As we exit the Reading and Writing Room, I spot Charlie in the hallway. He’s speaking with another steward, but notices me out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head and glances at me, inhaling sharply as if suddenly nervous. My cheeks grow red and my legs suddenly feel weak.Don’t engage, Ali.I try to move to Violet’s left, hoping to use her body to block him from being able to see me. It doesn’t work. Violet assumes she’s in my way and steps aside, so I end up looking ridiculous trying to hide behind a figure that is no longer there. When I glance up, Charlie is looking directly at me, and my heart practically leaps out of my chest.Shit.It’s so fucking hard to avoid him when he looks like that.
Violet and I continue and make our way to the promenade. It’s breezy out on the deck, but the temperature is mild. We walk towards the back of the ship where it’s emptier, stopping to peer over a rail. I enjoy watching the waves form in the wake of the ship. There’s something calming in the foamy blue pathway Titanic leaves behind her.
We pass a gaggle of first-class ladies chattering in hushed tones. They look Violet up and down with judgemental eyes, but line up like ducks in a row and politely nod as they walk by. It’s like that group of mean girls in high school that smile to your face and talk shit behind your back. I still find it comical how similar human nature is, even though the world is wildly different.
When I look over at her, she’s smirking to herself. “I always find that amusing.”
“You find what amusing?”
“The routine of propriety. Smiling and nodding to someone’s face, but continuing in scandalous gossip once out of earshot. I know what they say, you know. I’ve heard the whispers.”
I don’t know what she is talking about. Does she assume I know, or is she trying to say something? I don’t know if I should pretend to know what she means. Luckily, before I can decide to play along, she continues.
“We have the fortune to be part of high society, but we are not included in it.”
“What do you mean, you’re not included?” I assumed anyone first-class, anyone with enormous wealth, all ran in the same social circle. I suppose I mistakenly believed that as long as you had the means, you were in the club. I know there is a difference between old money and new money, generational wealth versus self-made. Perhaps she is referring to that.
“It’s complicated. We’re included in the sense that we attend the same events and the same parties. We support the same charities and our children attend the same schools. But there’s a disconnect.”
“Why?”
“I think we scare them, John and I. We challenge the very framework of the society they live in. They’re afraid of new ideals, and new ways of doing anything. John and I have been very vocal supporting women’s rights in society. But it’s not just about securing the right to vote for women, that’s only the beginning. What I want is for their lives to be entirely their own.”
“I understand. And I wholeheartedly agree with you.” It’s important to me she understands she can tell me anything that’s on her mind. I have a feeling whatever is weighing on her right now is something I’d want to know as part of her family and as part of the work we were sent here to do. I wish I could tell her where the world is now. How far we’ve come. How far we have left to go.
She seems to take my agreement as a sign of support to continue further, as if she has encountered a trustworthy and sympathetic audience. She sighs for a moment and quickly wipes her brow. The exhaustion of putting on the constant demure expression of femininity, at least publicly, is finally breaking her.
“It’s just so difficult to have your life reduced down to a single moment, a transaction. An arrangement involving a woman, made entirely by gentlemen. As if we are something to trade and own. We breed young girls to be the perfect, mild, obedient wife. We make them believe their entire purpose is to marry and marry well, for the future of their family may depend on those connections. They have to produce as many children as their husband wants, because they’re his children, after all, not hers. They’re expected to manage the home, but not allowed to own it. And then we raise our boys to expect it. Your partner should be challenging you, to be better, to be more than you are, not serve you. I want my children to have love if they want it. But I want them to have a partner that basks in their light, not one that snuffs it out or feels threatened by it. And the cycle just repeats itself, over and over, like a carousel. It is utterly exhausting.”
“They’re lucky to have a mother like you,” I say truthfully. Even though we are currently so close in age, she feels like the mother I wish I had. We’ve only just met and yet it feels as though I’ve always known her. When I hear her talk so passionately about feminism and equality, it feels as though she’s speaking the truths that are alive within my heart as well.
Her voice grows softer, but more serious. “I want more than that. I want more than that for my girls. I want them to be bold and ambitious—to put their voice before being polite. I want them to look at the world with kindness and see not what it can give them but what they can give back to it. I want them to make their own choices and blaze their own path, unafraid of making waves. I want them to believe in a better world and know in their hearts they deserve one.”
She exhales loudly. “Ah, it’s refreshing to hear someone else share these views. Women are capable of so much more than they, or anyone else, realize. We’re not looking to turn society on its head or take over.” Her voice grows more passionate. “We just want a seat at the table.”
“Wait…” My voice trails off as I think about what she’s said and why it sounds so familiar to me. That phrase.We just want a seat at the table. It’s the same quote that’s printed on the cover of the Boston Suffragette Weekly that hangs in my office. The author, Alice Carney, wrote the most controversial and progressive pieces in the journal. Historians have searched endlessly through records to find a trace of her, but none have been able to locate her. The consensus in my profession is that it must have been an anonymous pen name. I realize now that Violet may be the key to unlocking the secret of who Alice Carney is. Is this the moment I’ve been waiting for? That I’ve been working toward for years? There are likely many women on board who share the same sentiment as her; however, Violet, so freely and casually using the phrase, has to mean something. Surely it doesn’t show mere agreement with the movement, but participation within it too? Perhaps she even knows Alice Carney herself, if she is indeed a real person, as some believe. Or perhaps, closer to what I and many others believe, she may know who created Carney. I don’t know why, maybe it’s just sheer intuition, but I feel as though Violet is the key to unlocking her identity. “I’ve read that before. I have the journal it’s printed in. Are you telling me you know Alice Carney?”
Violet smiles, chuckles to herself, and leans closer to me.
“IamAlice Carney.”
Holy shit.
“Oh, my… how?” I’m in sheer disbelief. I don’t know what I expected her to say, but this admission was not it. I suppose the information was all in front of me the entire time, yet I could never see the finished picture. I knew Violet was involved in the suffrage movement, but maybe the link between her and Carney was too obvious a possibility that I just couldn’t see it. I searched only for the most difficult, hard-to-find theories.
“I knew my opinions were, shall we say, ruffling some feathers in society? I decided to start publishing under a pen name. John has read everything I’ve written and has even helped fund and distribute the journal, but I knew I needed to keep him and the girls safe. As the movement grows in strength, I can only imagine it will grow more violent as well. So I created the character of Alice Carney. The goal was that if I funneled my thoughts and opinions into the character of Alice, then perhaps women would resonate with her more than someone they already knew. Secrets travel quickly in our society, and they can bring someone down just as quickly as they build them, which is why I felt it necessary to spread my opinions through a character. A beacon for the movement, an ideal we could all hold ourselves to or see ourselves in.”
“I understand.” Her explanation aligns with the theories of most historians, that Carney was used as a unifying character for the movement, an image to stand behind, similar to Rosie the Riveter. “Can I ask why you chose the name Alice Carney?” I just want to learn everything I can.
“It’s quite simple, actually. Alice means noble and Carney means victory. And that’s what I see for our mission. It will be a noble victory. And we will not stop until it is so.”
“Why have you told me this? I mean, I hardly know you.” It’s not lost on me that I am a stranger to her, and she has divulged something so personal to me.
She laughs. “I… I just feel connected to you. There’s something about you. It’s like I already know you. It’s hard to explain, but I just knew I could trust you.”
Her words strike me right through the heart. I wish I could tell her the truth about who I am and why I’m here. I know I can't, for so many reasons. It would be impossible for her to believe, even if I could tell her. But her saying that she also feels connected to me without a reasonable explanation is enough for me.
It feels as though pieces of a puzzle, that I’ve had all along just floating, are finally locking into place. Anytime I asked Dad why he named me Alice, he always told me it was after Alice Carney. He never indicated that he had any idea about who Alice truly was, although we never got the chance to discuss it as adults. Did he know of the connection between Alice Carney and Violet Kelly? Is it some family secret he held onto until I was ready to know? I’ll never be able to ask him or know for certain. He always just said I’d understand one day. But understand what? I want to believe that he knew the full story and thought he was giving me a name that truly meant something. I can only assume he was keeping the family secret until I could comprehend and appreciate the weight of the name he’d given me. A name that inspires one to be noble and brave, even in the face of the impossible. I am beginning to realize that perhaps it isn’t a burden to be named for someone, it’s a gift. It’s a small light to reach out and grasp, to find warmth in when the world feels at its smallest and darkest. I could only hope to be as brave or noble as Violet.
