Memories

Her bedroom was always dark. She wanted the shades open, at least partially, so some of the light from the street, or better still, the stars, could shine in. But no matter how many times she opened them, even if it was just a crack, her mother’s lady, Ms. Julia, would always come in just as she was about to drift off and close them. Even when she had asked nicely, even when she had begged her mother, she was told they needed to be closed. Closed tight.
It was the same nearly every night. She’d beg to stay up, to read another book, to sit by the fire, even to clean her room. Eventually, her mother would have enough and send her up. She’d linger with the toiletries, sometimes insisting on putting on several of her nightshirts all at the same time. In the summer it was unbearable to do so, but then, so was the alternative. Of course, it didn’t make a difference. Regardless of what she wore, it never made a difference.
Eventually, she’d give in and nod off to restless sleep for a few hours—waiting, always waiting. She hadn’t slept fully in years, not since she was a small girl. Not since her father died. It wasn’t too long after his death that the horror began. Just about the time her body began to relax, the tension in her shoulders unclenching, there would be a creak in the hallway, the turn of a key, and she would begin to weep.
At first, it was scary and uncomfortable, but then it became extremely painful, and as spindly fingers probed deeper and harder, it was almost too much for her little body to bear. If she cried too loudly, he would shove a pillow against her face, threatening to smother her; sometimes, she wanted him to. He always said what he was doing wasn’t wrong, that he wasn’t ruining her for her husband, that he didn’t push hard enough to do so. He said blood was bad. Only if there was blood would she be spoilt. And then, one day when she was ten, she woke up to bloody sheets. She had cried even harder that day, knowing already of her father’s promise, that she was damaged now and could never truly fulfill his wishes, never be the wife he had meant for her to be. When she was twelve, she gathered the courage to tell her mother and was greeted with a slap in the face so hard it jarred her teeth. Shortly thereafter, she realized her doorway was not the only one he was darkening, and any implications on her part meant her mother was not all the woman she should be.
When she was about fourteen, the visits became less frequent for a while. She noticed her mother began employing women with young daughters, some no more than six. Her heart hurt for these little girls. She attempted to speak to their mothers, but they needed employment, and her pleas fell on deaf ears. It seemed no matter who she spoke to, no one wanted to listen, no one except for Kelly. She had been there to hold her through the worst of it, to wipe away her tears. She had even faced her mother once. A broken nose for the lady-in-waiting and a visit from her uncle later, Meg had insisted that Kelly never say another word to anyone. She said if she did, she would deny it. And Kelly complied.
Once the engagement was official, her uncle began to remind her quite frequently again whom she really belonged to. Fearful that she would put Kelly in harm’s way again, she assured her friend that he had stopped, that his attention was focused elsewhere. It was then that she had turned to Ezra. She had found her solace in the charming servant boy who often made household repairs and worked in the coach house. And whenever Kelly caught her crying, she would simply say she was having nightmares. Because that was true. And even aboard the Titanic, the nightmares didn’t stop.
On the night of April 11, the morning of the twelfth, Meg awoke in a cold sweat, realizing she was panting, hoping her thrashing about had not been so loud as to wake the sleeping children. Despite the realness of her terrifying dream, she realized everyone else was still fast asleep. She attempted to push the memories of the nightmare from her mind, but it had been so vivid, it was almost impossible. This dream had been so similar to all of the others, but the ending had been vastly different. In the end, she was sinking, plunged beneath frigid water, a hand pulling her down to the ocean floor. She caught just a glimpse of that hand before she forced herself awake. She recognized those spindly fingers oh so well.
Pulling herself to the edge of her bed, she carefully swung herself out from under the top bunk and pulled on her robe. She wouldn’t go far, but she needed some air. All of the clothing she had with her was borrowed save this one pink bathrobe her mother had given her for her birthday last year. It was the only item she was certain no one from First Class could possibly see, and she wasn’t about to let them see it now. Still, she needed to breathe.
She wasn’t sure how safe it was to be out in the middle of the night all by herself, but at that point, she felt there was very little else anyone could take from her. Gazing down into the same depths she had just drowned in, she realized this dream was a metaphor for her life. Her uncle had taken everything from her. He had set in motion a chain reaction that led to her destruction. She had made some irresponsible choices along the way, too, no doubt. But ultimately, the demise of Mary Margaret Westmoreland began when Bertram Westmoreland started to pull her deeper and deeper below the surface, forcing the life from her, creating a situation where she could no longer fulfill the destiny she was meant to.
She glanced up at the star filled sky, realizing for the first time that Charlie was just as much a victim in this as she was. For the longest time, she had taken out her anger and frustration on him because he was an easy target. After all, she’d never even met him, yet she was being forced to marry him. How dare he even pretend to care for her, to insinuate he was willingly complying with his father’s wishes? He was arguably the most eligible bachelor in New York City. Why would he agree to marry her—an Englishwoman he’d never even met, one with hardly a few pence to her name and only a washed up textile business to offer?
She had thought at first, perhaps, he was after that. Maybe he thought this was his only opportunity to make his own name for himself. But then he had begun to write to her about other interests he was pursuing, other industries. He mentioned celluloid, for example, and something about petroleum. So, his willingness to comply had nothing to do with opportunity.
Then she thought perhaps he was hideously ugly, and the pictures he sent were of someone else. But she’d seen him in the newspapers and knew he was strikingly handsome, perhaps the most dashing man she’d ever laid eyes on. The fact that he could have any number of other girls but chose to have her made her even angrier, to the point that she just assumed surely he was having those other girls, though he wrote to her constantly of his devotion to her and to her alone.
She wondered if, perhaps, he was quite dull-witted. Perhaps someone else wrote the letters he sent to her. But she knew that would not escape mention in the local gossip rings. No, there was absolutely nothing wrong with Charles J. Ashton. Nothing at all. He was absolutely perfect, and she was not. And she had hated him for it.
Which made it even easier to do what she had done. She took every opportunity available to avoid him. She delayed and denied. And the night of her friend Alise’s coming out ball, she did the worst thing imaginable. It was the only thing she could think of, one last ditch effort to escape Charles Ashton at last.
And, to some extent, it had worked. After all, she was no longer to be his wife.
But staring into the abyss beneath her, Meg was certain she had made a horrible mistake. And she could not undo any of the things she had done. Now, she realized, the best thing for her to do was to quietly slip out of existence. And that is why she had decided to go ahead with her plan, even without Ezra. Even after Kelly had come into her room that terrible morning just two days ago with those awful, awful words dripping from her tongue.
“He’s gone.”