15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
This Is Me Trying by Taylor Swift
April 12, 1912
I sit at the table in the sitting room with my feet up on the other chair as Ben finishes getting ready for dinner.
“I have to tell you something.”
“What’s up?” Ben seems to be half-listening as he gels his hair to the side in the mirror.
“Violet is… she’s uh…” I stammer. I have the words, but I can hardly believe what I’m about to say.
“She’s what, Al?”
I finally just blurt it out. “She’s Alice Carney.”
Ben freezes, comb in hand. “Stop. You’re kidding.” He turns to face me, his mouth agape. “Seriously?”
“I’m serious. She told me today. We were walking on deck, and just talking about life and women. She said something that made the wheels start turning for me. I got suspicious that maybe she knew who Carney was. I don’t know why it never occurred to me that Violet and Alice Carney were the same person.”
“How did this happen?”
“You know the cover that’s framed in my office?” Ben nods, having seen it daily. “She quoted it. I mean, she’s said a lot of feminist things that made me think she was part of the movement, but then she directly quoted the cover. It could have been coincidental. I mean, she’s from Boston too, so of course she would have access to reading the magazine herself to know the quote. But something deep in me kept saying there was something more. It’s silly because all the evidence was right there, and I never even thought about the possibility that she was Carney. I just overlooked it, like I had a blind spot. I think I was so preoccupied with getting to know her, I just didn’t see what was right in front of me. So I just straight up asked her if she knew who Alice Carney was, and she told me everything.”
“Can we trust her?” My eyes narrow on Ben, ready to pounce in defense of Violet. He raises his hands to stop me. “I just mean, could she be covering for someone else?”
“I suppose anything is a possibility, but I believe her. She trusted me with this information and I believe what she’s told me. Plus, as records show, Alice Carney disappeared and didn't publish for six weeks in the spring of 1912. Those six weeks line right up with the sinking. She was grieving. Or Violet was.”
“Wow. This is incredible. You’ve been working on this for so long. Do you realize what this means, Ali?”
“It’s as monumental as Robert Ballard finding the Titanic wreck in 1985. I get that. I dreamed of uncovering her identity for so long, and now that I have, it means something entirely different to me. I finally realize why I am named for Alice Carney. It was for Violet. It was for Violet all along.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. She told me she wants to reveal everything at some point, but obviously, we know she never did. I’m hoping Violet leads me to the answer somehow.”
Ben pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. “Are we ready to go?” He checks himself over one more time in the mirror, fixing the last stray hair. There’s a sharp knock at the door and I know immediately who it must be at this hour. Edward.
“Ugh!” I groan as I tilt my head back and slump down in the chair. I feel like a child throwing a tantrum. I want to make my body into dead weight. The only way you’re getting me out of here is if you drag me. I want to become the child throwing the explosive tantrum in the busy grocery store, and Ben, the embarrassed and mortified mother.
“Ali, I’m going to answer the door. Can you sit up and try to act like a lady?” His voice is calm, as if he’s negotiating with a petulant child. I cross my arms like a toddler. “I said a lady, not a baby,” Ben laughs as he walks over to the door.
“No promises.” I stand up and swish my gown into place. The underlayer is a red wine-colored silk with chiffon sleeves. It has a scalloped gold lace overlay and a matching wine-colored velvet sash around my waist. It feels the least ladylike, the least demure of any options the stylists sent me with. Its bold, powerful colors feel almost like battle armor tonight.
Ben opens the door and my scowl turns to an empty, placid stare at the flip of a switch. I will go through the motions, but I will not be happy about it. I find it more and more difficult to even pretend to be pleased in Edward’s presence.
Ben hands me off to Edward, and he follows us to dinner. We are dining again this evening with the Holt family and Edward’s uncle. Luckily, the King family is not here tonight, so I am safe from the judgmental stares of Cecilia and Martha. After my conversation earlier with Violet, I observe Daphne’s mannerisms, looking for clues that would show she feels trapped within the confines of her life. Her mother seems intent on finding her a match during this voyage. The topic of marriage keeps coming up at the table, with questions about mine and Ben’s parents and stories of Francis and Helen’s wedding day.
Edward leans across me to speak to Ben. “Say, Turner, when will you settle down and choose a wife?”
Ben’s nervous gulp causes him to briefly choke on his potatoes. I am thoroughly amused by him squirming for once instead of myself until I notice Daphne immediately straighten up her posture as if she might capture his interest. Poor girl, she doesn’t even know him and yet she feels the need to present herself to him.
“Yes, brother. When will you choose a wife?” I laugh as I jokingly lend a hand and pat him on the back.
Ben stiffens his posture to regain control over the character he has been carefully crafting while on board. “Well,” he laughs. “I suppose I haven’t found the right woman yet.” He winks at me, a wink only I notice, a small joke between the two of us.
“Oh, surely we can remedy that with such fine stock to choose from just here in this room.” Edward points his fork outward toward the other tables of guests.
Stock. Are you fucking kidding me?
Violet was right. The life of a woman, her entire purpose, truly is reduced to the singular transaction of a marriage agreement. I can’t quite decide whether his use of the word stock infuriates me more, or whether it is his implication that men need simply to choose a wife. As if she has no say in the matter. As if we just wait, always at attention, for their favor. She may accept a proposal after courtship has been initiated, but she cannot pursue a suitor herself. She must wait to be chosen off the shelf like the perfect doll. It’s like a professional sports draft. An athlete hones their skills their entire life. A hockey player, for example, will spend years perfecting their skating, their goal scoring, and their stick handling, all in preparation to present themselves as a package for choosing. A woman does the same. From childhood, their education is based on the expectations and skills needed for marriage and managing a home. She hones her skills of sewing, playing instruments, learning languages, and other activities to fill her day as she pretends her life is exactly as she wished it would be. She spends her life sharpening these skills, only to present herself for selection and wait for the choosing by a man that decides her worth. A man decides her worth. It’s utter fucking lunacy. The expectations are unrealistic and unattainable.
I am exhausted from keeping up this performance of being an impeccably bred young woman. I feel so worn out from smiling when someone else wants me to, and not when I’m genuinely happy.
At this moment, I am incredibly grateful to be me. Maybe I’m alone. But I’m free.