A/N Well hello, dear readers. This is my new story, and I hope you enjoy it. There are several named, historical characters in this fanfiction, and several who did not survive the disaster that occurred on the 15th April 1912. I mean no offence by working them into my story and changing aspects of their lives. But, with all that over, welcome aboard the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic. On behalf of the White Star Line, I hope you have a safe and uneventful journey.
One
Wednesday, 10th of April, 1912.
"Clove, dear, do not lean out of the windows like that. It is so uncouth."
Clove ignored her pernickety governess, revelling in the feeling of the fresh sea air whipping across her face, teasing strands of dark hair from the complicated up-do that her maid had forced her into that morning in front of the grand silvered mirror. It was so close, so tangible; she had waited almost two years for this moment.
Soon, she would be able to see it.
The train was slowing, now, passing the main station and turning along the curving track in spurts of white steam and whistling, and then, look, there was the sea, waves breaking against the quay in swathes of blue and green and grey.
There it was.
A very unladylike gasp escaped her, and she clapped one hand to her mouth, still holding onto the painted window-frame of the carriage with the other, the ridged velvet digging into her knees through her petticoats. It was magnificent, all strong lines and blacks and whites, the four funnels proud against the bright sky, the name painted on the side of the hull.
R.M.S. Titanic, the ship of dreams.
The train drew to a halt and the other ladies began to fuss over their handbags and large feathered hats, calling for errant children and maids, but Clove was still staring out of the window, in raptures over the beautiful ship her own dear father had designed. She had seen the plans of course, when she visited her father in his office in Belfast, and seen the skeleton when they had strolled to the docks to inspect the progress together, but never in all her seventeen years had she imagined it would be this majestic, so large that she had to tilt her head upwards to take in the sheer height of the black hull, like an expanse of night-time sky.
"Clove Johanna Andrews." Her governess' hand pulled her away from the window, sharply. "You will stay with me, this time. No running off, if you please."
"Yes, Miss Trinket." Clove sighed, gathering her handbag, smoothing her silken navy skirt down, shooting the ship another longing glance out of the window. In less than the space of an hour, she would be boarding it.
It was not like Clove had not seen ships before. Her father was a naval architect, and she had always gone with him on maiden voyages, ever since she was a small child. Her father always ruffled her dark hair, and told her that she had evidently inherited his sea legs and love of the ocean, unlike her step-mother who was happy to stay at home and mind little Elba, her baby sister who was happily stumbling around the nursery on her fat, wobbling legs.
"I am so pleased all of the Third Class have already boarded," Miss Trinket sniffed. "I would hate to think of what one would catch being near those sorts of people."
Clove turned her head away, back towards the ship as they left the train, ignoring her governess' comment. She would never understand why her stepmother had engaged whining, pouting Miss Trinket to be her governess, when the woman had more airs and graces than sense.
The platform was so crowded, people pressing against people in so many different colours of cloth and adornments of hats, and even once the pair had left the latticed archway of the station the crowd did not abate, squeezing onto the quay in amongst piles of luggage, uniformed porters and grease-stained workmen, shouting and calling and chattering like one colossal swarm of birds.
Finally, following Miss Trinket's ostentatious pink, flowered hat, Clove found her way to the right gangplank, and clambered breathlessly out of the melee, joining the queue of beautifully dressed, orderly people suspended above the mob like the angels of heaven above the rest of humanity.
Miss Trinket adjusted her handbag, pulling out the two boarding passes. "Keep it safe, Clove," she warned. "I don't wish to have to call your father if you lose it."
Clove took the ticket with a brief thank-you, and resumed looking around her, at the fine pale blue linen of the lady in front of her, at the flashes of cameras from the press pen below, at the people dressed in sensible, ordinary clothes boarding further down the ship, like insects moving into a great, communal nest.
At the end of the gangplank, a handsome officer with his brass buttons glinting in the sunlight stood to attention, and whilst Miss Trinket fawned and simpered, Clove looked over the welded, riveted pieces of black metal approvingly. Solidly built, strong, neat; the thousands of workmen had done their job well. Just inside the doorway, another young, handsome uniformed man handed her a little nosegay, and she smiled slightly. It was a nice touch, the flowers; not all liners did it, not even for first class.
After handing in tickets at the Purser's office, another young, uniformed man stepped towards them, executing what must have been a practised and perfected bow, his gold-trimmed hat held against his chest. "Good morning, ladies. I'm Vick Hawthorne, and I will be your bedroom steward for the duration of the voyage. If you would care to follow me, I will show you to your staterooms."
Miss Trinket immediately began to talk, detailing exactly how she wanted everything to be done from the time of breakfast to the tidiness of her stateroom, and Clove trailed behind, marvelling at her surroundings, at the lacing of gold leaf on the cream-painted walls, the mahogany doors at neat, sizeable intervals, the way the carpet sank under her shoes.
She didn't realise that her governess had stopped until she almost walked into her. She clapped a hand to her mouth in mock horror, and the young bedroom steward suppressed a smile. "On the right is Miss Trinket," he said. "And here, on the left, is yours, Miss Andrews. Mr Andrews and his valet are up on A-Deck. We cast off at 12pm, and the best view will be from the Boat Deck at the front of the ship. Is there anything else you require?"
Miss Trinket had opened her door. "No, thank you."
Vick began to walk away, but Clove laid a hand on his arm for a second, stopping him. "Would you send a message to my father, please, and let him know we have embarked safely?"
"Yes, Miss, very good, Miss. If there is anything else you need just ring the bell in your stateroom."
"Thank you." Clove turned towards her stateroom door with a small smile, and pushed it open in one smooth motion, stepping inside and freezing in shock.
It looked like a veritable hurricane had torn through it, sending clothes flying and jewels scattered across the beautiful gilt-adorned dressing table. In the middle of it all was her maid, Madge, on her hands and knees next to the pile of trunks, trying desperately to sort petticoats and jackets and hats.
At the entrance of her young mistress, Madge looked up, frantically. "I'm sorry, Miss, I thought these would have arrived before now, but they didn't, oh it was all meant to be done before you got here…"
"Calm down," Clove said, joining her maid on the floor. "Here, let me help."
"But…"
"No buts. It doesn't matter, so long as no-one breathes a word to Miss Trinket. Are your family settled?"
"Yes, we got here bright and early; some of the first ones they let on."
"How are your parents?"
"Mummy is unpacking and Father has found some other men to talk to." Madge was smiling fondly as she folded the froth of white petticoats and laid them in the trunk at the foot of the bed. "They're both happy to be coming to America, and I'm very grateful to you, Miss, for bringing us on such a grand adventure."
"It's my pleasure." Clove began to arrange the shoes along the bottom of the wardrobe. The sooner they finished, the sooner they would be able to ascend to the Boat Deck (or the third-class equivalent) for the beginning of the voyage.
Madge was humming a little tune under her breath as she sorted, her blonde braid swinging against the pattern of her neat grey dress, and Clove joined in with the words as she moved onto the boxes of jewellery on the dressing table, sparkling in the weak sunlight from the porthole. It was so pleasant, to get on with one's maid, she reflected. But, then again, she and Madge were near enough the same age, and Madge had been at her family's estate for longer than she could remember; they had always played together as children, and when Madge's mother became ill with sudden, splitting migraines, it was only sense that Madge took over her role as lady's maid, except to Clove, not the mistress of the house.
"Finished," Madge sat back on her heels to admire her handiwork, the dresses arranged by colour and the undergarments away in the trunk.
"Well, you can go and find your parents, if you wish," Clove looked up from the dressing table. "I'm sure there will be quite a party down in steerage. I do hear that it's as nice as second-class on other liners."
"It is, Miss, very nice. Do you need anything else? A coat, perhaps? It might be little brisk out on deck."
"I'll find it myself, thank you. Have the afternoon off to explore; just be back here to help me dress for dinner. And bring any interesting stories with you."
With the small curtsey that no matter how hard Clove tried to dissuade her from, Madge clung to like a drowning woman clutching a piece of driftwood, she left, shutting the door carefully behind her.
Clove sat down in the padded chair in front of her mirror, slumping for a second, before pulling upright and smiling at her reflection. The voyage was starting aboard the ship of dreams.
Everything would be perfect.