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Colleen's Confession

By Susan G. Mathis

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CHAPTER 1


Colleen Sullivan gazed at the rainbow of colors filtering through the bedsheet billowing in the river’s breeze. The setting sun’s rich yellows, oranges, and reds melded together to produce the prettiest piece of cloth she’d ever seen.
“If only I could paint it one day.” She moaned as she pulled the clothespins from the nearby pantaloons and placed it in the laundry basket. She huffed her angst. “Inconceivable.”
She shielded her eyes from the source of the sunset’s beauty, the enormous yellow orb casting a rippling path upon the St. Lawrence River. She viewed the Comfort Island cottage aglow in the sunset’s brilliance, then peeked back at the sheet. It, too, glowed, a yellow puddle trailing down the white cotton fabric.
What a joy if it would be if she could capture such wonder. She had tried her hand at painting in the orphanage, plucking a few hairs from the old mare, Milly, and tying them together on a stick to make a crude paintbrush. She attempted to create her own paints, too, crushing dandelions, blueberries, strawberries, and the like. But the process never really worked, and she finally gave up, settling for hoarding the nubs of pencils the other children discarded and saving every scrap of paper she could to sketch on when no one was looking.
As a child, she happily volunteered for trash duty, for she sometimes found several sheets of barely used paper, especially in the nuns’ bins, which she squirreled away. There were few secrets at the institute, so scrounging a few sheets here or there became a challenge of sorts. To create a genuine artist’s sketchpad like she’d seen when a man passed through to sketch something he called waif scenes—although none of the children she knew would be considered such—now, that would be a coup. But the result for her attempt? A shoddy replica of a sketchpad tied with a string and hidden under her mattress for safe keeping—still proved a prize worth risking a beating for.
“Colleen?” Aunt Gertie’s voice, an octave higher than normal and unusually alarmed, yanked her from her daydream. Her aunt never got frazzled—the epitome of unwavering exactitude, albeit a very wide and buxom one. “Are you here?”
Colleen popped off the two final clothespins from the bedsheet. “I’m here, Auntie.”
The woman waved a paper high in the air while navigating the precarious flagstone pathway leading from the cottage kitchen to the Comfort Island’s laundry house. Her furrowed brow set Colleen’s heart racing. Auntie’s triple chin wobbled as she waddled like a frenzied duck while plunging the paper into her pocket. She then stuck her arms out like a tightrope walker to steady herself.
Colleen dropped the unfolded sheet into the laundry basket and pointed a finger toward the feet of the only relative she’d ever known. “Careful, Aunt Gertie. You don’t want to trip.” She hurried to her side. “Is everything all right at the cottage?”
Aunt Gertie placed a hand on her chest while heaving deep breaths that wheezed and groaned. Then she pulled out a newspaper clipping from her apron pocket and pressed it into her hands. “I didn’t want to believe it. I hoped. I prayed. But alas, it seems to be true.”
“What is it, Auntie?”
Aunt Gertie tapped the newspaper clipping.
Colleen unfolded the single page newsprint dated May 29, 1914. The headline read, CANADA’S TITANIC SINKS IN MINUTES. 1,012 DEAD. Under the ominous words, a large photograph of an ocean steamer. “That’s a terrible tragedy.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Aunt Gertie rubbed her wrinkled, kitchen-raw hands over her face and grumbled. “Read the article. Aloud.”
Why was her aunt so upset? Aunt Gertie was a stern, steadfast woman. Never distraught. Something was terribly wrong. But what?
Alarm garbled her brain as Colleen read the words of the newspaper article aloud, hoping that hearing the words might bring understanding. “The Empress of Ireland tragically sank in the early morning hours of May 29, 1914. Over a thousand passengers perished in just fifteen minutes. The ocean liner sank into Canada’s Saint Lawrence River after being hit by a ship called The Storstad.” She looked up from the paper. “But…”
Aunt Gertie placed a gentle hand on her forearm, her features and tone softening. “Keep reading.”
Colleen continued. “During her few short years at sea, The Empress of Ireland, sister ship to The Empress of Britain, brought one hundred thousand immigrants to settle in Canada and carried tens of thousands of passengers between Canada and Great Britain. As a licensed Royal Mail Ship (RMS), she also transported mail between Canada and Great Britain.”
Colleen frowned at her aunt, who bid her continue with a sharp glance at the page.
“At 1:38 a.m., The Empress of Ireland’s lookout in the crow’s nest spotted The Storstad’s mast and headlight, a ship carrying ten thousand tons of coal. Through thick fog, the two vessels steamed toward one another and collided nine minutes later. The Storstad hit The Empress of Ireland broadside, destroying her hull with a three-hundred-and-fifty square-foot hole in her side.”
Colleen sucked in a breath but then continued. “Like the Titanic, sleeping passengers were trapped inside, the second and third-class passengers entombed below decks, and the first-class passengers, though higher on the boat, had little time to be rescued. Of the fourteen hundred seventy-seven souls, only four hundred sixty-five survived.”
Colleen refolded the paper and held it out for her aunt to take. The woman shook her head and exhaled as she slipped it back into her pocket.
“I don’t understand.” Colleen’s heartbeat had slowed, but trepidation clawed at her insides. “This is sad, but it’s been weeks since the tragedy. Why are you so upset?”
Aunt Gertie slipped a beige sheet of thin paper from her pocket and handed it to her. She took Colleen’s hands, crinkling the papers between her palms. “Peter was on that ship. It was to be his last voyage before coming for you.”
What?
Colleen’s world spun as she absorbed the news. “My betrothed? My Peter?”
Her auntie released her hand but placed one on her forearm and kept it there. “Yes. Read the telegram.”
Colleen sucked in a deep, steadying breath as she unfolded the missive. She trained her eyes on the words. “Peter Byrne, 23, County Down, perished on The Empress of Ireland. Stop. Deceased May 29, 1914. Stop.”
Unwilling to believe, she pressed her aunt, vain hope melting as quickly as a cube of ice on a sunny July day. “Perhaps it’s another Peter Byrne. It’s a common name in Ireland.”
Aunt Gertie squared her shoulders. “The telegram was from his mother. He’s gone, Colleen, and so is the hope of your marriage.”
Colleen’s eyes brimmed with tears and her bottom lip quivered, but her aunt shook her arm, then squeezed her hands. Hard.
“Stop that right now.” Aunt Gertie’s tone was as harsh as if Colleen had smashed a fine china teacup on a tile floor. Her aunt scanned the area around them as if searching for something, the long shadows of the early evening, dark and foreboding. “Listen to me and obey.”
She pulled Colleen close and lowered her voice, almost whispering. More of a hiss, really. “You will tell no one of this betrothal. No one must know, or they will banish you from your position to grieve the loss. It’s Victoria’s curse—wearing black and being in seclusion for a year. Ridiculous. A grieving widow cannot work. Do you want that? No. You must earn a wage and move on from this tragedy in complete secrecy. Do you understand?”
Colleen pulled back and searched her aunt’s face, the woman desperate to make her understand the urgency and importance of her words. She assented. “Yes, ma’am.”
Aunt Gertie puffed out a breath that reeked of garlic. “Good. You must add this secret to the other. No one must know.”
Colleen stood straighter, plastering on an air of determination that would fool even Mother Superior. “No one will know.”
Aunt Gertie patted her arm and snatched the telegram from her hands, almost ripping it as she did. “I will sequester these away for safekeeping. Be about your work, now. It’s getting dark.”
“I will.”
Her aunt departed up the stone pathway toward the Comfort cottage, taking with her the only hope she ever had for her future.
But they must never know. No one must.
She took a deep breath and pulled the last pieces of clothing from the line as night descended. Making her way into the laundry house, she prayed her superior, Mrs. Marshall, would leave her be, at least for tonight. She needed to think, to gather her wits about her, and to understand the implications of the news she’d received. Hope had sunk to the bottom of the river that night with her betrothed.
Though she’d never met Peter Byrne, their betrothal was her ticket out of service. Aunt Gertie arranged the match betwixt her friend, Peter’s mother. He would become her family. They would create a family. The first proper family she would ever know. Apart from Aunt Gertie, of course.
A single tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped it away, plunking down on the laundry house steps, despondent. She’d worked for more than half of her life, and she was not yet twenty. She turned and peeked into the laundry—stuffy, hot, smothering. Another twenty years of this mundane existence, and she might as well give up here and now.
Dreams dashed—as her dreams always seemed to be. Flitting away just beyond reach, teasing, twisting her into wretched melancholy. Crushing her vision of the future into shards of the past. One she desperately wanted to leave behind.
Just then, two bats alighted from the laundry’s roof and taunted her, swooping and circling her head. She covered her hair with her arms, swatting at the creatures and shrieking to scare them more than they did her. “Get away from me, you horrid devils!”
Like a whirling dervish, she twirled and dodged them, but the bats seemed unaffected by her antics. Instead, they dive bombed her, flying so close their wings skimmed her hair. “Get away.”
From the shadows, a dark figure stepped into a moonbeam of light and gently swatted at the bats with an oar. Jack. His voice was quiet, unshaken by the creatures. Deep but gentle. “Off with the both of you.”
In the week since she’d arrived on the island, she’d met him just once when he fetched her from Alexandria Bay. But she’d seen him from a distance several times as he worked around the island. Heart-stoppingly handsome. The sort of man you never want to let too close for he would surely break her heart. Or so Liza, her bunkmate at the orphanage, would say.
His onyx-black hair and brows almost masked him in the shadows. Only the whites of his dark eyes and his glistening pearly teeth were clearly visible until he stepped into the full moonlight. He lowered the oar. “Peace, my fair fraulein. They are gone.”
Colleen shivered away her nervous repulsion of the creatures. “I hate bats. They’re hideous.”
Jack bowed, setting the oar on the ground. When he straightened, mirth danced in his eyes. He held back a grin, but the cleft in his narrow chin quivered the tiniest bit. “Mr. Jack Weiss, bat slayer, at your service.”
Colleen curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir.”
~ ~ ~
Jack rumbled a deep chuckle through closed lips. How could he bring peace to this chestnut-haired fraulein with her big brown doe eyes—and perhaps find out what really troubled her? “Actually, bats are an asset here on the islands. They keep the bugs at bay.”
Fraulein shuddered. “I’d rather face a thousand mosquitoes than one flying rat.” She pointed a slim finger toward the inky sky. “But thank you for rescuing me from those two.”
Jack kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. “I fear you have deeper, more troubling concerns this evening.”
The fraulein’s coffee-brown eyes flashed a depth of fear he hadn’t seen since leaving his Austrian homeland to emigrate to America. She swallowed hard, and her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Did you eavesdrop on my conversation with Aun … ah, Cook?”
“No, Fraulein.” He waved his palms to clarify. “I didn’t even see that Cook visited with you. It’s just that I saw…”
“What? What did you see? Or think you saw?” Her face was turning as red as the sunset he’d just admired.
The fraulein’s defensiveness, the desperation in her voice, warned him to retreat. Fast.
Jack clasped his hands behind his back, ready to leave. Quick. “It was nothing. Grüss Gott.”
Fraulein Sullivan grasped his upper arm and held him there. “No. What did you see? Tell me.” She squeezed harder, sending a shock wave through his body—and surprise to her eyes. As if stung, she released his arm and stepped back. “Sorry. Please tell me.”
“Sadness.”
He had no other word for it.
The lovely fraulein peeked back at the laundry steps as if trying to envision the scene. Then her shoulders relaxed, almost drooped, and so did her full lips. And her eyes. Everything turned… sad.
But it was more than that. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He never was very good with emotions. Especially women’s.
But he knew she needed a friend.
“No matter. We all have our days.” Jack shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “No need to elaborate.”
She stared at him as if sizing him up. Like he did before he chopped down a tree. She rolled her hands over and over each other, then her expression grew somber. “Please, sir, say nothing of my feminine lapse. I must maintain my position at all costs.”
She bit her bottom lip, waiting for his reply, driving an urge to press a forefinger against the tender flesh so she ceased her assault. Instead, he stayed his hands, pulling them from his pockets and clasping them together. Even a fellow as callous as he knew a fraulein of her exquisite beauty wouldn’t receive attentions from the likes of him.
“They would never fire you for crying. The Clarks are fine, kind folk. I should know.” He puffed out a breath. “They allow me to work here.”
A tilt of her head and a raised brow beckoned him to continue.
“I’m from Austria, by way of Canada. Not quite two years.” A tiny groan escaped his lips. “I still speak English rather poorly.”
She shook her head, folding her hands in front of her. Relaxing. “I detected an accent, but you speak the language quite well, sir.”
A grin danced on his lips, but he willed it to lessen. “Thank you. Please call me Jack.”
The pretty fraulein rubbed her arms. “And you can call me Colleen. You’re welcome.”
“Are you cold?” He took off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, taking care not to actually touch her. She indicated her appreciation. “The name is Irish, yes?”
She hesitated, her brow furrowing. She licked her lips. “My parents were from Cork. They died when I was… So did…” Colleen’s eyes grew wide, and she slapped both hands over her mouth. In her shifting from foot to foot, his coat fell to the ground. She retrieved it, wiping off the dust with one hand while holding it aloft with the other. “Sorry, I…”
Jack chuckled, accepting the frock. “The coat has seen much worse. So have I. My parents died, too, so I left Austria to make a new life here in America.” He waved a hand toward the water. “It is a fine country, and this is a beautiful river. An enchanting island.”
When Colleen’s eyes followed his gesture toward the river’s reflection of the rising moon, Jack joined her to enjoy a silent moment together. Moonlight danced on the unusually flat calm while fireflies flittered to and fro.
He sighed. “It’s so peaceful here. Not like my homeland and all the talk of war.”
She turned to him and nodded. “I’ve read of the tensions. It’s more than I can comprehend. Do you have family there?”
“Aunts. Uncles. Seven cousins. And Oma.” When she quirked an eyebrow, he explained. “Oma is my grossmutter … ah, Grandmama? She is very frail.”
Colleen inclined her head. “I’m sorry.”
They returned to survey a flock of geese honking their way from the sky and sliding onto the river, splashing and dispelling the peaceful scene into noise and chaos.
The moment gone, Colleen fidgeted, like he’d seen her do several times in the past week while secretly watching her work.
“I should go.” She stepped toward the cottage. “Mrs. Marshall will cook my goose if she catches me out this late.”
She smiled, just a little, and turned to leave, but he stopped her with a gentle touch on her forearm. Warmth radiated up his arm like warm honey. “Wait. I’ll walk you. To watch out for bats.”
That was silly.
He cleared his throat. “I stay in the boathouse, so it’s on the way.”
Colleen gave him a quick nod, so he fell in step with her, ascending the steep path toward the back of the cottage.
She slowed her pace. “Would you go back to Austria to see your…”
“Oma?” Jack shrugged. “Perhaps. If the rumors of war are true, I may need to fight.”
Colleen stopped abruptly, almost bumping into him. “But this is your home now. Why would you go back there to fight in a war?”
Why indeed?
“It’s my homeland. Generations of my family have lived on the same beautiful farmland. I left it to make a better life, but I’ll not turn my back on Austria if she needs me.”
Colleen dipped her chin. She stopped halfway up to the house and slowly looked around. “’Tis a lovely evening, is it not?”
He followed her gaze. The full moon cast a warm glow over the two-acre island and the large cottage called Comfort. To the northeast, the St. Lawrence River’s main shipping channel spread before them. To the west was The Narrows”—a tight and dangerous passage between Wellesley Island and small islands like this one—and to the east stood New York State, America, in which he’d recently found residence.
Jack settled his eyes on Colleen. “It is. I’m glad to share a piece of it with you.”
They finished their uphill climb, and upon arriving at the cottage, Colleen gave another little curtsy. “Thank you for rescuing me. And for sharing about your family. I will pray that war never comes to your homeland.”
“You’re a fraulein of faith? That is good.”
Colleen pursed her lips and cast an uncommitted half-smile before retreating into the kitchen.

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