Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction; all characters belong to the late, great Margaret Mitchell and her heirs.
So I admit it - I went to see Titanic 3D this weekend for the centennial anniversary of the sinking and was as blown away by it now as in 1997. With my GWTW enthusiasm undiminished as well, a story idea was born. As always, I am appreciative for any feedback I get - thank you all so very much in advance for reading and reviewing this, as well as my other published stories!
Between the gloomy depths of the dark waterway of the Cork Harbor and the southern coastline of Ireland sat the city of Queenstown, also called Codh. The weather was cold and damp as the great vessel dropped anchor, much to the frustration of the seven passengers who held either First or Second Class tickets and had only just realized that the docks were not suitable for a ship of that size and that they were expected to board tenders, smaller vessels which would carry them out to sea and to Titanic. In the very center of the group, a solitary figure of a woman, perhaps in her late sixties or early seventies, so slight she could have been mistaken for nothing other than gaunt. Despite her apparent fragility, she was still a strikingly handsome woman. Her silvery hair was elegantly coiffed and crowned by a wide brimmed hat that had come straight out of one of London's high fashion houses and her white skin was free of the blemishes and wrinkles so common in women of a certain age. Dressed in a simple but elegant black chiffon midday, she plodded along, albeit slowly, before finally accepting the arm extended her way by a uniformed officer of the White Star Line.
He was a cheerful young man, with kin in Queenstown, he said. The Jamison's, he informed her, and asked her if she had heard of them.
Her name was Scarlett O'Hara, Baroness Chapman, and she although she did accept the escort, preferred to sit quietly in the seat which was offered. She chose not to partake in any conversation of the other passengers, and indeed, when one was struck up, she would simply close her eyes and pretend to fall asleep. In deference to her age, those seated near her would remain silent for the rest of the process.
Or so she hoped. If you had told her of the gossip-mongering being engaged in by her fellow travelers over the subject of her life - or at least, her life of the past thirty or so years - she would have laughed at the mere idea.
But the fact of the matter was that it was anything but easy for the baroness to go anywhere in Ireland unnoted. In 1876, she made the crossing from America along with her two young children. Possessed of a willful spirit, long black tresses which fell to her waist, green eyes which flashed and sparkled with vivacity, she very quickly made an impression with men of all ages. Despite the original assertion of the local gentry that "she is not our kind" and beautiful to boot, as a woman of means she was accorded every kindness and invitation in the County which her father and grandfather had been born and bred. Not one to stand on social etiquette, Mrs. O'Hara, as she was known at the time, went about as she pleased, driving her own buggy about Adamstown and to all of the social events without an escort, causing tongues to wag. She had purchased an extensive piece of property around Adamstown called Ballyhara in 1878 from Sir Benjamin Chapman, Baron of Killua Castle, and turned profit in less than a year of cultivating the rich soil; aided by the modern farming techniques she brought with her from the Southern United States, she had watched from the windows and porches of her newly constructed home on the property as a main road was constructed, bringing with it traffic from the cities and more demand for her crops and thereby, more profit and prosperity for her people.
Scarlett and her new husband, the same Baron Chapman, from whom she had made that fortuitous real estate purchase, began construction of their magnificent new home in 1880, although it was not completed until 1882. Dashing, handsome and well connected, none of London's Society Misses could persuade the widower to tie the knot for a second time, so naturally, the announcement of his marriage to an untitled American was rather shocking, to say the least. His Lordship, an officer in the 15th The King's Hussars, selected mail order plans from Charles Barry, the noted English architect. Together, they utilized local carpenters and shipbuilders to construct it for them: it was of the Victorian style with the Chippendale railings so popular in the American South and boasting intricate woodworking, and became, naturally, the most desirous place of respite for well-to-do travelers on the road to Adamstown as well as the scene of the most lavish parties outside of Dublin's high society.
Life was idyllic for the newlyweds, both married previously; that was of course, until the fateful day that an O'Hara cousin, a militant Jesuit trainee, led a riot of a thousand peasants toward the County See, burning through the English owned properties in the process as a reprisal for the perceived injustice on the part of the English government - a government which many, like Scarlett's recently retired husband, had no further interest in serving, courtesy rank aside. Unable to stand the idea of seeing property and newly built house go up in flames, Scarlett supposedly rode out a message to her cousin in person; however, upon their meeting he informed her that there was to be no stopping of the intended burnings, as she was married to the enemy and thereby, no longer under the protection of her blood kin.
And the day came when the rebels swept through the County like a raging, rumbling wind with their torches and pikes - however, as they crossed the property line between Killua and Ballyhara, they found none other than Scarlett herself, standing on the line with a shotgun in hand daring anyone to fire the first shot. The men, astonished at her courage and audacity, reported back to their leader, who implored with her to remove herself so they could get on with their mission. But of course, she would not. Well into the night she stood there, guarding her property. Eventually, the rebels relented, agreeing to sit down with Lord Chapman and negotiate a cessation of hostilities.
Word traveled as far as Dublin of Lord and Lady Chapman's role in the sudden quelling of the threat of rebellion, and the story was elaborated on until the standing version held that "that dear lady, Lord Chapman's American second wife" defended her palatial home during the riots of eighty-five while dressed in her nightgown, barefooted and carrying an old sword that had belonged to her first husband.
True story or not, it was there on that sacred soil that the Chapman's daughter, Eva Cecile, was born in 1884, and the older children of Her Ladyship came of age. Wade Hampton was a handsome and sensitive sort of man full of life, laughter, and fun. Ella, the daughter, on the other hand was a different sort altogether. She was whispered by the local folk to be able to talk to the animals of the forest and supposedly spent the nights out until daybreak, sleeping under the stars instead of a proper bed. Whether or not the rumors were true, she never entered society, and was rarely seen outside of a cursory glance or two.
With the threat of rebellion largely abated, Lord Chapman was offered a position with the Irish Jockey Club by the President, Lord Crecy; an avid horseman always, the baronet accepted. The Chapman's had lived in the new house for only a few years when Lord Chapman was summoned to Adamstown by the local magistrate early one morning to investigate a potential fraudulent entry in the upcoming Irish Derby. According to the talk from the household staff downward, Her Ladyship had become concerned when by nightfall he had not returned, nor had there been any word that he had been delayed. A search party had been formed, finding at last Lord Chapman's riderless horse charging headlong from the direction of the forest adjacent to the neighboring property line. Later that night, his body was found lying on the dirt road.
Wade Hampton Hamilton had married and moved to England shortly after the death of his stepfather while Ella stayed on to help her mother, who the commoners had dubbed 'The O'Hara', rather than Lady Chapman; it was a term of great respect, in deference to her role in aiding both the village and the rebels themselves during the time of troubles - had she not intervened, it was said, far more blood would have been spilled on both sides.
Momentarily lost in thought, Scarlett blinked twice and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, feeling quite certain that the rest of the passengers had been staring at her, whispering even…fiddle-dee-dee, she thought to herself, none of them have a clue who I am.
Again, the uniformed officer who had spoken before made his way over to Scarlett and offered his assistance.
"When we disembark, mum," he said, "twill be a mite bit slippery out. And cold, if you've got a wrapper."
"It's that seal-fur, in that hat box there," she said, pointing in the direction so that the young man could retrieve it for her. She had spent over ten thousand on First Class tickets for herself and her family; by God, the White Star Line crew could assist her with the more mundane tasks!
Cheerfully, he handed the box to her. "So, you've got kin in America, then?"
Scarlett shook her head. "Well, yes. But I don't have to wait until then to see them. All three of my children are aboard ship already."
"They boarded in Southampton, then?"
"No, in Cherbourg. My son and his wife and three children, and my two daughters and my son-in-law. Although, the inconvenience of being delayed by this tugboat thing is trying my patience, young man."
The young crewman looked apologetic. "Well, things will look better after a good night's sleep on Titanic, ma'am, I promise you that."
"Hmmph. It had better be the best night's sleep of my life for what I'm paying for it."
"Yes ma'am," he said reassuringly, "I'm sure that it will be."
She pulled pocket-locket clock out of her wrapper and took a look at the time. An hour, at least, before she was due to board.
"Well, we have some time. Tell me something else about this ship besides the fact that it's unsinkable."
"Yes ma'am," he obliged her, and began to speak. As he did so, she took in the excitement in his eyes and heard it in his voice as he talked about his having waited in Belfast for six hours in a snowstorm in order to sign up for the skeleton crew which would test the great liner.
"All that fuss for a ship?"
"It's not any ship, ma'am," he reminded her, eyes misting, "'Tis Titantic!"
I'll be ready for a good night's sleep for sure, she mused, if I have to spend the next hour listening to this prattle.
But despite that thought, she allowed the young man to continue his speech; after all, he had probably never been on a ship, let alone one so luxurious. Let him enjoy it, she thought contentedly, snuggling into her wrapper. Her enjoyment would come from her children and grandchildren's company, both on the voyage and back home, to Tara, where they would spend the rest of the spring and then the summer.
She put a hand to her cheek and unwillingly let out a sigh, thinking without intending to do so about Rhett, wondering in spite of herself if he was still living. She hadn't meant to think of him, but he had a habit of crossing her mind from time to time- particularly, and with much more frequency, after Benjamin's death. He'd be in his eighties, if he had survived what Wade had termed in the late eighties as "absolute debauchery with the Parisian mademoiselles of the underworld".
At least he had not married again; she wouldn't have been able to stand that.
"Ma'am?" the crewman was inquiring gently. "Are you quite alright?"
She felt the hot tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes and blinked once more. "Why yes. I'm fine. Naturally. It was nothing. Nothing at all."
…
Louis Vansittart posed a striking figure: dark, wavy hair combed back from his forehead, slightly taller than average in height and broader in build and, as always, impeccably dressed in a suit with a high collar and tie. Although he looked scarcely older than forty, Louis had been born in New Orleans in 1860, and had seen the half-century mark of his life already. His mother, a Creole girl from a well-to-do family which lacked in breeding and social connection had been swept off her feet by a handsome aristocrat from the Carolina coast, although, at the time, she had thought of him as merely an explorer or adventurer. When she discovered her condition, she had sought the man's promise of marriage, which he denied vehemently, unwilling to lose his freedom for so lowborn a conquest. She had carried Louis his time, but in a fit of despair, took a voodoo mixture of abortificant herbs in the hopes of ridding herself of her disgrace. Her labor had been hastened, and Louis had been born against all odds, but had claimed her life in the process. His father had taken up his guardianship as a boy, but that aside, there was very little interaction between the two, and of that, even less was bourn out of affection.
When Rhett Butler had left Atlanta for good, following the finalization of his divorce in late 1874, he not only had left behind the memories of his embittered, doomed marriage but also an illegitimate son, Louis Simone Vansittart, who upon barely entering manhood was a renowned gambler, carouser, and womanizer of the worst possible sort.
However, the young man had cleaned up his act with little to no help from the father he had not seen in person since the age of eleven, taking a degree in finance from New York University and slaving away on Wall Street for ten long years before he had at long last attained a respectable position with the International Mercantile Marine Company, proprietary shareholders of the magnificent vessel upon which he had lately boarded.
Coincidentally, he was sharing a suite with none other than his long-estranged father, whom he had located in a Parisian rest home, half-gone on opium and perpetually drunk from the absinthe he paid the attractive young nurse handsomely to supply him with. The old man was eighty-three years old, and he looked them, in Louis's opinion. He had had a hard life, Louis knew, but he had spent the last thirty plus in perdition, drinking himself into a stupor in the high end bordellos of Paris. He had amassed quite an art collection, worth over a half a million pounds; all of it, Louis thought with some bit of satisfaction, all summarily belonged to him. Rhett's wife, after all, though she was still living, had been neither seen nor heard from since his father had fled Atlanta. There had been a note to Louis's school in New Orleans, stating simply that "I'm going now - and I wish to be left alone for awhile", which bore striking resemblance to the done which had brought Louis to Paris in the first place "I'm dying - and though I wish to do it alone, I thought that someone should be advised".
Although his business in England was pressing, Louis decided to call on the old man instead, believing that it was the right thing to do, under the circumstances.
"He has been rather despondent lately," the flaxen haired nurse addressed Louis in French.
"He's swallowed too much opium, that's what!" Louis informed her. He succeeded in convincing the attending physician, Laurent, to release his father into his care, telling the good doctor exactly what he thought of their "care".
Within two hours, Rhett had sobered up - and fairly growled at Louis that he was a "damned fool" and one who could not be trusted not to muck up a wet dream. Louis raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I should be grateful for your expertise, eh? Else I might not be here."
Rhett rolled his still snapping black eyes. "Shut your damned mouth."
He had remained in the hotel room at Le Ritz, refusing all nourishment but that which came from the finer restaurants. When Louis offered him soup, he wanted caviar. When the caviar was not to his liking, he desired veal.
By the week's end, Louis realized that his father's "comfort" had seen him short of nearly four thousand dollars and that he had better think of an alternative arrangement. Over dinner he was reminded of the great hubbub within his own company about the maiden voyage of the Olympic-class liner, Titanic. The first class staterooms had not yet been filled, his companion said, why not utilize your privilege as a member of the IMMC and book passage for yourself and your father - let him die at home, oui?
That had been a heaven-sent answer for Louis. Of course the old man would have to agree, wouldn't he?
No, Louis reassured himself; his wishes are immaterial. He was going to kill himself here and I have prevented that. Surely there is someone left in Charleston who can care for him…
He had been sitting up in bed when Louis entered, although he feigned sleep.
"We're going home." Louis announced unceremoniously. "I'll be packing your paintings and other belongings up tonight and we'll set sail on Wednesday. Titanic leaves Southampton that morning and she'll be in Cherbourg by nightfall."
His father's eyes shot open.
"I'm dying. I want to die and I'm going to do it, damn it."
"Well, if you have to die, why not do it in style?"
"I refuse to leave."
"Frankly, sir, I don't give a damn."
Expressing no penitence for his brusque tone, Louis stormed from the room, calling out as he left: "And I expect to be reimbursed for the sixteen hundred dollars I'll be dropping on a First Class ticket."
"I'll be dead before we leave Paris." Rhett announced.
But it was Wednesday evening, and his father was not dead. Hardly. He had looked anything but as he had gotten out of the automobile under his own power, saying that he'd be damned before he boarded the ship in an invalid's chair.
Louis was privately amused, knowing that it was the old man's first time out of the chair in months, and glad to see that his father had that much pride left, at the least.
After the brief stop to embark the group of two hundred seventy-four, Louis marveled at the speed with which the vessel was made ready to depart.
"Under ninety minutes by my count," he informed Rhett, who grunted from across their private promenade deck.
"Fastest bloody ship in existence. And the biggest. Heaviest. God himself could not sink her," he continued.
"Biggest and heaviest?" Rhett raised his white crescent-shaped eyebrows. "And you're fool enough to believe that she cannot sink?"
"Marvels of modern engineering, sir," Louis went back to reading the literature of the ship's construction he had been perusing.
"Modern engineering, my foot. I've been a sailor longer than these so called engineers have been born, and it hardly takes a great intellect to realize that a keel this size won't corner worth a damn."
"Are you finished, sir?"
Rhett let out another incomprehensible grunt: "Quite."
There were no more words exchanged for several minutes between the two men, so very alike in appearance and disposition, though neither would admit it willingly.
"Would you like to have dinner in one of the restaurants?" Louis inquired after awhile.
Rhett shrugged. "I'm not hungry. Shouldn't you be out on deck looking for willing and attractive young ladies?"
It was Louis's turn to raise an eyebrow. "It's First Class, Rhett. And that's English First Class, not American. I'm somewhat reputable in my field now, if you'd believe it. My reputation is precarious enough without any social faux pas on my part."
"But you're an old man…you've not been married have you? Or even engaged?"
"Old? At forty-five, sir?" Louis attempted a joke. "I suppose your own age seems fairly ancient."
"I believe that there are ancient ruins younger than myself." Finally, a smile from the old man… "I should have been dead years ago. I suppose that I didn't try hard enough. I had thought that I made several good attempts."
Louis smirked. "Not the least of which your latest attempt. What was her name, Daphne, Dangerouse?"
Rhett heaved sigh. "Aphrodite. Taking pity on a rich old man by making him feel young again."
"Young? Sir, I've experienced the ill-effects of both opium and absinthe and with the steady diet you've enjoyed of late, it's a wonder that you're accompanying me on this crossing and not a pile of ashes for me to scatter in Charleston."
"Ashes to ashes. Time flies. So fleeting, isn't it? Time. I wondered, if I had returned to her sooner…"
"To?"
Rhett's eyes snapped again. "It's nothing. Nothing."