanted.
She unpacked her few belongings from the parcel Sister Brigitte had given her, and then the box containing food and drink for the journey – bread, cheese, fruit, a flask of milk, tea, a piece of cooked mutton wrapped in cheesecloth and a small packet of oatmeal to make porridge. The nun, who had travelled by steam packet many times, told her she could heat water to make the porridge in one of the two galleys at either end of the deck.
Afraid that the steerage passengers unknown to her might include pickpockets or thieves, Harriet decided to conceal her belongings beneath her wooden bunk before attempting to go back on deck and find the galleys to make herself a hot drink. It was a great blessing, she told herself, that as a child she had been able to watch Bessie’s mother in her kitchen as she had never in her life in her own home made so much as a cup of tea – Mrs Kent, the cook, disliked any unnecessary family invasions of her kitchen.
She took from her pocket the copy of
The Life of the Saints
given to her by Sister Brigitte and read for a little while before deciding to go up on to the top deck to get some hot water for a cup of tea and some fresh air. The weather had deteriorated, and a cross wind was causing a marked swell. Several passengers were already being seasick. It was strange, Harriet thought, that she should feel no discomfort from the swell when she had been so plagued by early-morning sickness during her past pregnancies. The thought brought a sudden sting of hot tears to her eyes as she allowed herself to remember the boy baby who had failed to survive – something she had tried very hard not to do when she was in the convent. She had pushed the grief to the back of her mind, concentrating her strength on the difficulty of deceiving the nuns about her lost memory. Uppermost in her mind ever since she had regained consciousness following the attack upon her and Bessie was that she must not let Brook know she had undertaken the journey to Una’s in her condition lest he never forgave her. But for the fire at the inn and the attack upon her, she might have kept the baby. He must never know the truth; it was the only way she could save what mattered most in the world to her – Brook’s love.
Now, as she mingled with the crowd on deck who were trying to get to one of the galleys to cook the food they had brought with them, she closed her eyes, wishing above all at this moment that she had Bessie with her. Bessie had always managed somehow to make her feel happier when she was downcast: to convince her that things were never as bad as she feared. Even when she had suffered the previous miscarriages and the doctor had suggested she might never be able to carry a child full-term, Bessie had shrugged off the suggestion, insisting that babies survived when God and Nature intended, not when a doctor decreed.
Would Bessie have tried to stop her travelling to Ireland if she’d known how many months into her pregnancy she’d been? Harriet wondered now. Almost certainly she
would
have done so, but not wishing to forgo her sojourn with Una, Harriet had said nothing to Bessie of her vague suspicions. This time, the loss of her baby was entirely her own fault.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of her supposed guardian, Lady Cavanagh’s maid.
‘M’Lady asked me to make her apologies but she is so overcome by sea sickness, I have to stay with her and cannot assist you, miss. She is very sorry.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘Please thank your mistress,’ she said, ‘and assure her that I am well and can manage quite satisfactorily on my own.’
Looking relieved, the maid hurried away, wishing only that she was anywhere in the world but on this rolling, heaving vessel crossing the Irish Sea.
The storm worsened and some of the more stalwart passengers left the queues for the galleys, struggling to hold on to the rails as they succumbed to sea sickness. Those who had cabins had disappeared to the sanctuary they offered.
There was a sudden noise beside Harriet and she turned to see a woman sitting down heavily on the bench beside her. She held a crying baby in her arms and four young children came to stand beside her. Her face was white and pinched with the cold, as were the faces of the children. Although shabbily dressed, there was nevertheless a look of refinement in their pale, thin faces. Their clothing looked worn but the mother’s speech was educated, tinged with a slight Irish accent as she spoke to them.
The children were silent – unlike the baby, who was making a sound like a kitten mewing. There was a desperate look of appeal in the woman’s exhausted face as she looked up at Harriet and said, ‘Please forgive me for addressing you. I can’t think what else to do. I am at my wits end, you see and …’ Her voice suddenly broke; tears filled her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks. ‘I saw you with one of the sisters coming up the gangplank,’ she murmured. ‘You were smiling at my little boy and helped him up to the deck. I thought then how kind you were and …’
As she broke into silent tears once more, the children turned to stand more closely beside her, clutching her skirts, their faces anxious. The baby’s whimper turned to a choking cry.
Harriet was uncertain how she should reply to the stranger, who repeated in a trembling voice: ‘Please forgive me for disturbing you! The baby is only two weeks old and very weak …’ Her voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks as, yet again, she apologised.
‘Don’t cry, Mama!’ the eldest of the children said gently, patting her shoulder. ‘It will be better soon.’
What would be better soon? Harriet asked herself. Was the baby ill? In need of a doctor? Why was this woman travelling by herself with no husband to take care of her? She had said the baby was only two weeks old – she shouldn’t be travelling at all. Perhaps it was crying because it was hungry? Had she no cabin to go to where she could feed it in privacy?’
She put an arm round the woman’s shoulders and felt her heart jolt as she glimpsed the tiny white face of the infant. Memories of her recently lost child engulfed her. With an effort, she pulled herself together and enquired:
‘Is your little one ill? I could find the purser for you and see if there is a doctor on board …’
‘No, not ill!’ the woman said, her tears drying and an expression of utter hopelessness on her face. ‘He is hungry but I don’t have enough milk for him.’
As if this fact was something for which she herself should be blamed, she added: ‘My husband died before the baby was born. He was only thirty-six, but the doctor said he’d had a heart attack. We had no warning, but I expect it was the worry, you see.’
The words now started to pour from her as if a dam had burst. Her husband, who was called Michael Lawson, had been a clarinettist. This unfortunate woman was living at her home in Donegal, where by chance they’d met and fallen in love. The stumbling block to their marriage was that she was from a staunchly Catholic family, and he was an English Protestant. Her father, she told Harriet, had flatly refused to give his permission for them to marry. Although only twenty years of age, Joan had eloped with her lover. Back in England they had been quietly married.