On a few occasions, James had woken up to find Cassian, John, and Ethel chatting in the room while he slept nearby. Once, the trio had been playing cards on the floor. That time, James had managed to make himself watch for a while. He’d been interestedin seeing how the game would unfold. Even only watching an hour or so of it, he’d been able to tell that Cassian possessed both the most luck (unsurprising, really) and the most skill (also not surprising). Ethel, though, seemed to have an equally sharp mind plus impeccable judgement overall, but perhaps was still learning how to play. Poor John Quinn, on the other hand, seemed to have very poor luck while also lacking the ability to keep a straight face. He’d been pitifully behind in the number of coins he still had in front of him by the time that James had finally fallen back asleep.
Several other instances, James had woken up to Cassian stroking his hair and whispering beautiful, encouraging things into his ear—statements like “my sweet, sensitive writer, I’m so proud of how brave you’ve been” and “you’ll feel better soon, James, but in the meantime, I’m here if you need me.”
Despite how much James loved being cared for by Cassian, he felt so weak for needing it. After all, he knew that he wasn’t the only one who had been so emotionally broken by the sinking. Far from it. Considering the fact that many others who were rescued from the wreck had lost someone close, James had survived the ordeal relatively unscathed in comparison. So, why, then, was he struggling so much? Why was he seemingly experiencing more emotional pain than those like Ethel or John, for instance, both of whom seemed like extremely sweet people? Not that Cassian wasn’t sweet, but, well, he was Cassian; his sweetness had its limits.
James couldn’t help but wonder if he simply possessed a weaker spirit. Or mind.
James rolled over to face the other direction, and he wondered, too, what Maggie would have made of it all. Whether she’d have been coddling him and comforting him, or if she’d be kicking him in the rear and encouraging him to keep himself busy instead. Probably the latter, based on how she’d been back when they’d both lost George and James had been beside himself about it.
“James Thomas Morrow,”she had said one morning when James had been hiding in bed rather than facing his responsibilities at the Fairleigh Estate.“You cannot let yourself wither away like this. You have too much to offer the world to waste the whole of your life in bed. Besides, Mr. Fairleigh won’t tolerate your laziness forever. And then what’ll happen to you?”
“I’ll be out on the street,”he’d replied, his voice muffled by the pillow.“And then I’ll see George again soon enough, once I run out of sustenance. Or when the winter comes. Whichever happens first.”
“Don’t talk like that,”she’d said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. After a pause, he’d rolled over to face her, and she had touched his cheek. Then, in a softer tone, one that James could still hear now if he tried, she’d said,“Tragedies like this are a part of life. Loving people often means having to cope with losing them, sooner or later. Either that, or the person you love has to cope with losing you. But we can’t let life’s inevitable losses and the sorrows that follow stop us from living. Grieve as much as you need to, but not here, not confined to a bed. Keep moving forward, James. And soon enough, you’ll find yourself again.”
Frowning, James forced himself to sit up. Maggie’s compassionate voice continued to echo in his head as he stretched. His eyes found the half-empty bottle of laudanum, and his stomach churned unpleasantly, yet there was part of him that craved the peace he knew it would bring. He hated that he wanted more of the medication right now. But Maggie had been right back then about not losing himself to grief. Had she been here now, she would have encouraged him to make it through the rest of the voyage home without the opium concoction, not to fritter the remaining hours away in bed. James knew that Maggie would have instead pushed him to find little moments of peace and happiness where he could, even now, even while he was still at sea. And James knew, too, that she would have been right.
James picked up the bottle of medication and put it in the nightstand. Afterward, he hopped out of bed and changed into his old clothes. He hadn’t managed to have them laundered, only dried. Still, it seemed to make a small difference in his mood, being able to wear clothes that were his, regardless of whether or not they were clean. Putting on his perfectly fitting shirt reminded him how lucky he was to be able to wear it at all. So many ofTitanic’s passengers had escaped in only their nightclothes, rather than a relatively respectable-looking steward’s uniform.
After leaving the stateroom, James began to search for Cassian. First, he checked the Smoking Room, where lots of passengers were resting or chatting, including some ofCarpathia’s passengers, like those who had relinquished their staterooms. Cassian wasn’t there, though.
When James turned to leave, a small child hurried past him, his blond hair swishing back and forth as he ran, and even though James knew, in his heart, that it mustn’t have been the boy he’d met onTitanic’s E-Deck, he still followed him across the room to be sure, hope fluttering in his chest as he walked.
Please let it be him.
But, of course, when James reached the boy and saw his face, he could tell, even in the low light of the Smoking Room, that it wasn’t the same child. His chest tightened, and the hopeful fluttering ceased instantly.
Grief twisted inside him as he walked back across the room, and the pain only intensified as he continued to search for that little blond-haired child he’d encountered on the previous ship. Making his way to the saloon, James passed several families—clusters of children and mothers, the family’s patriarchs most often absent—but he never spotted the boy. By the time that James reached the saloon, the screams of his fellow passengers’ final momentswere roaring in his ears again, and he found himself yearning for the relief he’d feel from the laudanum.
He began to consider heading back to the stateroom when someone nearby called his name.
“James!”
It took him a couple of seconds to recognize that it was Ethel. His heart was still so heavy as he walked over to her. He found her knitting, sitting on a chair.
“You’re awake,” she said, looking up at him with a bright smile.
“I am,” James confirmed. He tried to smile back.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Not as well as I’d hoped,” he admitted.
Ethel’s smile faltered a little, and her eyes fell to the half-complete sock she was knitting. It was then that James took notice of it and realized how small it was.
“Who are you making those for?” he asked.
Ethel shrugged.
“No one in particular,” she said. “One of the children on board, I suppose. Some of the women here have asked people to knit and sew clothes for some of our fellow passengers, mostly for children, since there weren’t as many outfits available for them to borrow. I’m happy to make whatever is needed. It’s keeping me busy.”
James nodded a couple of times, taking this in.
“Where are John and Cassian?” he asked.
“It might surprise you to learn that neither was interested in this particular endeavor.”
Her voice had a playful lilt to it that made James smile a little in earnest.
