Essie hadn’t realised the toll that caring for her mother and the girls had taken. All her energy had been expended on protecting and nurturing them. Her desperation for Gertie to finish school and keep Ma from the workhouse had drained her. Edward had offered her an idyll: a brief, shining moment of happiness and attention; a glimpse at an alternative life.
But his love had been no more hers to keep than the ring he gave her and the jewels Freddie found over on Cheapside.
First Officer Kirby, however, quickly proved that his primary concern was for her comfort and safety.
It was easy to love Niall. He took time to make life aboard the RMS Laconda a little better for everyone. Whether it be arranging a walking stick and a firm arm for the unstable Mr Henry as he took his evening constitutional, moving a family from third class to another spare cabin in first class so their ailing child could recover with the aid of the ship’s doctor, or the little jug of Guinness and dry crackers he arranged for the cook to leave in Essie’s cabin when he noticed she couldn’t stomach her dinner of sausages and mash in the dining room.
‘You need to keep your strength up. For you … and the little one.’
Shocked, Essie looked up and met his gaze.
‘How did you …’ Essie spluttered.
The first officer shrugged and gracefully steered around the topic. ‘Big fat red cheeks, my sister’s lad has …’ The officer’s cheeks turned a deep pink that spread all the way to his ears. She would later recognise it as an endearing family trait.
‘It’ll be worth it, trust me,’ Niall said softly.
And just like that, she did.
Essie trusted Niall’s kindness, his steady goodness and sincerity.
And Niall trusted Essie enough not to be digging up the muck and mistakes of her past.
And so, in a mid-Atlantic swell, they agreed to draw a line under the past and step over it together. They were married by the captain on the bridge on a bright Friday afternoon with a handful of curious well-wishers as witnesses. Niall had offered to wait and book a church when they were ashore in Boston, but Essie declined.
First Officer Niall Kirby declared one evening as they walked around the top deck that his ambition was to start a shipping line of his very own.
‘I mean our own,’ he corrected himself. ‘Because I can’t … I won’t …’ He paused. ‘What I mean to say is that this is my dream, but if it isn’t yours, or you want to be trying something else, then we can follow a different path.’
Essie didn’t doubt Niall for a moment. Instead, she pictured herself swinging a bottle of champagne to launch their first ship, just like she’d seen in the moving pictures.
‘I can do the bookkeeping for your—our—ships.’ Essie smiled. ‘My neighbour Mr Yarwood was an accountant and he showed me how to keep a ledger.’ She grabbed her new husband’s warm hand, thinking of Mr and Mrs Yarwood sitting at the table in their yellow kitchen, helping the girls with their homework and coaxing Essie through columns of red and black.
Soon, she was going to have her own clean, neat kitchen with a husband and child to make it a home. That was her dream; anything more than that was a bonus.
Niall had been supportive until the day he died, bless his soul.
But on that first day aboard the RMS Laconda as the ship steamed away from Tilbury Docks—before she fell into a deep sleep—Essie had sat on the bed, little suitcase beside her, and reached into her apron pocket for her handkerchief to wipe away her tears.
Only then did she remember the sketches of the twins she’d rescued from the train platform. And in the other pocket was a small envelope containing a letter from Gertie.
Who would have thought that this letter would launch a hundred ships?
Chapter 33
KATE
BOSTON, PRESENT DAY
Kate and Marcus wound their way up the grand spiral staircase towards the Old State House library.
The volunteer archivist, wearing a tartan skirt, sensible shoes and a warm smile, clapped her hands together. ‘Dr Kirby! I’m Verity Doyle. This is exciting. I have to ask, are you curious about Niall Kirby’s logbooks for family research, or are you here in a professional capacity? I couldn’t help but look you up … I always love to know what people’s research specialities are. Curiosity keeps our world spinning, doesn’t it?’
‘Indeed! It’s a bit of both, personal and professional. I’m not sure where one begins and the other ends, to be honest.’
‘Well, no-one has touched these for years, I’m sorry to say. It’s quite a story: a merchant seaman who goes on to own a ship and then a whole fleet. Those Kirbys sure did create something special; they were good people! While your great-grandparents grew up, so did Boston.’
‘Thank you. It’s kind of you to say.’
‘They left quite the legacy,’ said Marcus as he stepped across to the bookshelf. ‘Not just here, but the women’s clinics, the schools …’
‘They sure did,’ said Kate. She sighed faintly, remembering the archive at the Serpentine, with the newspaper clippings detailing Gertrude’s achievements and the huge pile of letters the two women had exchanged, the photos, birthday cards, Joseph’s obituary and Bella’s christening snaps. The ledger books brimming with images of trauma and loss and sadness. Two little girls at peace. Two candles. There was also undeniable joy, energy and exuberance squeezed in on the same page, refusing to be snuffed out.
Gertrude and Essie had been given a chance at another life and they had each seized the opportunity with both hands.
Kate studied Marcus as he surveyed the room. The line of his shoulders and chest just visible under his old V-neck T-shirt made her tummy tingle. But it was his easy manner that stilled her. He was thoughtful and kind, and had taken the time to coax her out of darkness. He’d shown her how he’d learned from his past and forgiven himself. He tried his best. That was enough.
The sturdy archivist pulled out a sheet that itemised everything in the collection. ‘We have bills of sale, logbooks, charts, a couple of private diaries.’ She gestured to the shelf on which the leather-bound logbooks were stored and a cardboard archive box on the table. Then she looked at her watch and said, ‘I’m afraid I have a meeting, then some catalogues to finish. But please make yourself at home. All the material donated by your family is here.’
‘Thanks again for allowing us access at short notice,’ said Kate as she walked Ms Doyle to the door.
Marcus was already at the bookshelf, scanning the spines of the logbooks. ‘November 1912 you say?’ When he came to one labelled RMS Laconda he pulled it from the shelf and passed it to her.
Kate looked down at the faded cursive script. Most texts she read in museums had the translations attached at the front with a summary for academics. But as she opened the pages, she saw the annotations and sketches and realised this was a sailor’s personal logbook—a diary of sorts.
She ran her finger down the margin, marvelling at Niall Kirby’s sketches. There were mackerel and black sea bass anatomically labelled and whale tails poking up above a wave. An entire page was devoted to a landscape featuring an island and rocky outcrop.
She leaned in to smell salt water and ink. The scent of her history.