this morning. âWeâve got when you started, what you did, where, and with whom. Mainly Meg, right?â
I nodded, in slight shock at his callousness. Bloody journalist. His cold detachment contrasted with my wild emotions. He was calm and rational while my mind galloped and my heart bucked. Yet somehow he tethered me to the present. Gentled me, I suppose. I didnât know whether to be angry or grateful.
âThis is good. Really good stuff.â He put his pencil to his lips. âBut one thing I donât understand is why .â
âThatâs the question, isnât it, Mr. Steele?â I returned to my seat, drawn by his sympathy. âWhy? Why do these tragedies happen? Why do we lose people we care about?â
He flipped the page. âNo, I mean why were you even on the ship?â
Once again, his bluntness caught me off guard.
âYouâre Ellen Hardy,â he continued. âDaughter of Joseph Hardyâsole heir of Hardy Estates, one of the richest stables in County Wicklow.â
My face burned and I shut my mouth, only just noticing it was hanging open. Clearly, heâd done his homework. Any gratitude or connection heâd evoked in me were gone. How dare he? How dare he bring up my father! I wondered how much he already knew. Not all of it, not if he was asking.
âI donât see what any of that has to do with the Empress .â I tried to keep my voice neutral, though I knew my face betrayed me. My very thoughts flushed up my neck and across my cheeks. Iâd never been a good liar.
âWhy would someone like you be living a second-class servantâs life?â He squinted as if trying to read me more clearly. âWhat made you do it? Now, thatâs exactly the kind of story that sells.â
My mind raced. âIt was for a story, of course.â I scrambled for an answer to stop up the truth I didnât want to spill. If I let it out, even a little, I knew the whole of it would gush forth. âThatâs exactly it. Aunt Geraldine needed some research.â
His eyes darkened as a frown settled over them. He wasnât buying it.
âFor her new book,â I added. âAbout a stewardess. Who works on a steamship.â
He tapped the pencil on his lips, sounding my story for truth. âItâs just, I canât see G.B. writing about something that mundane. A stewardess adventureâI mean, come on, whoâd want to read that?â
I arched my eyebrow and clenched my jaw. âIndeed.â
He smirked at the irony, and his eyes brightened once again. He relaxed into his chair. âSo why not just send the maid, Meg? Why both of you?â
âHave you met my aunt, Mr. Steele?â
âI wish I had.â
âShe was a perfectionist who lived and breathed her books. Her characters were more real to her than ⦠than I was.â The words came easier the less he doubted. Plus I spoke the truth. Aunt Geraldine simply wanted to write my life. To control me like some secondary character in her bloody novels. âI wanted to get away from her overbearing ways. I wanted ⦠an adventure of my own.â I chose my words carefully, using what little I knew about the man before me. If we weregoing to play this game, I needed to know more about him, a lot more. âBesides, surely a writer such as yourself would know that two sources are better than one.â
Lily knocked and entered with tea. Iâd made it clear before he came that Mr. Steele would not be staying. Iâd given him the whole morning, enough for one day. She seemed embarrassed when he noticed the tray held tea, soup, and buttered soda bread for one. Aunt Geraldine wouldâve been disgusted by my actions. But my lack of hospitality was the least of the many ways Iâd disappointed her.
He caught Lilyâs eye and winked as he flipped his notebook shut. âWell, I guess thatâs my cue.â
Lily blushed and set the