Unspeakable by Caroline Pignat Page B

Not to be your tour guide.” I sat on the edge of my chair by the fireplace, spine as rigid as a poker. I had no desire to talk about that night, but I knew I had to if I wanted to learn what he knew about Jim. Was he alive? Injured? Dying?
    As if I’d tripped a switch, that boyishness shut off and he became a reporter again. “Yes, I suppose we each have our deadlines.”
    I cringed a bit at the literalness of the word, hoping it wasn’t too late for me. Too late for Jim.
    â€œMy editor said he’d like the article for the July supplement,” he continued. “That gives me just a few weeks to pull this together and get him the bit on the British army.”
    â€œYes,” I agreed, less enthusiastically. Wishing I could “pull this together” as easily as he seemed to think he could. Mine was just another story, one of many he juggled. Mind you, he just had to write it. I had to carry it. To bear it. To live with it.
    I sighed. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can be on your way.”
    Though truth be told, deep down, some small part of me wanted neither.

    â€œ TAKE ME BACK TO HER LAST SAILING ,” Steele said once we’d settled ourselves in our seats.
    I paused. “Where do I start?”
    He could see I was reluctant to go back. To remember.
    â€œShe’s docked at Quebec City,” he said. “The passengers are all aboard now and the captain’s given the order to ready the ship.”
    I closed my eyes for a moment, the sound of the bugle echoing in my memory. The sound of the start of another voyage.
    Only this one would be our last.

SAILING DAY
    May 28, 1914
    Quebec Harbour

Chapter Seventeen
    4:00 P.M .
    â€œ ALL ASHORE THAT’S GOING ASHORE! ”
    The bugle blew once more, alerting the passengers that the Empress was readying to cast off. The stewards busied themselves with the mounds of baggage stacked high on deck, still to be sorted. There were trunks and crates, boxes and luggage of all shapes and sizes, for the upper class did not travel light. Granted, they tagged much of their baggage as “unwanted,” meaning it had to be moved to the bottom of the ship for storage in the cargo hold. But you may bet they’d want something or other out of it during the voyage, and the poor stewards would have to lug it all the way back up to their staterooms.
    â€œAre we being raided by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?” an elderly woman beside me asked, confounded by all the men milling around the deck in red tunics and Mountie-style stetsons.

    â€œThey’re Salvation Army, ma’am,” I explained.
    She didn’t seem convinced, at least not until the band members, about forty of them, collected their instruments from the luggage pile and gathered round the bandmaster. They raised them to their lips, the brass glinting in the afternoon light. Bandmaster Hanagan threw out his arms and with a flourish launched the men in a perfect rendition of “O Canada.” The old lady next to me sang along, even more thrilled when they followed up with “Auld Lang Syne.”
    Maybe it was the loud music, or maybe it was some other sixth sense about her ninth life, but Emmy, our ship’s cat, deserted us then. Billy left his bundle of baggage and ran down the gangway after her, but as soon as he dropped her on deck, she bolted again. Before anyone could follow, Captain Kendall gave the order for all lines to be cast off.
    The flags snapped in the breeze as the ship pulled away to the cheer of the crowds waving from decks and docks. Bandmaster Hanagan raised his arms one more time, cuing his men for another serenade. This time the air was wistful, almost sad.
    God be with you till we meet again … the people sang.
    It might have been the song, or Emmy leaving, the fear of losing Aunt Geraldine, or of having lost Jim’s affections. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew this would be my last voyage, though not