Queen of the Waves

  JANICE THOMPSON

  Summerside PressTM

  Minneapolis 55378

  www.summersidepress.com

  Queen of the Waves

  © 2012 by Janice Hanna Thompson

  ISBN 978-1-60936-686-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Scripture references are from The Holy ible, King James Version (KJV).

  Though this story is based on actual events, it is a work of fiction.

  Cover design by Lookout Design | www.lookoutdesign.com

  Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Summerside PressTM is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA.

  Contents

  Dedication

  In Memory of

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Stand to Your Post

  About the Author

  American TapestriesTM

  Dedication

  To my fellow passengers in the “Queen of the Waves” Facebook group, particularly our “captain,” Cathy Peeling, the great-niece of real Titanic captain Edward Smith. Cathy, I praise the Lord for bringing us together and praise Him even more for raising you up from your “near-drowning” experience to new life! What great plans He must have for you. To all of my “Queen of the Waves” friends, thank you! You made my virtual Titanic cruise enjoyable on every level. I will never forget the night we reenacted the sinking of the ship. Thanks for trusting me to see you safely to shore. I’ve loved every minute.

  In Memory of

  Manca Karun. While visiting the Titanic museum in Branson, Missouri, I was given a pretend boarding pass with the name Manca Karun on it. Turned out Manca was a real passenger aboard the Titanic. I wouldn’t find out until the end whether she survived the journey. I did learn that she was four years old, from Slovenia, and traveled third class. At the end of my tour I breathed a sigh of relief when I discovered that Manca survived the trip by climbing down the side of the Titanic into a lifeboat. I wish I’d known you, Manca. This book is dedicated to your memory and to the memory of those who traveled aboard the Queen of the Ocean for her ill-fated voyage.

  God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

  Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed,

  and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;

  though the waters thereof roar and be troubled,

  though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.

  PSALM 46:1–3

  Chapter One

  Friday, March 8, 1912

  Gloucestershire County, England

  Tessa Bowen’s dingy gray skirt tangled around her legs as she reached to grab hold of the feisty sow. “Easy now, Countess.” She held on tight to the noisy porker’s ear, guiding her back into the pen and then slamming the gate shut. With the back of her hand, Tessa brushed the loose hairs from around her face as she scolded herself for not paying closer attention to the rambunctious animal.

  She glanced about, heaviness gripping her heart as she noticed the upturned crate in the corner of the littered stall. The naughty Countess seemed determined to break free from her confines these days. Tessa could certainly understand that. Empathize, even. Still, how would the piglets ever get adequate nutrition if their mama continued to fuss her way out of the farrowing crates? And how could Tessa’s family raise the pigs to their proper slaughtering weight with the stalls in such continual disarray? No doubt this would infuriate Papa. He would have her head when he saw the mess. Tessa’s knees ached, just thinking of the penance she would have to do.

  She busied herself by tending to the piglets and making sure none had been harmed in the old sow’s tirade. With the exception of a bit of mud, they appeared to be in tolerable shape. Tessa reached for the runt and held it as one might cradle a babe, listening to his tiny grunts and squeals. His nearness brought her some degree of comfort, as always. Still, he did not appear to be in a cuddling mood this morning, as was evidenced by his squirming and kicking.

  “I understand,” she whispered as she ran a fingertip over the piglet’s head and down his back. “It’s not much of a life, is it?”

  No, indeed, it was not, whether one lived in the stall or the broken-down house nearby. Tessa did her best not to sigh aloud as she rose and placed the little porker back among the others in the litter. He let out another grunt. She felt like doing the same.

  Waggling her finger in his direction, she pretended to scold. “Now, settle down, all of you, else I’ll have to tell the lord and master of the house. And we all know what he will do.” Her nerves jumbled as the words were spoken. Yes, she knew exactly what Pa would do, though the piglets wouldn’t be the ones to pay the price. She would.

  From a distance Mum approached, a passel of chickens scurrying about her feet, squawking and seemingly making a nuisance of themselves as usual. Maggie, the family’s unkempt sheepdog, followed close behind. Mum clucked her tongue as she entered the messy stall and glanced Tessa’s way. “Look at you, girl. You’ve been rolling in the mud with Countess again, eh?”

  “Not of my own choosing, Mum.” Tessa did her best to brush the mud spots from her skirt and then examined a tear in the hem that caught her eye. “The slippery she-devil got away from me and headed straight for the farrowing crates. Before I knew it, she’d upturned them and made a mess. Guess she’s tired of nursing the litter. She wants to escape from her life.”

  “A predicament we can all sympathize with, of course.” Mum reached for the rake and gripped it tightly. “But what can be done about it now, other than tidy up and pretend it never happened?”

  A shrug followed on Tessa’s end. She dare not respond with a fast quip for fear it would lead to a scolding from her mother. Right now she needed someone on her side.

  “Your father will come undone when he sees the mess in here.” Mum handed her the near-toothless rake. “Clean up as best you can so as not to alarm him. You know how he is.”

  Yes. She certainly knew what her father was like, not just on days like this, but most other days besides. Swished and soused from drink, as her mother would call it. Hung over from several hours at the pub, ready to grumble at anyone who crossed him… and worse still, zealous in his religiosity. What was it about strong drink that made her father fervent about spiritual matters? She could not say. The man seemed bent on preaching while intoxicated. Tessa shuddered, thinking about the sermon to come.

  “He just got home from the pub and he’s in a sour mood, so get to work mucking this stall, girl.” Mum turned her attention back to the errant chickens, shooing them into the side yard where they belonged.
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  Tessa made quick work of tidying up the stall. With straw flying through the air, her thoughts were finally free to drift back to the novel she’d been reading. She had committed the story to memory, of course. Living it out in her imagination brought hours of comfort. Through the lives of the characters, she could escape her drab life and replace it with a far more luxurious one.

  She envisioned the stall a fine room in a castle, one complete with electric lights and indoor plumbing. A well-stocked wardrobe held a fine collection of dresses—only the most expensive. From Paris, naturally. Or Italy. Tessa curtsied, imagining herself the object of a handsome beau, one intent on marrying her and offering her a grand life. Tossing her braids over her shoulders, she released a girlish giggle.

  Behind her, the gate slammed. Tessa turned, her heart rising to her throat as Pa staggered her way with his shoulders slumped forward. He drew nearer still, stumbling over Countess in the process and releasing a string of curses. His gaze shifted from the sow to the broken pen, then up to Tessa’s muddy face.

  “You good-fer-nuthin’ girl.” Her father’s words carried the usual slur. Tessa shrank into the corner, hoping to avoid the inevitable sting of the back of his hand as it swung near her cheek. “Dinna I tell ya to tend to that sow afore she tore the place to shreds? What’er ya doin’ lettin’ ’er loose like this?”

  “Pa, I—”

  “She’s bent up the farrowin’ crate, ’n’ now I’ll hafta repair it. ’N’ all a’ this before Saturday. We’ve a big day comin’.”

  “Yes, of course.” Bartering day in the nearby village. Mum would trade whatever she could so that the family could make it through the spring season.

  “This stall needs to shine like Buckingham Palace, lazy miss, and put some elbow grease into it.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Yer not the Queen o’ Sheba, ya know. Just a pig farmer’s daughter. No lollygagging about. And when yer done with yer work, we’ll have our rock prayers. Yer in need of humblin’, fer sure.”

  She trembled as the words “rock prayers” were spoken. Pain shot through her legs as she braced herself for the moment ahead when she would be forced to kneel atop a pile of broken rocks to repent for sins she hadn’t really committed—all to appease her drunken father. If only she could avoid these religious rituals of his. Her knees would be in far better shape. So would her heart.

  Out of the corners of her eyes, Tessa watched as Mum eased her way across the yard and toward the house. Coward. Then again, neither of the Bowen women stood much of a chance around Pa, did they?

  If only Peter were here. He would know what to do.

  Pa’s face tightened and the stench of his breath sickened her stomach as he drew near. As the back of his hand stung her cheek, Tessa squeezed her eyes shut. Images of her older brother rushed over her, bringing peace. Truly, she could endure anything with the image of Peter’s face there to bring comfort.

  Friday, March 8, 1912

  Abingdon Manor, Richmond, England

  Jacquie Abingdon gazed through the front window of her family’s country estate, the expansive gardens capturing her attention as always. A grove of mulberry trees framed the gently rolling lawn. Perfectly manicured shrubberies, well-tended with bits of vibrant green peeking through, spoke of the promise of spring, as did the budding flowers in the planted beds below.

  Her gaze shifted to the graveled walk, which led to a smallish stone bridge. It inclined over the narrow ribbon of water in the creek below. She found the scene picturesque. Idyllic. If only such perfection existed in her own life. Releasing a sigh, she fixed her sights on the bridge. How she longed to hike her skirts and run across it then disappear into the meadow on the other side, never to be seen again.

  She could not, of course. Gone were the carefree days of doing as she pleased, of playing the child. As this realization set in, tears sprang up and covered her lashes, and Jacquie brushed them away with the swipe of a hand. As was the custom with all well-bred British girls, she would play the role of the dutiful daughter, though every fiber of her being argued against it. Until then, she would take a seat in the parlor and disappear into a good book. While keeping an eye on the door to her father’s study, of course.

  She closed the drapes and walked to the parlor. After settling into a chair, Jacquie reached for her novel of choice, her thoughts as gloomy as the dense fog that so often descended upon the manor. In spite of her passion for romantic tales, the story could not hold her interest today, not with her thoughts in such a whirl. How could she maintain any sense of control over her imaginings with her future in the hands of a father who insisted upon clinging to outdated traditions and narrow-minded notions? She had never been much for blind obedience to such things, particularly of late.

  “Customs shape the lives of the British, Jacqueline. We hold fast to our habits and conventions because they have served us well.” How often had she heard those words?

  “Served us well?” She placed the book in her lap and folded her hands over it in a prayerful stance. “When you’re the lord of the manor, everyone serves you well.” Jacquie glanced up at the gilded frame that held her father’s portrait. His austere expression caused her to shudder. Not that she found her father cruel, of course. Determined would be a better word. He seemed bent on controlling every aspect of her life, a fact that brought anxiety on multiple levels.

  At three minutes past the hour, Father’s business associate, Roland Palmer, emerged from behind the office door. His stride exuded confidence, and his morning coat, which suited his tall, stately physique, spoke of money. Rarely did monetary fame and fine looks go together, but in the case of Mr. Palmer, neither could be argued. Not that this made him any more appealing to Jacquie.

  The heels of his polished shoes clicked in steady rhythm as he walked across the spacious grand foyer of Abingdon Manor. Upon reaching the front door, he glanced her way and offered a cursory nod before tipping his silk top hat. Jacquie lifted the book and pretended to read, then shifted her gaze to see if he noticed. A half smile crossed Roland’s lips as he reached for his umbrella. He swung wide the door, spoke a cheerful “Good day,” and headed outdoors.

  Several questions rolled through Jacquie’s mind as she tossed the book onto the side table and rose from the chair, but none of them could be voiced aloud. She took tentative steps toward the window and watched as Roland climbed into his impressive Rolls-Royce, which roared to life then motored down the driveway toward the lane. The automobile soon disappeared from view, but Jacquie’s troubles did not. Perhaps they were just beginning.

  Father’s firm voice rang out from inside his study. “Jacqueline, I will see you now.”

  A shiver ran down her spine as she anticipated their upcoming conversation. She made her way into the study and found her father in his leather chair behind the intricately carved mahogany desk, as always, surrounded by shelves lined with musty-scented books by the hundreds. He looked very much as he did in his portrait in the hallway—authoritative. His shoulders squared beneath the tailored suit as he straightened his stance in the chair. “Ah, there you are.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her father ran his fingers over his graying mustache then reached for a pen. “Sit, Jacquie.”

  He might as well have been speaking to the family’s beagle. Still, she knew better than to disregard his instructions. As she eased her way into the wingback chair opposite him, Jacquie felt the knots in her stomach tighten a notch. Settling her gaze on the spectacles he had placed on the desk, she tried to remain focused. Visions of the garden danced through her mind, and she saw herself running across that bridge, over the creek, and toward freedom. If only she could actually do so.

  He lifted his pen and glanced her way. “We have something of great importance to discuss.” A half smile followed. “Good news, indeed.”

  No doubt his idea of good news, not her own.

  Father rose, his tall frame commanding attention. He reached for
the gold pocket watch fastened to his waistcoat and gave it a glance then walked to the door and called for her mother to join them. All the while, Jacquie’s heart twisted and turned, though she tried to remain calm on the exterior.

  Mama arrived moments later, fussing with her hair. “Was that Roland Palmer I saw leaving just now?” After taking a few steps to the window, she reached to pull back the heavy brocade draperies for a peek outside. “I’m sorry I missed him. I do so enjoy his visits.”

  “Yes. Have a seat, Helen.” Jacquie’s father tucked the watch back into its pocket and gestured for her to sit. He opened his cigar box and fussed over its contents, finally pulling out a cigar. As he ran it under his nose and inhaled, a look of pure contentment settled over him. He returned to his spot behind the desk, and hints of sunlight from the window caused the silver strands in his hair to shimmer, which cast a deceptively angelic glow over him.

  “Rather odd for Roland to leave his business midday for a social call.” Jacquie’s mother eased her ample frame into the chair, her green satin skirt pooling around her. Her gaze shifted to the window and then back again.

  “He came on pressing business.” Jacquie’s father cleared his throat and rolled the cigar around in his hand.

  Mama fussed with the pearl buttons on the sleeve of her white linen blouse, her brow wrinkling. “Something to do with the steel mill?”

  “In a roundabout way, I suppose his visit could be linked to the mill. But he came with a proposition, one that involves our daughter, so I felt the whole family should be aware of the particulars.”

  Jacquie’s heart rate doubled and a queasy feeling gripped her stomach. She fought it while offering a forced smile. “O–oh?”

  Her father cut the cap from his cigar and reached for a match. “Roland Palmer is a competitive man, and he knows a good thing when he sees it. The automobile industry is young, but there is a lot of money to be made on both sides of the pond, especially when men work together. We’re both smart enough to see that.”