A special thanks goes to my beta CrystralSaffron for so kindly proofreading this.
Mother had always called me her, 'plain Jane'; completely oblivious to any insult those words might hold. Brown eyes, brown hair, freckles – there was nothing remarkable about me, she said. Father disagreed, saying that my mind was remarkable. This conversation occurred often, always when someone dared to bring up the topic of my finding a husband.
"A remarkable mind is what she has, my dear," Father always insisted, puffing away on his pipe. "She's a clever girl, our Addie."
Mother would sniff. "A clever woman ought to hide from men how clever she is, lest she'll never find a husband."
That was usually when I left. This conversation always went on the same, whether or not I was present. I would escape to our library and lose myself in one of our many books, usually one by Jane Austen or one of the Bronte sisters. And when I was feeling especially down, a poem by John Keats always made me smile. The only true beauty I knew existed in words. I longed to write like them, to have such a power with language.
Mather always said the only way for a woman to make her way in this world was through an advantageous marriage. But I knew I would make my way using my pen. I had long ago given up on men. The kinds always invited to dinner parties and forced upon me, as I was forced upon them, were always the same. The only men my parents approved of were the kind I couldn't stand. With great money came great ego, or so it seemed. These men were stuffy, boorish and only looking to make a good match, although I knew I seemed the same to them. The only men I loved were fictional. Men such as Mr. Darcy, Mr. Rochester and Mr. Knightley had stolen my heart. I had long ago resigned myself to spinsterhood.
On this particular evening, I picked up my latest read – The Italian by Ann Radcliffe. I loved gothic novels, no matter Jane Austen's opinion of them. I was soon absorbed by the pages, paying no attention to the growing darkness or the flickering of my candle. By the time I looked up, night had settled and the candle was nothing more than a pool of hot wax. I stood up gingerly, sore from sitting still for so long. I crept out of the library, careful to make not a sound, scared of waking my parents. I tread lightly down the carpeted hallway, almost losing myself in the maze of darkness. I struggled out of my corset and collapsed into my bed with a muffled groan.
I would need to start packing in the morning. Today – or perhaps yesterday, depending on the hour – was April 4th. I would be leaving in less than a week. Our tickets were waiting patiently in Father's briefcase. Titanic would leave for New York City on April 10th. I was being sent to live with my Aunt Josephine for the season. I knew my parents hoped for me to find a husband there. Despite Father's protests, I knew it would relieve him greatly if I married. I hadn't a hope that I would find someone. Despite my torturous thoughts, I soon found sleep.
The morning of April 10th was startlingly bright and warm. Pathetic fallacy was clearly not at play here. I internally groaned as I stepped out into the blinding sun, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the glare. Anna clambered out after me, gasping at the sight of the great ship. I wasn't as loud about my surprise, but I was equally floored. Titanic was stunning. I had never seen her equal. She shone from bow to stern, imperious to all of us watching. All manner of people were lined up to board, most gazing in awe at the waiting vessel. The third class passengers were more stunned than others, not even trying to hide their excitement. A very regal-looking man marched past me, not even sparing Titanic a second look. His manner rather than his clothes betrayed him as a first-class passenger.
We joined the queue, Anna trailing behind to bring our necessities and send our luggage to the right compartments. She would be staying with me exclusively on the journey, and would remain in New York after my parents returned to England. Anna had been looking after me for as long as I could remember. No matter our difference in 'rank', I had always considered here one of the best friends. My true best friend, however, was Cecilia, a girl I had grown up with. With bright blue eyes, blonde hair and a loud personality, she was my opposite in every way. Cecilia had done what most could not, and fallen in love with the boy her parents had suggested for her. Every letter I wrote while in New York would be addressed to her.
I followed my parents up the gangplank, my stomach lurching at the sight of the navy waves below. I knew how to swim, and had absolutely no problem with pools. But the ocean... it terrified me. I held my breath and kept my eyes locked on the ship until we had boarded. Father led the way to our cabins, and took great pleasure in presenting mine.
"We thought you might appreciate having your own space," Father said, smiling warmly. "But should you need us, we're just next door."
"Thank you!" I exclaimed, meaning it. I gave Father a hug and kissed Mother on the cheek, very grateful for their trust.
My rooms, which lay adjacent to theirs, were stunning. The wood was a dark mahogany, the eiderdown a deep burgundy. I collapsed onto the four-poster, wishing that I could wake up from this all-too-vivid nightmare.
