Rosewater and Ink

This story contains love and death.

Rosewater and Ink

         Soaked by constant rain, Phoebe Bayliss stared at the mud‑spattered coffin as it settled at the bottom of the water-filled grave. The priest’s words had already dissolved into the downpour, leaving only the thud of earth and the cold ache in her chest. She wiped her eyes, though the tears and rain had long since merged, and walked away. With her father gone, she was penniless, and more alone than she had ever expected to be.

         Phoebe, thirty-six, pushed her wet black hair from her face. Since her eighteenth birthday, a new car had arrived each year, and money had never been a problem. Her father called it security, though Phoebe had always suspected it was his way of keeping her close. Presents instead of affection, comfort instead of conversation. Now, with the will read and the accounts emptied, she realised how little of him she had truly known.

         Back at the Victorian red‑brick house, she hesitated before entering. It needed thousands of pounds to make it habitable. A local builder, eager to convert it into flats, had offered a sum she dared not refuse. One by one, she emptied each room, packing treasured items into wooden crates for her one‑bedroom apartment. When the sad task was done, she made to leave.

         In the entrance hall, she gazed around for the last time and gave the rope holding the cast‑iron chandelier a tug. Her eyes filled, and she began to cry. What was she going to do? She lifted her head to wipe away the tears, and saw the hatch in the ceiling. It’s full of rubbish, she told herself, but curiosity nudged her upward.

         On the landing, she hooked the wooden flap. The loft ladder descended, kicking up a cloud of dust.

         Wary, she climbed into the vast space and switched on the single lamp. The air was colder up there, tinged with old timber and forgotten winters. Shadows stretched across the rafters, and the boards creaked under her weight. Boxes lay on boxes, forgotten under linen covers, cobwebs and thick layers of dust.

         She examined each one: tin soldiers, dolls of every colour and size, knitted animals — the strangest a green whale.

         After a long time, one large trunk remained. Intrigued, she opened it. Inside, wrapped in fine paper, lay a wedding dress fashioned at the beginning of the century. She returned it gently, smoothing the paper as if the bride might still be watching. Another box contained worn leather‑bound diaries, arranged in date order.

Curious, she settled on the bare boards and began to read.

2 June 1911. Today, father, a member of Lloyds, accompanied by Mother and me, travelled to their offices before going on to the Savoy for lunch. They left me alone, seated in the vast entrance hall while they conducted business. A handsome man strolled by, and our eyes met. Who was he? His deep blue eyes penetrated the depths of my soul. If he had said, Come with me, I am sure I would have followed.

3 June 1911. I visited Lloyds with Father. My hopes rose, but my blue‑eyed man did not appear.

4 June 1911. Each morning, I manufactured a reason to go with Father. With every visit, my expectations grew, but the man of my dreams didn’t come into sight.

5 June 1911. This afternoon, whilst waiting in a Lloyd’s ante‑room, the stranger entered, and I fainted. From what I was told, my man moved fast and caught my limp frame. Father shoved him away, fussed, and on opening my eyes, I saw his. With a wave of his hand, Father thanked him and ordered him to leave.       When he strolled away, for an instant, he turned, and our eyes met. At dinner that evening, I enquired of my white knight. Father told me the man, Jonathon Ellis, was a basement clerk and I should not bother myself with the lower orders.

         Phoebe flipped the pages. She recognised her grandfather’s name, and the diarist. Grandma Cecilia.

6 June 1911. I find Jonathon is in my thoughts day and night. I must meet him to say thank you. He has changed my life. To Father, he is an unlettered nobody, but I believe he is someone special. I have confided in my maid Florence, and between us we conceived a plan. I will learn to sew. Florence and I will visit the haberdashers once a week for materials and cottons. Mother was in raptures with my newfound interest.

7 June 1911. I wrote a letter to Jonathan, which Florence will deliver by hand. Although childish, I sprinkled the page with rose water.

A sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. Phoebe lifted it to the light and read:

Dear Mr Ellis, I wanted to thank you for your kindness on the day I fainted. As this is not possible, my maid is instructed to convey this note to you by hand. Please heed her message. Thank you. Cecilia

10 June 1911. I saw him today. My heart has not yet steadied.

5 September 1911. At long last, I met Jonathon. We talked, albeit in a public place, Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park. He is as charming as I had imagined and well‑read. As a gentleman, he possesses honour and does not wish to compromise me. Father is not correct in his opinion.

18 July 1911. I wonder if Father ever felt as I do now. I doubt it. His world is made of rules and ledgers; mine has suddenly become made of hope.

1 October 1911. My meetings with Jonathon continue. I love him, but we must be careful. Today, I’m sure an associate of Father’s saw us. If so, I will tell Father everything.

28 September 1911. I fear we have been seen. Florence says I must be careful, but how does one hide happiness?

2 February 1912. Today, I am banished to my room with a new maid bringing me my meals. Yesterday, someone informed Father that he had declared he had purchased Jonathan’s silence with a significant promotion.

2 April 1912. Today, Father told us he had arranged a first-class passage for the family and a third‑class passage for the servants to travel to New York. To my dismay, Doris, my maid, overheard him telling Mother that with the correct introductions, a husband of standing might be found. I am beside myself to hold my Jonathan once more. The house is a hive of activity. Servants bustling, packing trunks and dispatching them to the docks. I approached Mother, but the moment I mentioned Jonathan’s name, she ordered me to my room.

3 April 1912 My mind is made up; I will find Jonathon. I have gathered a few trinkets and packed a single case. For my parents, I leave a note, hoping that in time, they will forgive me.

6 April 1912. This is the happiest day of my life. In a private ceremony, I married Jonathan. I pray that my parents may, in time, condone my actions. I dispatched a letter to them, not asking for forgiveness, but their blessing in my happiness.

15 April 1912. Today, the papers are filled with the news of a shipping disaster. With God’s blessing, Father and Mother have survived. Thank God I have my husband to support me.

20 April 1912. A runner arrived today and confirmed my parents remained on the Titanic and perished in the freezing, dark waters of the Atlantic.

         A Lloyd’s messenger visited our home and asked me to attend a meeting to discuss the disposal of Father’s assets. This I will leave to my Jonathon.

        With reverence, she returned everything to the trunk, its contents priceless. As she descended the ladder, she paused at the foot of it. The house felt different now, less empty. Cecilia’s words, her hopes, her defiance, saturated the air like a presence.         

         She touched the trunk, feeling the ridges of its age. Cecilia had chosen her life. Phoebe realised she could choose hers. She left the attic open for the removal men, but the story she carried with her was closed, complete, and hers to keep.