The Titanic was a marvel of Edwardian technology. The pinnacle of engineering ability. The height of luxury, the last word in comfort and style. It was THE ship to sail on.
No one ever suspected it could be a ship of love, either. And certainly not between the two very unlikely people who are at the centre of this tale.
This tale of tragedy, heartbreak, and hate-turned-to-love.
Thomas Andrew was not a proud man by nature. Not at all. In fact, he was quite humble, despite his wealthy and privileged upbringing. No one would ever know that his family all but owned the little village of Comber. Maybe some would be corrupted by power; maybe some would let it go to their heads and become pompous, insufferable jackasses who liked nothing more than to sit and smoke and congratulate himself on being master of the universe...
No, he would not think of that today. Today was a happy day. Today, Thomas Andrews had a reason to be proud.
His ship, his baby. His Titanic. Today, she shed the bonds of land and took to the open sea for the first time. Already there were thousands of people swarming around the docks, very few of them boarding but all just in awe of being in the presence of the largest, grandest ship in the world.
The ship that he, Thomas, built. He had seen her go from lines on a blue piece of paper, to a skeletal outline, and finally to this. This majestic ship, this poetry in motion. A piece of art rendered in real life.
He'd never seen anything so beautiful. For a second, he was tempted to run down to the dock and throw has arms around the bow, and just hug his ship of dreams.
"Ah Thomas, there you are! What a turnout, eh old boy? Everyone here to see that Britannia really does rule the waves!"
Thomas felt his hands clench involuntarily. He turned, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Then he schooled his face into a neutral, pleasant expression.
"Ah, yes Bruce," he agreed. "Such a miracle of Irish shipbuilding."
"Irish, haha, yes, quite," the owner of the White Star Line laughed dismissively. "Wonderful, old chap. Just think of it. The profits this will bring in for the Line, eh?"
Thomas sighed. All Bruce Ismay ever cared about was money. And power. And prestige. It was one of the very many reasons he couldn't stand the little man. Titanic wasn't about money, or prestige. It was about science. It was about the advancement of engineering technology.
It was about heart.
"Yes, Bruce," he dutifully repeated. "Quite a bit, I should imagine."
"That's the spirit!" Ismay crowed, clapping the shipbuilder on the shoulder. "Well, anyway old bean, I've got to be off. We've a load of first class passengers coming aboard in an hour, and I want to be there to see to their every whim!"
Thomas watched him travel down the deck, beaming as though he personally had built the ship from the keel up. He imagined that there was no situation in which Ismay could lose his bluster and confidence. Nothing that could cause him to falter.
No, nothing at all.