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“You didn’t receive my message?”
Brow furrowed, I pull my phone from my bag. “I didn’t see any message. Maybe you sent it when I had no service on the Tube— ”
“Forget that,” he says, dismissively waving at my phone. “I have news.”
“You do?”
“Indeed.”
“Okay… What is it?”
Mr. Baxley bestows me with the rarest of gifts.
A smile.
“I do believe I’ve learned the fate of your Josephine.”
50
MR.BAXLEY PUTS APLEASE CALL AGAINSIGN UP ON HIS DESK ANDescorts me into the special archives section. Excitement gathers inside me as we walk past familiar doorways and delve deep into the bowels of the library toward areas students aren’t otherwise allowed. By the time we reach our destination, I’m nearly jumping out of my skin. The anticipation is too much.
We enter a locked room under harsh white lighting where equipment covers lab tables.
“What is all this?” I ask, a bit awed as I examine our surroundings.
“Document authentication, restoration, and preservation.”
I resist the urge to let out an excited squeal. I doubt Mr. Baxley would appreciate losing the use of his eardrums.
“Over here,” he says, and my gaze follows his gesturing hand.
On a table, inside a clear plastic bag, is a leather-bound book. It’s warped and tattered and looks like it was flushed down a toilet a hundred years ago.
“A friend of mine recently had access to a collection of artifacts from theVictoriathat have never been on public display before. This journal was among them.”
I turn toward him, my jaw gaping wide. “This was on theVictoria?”
“Recovered from the wreck.” He bats my hand away when Ireach for the precious book. “I can’t let you handle it. However, she did agree to provide me with photos of its entries. These were among them. I suggest you read the top entry first.”
“Am I allowed to include these in my paper?”
“Indeed. These copies are for you.”
Mr. Baxley hands me a stack of printed papers featuring close-up photographs of the yellowed journal pages.
“There’s almost no water damage,” I say, marveling at the legibility of the handwriting.
“The journal was kept in a safe. It remained remarkably watertight for years on the ocean floor. They suspect the seal had only recently begun to fail when it was recovered. Just a small amount water had been inside, according to the report at the time. Much of the damage is the result of depressurization when the safe was brought up and opened.”
My heart is pounding as I lower my gaze to the page Mr. Baxley indicated.
The journal entry is short. Written by a noblewoman on her way to America aboard theVictoria, it describes an evening on the ship at the captain’s table. With a rather dry wit, she provides observations about members of her dinner party.
A banker distracted by the wife of the British general who had excused himself from dinner due to a bout of seasickness.
The stage actor she suspected was spending his last precious pennies to travel first class to America in hopes of reviving his fading career.
A railroad magnate who wouldn’t stop talking the captain’s ear off about steel and Irish labor.
