The Speech

“The fact is: you can’t fear death, in water that cold. Maybe at first, for a moment, when you still have hope. But as we watched those lifeboats paddle away from our screams, it didn't take long to realize help wasn't coming. Not for us. At that point, all you can do is pray for it to end. And you wait. That’s all any of us could do. I survived because I was one of the few to hold on long enough. Not from hope–but from spite.”

This concluded my speech, and I thanked my listeners. By their silence, I knew the statement of gratitude was a mistake; a foolish one. I blushed, pretending to compose my papers, the theater hushed with a heavy uncertainty. The audience watched me, visibly uncomfortable, their mouths twisted into ugly, disapproving frowns. Some bowed their heads, seemingly preoccupied with their laps. Some flipped through their programs.

I looked offstage for guidance. Mr. Blackwell had a peculiar look, not quite angry, yet certainly not pleased. He removed the pocket square from his chest, mopping it across the width of his hairline and neck before sporting a toothy smile in his entrance of the stage.

“Thank you, Ms. Harper, for your courageous address this evening,” he said loudly, his voice unwavered. The audience remained unresponsive. He offered me a smile, gently touching the small of my back, encouraging me with a polite gesture of hand, to leave the podium. I forced myself to return the smile, quickly gathering the papers into my leather case, eyes cast to floor.

“Can we give a round of applause, dear audience, for our courageous survivor?” he continued. The room responded stiffly, an uneven, scattered echo of claps tickling my ears in my exit of the stage. I was suddenly walking quickly, shoving past the stagehands in need of a room, an exit, anywhere to be alone.

“Ms. Harper! Your payment, Ms. Harper.”

I stopped, blushing a deeper red, mortified. I gathered my skirts, guiding them in my turn toward the stagehand. He had a chevron mustache, far too thin to be tasteful. His hands were folded to front, and I pretended not to notice they were empty.

“Yes, thank you. I was just hoping for a quick spot of fresh air,” I said, brightly. He squinted, critical.

“Mr. Blackwell would prefer you wait here a moment, Ms.”

I nodded curtly. My boots pinched, and I was desperate for home; desperate to be paid, so I could hurry back to Jane. I placed my briefcase to ground and mirrored the man’s posture, folding my hands to front. As if offended by this, he adjusted himself, dropping his arms to his sides.

“Have a wonderful rest of your evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming!”

I watched Mr. Blackwell’s grin fall into an exhausted frown, his back toward the crowd in his walk from the stage. I fiddled with the buttons of my cheap blouse, straightening its collar, pretending not to notice his approach.

“Ms. Harper.” I turned my attention to him, as if taken by surprise. “Ms. Harper, that was certainly… a show,” he spat, arms crossed to chest. I forced myself to make contact with his eyes. “Now tell me, what does a woman like yourself gain from exploiting such a sensitive matter?”

My heart had been beating at an unnaturally quick pace the moment I'd entered the theater; now, it could surely be heard by the crowd as they left. I listened to the squeals and groans of bodies lifting from seats, voices faintly grumbling, disgruntled. How stupid I’d been to think this would work. How naive and foolish and–

“Mr. Blackwell, I apologize, but I’m not quite sure what you mean.” My voice quivered slightly, but I was grateful for its delicateness. I widened my eyes, blinking slowly, my chin lifted as if looking up at him, despite matching his height. He exhaled through his nose, unconvinced.

“Ms. Harper. Your elaborate performance was a theatrical feat. I applaud your devotion to your character.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he swiftly continued. “You knew very well when you took this job, the position was intended to be filled by a legitimate survivor of the RMS Titanic. This was not an opportunity for you to act out some melodramatic fantasy of–”

“Fantasy!” I cried. I lifted my case, fiddling with its straps.

“Ms. Harper. In your letters, you claimed you were a passenger aboard the Titanic–a lower class passenger. Yet tonight, you quote philosophers. You speak of the horrors you’ve claimed to face, the discriminations of being disallowed from lifeboats due to your status of class, yet you deliver these alleged anecdotes with the poise of an English Literature professor reciting Homer.” I ignored him, shakily sifting through the case.

“Quite frankly,” he continued, “Whether this was a display of political propaganda, or your efforts at a stage career–I am utterly disposed to report you.”

I looked into his eyes, suddenly unafraid. I held my tongue, handing him the documents I’d brought for this very circumstance. He took them, the pencil-mustached man leaning in to observe in tandem. Despite this new confidence, my heart was still thrashing in my chest like a fish in a net. I did my best to conceal the adrenaline, returning to my earlier posture of a lifted chin, this time, an act of resistance. They muttered to each other, fanning the documents in a scrutinous examination of their descriptions and prints. Mr. Blackwell coughed; I could hear the phlegm in his throat.

“Jane Harper,” he said finally, as if testing the name. I couldn’t discern the tone. He held a newspaper away from his chest with an extended arm, eyes darting from the paper to my face, back and forth. The stagehand did the same, his gaze increasingly confused, examining the identification card I’d offered amongst the documents.

“Jane Harper,” he repeated, this time, softly. Remorseful.

“Yes, Mr. Blackwell. As I signed, in our various letter correspondences.” I straightened my back, and suddenly I was taller than him. “To be frank, I was unprepared to have my identity questioned, but I’m grateful I had the mind to pack my identifications.” My voice was stronger now, steadier.

“Ms. Harper, I’m terribly–”

“Mr. Blackwell, please. Allow me the chance to rectify the validity of my identity, prior to your calling the police,” I said, cooly. The men blushed, their cheeks brightening.

“Not that I should need to explain,” I began, “But I’ve worked in homes like yours, my whole life. The life of a housemaid is an honest living. As a child, my Lady was generous and kind; she allowed me the privilege of tutors and lessons in speech.” I paused for their sake, forcing them to squirm as I had, moments prior. “So I assure you, my oration today, was one of earnestness. I am limitlessly impacted by my time aboard the Titanic. And above it, as it sank.”

I practically yelled these last words, bowing, both in retrieval of my briefcase, and in farewell, turning from the men.

“Ms. Harper, please, your payment!”

My shoulders fell, the desire to run outweighed by my desperation for the wages I'd come for. I needed the money; returning to Jane empty-handed would have been equally mortifying and soul-wrenching.

“Thank you. Yes.” I found myself in tears, returning to face the men, but I didn’t care. They saw a woman they believed had survived atrocities; a woman they’d just accused of lying. It would be fair to think I should cry, under such stress.

Their eyes and jaws had softened considerably. Mr. Blackwell’s hand was outstretched, holding a thin, parchment envelope.

“This is the price we agreed upon,” he said, placing it in my hands. I nodded, echoing my thanks. “And–one moment, Ms. Harper.” He revealed a pocketbook, scribbling into the cheque. “For…ehm.” He handed me the slip, and I added it to my briefcase, making sure to maintain eye contact.

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell. Gentlemen.” I nodded, exiting the stage.

* * *

I rapped at the door with the toe of my boot, arms overwhelmed with paper bags. I listened intently for signs of movement in the apartment, my breath held; fearful, as I often was, that Jane had gathered the sense to leave. For a brief moment, I grieved, convinced she was gone. I couldn’t blame her, but the sadness in those seconds was unbearable. I blushed then, recognizing the sounds of dishes being moved in a frothy sink, followed shortly by the soft bounce of her footsteps approaching the door. I exhaled, stepping back, smiling gaily in her cautious reveal of the apartment.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said airily, as though she had also been holding her breath. She immediately reached for the bags, unburdening my arms, ushering me in with urgency. She eyed the hallway over my shoulder; the neighboring rooms were singing with noise, packed with far too many families any single apartment should hold.

“You didn’t ask for the secret phrase,” I said crossly, although I knew the sternness sounded silly and forced. The door closed, and the sounds became muffled, although only slightly. We’d become accustomed to the constant rumble of sound (there was always a baby crying, a mother doing their best to soothe it, in vain of the surrounding racket of people living their lives), but secretly, I craved silence like some men craved nicotine. I often wondered if she did too, or if she was more accustomed to this life, having endured it longer than I. She heaved the bags onto the only countertop, poking through them curiously.

“It went well, then?” she asked excitedly, her hands deep in the bags.

“Jane,” I insisted, ignoring her efforts to change the subject.

“Oh, I knew it was you,” she said meekly, turning to pinch my chin. I scrunched my nose in response.

“From now on, Jane. You must.”

“Radish soup tastes best with cream,” she recited. “Yes, yes, next time.” She removed the first thing atop the closest bag; a small bushel of marigolds wrapped in butcher paper. She gasped, pushing her nose into their petals, inhaling with a content sigh. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have, Constance. But they’re lovely.” Although pleased, there was a sadness in her voice that pained me; the worry of money had been a constant strain for both of us in the previous months.

I retrieved an empty canning jar from under our sink, ladling water from the bowl next to it. (The building’s pipes had bursted days before, flooding the lower levels of the tenement building, consequently putting our running water on hold. Thankfully, we were on the fourth floor, safe from the worst of it. We were lucky, she reminded me, to have found a tenement building under the new requirements: that each apartment have a single window, running water, and a washroom. We were unlucky, I reminded her, to have no power in how well these things were maintained).

She unwrapped the flowers gingerly, as though handling a string of pearls, fitting them into the jar I held out for her. We stood for a moment, her hands over mine, fingernails pressing into the skin above my knuckles.

“Tell me everything,” she said then, taking the jar. I sat at our beaten table, watching her place the flowers in our windowsill, proudly.

“I’ll be entirely honest Jane, but you mustn’t feel nervous.” I bent awkwardly, moving my skirts in reach of the boot’s laces. They were far too tight on my feet; borrowed from Jane. She gave me a look, as though to say she wouldn’t make any promises, her hands unpacking the tins and breads, stored tight to cupboard. She revealed the parchment-wrapped cheeses and meats, sniffing curiously, placing them into the old icebox we’d found in the streets and restored.

“How on earth did you afford this?” she asked gently, her eyes wide, the bags emptied and folded into a neat pile. She joined me at the table.

“Well,” I began, my eyes sparkling with excitement. I told her the story of my speech; how poorly it had gone, the audience’s reception, the foolish mistake of my obvious aristocratic tongue. She laughed when I explained Mr. Blackwell’s acceptance of the newspaper article, Jane’s face photographed to cover, the title reading “LONDON MAID RECOUNTS TITANIC TERROR”. We laughed at the newspaper’s muddled image of Jane; at its vagueness, how it could have been any number of women. How I’d lied about Jane's language lessons to cover my pretentious references to philosophy texts. She listened intently, never interrupting, simply nodding and punctuating my story with gasps and groans. In my tale’s dramatic conclusion, I revealed the cheque.

“Constance! Oh! Oh, my–” She lifted a hand to her mouth, reading it.

“And all of this,” I gestured to the cupboards, “Came from the money we agreed on originally!” I laughed. “There’s even some left over!” She was open-mouthed, and I watched her surprise transform to exhilaration. And then, she was crying.

“Oh… Janey, darling.” I laughed gently, uncertain, reaching for her hands. She shook her head, grinning wildly, the tears continuing to fall.

“I’m just so very proud of you,” she said, finally. My chest filled, warm and overflowing with guilt.

“Janey!” I thumbed the tears from her cheeks but they were immediately replaced with a fresh stream. “After all you’ve endured! You have no one to be proud of more, than yourself.” Of course, this just made her cry more. I lifted her hands to my chin.

I stared at the woman I had grown to know so differently these last several months. I had known her friendship since childhood, yet these weeks had been new; full of exploration and discovery. The months had been horrible in many ways, but freeing and miraculous in so many others.

The world I’d once known Jane, was now a feverish dream, its characters blurred and murky. Although not fictional, the people from my old life did feel that way: like characters from a novel. It was strange to believe Jane had been my mother’s housemaid. It was strange to think Jane had ever been anything other than Jane. It was an entirely different world, our past.

I was enchanted by her the moment she joined our household, but I had always enjoyed her for reasons entirely different than my mother. I saw in Jane, a certain brilliance I envied; visible in the way she moved, cleaning as though dancing in a grand ballet, delicate and graceful. This brilliance extended to everything Jane did: the pies she baked, the furniture she repaired, she amazed me endlessly in her wisdom of the home and its functions, and I was ashamed to see someone my age know so much, when I seemed to know so little. When I told my mother this, she laughed. Mother enjoyed Jane for the smile she wore when she worked, whether bent over fireplace, floor, or sink. She told me often, how the other maids could learn from young Jane, who never so much as frowned in complaint.

I too, enjoyed the pleasantness of Jane’s smile, but I recognized in it, an unspoken effort. A pain. I cringed when my mother’s voice transformed in recognition of the girl, her words suddenly loud and elongated as though speaking commands to a dog. I despised Jane’s smiles then, not because they were displeasing to look at, but because I recognized an obvious sadness in having to smile when being treated so horribly. And so, from as young as eleven, I had performed the young girl’s chores in secret whenever I could, refusing her service in the private of my room, instead offering her moments of play. Although, for much of these offered moments, she would simply sit, grateful for a moment to rest while I stood perched to door, on watch.

As the years progressed, we could no longer ignore the hierarchy of our friendship. It grew into a thorned bush, piercing and uncomfortable; yet, our attachment only blossomed. Neither of us, to this day, remember the distinct moment it became something more. It was as though the moment didn’t exist; as though we were simply born into closeness, even as children recognizing an unspoken connection.

But Jane was smarter than I, rejecting the naivety I bore from the shelters of a wealth and opulence I’d never entirely rejected. She hid our intimacy well, instilling strict rules of etiquette, refusing even the slightest, knowing glances. Unless entirely alone, she smiled to me as she did to my mother, empty and superficial. And each smile broke me.

It was amidst the horrors of April 1912–in a disaster of ego and fate–that we took flight. My mother and I, escorted by my dear cousin Harry, boarded the RMS Titanic with a string of housemaids. Jane had been hand-selected by Mother, as she always was, and I was overtaken with daydreams of nooks in the ship we could hide in, free from the gaze of my mother (who had already informed me of her plans to force my accompaniment during her time reacquainting herself with my father’s business partners and their wives). I was certain I could feign sickness to avoid the anchored entrapment of meals and teas in the dining saloon.

Of course, Mother made these efforts painful. Despite my pleas to stay in our cabin to rest from a charaded sickness, I was forced into these socials and did little to hide my disappointment. Only on the third day, was I able to leave dinner early, my moping mistaken as ailment by the wife of an important man whose name I no longer recall, but whose status my mother had been overwhelmed.

“My dear, forgive me, but you look rather pale,” the woman had said to me, kindly. We’d just been served the third course: a poached salmon with a lemon-yellow mousseline and cucumbers. I’d shredded the fish with my fork, thinking of Jane, whom this morning, had raved enthusiastically of the boiled rice soup she’d had for lunch.

“Oh, Constance applies her face powder with a heavy hand,” my mother responded tartly before I could speak, shooting me a look from across the table. A look that commanded me to sit up straight. The woman tutted, unconvinced.

“A cold cloth over the eyes helps my seasickness,” she said to me, as if my mother hadn’t spoken. I turned to the woman.

“A cold cloth over the eyes. And did you find lying down, to help?” I inquired. I could see my mother fighting a scowl, and I pretended to be enthralled by the woman’s advice.

“Oh, yes. A cold cloth and a lie down would certainly do the trick.”

“Mother,” I said sweetly, returning my attention to her.

“Constance.”

“I should like to lie down with a cold cloth over my eyes. Would that be alright?”

“I’ll escort you,” Harry said, standing from his chair. He tucked it in gently, assisting me up by the arm. I wished the table farewell, moving quickly before my mother could insist I stay. Harry matched my pace.

“Thank you,” I said, once we’d reached my room. He looked at me nervously.

“You’ve been sick this entire trip, it seems. I’m quite disturbed Aunt Caroline hasn’t let you rest.” I laughed.

“You know her just as well as I, Harry. To socialize, is to breathe, for that woman.”

“A necessity,” he agreed. He shook his head. “Is there anything more I can do?”

“Oh–yes, actually,” I said, suddenly tense. “Could you go to the C deck and fetch Jane? I’m not sure I should be alone.” I offered Jane’s name casually, punctuated with pause, as though I had to think to remember it.

“Of course.”

“And Harry?” I added. “Don’t tell Mother I’ve called for a maid. She’ll want to watch me herself then, and I’d prefer the luxury of a quiet room.” We laughed, and he agreed.

I waited anxiously in my quarters. What if she wasn’t there? What if Harry sent another maid? I hadn’t thought this through. I should have gone to the C desk myself. But surely, with my poor luck, I would have been discovered. I paced the length of the bed, pausing every so often to the sounds of approaching footsteps, continuing my pace when the steps became quieter in passing.

Finally, three gentle knocks, and I knew they were hers.

“Come in!” I called. And she did, closing the door behind her. I hurried to embrace her, recoiling when she shrank from under my arms.

“You sent for me by name,” she said, angrily. I blinked, confused, rushing to explain. I had been worried at first too, I told her, but everything was fine now! Harry was a champion of secrets! She listened, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re always doing things like this, Constance. I’m tired of you putting my life at risk.”

I felt slapped. My cheeks reddened, as though I had been.

“Your life, at risk? Janey, I would never put your life at risk.” She laughed, sneering. I’d never heard her make such a sound; never seen her make such a face.

“You don’t mean to, but you do! You do, Constance! Each time you try to hold my hand when your mother’s back is turned. Each time you beg me to stay with you when you know your mother searches for me when I’m gone. I’ve risked so much for you, and you continue to put me at risk, and I’m so very tired, Constance, I’m so very tired!”

With this, she rushed from the room, my apologies trailing after her, useless and limp in the empty air she left behind. I felt betrayed for a moment, in her accusations, but in her tears, I had recognized the truth in her words. How selfish I’d been. Eager to know her, eager to be with her, when I, at its worst, would still have the luxury of wealth. Suddenly, my affections for her were curdled; not because I cared for her any less, no–I loved her more than I’d ever thought possible–but because I faced the reality I’d tried so desperately to ignore. The realization, that so long as we lived in this world, I as myself, Jane as Jane, we would not be. We could not be.

Jane sighed into the rye slice she’d prepared, licking a splotch of fig jam from her index finger. I smiled, proud to watch her enjoy something I’d once so often taken for granted. Proud to have provided it for her. Gratified that she’d given me the chance to.

But of course, I reminded myself, it was Jane’s story that had earned this. The chance to be together, the food we dined on now, the flowers in our windowsill, the cheque we would live on until my next speech. Granted, I’d thought on my toes a bit with Mr. Blackwell, and written and delivered the address, but the latter had gone over terribly. I'd been as truthful as I could, in the story I told, but it wasn't my story to tell.

Jane has told me on several occasions, since that night in the North Atlantic, how she still dreams of the water. The stabbing cold. Like thousands of needles, stored and frozen in a giant icebox, speared into every inch of her body. The iced hell she’d endured in those excruciating hours, clutching debris from the ship we’d been promised was indestructible, screaming for mercy from those who filled lifeboats like eggs in a carton, seated neatly with so much room to spare.

I forced myself to think of this daily. I woke often, as she did, from nightmares. I would never forgive myself for believing the shrieks of the woman who’d pushed me into the lifeboat. How I’d foolishly believed that the woman I loved, for her womanhood, despite her maid’s uniform, would be allowed onto the next boat. My naivety, once again, putting her life at risk. It didn’t matter that I’d truly believed this; it didn’t matter that I’d sobbed for her, our lifeboat one of the few filled to its brim, my eyes obscured by the night sky and the women seated around me.

In the blur of being lifted aboard the Carpathia hours later, I knew, from the sea of lavish gowns and lack of simple dress, the woman who’d shrieked to me, had lied. The devastation nearly pushed me to the ship’s edge, but instead, I cried and mourned with the women, huddled together like penguins.

For three days, the Carpathia struggled to New York through storm and fog, and for three days I slept, pressed to strangers, desperate for the release of land. I thought of little in these three days, in the rare moments I was awake. I knew my mother was somewhere in the crowd of women, having watched her board the lifeboat before mine, but I held no desire to find her. Harry, I knew, was dead. And Jane, my dearest friend and love, had certainly suffered the same. I could not think of them, for if I had, I would have leapt from the ship.

On the eighteenth of April, the Carpathia’s passengers disembarked to land, and the Titanic’s few surviving followed. In the moments I dragged my feet onto American ground, I remember little more than a feeling–an instinct–to look up. And then, the urgency in Jane’s eyes as she met mine, running to me from across the dock, limping, erratic. I remember thinking, how wondrous, how impossible, for her to have found me so quickly in a crowd of thousands, citizens melded from ship and land; how I’d had the sense to look out and meet her eyes when I wanted nothing more than to look down.

I have since avoided suggestions of miracles or divine intervention. Just as she had her entire life, Jane saved herself. In kick and tread, she had pulled herself from the water into one of the four lifeboats we later learned returned for survivors. Four of fourteen. And in the crowd, she had fought to find me, when I had lost myself.

Weeks later, when Jane and I had decided to stay in America together, I learned my mother somehow hadn’t survived; in a horrible, morbid way, this made our decision easier. To this day, I have no knowledge of my dear cousin, and no certainty of whether we will be compensated for our suffering aboard the Ship of Dreams. My father surely believes I am dead, and I know if I write, he will send someone for me. So I don't. Maybe someday. But Jane writes to her family often; in fact, they hadn’t hesitated, pooling their savings to send all the money they could, accompanied by documents and identifications she’d left in England. Her mother, God bless the woman, paid to have my remaining identifications (what hadn’t been drowned with the ship) retrieved from my father’s study during the chaos of my funeral, mailed with a kind and motherly note.

“Constance?”

She looked nervous. Our plates were crumb-filled, our glasses empty. I waited for her to continue, reaching to draw a red curl from her eyes.

“Constance, would it be alright if I wrote the next one?”

“The speech?” I asked. She nodded, and I smiled. She had implored me to write and perform the one today; I was happy she wanted to tell her story with her own words.

Several weeks prior, we’d both discovered the surge of New York theaters imploring survivors of the Titanic to tell their stories to a paying audience. It was a degrading, miserable idea, to perform for a crowd of gawking, insensitive aristocrats. Yet, the money was a necessity we could not afford to ignore; we both worked in the same dreadful factory, making expensive shoes my mother had once worn. By the end of each shift, we smelled of smoke and burnt leather. It paid very little.

I refused, outright, to tell my story; it was a coward’s story. One I didn’t believe worthy of telling. But for Jane, the thought of discussing the horrors of her survival for a crowd of strangers had been rattling, and I had instinctively offered myself to play her role. She wrote to the theaters, and I’d written the speech, angry for her, attaching the details and stories she’d shared over time, stitching them together like a fine, handmade quilt. Or so I’d thought.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Janey. They didn’t much like mine,” I said now, laughing. “And your story should be told.” She beamed.

“Would you still perform it?” she asked, shyly, fiddling with a splinter from the table’s coarse surface.

“Of course.” She smiled into the wood. For all the nerves and fears I'd endured earlier today, I would do it again, a thousand times more, if she asked.

I reached into the leather briefcase, retrieving blank parchment and a pen.

“Would you write it for me, Constance? If I tell you what to say?”

“Yes, Janey.”

“Alright then.” She paused, her eyes looking up and to the left, in thought. For a moment I thought she would cry, but instead, she began.

“Alright,” she continued, “Please start: ‘I take no offense to those who call the RMS Titanic the Ship of Dreams. I dream about it still; and while these dreams are often nightmares, some are of the beautiful crowds, small from so high up, in wave of our departure. These are the dreams I wish to start with.’”

My hands moved quickly, scribbling messily to keep up.

“Does that sound alright?” she asked.

“It’s more than alright. Please, keep going.”