The Captain's Daughter Read online

  Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire and is married with three sons and a daughter. She writes from an old farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales and an olive grove in Crete.

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Leah Fleming, 2012

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Leah Fleming to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN 978-0-85720-341-0

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-0-85720-342-7

  eBook ISBN 978-0-85720-343-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  In memory of all the lives lost on 15th April 1912.

  Contents

  Part 1

  1912–1914

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  Part 2

  1914–1921

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  53

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  Part 3

  BROKEN THREADS

  1922–1928

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  Part 4

  LINKING THREADS

  1928–1946

  97

  98

  99

  100

  101

  102

  103

  104

  105

  106

  107

  108

  109

  110

  111

  112

  113

  114

  115

  116

  117

  118

  119

  Part 5

  A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

  1958–1959

  120

  121

  122

  123

  124

  125

  126

  127

  128

  129

  A Note from the Author

  Part 1

  1912–1914

  1

  England, April 1912

  They were far too early. Standing amid a pile of cases, carpetbags and parcels, one eye on the terracotta clock tower, straining for the distant roar of an engine, the smell of burning coal, the soot and heat that heralded the arrival of the London train into Trinity Street, May Smith watched as the platform began filling with travellers. Some carried briefcases, others parcels, all were intent on their business. She looked over at her husband, dressed in his best second-hand tweed overcoat and trilby, holding Ellen, who was bundled into her new bonnet and coat, and wrapped in a shawl against the cool breeze funnelling down the platform from the moors, her eyes wide with uncertainty at the bustle around them. So many new noises for her to take in; for them all to take in: porters rattling trolleys loaded with boxes, carriage doors slamming, the whistles on the wind from the opposite platform.

  Their train must come soon. This was the early train the businessmen caught, in their smart suits and bowler hats, the train that carried Lancashire cottons down to the city. She wanted to shout out like a child, ‘Guess where we’re going? You’ll never believe it,’ but of course, she kept silent, exhilarated yet ashamed of her excitement.

  These people were used to travelling, unlike her, all dressed up in her sensible three-quarter-length navy-blue jacket, nipped in at the waist and flared out over her long serge skirt, her over-polished boots, her fair hair neatly coiled under a black straw boater with a wide brim. Everything on her back was serviceable, designed not to show the dirt and last their long journey, or so she hoped.

  May ran over her list in her head once again: a tin box of sandwiches and apples, a bottle of milk for Ellen, some fancy biscuits and boiled sweets in case they felt sick, a picture book, clean napkins and a damp facecloth in a toilet bag for the journey.

  Their papers and documents were safe in the leather attaché case Joe had been given as a leaving present from the mill. In their trunk was the fine pair of Horrocks cotton sheets embroidered with their initials, which the girls in the weaving shed had given her on her last day at work. Nestled safely in their folds were gifts for Uncle George in Idaho: a newspaper from his old hometown, studio portraits, a fancy tea caddy and a signed Bible from their Sunday school class.

  ‘It’s late,’ May whispered, but Joe just laughed.

  ‘It’s you who had us here too early. Look, the signal on the track has changed. Any minute now . . .’ He was peering over the platform edge, making her nervous.

  ‘Step back,’ she urged. ‘Ellen will be scared. Not to mention me.’ The locomotives terrified her; they looked like great black dragons breathing fire. She felt the gust of wind, the blast of heat on her cheeks, the deafening roar as the monster thundered into the station, screeching to a halt in a cloud of steam.

  ‘You have got all our tickets?’ she asked Joe once again.

  Ellen burst into tears at the noise.

  ‘Give her here!’ May insisted, wrapping her arms round the screaming child. ‘Hush, it’s only a puffa train come to take us to a new world. Say bye-bye to Bolton. We’re off on our adventure.’

  They piled into the second-class compartment, Joe checking th
eir trunk was wheeled into the guard’s van before settling himself down. Ellen continued to protest.

  ‘She’ll soon settle,’ May said, smiling at the passengers who looked at them with dismay. There was nothing for it but to shove a biscuit in Ellen’s hand and hope for the best. It did the trick and within a few seconds she was contentedly munching away.

  May stared back at their companions, riled. She had as much right as they had to be sitting here. She and Joe might be orphans, but they had a sponsor in America willing to give them a new life. They might not have much in the way of possessions, but they had each other and a lovely little daughter, who was as bright as a new penny. They were young, with all their lives before them. She wanted to pinch herself yet again at this change in fortune, this chance to start anew.

  May caught her reflection in the carriage window and smiled. She might not be a beauty but she had rosy cheeks, a sturdy body and she wasn’t afraid of hard work, the very type of girl to flourish in the New World, if reports were correct. It was a blessing little Ellen had her daddy’s fair curls and sea-blue eyes. Not that they’d ever seen the sea, mind, but they would soon.

  Suddenly carriage doors were slamming, and whistles signalled the train’s imminent departure. The carriage juddered, jolting May forward.

  For a second her optimism vanished and she felt only panic. Why are we leaving all we know? What are we doing? She wanted to stop the train, to get out and go home to everything familiar and comforting. She almost shot out of her seat but fell back when she saw Joe staring out of the window with that determined look on his face. He had been so proud when he’d received an invitation from his relatives in America to join their carpentry business. How could she let him down? She’d walk to the ends of the earth with him.

  It wasn’t that they disliked their northern cotton town. It had sheltered both of them, in their tiny cottage on the edge of the moors, given them useful training and sent them out first into service and then into the mill where they had met. They were childhood sweethearts, married when Joe’s apprenticeship had ended. But she’d always known that Joe had wanted more for his family, that he was restless to prove himself and she was happy to encourage his ambition. Who wouldn’t want a life free from chimney smoke for their daughter, a chance to meet people from all over the world who, like them, were risking everything to start afresh? It took courage to leave all you’d ever known, and she was no coward. But that wave of panic still unsettled her. What if it all went wrong? What if this Uncle George was a tyrant? What if . . . ?

  Stop fretting, she chided herself and looked up at the suitcase labels she had printed and tied on so carefully: Mr and Mrs Joseph Smith, RMS Titanic, Southampton. That would soon be their next port of call.

  2

  The cathedral bells tolled out across the city as the family gathered by the West Door, lining up to walk behind the cortège. Celestine Parkes was glad of the black lace veil hiding her grief from view as she clung onto her father’s arm and watched as her brothers shouldered the coffin. It wouldn’t be a heavy burden; her mother, Louisa, had shrunk to skin and bone in the final days of her illness.

  Celeste could not forgive herself for her late arrival, her chance to say goodbye irretrievably lost. The ship from New York had been delayed by storms, but they had postponed the funeral until she finally arrived back at the family home in Lichfield. It had been a shock to see her once-beautiful mother reduced to a skeletal stranger.

  Now the wind whipped across Cathedral Close, dead leaves cart-wheeling on the cobbles as the mourners stood before the dean, who had come to escort them into the echoing nave.

  Celeste looked up at Lichfield Cathedral’s trio of spires, those Three Ladies of the Vale piercing a bright March sky. She glanced across at the elegant houses circling the Close in salmon-pink sandstone. How familiar it all was in early spring, with daffodils poking through the grass, the sharp air straight from the Fens catching her breath. Coming home in springtime always moved her, especially the sight of blossom, of buds opening, and the green grass of the parks and fields. Easter in the cathedral was always special but this year it would be tinged with the sorrow of their loss.

  For a second she thought of her own home and her beloved son, so far away across the ocean. She couldn’t help but consider the long return journey to come, but quickly dismissed such weary thoughts. She had other things to think about right now.

  She touched her long woollen coat with the fox fur collar, which she wore over her mother’s beaded mourning dress with her black gloves. It was comforting to feel her mother’s shape in these sleeves and to catch the familiar scent of lavender water in the fabric. Her felt hat, hiding the wildness of her auburn curls, was pinned with her grandmother’s jet hatpins. Celeste had had little time to buy suitable mourning attire and she only hoped she had chosen well. Louisa Forester had always looked so elegant and her daughter wanted to honour her in death as she had loved her in life.

  Celeste had treasured her mother’s lively letters, with all their news of the cathedral, the clergy and the Theological College scholars’ antics. They’d been such a precious link with home. Then the handwriting had begun to crawl, roaming carelessly across the page, and her father had taken to writing, explaining that her mother was not feeling well enough to lift the pen, hinting it was time their daughter came home before the illness took its inevitable toll.

  I didn’t say goodbye to you, she had cried every night since her return. Now there would be some comfort in this service. As a bishop’s daughter, Louisa would be given every dignity and honour and would be interred in the grassy mound close to the cathedral.

  But where will I mourn you when I return home? Celeste wondered sadly.

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life . . .’ The soothing words boomed out as she clutched her father’s hand and tried not to weep.

  Why have you left us? How can I do my duty without your strength and love to guide me?

  Later, when it was all over and they had sipped tea and nibbled cold meats in the refectory of the Theological College, Celeste returned with her brothers to Red House, their home in Streethay It was here their father made his announcement.

  ‘Now you’re all together, I want to tell you that I’m not going to stay here. There’s a place for me in Vicar’s Close. I want to be near your mother and closer to the town, too, to be of service.’

  ‘We can’t stay here without you,’ said Selwyn, a lawyer, who travelled into Birmingham each day.

  ‘Of course you can. One day you’ll marry and your wife won’t want an old man to look after. Bertram’s at university, he needs a billet in the vacations, and Celeste too if she ever manages to bring her family to visit,’ he said, looking to the smiling picture of his grandson Roddy, which took pride of place on the mantelpiece. ‘Your mother loved that photo,’ he said softly. He shook himself from his reverie and continued, ‘Celestine, my dear, you must take some of her things back with you.’

  Celeste was in no mood for dismantling the home, with all its sacred memories. There would be a time for that.

  Her father carried on, though, unaware of her distress. ‘You must take her table linen,’ he insisted. ‘Your mother embroidered so beautifully. She would want you to have it.’

  With tears in her eyes, Celeste fingered the tablecloth, now covered with vases of flowers and condolence cards. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘But not now.’

  At last her father caught her mood and held her hand. ‘Don’t worry, your mother is always in your heart,’ he comforted her. ‘She’ll never leave you. You’ll all carry on as she would have done, I’m sure. She taught you well. And you have the joy of a loving family to return to, my dear.’

  He was right. She had been taught well and knew that duty and others must come first before selfish needs. So she swallowed back her tears and stared out of the window onto the lawn in its first flush of green. If only Lichfield didn’t look so beautiful at this time of year . . . She should have spoke
n out then, but always something held her back. This was no time to burden an old man with her troubles. No matter how terrible they might be.

  3

  Her first sight of London and its magnificent buildings filled May with awe. She stared up at Big Ben with disbelief and caught a glimpse of the Tower of London from the bridge. They stayed overnight in a boarding house close to St Paul’s that was none too clean. One look at the landlady’s grubby face and May immediately turned over the mattresses to inspect them for bugs. Ellen couldn’t settle in the strange surroundings and they had a restless night. If this was what it was going to be like, May said, it would be one hell of a long sea voyage. They’d be wrecks by the end of it. Joe laughed and whirled her around the room in excitement. She couldn’t help but laugh back up at him. His spirit and enthusiasm were infectious.

  Early the next morning, they treated themselves to a cab to Waterloo Station, sending postcards to friends at the mill before they left. May stared in wonder at the queues of omnibuses, horses and carts, and men pushing barrows. She had never seen such a huge city bustling in the early morning light. Where did all these folk come from?

  To think, the next big city would be New York!

  When they finally reached Waterloo to catch the boat train, May didn’t think she had ever seen such a crush of humanity – men and women carrying suitcases and bags, small children lagging behind. She desperately clung onto Joe and Ellen for fear of being separated. The smoke, steam, soot and noise swept them along into the waiting carriages bound for Southampton. Tired, dishevelled, one among hundreds, May felt a familiar surge of pride that Joe had enough about him to want more for his family than the backstreets of a cotton town.

  But as the train rattled on the tracks, taking them further and further from everything they had ever known, she felt uneasy again. How would they fare in a strange country? What would the weather be like? Would they fit in? What if the baby got sick? It was all such a risk. As the train drew into Southampton harbour she saw the grey sea and glimpsed the tall ship with the White Star ensign flying on its mast. It rose high above the trees and houses, and her heart thudded. There was no turning back now. They must trust themselves to the ship’s crew to carry them across the ocean and to their new life.

  When they reached the docking shed May saw the Titanic’s great bulk, its four funnels rising above them, and an involuntary shiver crept down her spine. The funnels were painted cream, tipped with black rings and crowning a wall of cast iron a hundred feet tall, rearing up like a steel mountain.