Imagine Me This: A Velveteen Sky

News of the sinking of the Titanic hit the headlines on April 15, 1912. She woke early as she always did to receive the paper, only this time the newsboy was frantic and his bike shook like a wobbling leaf as he rode as fast as he could down the lane. When he handed off the paper, he hung his head and said, “Terrible business, ma’am. It’s a right poor thing what happened to all those people, ma’am. Oh— and, good morning, ma’am. Although, I’m not so sure it’s very good.”

Penelope quickly grabbed the paper from his hands, and before he’d even gotten his feet back onto the pedals, she read the headline and the paper was floating to the ground, sinking, sinking, sinking towards the dirt. Her heart stopped, and she clutched at her chest, forgetting, for a moment, how to breathe.

“Is this— is this some sort of prank?” she asked, once she’d caught her breath.

She stared down the lane at the newsboy, and he turned for just a moment on his bike, his body outlined in a hazy glow as the sun came up over world. “Afraid not, ma’am. Did you know someone aboard?”

“My—my fiancé,” she choked out. How could the sun come up like nothing had happened when everything was crashing down? She hardly blinked, frozen. Her hands shook, her heart raced with anxiety and fear.

“That’s a shame, ma’am. I hope he was one of the lucky ones. Although, if I might be so bold to say… lucky isn’t exactly what I’d call anyone aboard the Titanic. Poor, poor ladies and lads.” The young newsboy frowned a deep frown, and then he rode off to be the bearer of more bad news. How many families’ hearts would this young man break when his was the first face they saw in the morn as he handed over the paper?

The paper.

The paper.

The paper that was in a pile at her feet.

Slowly, Penelope moved her eyes towards the black and white print. She could see the fresh ink stains and the outlines of letters and blotchy images. But she was too scared to pick it back up and see what it really said. Too scared for it to be true. For, if she picked up that paper and read it through, the truth would be in her hands. All she needed to see was the headline, and tears were already streaming down her face:

“The Sinking of the Titanic.”

Her tears fell all the way to the paper below until finally she made up her mind to pick it up and take it inside. Shaking legs carried her back into her little cottage, and then shaking legs collapsed beneath her as soon as she was close enough to find the couch. She clutched the side of the seat with one hand and the paper to her chest with another, fighting for breath as her tears consumed her. She could not feel her fingers, no matter how hard she held that paper; her entire body was numb and tingling. Her throat was full of cotton; she felt herself choking and drowning.

Drowning.

Drowning.

D

R

O

w

N

i

N

g.

Finally, she flattened out the paper she’d held onto for dear life, and she opened it up to read. Her tears dotted and wrinkled the page, but the words upon it were clear. And wrong. And had no right — no right — to be on any paper. Because it said that the Titanic, “the Ship of Dreams”, “the Queen of the Ocean”, the unsinkable ship— had indeed sunk. On April 14th, it had struck an iceberg and it had taken only two hours for the ship to perish to the sea—

Timothy had been aboard the Titanic. He’d been hesitant to travel at all, hating the water due to an incident involving a small pond when he was a boy— but, he’d decided to travel on, anyways, to see his dying mama back in New York. She’d taken a turn for the worse, and there was no telling if he’d even make it in time for her final breath, but he had to be there nonetheless, and so he’d left.

Upon his return, he and Penelope were to be married. And now—

More tears.

Timothy couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t be—

She set the paper aside again, unable to bear it, and she let her tears rock her to sleep. It seemed to matter little that it was only morning. Nothing, as far as Penelope was concerned, would ever matter again if Timothy was not amongst the minute list of survivors aboard the Titanic. Nothing. She’d sleep now and forever if it meant her Timothy was never coming home.

***

Days passed, and Penelope kept her eyes glued to the headlines that continued to fill the papers. Her heart was heavy with the hope that he might still write her, that he had indeed made it safely ashore. The majority of survivors had been rescued and brought to New York on the 17th, and the papers were counting up new survivors each day, after all. But, her heart only sank deeper and her hope grew duller as those days continued to leave her with little information.

She asked around the village to see if anyone might find out quicker than she, but still nothing. In her desperation, Penelope tried to rationalize the reasons that he, who most definitely had to have survived, might not have written to her to let her know. Perhaps he’d been too tired after such a horrific ordeal, and he hadn’t had the energy to write. Maybe in all the chaos, he’d forgotten to report his name to those tracking the survivors. Or, maybe, even, he’d been picked up by his sister in New York, and he’d been more occupied with his family in the States. There was the possibility, too, that Timothy had written and his letter had either gotten lost in the post or was taking its sweet time arriving—

Penelope could come up with as many scenarios as she wanted, but while they kept her just barely afloat, they did not alleviate the pit in her stomach. While she did not want to accept what the truth may be, that pit was a constant tell that Timothy was amongst the list of passengers on the Titanic who had not survived.

Because, the truth was in the headlines — both hidden and in plain sight — and it was looking like a bleak outcome for the third class passengers who’d been aboard the ocean-liner. The ship had boasted being unsinkable, but for a ship its size, it didn’t have nearly enough lifeboats. And, taken into those lifeboats were mostly woman and children, along with members of the upper class. Those who’d managed not to be trapped in the lower decks of the ship had made it out only to perish in the icy, cold waters surrounding the Titanic.

She knew it was a hopeless conquest to, well, hope — and, why, oh why did it hurt so much to hope? — but it was the only thing that kept her from breaking down completely. She’d twist anxiously her engagement ring, and she’d sip her tea, and she’d stare at the front door with red-rimmed eyes, waiting for and imagining Timothy pushing through the front door with a bouquet of her favorite daisies. He’d tell her, “Worry not, my love. We are together,” and she’d fall into his arms.

“I won’t let you go again,” she’d tell him. And then she’d give his arm a playful slap, and with a bittersweet laugh upon her lips and fatigued tears within her eyes, she’d also say, “And you’re never taking another ship without me, you hear? Next time you visit your mama or your sister in New York, you take me along.”

“Of course, my dear,” he’d respond, holding her tight. “Wherever I go, you go with me. I couldn’t fathom being away from you.”

Even if they’d perished together — even if they were wrapped in each others arms at the bottom of the ocean — that was a far better fate than him dying alone and scared. She’d always dreamed that they’d grow old together and that they’d die peacefully, only minutes — or even seconds — apart, for theirs was a love too strong and too true that she was sure her heart would just cease to beat the moment that his did.

But, now, as the days drew on and she awaited an answer, she realized that life was far more cruel: her heart was breaking with every passing second of every passing day, but it was stronger than she’d realized, and it was beating and beating and beating, while she suffered the loss of the man who was supposed to be her husband, the man whom she’d grown up with and who’d dreamt and laughed alongside her of a happy life together when they were only wee children.

She did not wish to die— and, in fact, in her sorrow she found herself guilty for feeling so sad when she hadn’t even been on the Titanic — but life was indeed very cruel. Very, very cruel to hurt those that they loved and leave their families behind to wonder, to hurt, to imagine how their loved ones’ final moments had been—

Breathe in. One. Breathe out. Two. Breathe in. Three. Breathe out. Four.

Timothy will be okay—

***

Ten days had passed by the time Penelope finally got a knock on her door. With a spring in her step, she eagerly ran to the door, hoping and praying that it was Timothy. She pulled open the door, uncaring that her hair was unkempt and that her dress was wrinkled, and she smiled wide to embrace him because it had to be him, it had to be—

But, it wasn’t. Every bit of her that had even hoped to hope suddenly deflated as she stared at the sharp-dressed man standing at her door. He wore a suit of black, and white gloves adorned his hands. His hair was slick back, all prim and proper, but the expression he bore was grim. And sitting atop his palm was a silver platter, and, upon that platter, a letter that looked like it’d been through the ringer a few times before finally reaching her doorstep.

The man gave a short bow, and he offered her the platter. “Lord Fitzgerald gives his condolences,” he spoke. “And, if it is not out of turn to say, I give mine as well.”

Her heart fell.

She reached forward, and she took the letter between shaking fingers. The paper was wrinkled and worn. It was yellowed with what appeared to be age but was more likely to be saltwater and sun, and it felt rough and sandy to the touch. She knew that she was holding Timothy’s last words in her hands, and now that it was finally here, she just felt stuck. She lifted her gaze from the letter, and she stared at the man, tears frozen at the rim of her eyes.

“You— you knew Timothy?” she stuttered, her voice weak from days of crying.

“Indeed I did,” the man said, dipping his head. “Allow me to introduce myself, ma’am.” He tucked the silver platter behind his back, and he gave a bow, offering his other hand. When she gingerly shook it, he said, “My name is Killian Hart. I’m his Lordship’s valet. It is a pleasure to meet you, only I feel that I already know you, for Timothy spoke so highly of you.”

“Pleasure is mine,” she said. It wasn’t hard to regain her composure, for her entire body just felt numb of any sort of emotion. “Tell me— how did you meet Timothy?”

“Right, allow me to explain, ma’am.” Mr. Hart gave another dip of his head, and, with the sorrow of remembering an old friend in his eyes, he said, “I only knew Timothy in the four days we were aboard the Titanic before it sank. But, he truly was a force to be reckoned with. We met on the upper decks when the Titanic was leaving Southampton, and we became fast friends, like old pals, really. I— I only wish that things could have turned out differently. I only wish that— that there was more I could have done.”

“You have brought me his last words,” Penelope said, gesturing to the note in her hand and offering a stiff smile. “I wish that you had brought him home, but I know that some things were just not possible. I cannot even imagine how horrific—”

Mr. Hart lifted a hand, and he gave a wince. “Let me stop you there, ma’am,” he said, a thousand memories flashing behind his eyes. “No one should have died that night— but especially not Timothy. I am more sorry than you know.” He let that sink in as a shaking breath escaped his lips, and then he resumed, “I am sorry, too, that I could not deliver his letter sooner. It must have been terrible… waiting.”

She gave a short nod.

“We’ve been a bit shaken up, as you might imagine, and I fear his letter almost got lost. But, there it is, and I must leave you with it now. I wish that I could stay so that we could reminisce and get to know one another, for I owe it to Timothy, but I dread that I do not have the time now. His Lordship is waiting in the carriage, and I must bid adieu. But,” he continued, “if you will be so kind as to allow me, I would greatly appreciate getting to properly meet you at a later date, and we can remember Timothy together.”

“I’d like that very much, thank you,” Penelope answered, watching him turn. “And, thank you, Mr. Hart, for giving my Timothy a voice in his last hours. You cannot know how much that means to me.”

“I only wish I could have given him more,” Mr. Hart repeated in a quiet voice, and then he was walking down the lane towards the carriage that was waiting for him, his head low and his steps slow.

Penelope watched the dark carriage drive off, and when it had disappeared completely she pushed her way back into the house. She wanted more than anything to collapse once more into her couch like she had when she’d first learnt of the Titanic sinking, but she also knew that she could not afford to. Timothy’s words were in her hands, and the Lord knew that both she and he had waited long enough for them to be read.

Instead, she sat numbly on the edge of her couch, and she held the letter with gentle hands as she unfolded it and began to read:

April 14, 1912.

Dearest Penelope,

As you know, I am aboard the Titanic. It is a beautiful and magnificent ship— but I have not the time to go into detail of the wondrous things that I have seen in the short few days that we have been sailing. For, now we have more pressing matters to discuss, and that is… well, darling, the Titanic is sinking, and I wanted to make sure to get in one last letter before I am unable to write at all. I cannot know the outcome of this tragedy, but that is what makes this all the more important for me to do.

So, Penny, dear, forgive me my hurried words and my rushed penmanship. I have found my way to the top deck, where all around me there is chaos, and I can only hope that my words are clear enough for you to read at all. But, I need you to read them. I need you to hear every single word in case I do not come back. And, who knows, really? By the time you read this, either I will have made it home safely and this will not matter or I will have perished and this letter will have hopefully found your hands. Either way, you will have heard of what has transpired on this very night. And, you will have my goodbye.

I will try to spare you the gruesome details, as you will likely read all about it— but, the Titanic hit an iceberg in the wee hours of the night. I was just sleeping when the ship jerked enough to wake me. I heard a bit of commotion in the hall, so curiously I went out. Other passengers had woken, too, and, in their nightdresses, they stood in the hall, throwing questions around. We stood for a while, waiting for someone to ring an alarm or let us know what had happened, but there was nothing. So, most went back to bed.

As you know, I do not like the water, and if it were not for Mama I would not have found my way onto the Titanic at all. So, while everyone else went back to bed, I quickly dressed, grabbed my satchel, and climbed my way up the stairs to the top deck. While I did not think that anything was really amiss in those first moments, I knew that there was no chance of going back to bed with so much anxiety running rampart in my head.

As I traversed a few people milled about, but it didn’t seem that there was a real worry of anything. Still, I sat myself down on one of the deck chairs, and I looked out into the night sky and I began to sketch to put my mind at ease.

And if I were not about to die now, I’d tell you that the view of the night sky is most magnificent above the navy ocean. It is nothing like the smog filled air of London. Out here, it is just openness and white, twinkling stars in a dark blue velveteen sky. Looking out at the night sky then, I felt so free. And, under normal circumstances, I’d tell you that I’d have to take you out on a small boat of our own sometime so that you could see the very scene. But, if I do survive this, I am not sure I should ever like to step foot on another boat again. Still, even now with my fear of the water, there is something calming about it when you accept what is inevitably to come. I am scared— but, I am also… just free—

But, I also feel so trapped. I mean, how cruel is it to make one feel so conflicted at a time like this? As I finished up my sketch, it became clearer and clearer that something was happening. More passengers were coming up to the top deck, and there was shouting and then chaos. It didn’t take long for me to hear word that the earlier jerk of the Titanic was more detrimental than at first it had proved, and I just remember praying to God in that moment that the Titanic would stay afloat.

As it turns out, that is not going to be the case. I had picked up my pen and paper, and I rushed to write you one last letter. And that is where we are now. As passengers of all social class rush around me and search for their loved ones and shiver in the night cold, I sit here and I do my best to recount what is happening and profess my love to you.

I know that we were supposed to marry upon my arrival home. And there is nothing more that I want than that. But, things are not looking good, Penny, so I just want you to know how much I love you, and I want to tell you— I want to tell you goodbye. If there is no hope for me, I need you to move on. I want you to know that I loved you until my dying breath — I loved you more than one is even capable of being loved. Your name will be the last word upon my lips and the last thought in my head— but I do not want to be the one responsible for ever holding you back.

We’ve had a good go at it, my love. We have known each other since we were only children in the schoolyard, but it feels as though we have known each other even longer, as if we had known each other in another life. So, if that is the case, I am confident that, one way or another, we will meet again, whether it be in Heaven or the next life. Ours is an infinite love, incapable of being broken by even death, so that is why, when I tell you to move on, it is with the best intent and the most loving heart, because I want you to be happy for the rest of your life, however long that may be. And, my dear, I want you to live it to the fullest.

I do not have much time— so I only hope that this letter finds some way to reach you if I do not make it out of this alive. Give my love to Mama, and tell her— tell her that I tried, and that I’m sorry I could not be there for her. But, we will be reunited soon enough. I would like to be optimistic and say that there is hope for me yet, but I am no fool— I see the way the lifeboats are filling, and I know that I am not welcome there. I will do my best to find a way off this ship, but my chances of survival do not lie with finding a lifeboat. If I am to survive, it will be the will of God. He will get me through it if he sees me fit.

But, even I am not without sin, and even if He wanted to save me, I know that there are many others begging and praying for His help right now, and He cannot save us all. Some of us were just meant to die this day, and you cannot mess with fate, no matter how hard you might try. It’s a right funny thing, though, isn’t it? How, the Titanic was likely always meant to hit the iceberg and go down in this way— and, yet, we all got aboard it anyways, unbeknownst to what was going to happen—

Still, enough about fate. In these last moments, I’m not even sure what I believe anymore. I just know that I’ve got my life jacket on, and I will fight to stay alive and come home to you, my lovely fiancé. But whatever happens now is out of my hands.

I would like to tell you that I am not scared. I would like to tell you that I am not shaken to my very core— but, there are tears in my eyes and an anxious tingle throughout my body as it write this to you and witness the mayhem around me. It is hard not to feel scared at a time like this, especially when there is confusion in the air. The top deck is overcrowded, and it is so loud. There is a band attempting to keep our spirits up and priests giving one last sermon— but I hear fighting and gun shots, too. Everyone wants to live, but there are only so many of us who can.

Penny, I have never been ashamed of who I am. In fact, I will not be ashamed of who I am, even now, even if it means the difference between life or death. If it is God’s will for me to perish this way, then it will be done. But, at least I know I was true to myself until the end— just a humble artist from a small village in England— and I’ll know that I lived a good life loving and being loved by you.

But, if you’ll allow me a moment of brutal honesty, I will tell you this: I am not brave, Penelope, and I do not want to die. I am not ashamed of being the lower class, but I tell you that it does sting a little when I see the first class clamor onto the lifeboats while the rest of us can only hope that there might be enough room for a few of us.

I do not want you to think ill of me, though— I am more than happy that, in this terrible time, people are being saved. In fact, I have met some very respectable men and women during my time on the Titanic, including a Lord and Lady Fitzgerald and his Lordship’s valet, Killian Hart. I am glad that people like them will be able to find life after something so tragic as this— but, for just a moment, when I shiver and I fear for my life, I wish that the crew manning the lifeboats would look at me and see a man worthy to live.

I know there are only so many lifeboats, and I know that they have to choose survivors somehow. I am a gentleman and, if allowed the choice, I’d give up my seat for a child or a woman or the elderly. I’d risk my life for any one of them so that they might live— but, I still have to ask, in the moments that might be my last on this earth, how is it fair that just because someone else has more status or money that they deserve to live more than I? I do good for myself. I’ve got a beautiful girl and a nice home. I’m loved— and I do love.

So, why am I, in their eyes, not good enough? Why are we not all equal enough to live?

But, enough about that. I fear I am rambling on and rambling on, but I want you to hear me, even if just in the written word, one last time. Penelope, dear, this is me. This is the man you love and who loves you saying goodbye. This is the man you love and who loves you more than anyone or anything on this earth— saying that everything will be alright. That, no matter how things turn out tonight, you will be alright. And, if it so happens that I die, I will be alright, too. I don’t want you dwelling on my last moments— because they were here, with this pen and this paper, thinking of you. I want you to imagine me staring up into the night sky. I want you to imagine me sitting here writing this letter or sketching for you— I don’t want you to think of me in any other way.

Imagine me this: a velveteen sky.

So, now I must leave you, Penny. I must put away my pen and my paper, and I must find Mr. Hart before it is too late. His connections will keep him alive, and I will have him promise me that this letter finds your hands if I do not make it out of this alive. Killian knows how much you mean to me, and I hope that you will find a friend in him.

I hope that you will find only happiness when you remember me.

I hope you know how much I love you.

So I will say it again and again, and I will whisper it to the stars just as I whisper your name.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

My Penelope.

My heart.

Yours forever and always,

Timothy Donnelly.

By the time that she had finished reading, the letter had grown even more stained and wrinkled. Her tears mixed with his and her hands indented the very sides of the paper that his had. And she could feel those hands now, holding onto hers, as she clutched it tight. She imagined him holding the paper and holding his pen, and she could see him staring out into the sky just as he had described.

She allowed herself a small, bittersweet smile as she lifted the letter to her lips to plant upon it a kiss— and that’s when another page fluttered to her lap. The corner was torn and it appeared to have been stuck to the letter, ink from his words blotting the page. But she could clearly make out what it was.

It was one of his sketches, probably the one he’d been working on right before he’d written her: just the two of them aboard the Titanic, standing on the edge of the deck. Their hands were locked and their shoulders were pressed together as they looked out into the night sky and all the swirling stars. Penelope held the letter and the sketch tight to her heart, and she imagined now that she was there on the deck with him, just like the sketch.

And she knew it would take time, but everything would be okay.

Her tears fell down.

No matter how things turn out tonight, you will be alright. And, if it so happens that I die, I will be alright, too. I don’t want you dwelling on my last moments— because they were here, with this pen and this paper, thinking of you. I want you to imagine me staring up into the night sky. I want you to imagine me sitting here writing this letter or sketching for you— I don’t want you to think of me in any other way.

Imagine me this: a velveteen sky.