Free The Dressmaker by Kate Alcott Page B

swinging back and forth in a boatswain chair. Sailors were cutting life belts off some of the almost comatose passengers, and stewards were passing out mugs of hot coffee and brandy. The
Carpathia
’s passengers looked at them all in some horror, but mostly with pity, as mothers clung to the side of the ship, crying, hoping with each unloaded lifeboat that a missing child or husband would emerge.
    One woman stood very still, without tears, her face strong and hard. She was the wife of one of the
Titanic
’s cooks, someone whispered. “There is another lifeboat,” she said calmly to whoever was listening. “My children are on it.” Refusing warm clothes, refusing a hot drink, refusing food, she stood rigid, watching the horizon.
    Tess slumped down on the deck, exhausted. She did not want to talk with anyone. The world she inhabited yesterday was gone. There were no beautiful clothes to unpack or iron. No silver tea service, no strolling on the promenade—none of the vanities that had seemed to matter so much. Was it only yesterday?
    A shadow fell between her and the light.
    “I don’t even know your name,” Bonney said quietly.
    Startled, she glanced up and, for the first time, really looked at this man who had shared the last carefree moment of her life. A rough, dark stubble covered his face, deepening every line and crevice, making him look much older than the village boy she had met on deck yesterday. He wore a dry flannel shirt but no sweater, as if scorning the cold, and he was smoking, drawing on a cigarette with concentrated ferocity. She was struck by the uncompromising, hard set of his chin. How different he looked. There was no lighthearted grin, no easy set of the shoulders, but then they were both different people from the pair who had met on the
Titanic
’s promenade.
    “Tess Collins. And yours?”
    He flicked a long ash off the cigarette in his right hand and gazed down at her a bit uneasily. “Jim. Jim Bonney. I was afraid you weren’t going to make it off the ship last night.”
    “Me, too,” she said, smiling bleakly.
    “Something I have to ask—”
    “Yes?”
    “A sailor from your lifeboat says he hauled up a couple of dead bodies for you. You want to speak over them, is that it?”
    “I just want to see them.”
    “All right, come with me.”
    She scrambled to her feet, too stiff and cold to stand straight.

    A room had been set aside for the dead. Across the floor were the shrouded forms of a dozen people, all waiting now for a few quick words from the captain, then a quiet sliding into the sea. Bonney pointed at one figure. “I put the baby back in her arms,” he said.
    “Good. That’s where it should be.”
    “I can’t help you pray or anything. I’m not a religious man.”
    “You cared enough to come get me for this.”
    “Are you going to pray? If you are, I’ll leave.”
    “I just want to say goodbye. I’ve helped bury a sister; I know how to do this.” Her lip trembled. She was so cold, so tired, so close to tears.
    “I’ll help with that,” he said more gently.
    “It’s just that no one who loves them will ever be able to.”
    “I’ll start if you want.”
    She nodded.
    He cleared his throat. “We wish you well and would give you life if we could. But at least you’re both together for whatever journey lies ahead.”
    “That’s close to a prayer,” she said, looking gratefully at his set face.
    “Your turn.”
    “I turn my face to the rising sun,” Tess whispered, the words coming from somewhere in the recesses of memory. “O Lord, have mercy.”
    The room was dark; more bodies from the lifeboats would be brought in soon. Bonney turned to go.
    “Wait.” Tess knelt down by the woman’s body, folding back the towel draped over her face. Plain, strong features, long, dark eyelashes.
    “We should—”
    “I want to remember her face.”
    They stood together for a quiet moment more, then turned and left the room, closing the door tightly behind them.