While I had told Aidan that I was going back to Donegal, when it came down to doing it, something in me rebelled. I had escaped that life once. How could I possibly go back there again? Maybe I could find another job and stay in New York. But God was having none of it. He blocked me at every turn—doors closed in my face when people heard my brogue; other, more kindly people said the position was already filled. It turned out that girls were arriving from Ireland every day looking for work, and the competition even for lowly servant jobs was fierce. It was as if God was saying, you had your chance, girl, and you destroyed it. Now you must step aside and give some other girl the chance.

At last, defeated, I went to the White Star Line offices and booked third-class passage back to Donegal.

Nora

Nora

After a while, my thoughts turned to Sinclair. What would he think when he found out I was just a farmer’s daughter from Donegal without a penny to my name? He wouldn’t want anything to do with me. As I turned this over in my mind, a plan came to me. What if I told him and Mrs. Shaw some of my memories had returned, but I made up some of the details? I would say that I remembered my journey on the Titanic. I would mention I was from Donegal, but instead of the farm, I would make up something grander, like a manor house. I had a good imagination; I was sure it could all be sorted out.

Satisfied that I had solved my problem, I settled in for the first good night’s sleep I’d had in a while.

The weather turned colder, and time seemed to stand still. Autumn came, or “fall,” as they called it here, and a rainbow of orange, brown, red and yellow leaves covered the trees. I wrapped up warm for my walks. Silver followed me faithfully wherever I went and, as usual, jumped up on the garden bench beside me. Ever since Mrs. Shaw brought her to my bedroom when I was sick, we’d been inseparable. I was grateful for her company; she eased the loneliness.

I still hadn’t remembered my name. I told Mrs. Shaw that I had finally remembered all the details of my voyage on the Titanic, and the night the ship sank. I told her it was her friend’s mauve shawl that set off the memories, and I recounted how a young woman wearing a shawl just like it had tried to stop me from falling overboard.

“Do you think it could have been that lady’s daughter?”

‘No, dear, it couldn’t have been. Mrs. Henry’s daughter died from the flu over two years ago—long before the Titanic ever sailed.”

I shrugged. “I thought myself it was probably too much of a coincidence.”