Free The Captain's Daughter by Leah Fleming Page A

my French. It’s women who do the caring. Always have, always will. We must make sure that no one goes hungry because of this disaster. Kids must get a proper education. How many pas have been lost, rich ones as well as poor? How many orphans has the Titanic made? Who’ll bury those poor frozen bodies of the poor? It all needs a woman’s compassion. Charity can be awful cold. I’ll pass round a paper. Sign your names, add your addresses and what you are prepared to do and give for the unfortunates amongst us.’
    ‘But some of us have lost everything too,’ one woman sobbed.
    ‘I know, sister, but the good Lord helps those who help themselves. It’s better to get organized now, before we all scatter to the far corners of this great country of ours. You must spread the word, sisters! Tell your story and get the tins rattling. Doing something is better than weeping into your coffee.’
    Celeste started to clap, enthused by Margaret Brown’s rousing words. She couldn’t stand by and not get involved, not when she had seen how bad things were for the sick and destitute on board. There were those so shocked they wandered around like ghosts. How would they ever stand up for themselves?
    When the impromptu meeting dispersed, Mrs Brown made her way to Celeste, a beaming smile on her face. ‘And where’re you heading, sister?’
    ‘Back to Akron, Ohio. I like what you said. I’d like to help,’ Celeste replied.
    ‘I heard there are some poor folks heading for Rubber Town who lost their menfolk. We lost Walter Douglas of Quaker Oats fame. His wife is over there, do you know her?’ She pointed to a woman weeping in a corner. ‘Still in shock but she’ll come round. I want to make sure we thank the crew properly, not just some letter but a real token of our appreciation,’ she added.
    ‘Like a medal, perhaps?’ Celeste offered.
    ‘You’ve got it! A medal struck for each of the crew presented at a ceremony . . . not now, of course. It’ll take some organizing . . . you interested?’ Margaret Brown fixed her with a look that demanded no excuses.
    ‘But I live in Ohio.’
    ‘So? I’m out west . . . There are trains. We’ll hold another meeting before we leave. Welcome aboard. You are . . . ?’
    ‘Mrs Grover Parkes.’
    ‘But who are you? First names only on my watch . . .’
    ‘Celestine Rose . . . Celeste . . .’ She hesitated, nervous now about what she was letting herself in for.
    ‘What a heavenly name,’ Margaret Brown chuckled as she led her round the room chatting to other supporters. ‘You’re English. There’s a lot of them on board, see if you can corner them and don’t take no for an answer. If they won’t help, at least get a donation off them or an address where we can badger them later with our appeal.’
    Celeste sighed at this gutsy larger-than-life lady who was making a beeline for the Astor contingent. The confidence was bursting out of her.
    If only she could be more like that, she mused. If only she didn’t feel every ounce of her own self worth had been ground out of her over these past years by Grover’s constant criticism. He’d take one look at Mrs Brown and dismiss her as an interfering do-gooder with more money than sense. Well, he was wrong. She was the sort of woman who got things done and Celeste would be sticking close to her no matter what, hoping some of that brash, go-getting confidence might rub off on herself.

21
    May was dozing when Celeste returned and she awoke with a start. She fingered the two-piece black dress folded over Celeste’s arm with a sigh. ‘How can I ever thank you? What lovely cloth.’
    Celeste said nothing about how important it was to Grover that she dressed to suit her station in life. She must always look like a suitable consort to a successful businessman, clad in only the best fabrics and trimmings. Appearance was everything to Grover, Celeste thought darkly. And as the Titanic so terribly demonstrated, appearances could be