Disclaimer: I own nothing, honestly. Please, don't sue me.
Note: Robert is named after the otter mascot of The Fur Museum. He is a truly exemplary otter; compassionate, attentive, and sadly, dead.
Dedication: This story is dedicated to those who did the jobs they shouldn't have had to do, with dignity and amazing bravery, and never even got a single line in the film...
The elaborately designed candlestick that stood on the shelf was askew; it's elegantly curving base at a slightly odd angle to that of its twin. There was something faintly symbolic about it, Robert thought, reaching out to push it back into line, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what. As he touched it, a drop of wax rolled down and hit his thumb and he was faintly surprised by how hot it was.
Robert stood back and surveyed the room. He was pleased that the ornamental vases hadn't fallen when the ship had crunched into…well, never mind that. But the vases hadn't smashed, and the brightly coloured flowers that they were filled them were still as fresh and beautiful as they had been when Elizabeth had placed them there.
If he closed his eyes, he could still see her pale hands moving between the blooms, arranging them with more care than he'd ever seen her put into anything. What was her favorite flower? He'd never thought to ask, and he supposed it was too late.
"Stratford!"
The voice jerked Robert from the small and futile pool of misery and self-pity that he had sunk into. It was the voice that called him to duty, the voice that he knew he had to follow. Elizabeth had never been able to understand that, either. You're a paid worker, just like me, aren't you? She'd asked him that again and again. The White Star Line pays my wages, same as Mr. Guggenheim pays yours, but you don't see me going on about 'loyalty' and 'duty', do you? Robert? Robert?
No, Elizabeth, you still don't understand.
Robert stared for a moment at his reflection in the large mirror over the mantelpiece. Well, the suit looked neat and clean at any rate, but given the choice he would never have chosen it to be the one he died in. That wasn't his decision, though. Mr. Guggenheim had said himself how it was important to keep up appearances until the end, and Robert wasn't about to argue the issue.
"Coming, sir," he said, turning and walking out of the door.
How did we come to this?
How could this have happened?
Elizabeth Howard was feeling rather let down, by life in general. Common sense, and everything she'd ever learned from novels, dictated that when one is about to board a very grand ship, heading for America, no less, one should step out of an expensive automobile and look up from underneath some odd looking, yet unquestionably stylish hat with your pale but dignified face.
And though the type of novel which usually dealt with beautiful and tragic young ladies in fancy hats were the sort that Elizabeth, wearing her most cynical frown, would habitually toss straight into the scrap heap, she wasn't about to knock tradition.
Well, she'd got the automobile bit right (except that it wasn't actually her automobile, and, all right, it was really just a cab) but after that, things had gone downhill. She'd thrust her cab fare into the cabbie's fist, grabbed her carpet bag and pushed hard on the cab's door.
Which was stuck.
"Jesus," she muttered, throwing her weight against it "Open, can't you?"
Would it have hurt to let me have one moment of glamor, Lord? Just one? It's not asking a lot, is it? Just for once not to be a face in the background?
The cabbie appeared to be watching her troubles with a look of amusement, clearly deriving a fair amount of enjoyment from the spectacle of a young lady, primly dressed in the uniform of a White Star Line Stewardess wrestling with a cab door.
Pestiferous wretch, Elizabeth thought nastily, using the extent of her vocabulary.
I'm going to be late. They're going to sack me before we even leave Southampton. I'll be back on the train to Northern Wales by two o'clock. It'll be raining.
This prospect was so ghastly to her, that it provided her with new strength born of desperation, and the door flew open, causing the cab driver to burst into applause. To Elizabeth's horror, there came a thwack as the door slammed into the back of a gentleman who had, innocently, been standing nearby.
He turned around, startled and rubbing his shoulder in apparent bewilderment, and for a moment they stared at each other. Elizabeth, frozen in her seat with her light blonde hair already falling out of its neat bun and her face red from exertion noticed in a disconnected fashion that the man she had involuntarily but violently assaulted was young and faintly foreign looking.
Should she apologize? It would be the polite thing to do, but politeness had never really been Elizabeth's forte. Anyway, that might lead to unnecessary explanations, which she cringed to think about.
The man opened his mouth to say something, but Elizabeth wasn't about to hear it. Jolted into action, she turned and kicked the other door open, jumping out on the other side so that the cab was between them.
Elizabeth's mother had always been fond of saying 'You can't run from your troubles.', but her daughter wasn't going to go without trying.
Elizabeth's face burned with embarrassment as she hurried off through the crowded docks, straightening her decidedly unfashionable hat and dragging her carpet bag along with her.
In The Play of Life, she thought gloomily, I'm not even an understudy. I'm probably the one who brings the actors and actresses their tea. I can't even get out of a cab without making a spectacle of myself.
Robert stared after the young lady as she ran off, wondering why she seemed so flustered. It had been nobody's fault but his that he'd gotten hit by the door, after all.
A valet is always respectful to ladies. One of the many rules that had been drilled into him by his father.
He could even remember standing in front of his father's desk, tonelessly repeating the words over and over again. A shy child who prefers to go unnoticed by most adults soon learns that if you follow the rules, people leave you alone to your thoughts.
Well, maybe Robert should have followed that one more religiously, instead of staring at the poor girl like a halfwit.
He should have been paying more attention in the first place, instead of marveling at the sheer size of the Titanic, and trying nervously to remember if he'd ever gotten sea sick before.
"Are you coming, Stratford?" Mr. Guggenheim asked with a touch of impatience, already several steps ahead of his valet.
Robert blinked and nodded distractedly, quickening his pace until he was level with his employer "The baggage is already onboard, sir. Are we waiting for Madame Aubert, sir, or has she boarded already?" he asked, raising his normally quiet voice slightly so that it could be heard above the noisy crowd.
And he was slightly gratified to hear the infinitesimal pause before Mr. Guggenheim answered.
"She boarded earlier."
Robert's father's words ran through his head for what felt like the fiftieth time since Madame Aubert had appeared in his employer's life. A valet must always be discreet.
Yes, dad.
"Yes, sir," Robert said, motioning to the nearest boarding ramp "If I may suggest that we board as soon as possible, sir? I believe that the ship will depart shortly and it will be imperative that we present our tickets on time."