Sometime last year, a friend of mine wondered aloud why no one had ever written a FitzSimmons AU of Titanic. I said she didn't want to raise that question with me, seeing as I've been a Titanic buff almost my entire life, but she said she really did. So, many months and many words later, here we are: the Edwardian FitzSimmons AU that none of you wanted, lol.
A very big thanks go out to my splendid betas raptorlindsay and agentverbivore for being so patient and really helping me whip this into shape, and to SuburbanSun for helping me avoid some pitfalls at the very beginning. Thanks also goes out to my sister the Certified Titanic Historian™ (no really! she's got a paper published on Encyclopedia Titanica!) for listening to me ramble about historical accuracy and for providing insight and suggestions here and there.
Lastly, with this being a Titanic AU, yeah it's gonna follow the movie...but it's also not going to. Spoiler alert: I don't write sad endings. :D
Leo Fitz's day, which had started out so bright and full of promise, was quickly turning into a disaster.
"I'm telling you, sir, I'm meant to be here with the guarantee group," he insisted. "Please, just let me board."
The officer who blocked the open door leading into the ship shook his head. "I'm sorry, but you're not registered with the crew, and without a ticket, I can't let you aboard the ship. That's just how it is."
It was a gorgeous, sunny April morning, and the sailing day for the maiden voyage of the White Star Line's crowning achievement, Titanic. The pier was already bustling with activity: motorcars, horse-drawn carriages, and lorries moved slowly through the swarms of people crowding the dock, carrying passengers, luggage, and supplies to the ship. More people stood near the water's edge, saying their farewells to relatives and friends or waving up at those who already lined the decks of the ship above. Porters, seamen, and other officials hurried about, making last-minute preparations and ensuring everything was in order before the great ship's departure. A general sense of excitement and wonder pervaded the air, no doubt generated by the presence of the greatest man-made feat of the modern era.
Until recently, Fitz had been among those so excited. He'd spent the previous day and a half making the long journey from his home in Belfast to Southampton, and had spent the night at a hostel in the city. Earlier that morning, he'd risen with the sun and put on his new jacket and tie, purchased specially for the trip, and set out for the docks, sure his life was about to change for the better. Through a stroke of good luck, he'd received the opportunity to shadow the guarantee group from Harland & Wolff, the company that had built Titanic, for the ship's first trip across the Atlantic. It seemed all of his time spent hanging around outside the shipbuilder's offices and making the acquaintance of the engineers and craftsmen had paid off, and that a poor orphaned riveter from Glasgow might finally have the chance to rise above his station in life.
But when he'd gone up the gangway to board through the second class entrance as he'd been instructed to do by his contact at the shipyard, Fitz had found his name wasn't on the list for the guarantee group as had been promised. There must have been a mistake. He knew he'd been a late addition, but everything was supposed to have been in place to make sure he could board. Now, all of that was falling apart.
Desperate, Fitz pulled a folded piece of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket. "Listen, I've got a letter from Samuel Collins, one of the draftsman at Harland & Wolff, stating that I'm to follow the guarantee group. He's a personal friend of Thomas Andrews, you know, the man who designed this ship? I'm sure if you could find him, he could vouch for me-"
The officer shook his head, holding up a hand to stop him. "I can't leave my post to go find him. And Mr. Andrews is a very busy man, as you'll no doubt agree." The man's expression was not unsympathetic, but it was firm. "I'm sorry, lad, but if you don't have a ticket, you can't come aboard. Now I must ask that you please step aside, so that the other passengers may enter."
Fitz nodded dejectedly. Turning, he hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder before making his way back down the gangway, past the other people lined up to board, many staring at him curiously. He had no idea where he would go now, or what he would do; having put all of his hopes and dreams into getting on Titanic, he had very little money left.
Shoulders slumped, Fitz walked away from the ship and allowed himself to be absorbed into the crowd, feeling as though all his life's plans had just been dashed.
-:-
Elsewhere at the pier, two sleek, shining motorcars slowly cut through the throng before coming to a stop near the first class gangway entrance. The driver of the first car got out and hurried around to open the door, offering his hand to the passenger inside-a young woman dressed in a stunning blue and white traveling suit, her chestnut brown hair carefully pinned up beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
Jemma Simmons was eighteen years old, inquisitive, and in possession of an intellect that had caused her mother a great deal of grief on more than one occasion. Her expression was bright as she took in the massive ship before her, but her eyes were wistful. She knew her father would have been nothing short of impressed by Titanic's size and presentation and eager to discuss it, but sadly that was no longer an option.
Behind her, a tall man dressed in an expensive, well-fitted suit emerged from the other side of the car, blinking up into the sun at the ship. In contrast to Jemma, he looked aloof and detached.
"I don't see what all the fuss is about," he said dryly. "It doesn't look any bigger than the Mauretania."
At just twenty-seven years of age, Grant Ward was poised to inherit his father's substantial railway and shipping fortune. He was handsome, with a square jaw, dark hair, and piercing eyes, and he exuded the confidence of a man who knew just how rich he was and was not afraid to show it.
Jemma glanced back at him over the top of the motorcar. "It's well over a hundred feet longer than the Mauretania, and much more well-furnished. The amenities can't even compare-there's so much to do. There's two libraries-two!-a squash court, a Parisian cafe, even Turkish baths-"
"Someone's memorized the pamphlet." The smile Grant gave her was likely supposed to be fond, but to Jemma it just looked patronizing. "Of course, you would know all of this, darling." He turned to offer a hand to help her mother out of the car. "Is there any subject your daughter isn't knowledgeable of, Edith?"
Edith Simmons stepped down from the car, straight-backed and regal of bearing. "No, I'm afraid there isn't a subject we've found yet that Jemma isn't already acquainted with." But where one might have expected pride in her voice, there was only resignation. She gave the ship an appraising look. "So this is the ship they say is unsinkable."
"It is unsinkable," Grant said confidently, brandishing his walking cane. "God himself couldn't sink this ship."
Privately, Jemma didn't think it was wise to deal in absolutes like that, but she held her tongue, choosing instead to roll her eyes where they couldn't see. She had long since learned that most people, men especially, didn't much care to hear her thoughts on almost anything, no matter how well-informed and educated her opinions were. It only made her miss her father even more; he had always championed her love of learning, and encouraged her to speak her mind whenever possible, but that had all come to an end when he had passed away. She often forgot her place, eager to share her knowledge, but all it took was a sharp look from her mother or Grant to remember that she was supposed to be seen, not heard. It was always a bitter pill to swallow.
Her mother came around the front of the motorcar to join her while Grant had Giyera, his silent and stone-faced valet, direct a porter to have their luggage taken up to their suite on the ship. Once that was settled, Grant breezed toward them, checking the time on his pocket watch before dropping it back in the pocket of his vest.
"We'd better hurry," he said, nodding toward the ship. "Ladies, if you'll follow me…"
He led the way into the crowd, heading for the first class gangway. Jemma and Edith fell into step behind him, followed by Abby, Jemma's maid, carrying some bags that were too delicate for the porters to handle. Jemma glanced back at her, making sure she didn't fall too far behind; Abby nodded with a quick smile, skipping to catch up, and Jemma smiled back at her before turning forward again.
They wove in between packs of well-wishers and vehicles, frequently stopping for people pushing handcarts, and made a wide circle around a line of steerage passengers waiting to board. This was packed in tight and moving slowly, as they were each being examined by a health officer to ensure that they were well enough to enter the United States at the end of the voyage.
Edith didn't bother hiding her distaste at the sight of them, their tweeds and wool shabby and worn in contrast to the finery in which she was dressed. "Honestly, Grant, if you weren't forever booking things at the last minute, we could have gone through the terminal and maintained our dignity instead of running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family," she chided, lifting her skirt to step gingerly around a puddle.
"Oh, this is hardly my fault," Grant replied cheerfully, turning to look at them over his shoulder. "It was my fiancée's love of periodicals that made us late."
Jemma felt her cheeks flush. "I only meant to read one article," she said defensively, aware of her mother's eyes on her. "I had Abby see about fetching some from the newsstand so I could have something new to read while we sailed. But one of them had a paper on the seminars held at the Conseil Solvay, and I simply couldn't wait to read it, and… I…"
She trailed off as she looked over and met her mother's disapproving stare. "You know how I feel about your reading habits, Jemma," Edith said sternly.
Jemma swallowed and looked forward again, her heart sinking with a twinge of frustration. "Yes, Mother, I do."
When they finally reached the gangway leading up to the first class entrance on D deck, Grant stepped back to put a hand on Jemma's arm and escort her up to the door. He walked with his head held high and an assurance to his step, with all the confidence of a king advancing toward his throne. But as they approached the ship, with its massive, black iron hull blotting out the sky and the sun, all Jemma felt was a vague sense of dread.
Titanic was dragging her away from the only home she had ever known and taking her to a new country, plunging her into a world full of strangers. She would be forced to attend party after endless party in anticipation of her upcoming wedding to Grant, surrounded by people she neither knew nor cared about and who almost certainly didn't care about her-even if they would pretend to for appearances' sake. And once she was married, her fate would be sealed: All of her hopes and dreams would become secondary to being the perfect wife, docile and doting and demure. Grant would be expecting a beautiful accessory to carry on his arm, and just the mere thought of trying to fill that role for the rest of her life made Jemma's stomach turn.
Everyone else might have viewed Titanic 's maiden voyage as something glorious, a new opportunity, or a chance to start over. But as Jemma stepped over the threshold onto the ship, she could only see it as an ending, the last dying breath of the life she wished she'd had.
-:-
Adjacent to the docks was a lively little pub, Titanic's funnels still visible through the windows. Inside, beneath a haze of cigarette smoke, the tables were filled with dock workers, ships' crew, and other working class folk, all enjoying rounds of beer or good conversation. Near one of the windows, a group of men crowded around a table, their faces set in concentration. A very serious game of poker was in progress.
Fitz sat calmly in his chair, surveying his cards. He'd found his way to the pub after leaving the pier, despondent and without purpose. He didn't want to return straight to Belfast, not after having traveled so far, but he needed money. He had been relying on the promise of the guarantee group to get him to New York and back, but now that was gone, he needed a new plan. Seeing the pub and hearing the spirited hubbub of chatter spilling out from its open door had been a welcome diversion from his spiral of self-pity and despair, and having a pint or two while mulling over his options didn't sound like such a bad idea.
But one pint had turned into three, then four, and suddenly-without meaning to be-Fitz was fairly inebriated. It had certainly lessened the sting of having everything he'd staked his life's hopes on crumble to dust at his feet, but it wasn't doing much for the state of his wallet. He had been considering giving up and heading for the train station when he had noticed the card game taking place behind him. A sizable sum of money in various currencies was in the pot at the center of the table, but that wasn't what had caught his eye.
Someone had just bet a ticket for Titanic.
Ordinarily, Fitz wasn't a betting man, but the alcohol had warmed his blood and sparked his bravery. He'd always been extraordinarily good with numbers and sums, even as a young lad, and he was confident he could keep track of where all the cards were in his head despite being slightly sloshed. There were risks involved-the ticket was only good for one way, so he would have to bank on the additional winnings being enough to secure him passage back across the Atlantic, home to Belfast-but he could worry about that after he won. Which he was certain he would. And at this point, he thought, what do I have left to lose?
So Fitz had, perhaps unwisely, used the last of his money to buy his way into the poker game. Now he looked across the table at his opponents: two burly Swedish men who sat glaring at their hands-it was their ticket at stake-and a dark-haired Italian whose expression betrayed nothing. He drew a single card from the deck, pursed his lips at it, then inserted it into the hand he was holding before nodding at Fitz.
Fitz turned his gaze to the Swede sitting directly opposite him. "I'll take another, Sven," he said, his voice slurring a little.
The man grudgingly took a card from his hand and passed it across the table to Fitz, who slipped it into his own hand with a slight smile, carefully calculated to further unseat the other man's confidence. Outside, Titanic 's whistle blew, signaling her departure warning.
Fitz looked over the cards in his hand, then at his opponents. "Gentlemen, I believe this is it. Time to lay down our hands and see what we've got."
Both of the Swedes shifted uneasily in their seats, one of them mopping at his sweaty brow, while the Italian narrowed his eyes at the pile of prize money. After a moment, he laid his cards down and sat back in his seat, folding his arms. The Swedes exchanged glances, muttered to each other in their native tongue, then both laid their cards down at the same time. Fitz took a moment to peer over his hand at them, then shook his head, feigning regret.
"Hmm, let's see," he said slowly. "Bruno, you've got nothing." The Italian scowled. "Olaf, neither have you. Sven… two pair. Hmm." The Swedes looked even more disgruntled. Fitz merely smiled, feeling terribly pleased with himself and no longer able to contain his glee. "That's very disappointing for you lot, because-" He laid his cards down with a flourish. "Full house, lads! I'm sailing on Titanic!"
Their little corner of the pub exploded in a flurry of activity. Fitz jumped up from his seat and punched the air, whooping in victory; the alcohol had also made him overzealous. Meanwhile, the onlookers their game had attracted burst into applause, shouting their approval and clapping him on the back in congratulations. Bruno shook his head in defeat while Sven and Olaf argued in rapid-fire Swedish. Someone ordered a round of beers for them. Grinning ear-to-ear, Fitz leaned forward over the table to gather all of his winnings, the precious ticket perched right on top.
Suddenly Sven loomed back into view, his hand raised menacingly in a fist. Fitz froze in the midst of opening his kit bag, his jaw dropping, suddenly terrified that the larger man was about to take his ticket back by force. But instead he swung around to punch his cousin square in the jaw, knocking him to the floor where he sat, dazed, as Sven started yelling at him in Swedish again. Fitz breathed a sigh of relief, and the patrons of the pub broke out in laughter, amused by the losing men's misfortune.
Fitz swept his prize money into his bag and pulled the drawstring closed before snatching up the ticket, holding it aloft for all to see. "My day may have started out rotten, and I thought all hope was lost, but not anymore!" he cried, riding high on a flush of triumph, spirits, and alcohol. "Because I'm headed to America!"
Another chorus of cheers and applause rose up among those gathered in the pub, men raising their pints in salute and taking healthy swigs. The man next to him passed him a mug, and he grinned madly as he tried to take a drink. Outside, Titanic's whistle blew again, and with a start, Fitz's eyes sought out the large clock hanging behind the bar.
It read five minutes until noon. Titanic was scheduled to depart at the top of the hour.
Fitz nearly spat out his mouthful of beer. Instead, he swallowed quickly and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth as he set the pint down on the nearest table. "Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, grabbing his bag and swinging it up over his shoulder. "Right, I'll just be off, then. Ah, excuse me-sorry-excuse me-" He made hastily for the exit, several of the men pounding his back and calling cheers as he went, and as soon as he was outside on the pavement, he started running as fast as his feet would carry him.
He tore through the crowds milling next to the terminal, shouting apologies as he elbowed slow-moving pedestrians, and dodged piles of luggage and handcarts, ignoring the angry yells of the men pushing them. When he made it out onto the pier proper, he broke into a dead run, heading for the same gangway he'd used earlier. He reached it just as an officer detached it at the top; it started to swing down and away from the ship.
"Wait! Wait!" Fitz shouted as he ran up the gangway, waving his ticket. "I'm a passenger!"
The officer, who Fitz recognized as the same man who had turned him away earlier that morning, squinted at him. "I say, weren't you here before?"
"Yes, sir, I was," Fitz said as he came to a stop at the top of the gangway, out of breath and panting. "But I've got a ticket now, you see?" He held it up. "I'm fit for boarding."
The officer looked unsure, but the pressing need to be underway decided for him. "Very well, come aboard," he said, and gestured for the quartermaster standing next to him to reattach the gangway. He did so, and Fitz came over the threshold with a little hop. He handed his ticket to the officer, who barely glanced at it before passing it off to the quartermaster to enter into the passenger list. He did a double-take, looking from the ticket to Fitz, taking in his Scots accent and curly mop of sandy hair.
"Ah, yes, Mister... Gunderson," he said, lingering suspiciously over the Nordic name on the ticket.
"That's me," Fitz said brightly, nodding with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm. The quartermaster looked unconvinced, but handed the ticket back anyway. Fitz thanked him and, grinning, turned to walk quickly down the white-painted corridors in search of his berth.
Titanic was a maze, he soon learned, at least down in the third class accommodations. The narrow corridors were filled with people arguing in several different languages or trying to read signs translated from their guidebooks, luggage blocking the way. Fitz edged past the others as politely as he could, even stopping to help a few-though he wasn't sure how helpful he actually was, considering he wasn't the least fluent bit in German or Russian, and was in fact still slightly drunk. Finally, he made it to the berth listed on Sven Gunderson's ticket and pushed the door open.
Inside were two tall, well-built men who looked remarkably like Sven and Olaf. One was sitting on one of the two lower bunks and paging through a dog-eared book while the other stood at the porcelain sink by the porthole window. Both looked up at Fitz as he entered.
Fitz inhaled and did his best to put on a friendly face. "Er, hello. Leo Fitz," he said, dropping his bag on the other lower bunk and stepping forward to offer a hand to the man at the sink. "I'll be taking Sven's spot."
The man took his proffered hand and shook it, looking puzzled, and exchanged a glance with the other man sitting down. Fitz gave them a bracing smile when the silence stretched a beat too long. "I'm just going to, ah... I'm going to go up on deck. You know, to watch the launch and all." He sketched a tiny salute. "Cheers."
As he turned to leave, he heard one of the men mutter, "Vad hände med Sven? "
-:-
By the time Fitz made it up to the well deck, the ship had cleared the pier and was sailing away down the River Test, leaving Southampton behind and heading for the English Channel. Although there was no one left to wave goodbye to, passengers still lined the rails, looking out at the scenery, and the air was one of festive cheer.
Fitz found it infectious, and he smiled as he strolled across the deck, hands in his pockets, taking in the sights and sounds of the ship. Two young boys shrieked as they chased each other under the watchful eye of their mother, and a father held his young daughter up against the rail so she could better see the view. Two older men sat nearby on a bench, smoking cigarettes and discussing something in a language he didn't understand, their hands waving emphatically as they spoke. Behind him, a cluster of young ladies discussed their plans for when they disembarked in New York.
It may have been a fool's errand, attempting to win a one-way trip across the Atlantic when he had a home and a job to return to in Belfast, but Fitz was feeling optimistic and self-assured. Since he was supposed to have been with the guarantee group for Titanic , his bosses at the shipyard weren't expecting him back for two weeks. By his estimation, his winnings from the poker game would be more than enough to afford him a day or two in New York to see the sights and then secure passage back home on the next steamer. It would be an adventure, his own little glimpse of the high life, something he never would have dreamed possible just a few years before.
And he would get to do it traveling on Titanic, the most well-appointed, luxurious ship in the world. Granted, his accommodations would have been nicer had he actually been with the guarantee group-they were traveling second class instead of third, and would have full run of the ship for feedback and note-taking purposes-but seeing as how an hour earlier he had been certain he'd completely missed his chance, Fitz wasn't complaining. He was on the ship, he was going to America, and for the first time in quite awhile, he felt... hopeful.
If only his mum could see him now.
-:-
Up on B deck, in the so-called "Millionaire's Suite," Grant and Jemma were getting settled into their staterooms. Abby stood in the wardrobe, hanging up Jemma's clothes, while Jemma looked through the contents of one of the trunks the porters had brought into the sitting room. Grant had wandered out onto their private promenade deck, sipping a glass of champagne. Tiring of the view, he came back to lean against the doorframe that led into the sitting room, looking dispassionately at the trunks spread out before Jemma.
"What have you got in all of these, anyhow?" he asked, gesturing with his champagne flute.
Jemma looked briefly at him as she plucked something up from within the trunk: an old, dusty tome, worn and well-loved. "Books," she said. "It's most of my private collection. I thought I'd go ahead and bring them with me now instead of waiting for the rest of our things to be shipped over from England."
Grant frowned. "Good god, all of these trunks have books in them? You've got more than the entire Boston Public Library! Did you have to bring all of them? Or couldn't you have put some in the cargo hold? All they're doing is taking up space. It's not like you can read them all while we're sailing, anyway. We'll be far too busy."
"I read quickly," Jemma said defensively. She clutched the book to her chest. "And many of them were gifts from my father. They're very precious to me."
Grant sighed. "Well, in that case, I guess I'll have to make do." He looked up as a porter brought in a large, heavy safe on a handtruck. "I'll have that in the wardrobe," he said, directing the man through.
Jemma picked up a few more books and carried them into her bedroom, setting them down on the dresser with a smile. They would do well for a bit of light reading before bed each night. Abby grinned at her as she walked past, carrying a few more things to set out on the vanity.
"Isn't this exciting, Miss Jemma?" she asked, her eyes bright. "It all smells so brand new, like they built it just for us. Just think... tonight, when I go to bed, I'll be the first person ever to sleep there!"
Grant reappeared in the doorway, his gaze locked on Jemma. "Yes, there might be a lot of firsts happening on this ship tonight."
Jemma's head snapped up. The corners of Grant's lips were turned upward, his smirk vaguely suggestive. At the vanity, Abby's eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, her cheeks coloring.
"Excuse me, miss," she said after a moment, ducking her head and beating a hasty retreat past Grant, back into the sitting room.
Feeling trapped, self-conscious, and no longer desiring to be alone with her fiancé, Jemma looked around for an escape. "I, ah... I was thinking it might be nice to get a bit of fresh air," she said with as much cheer as she could muster. "What do you think about going to the promenade deck?"
Grant's smirk collapsed into something approaching an annoyed scowl. "Why bother leaving the suite when we've got our own private promenade?"
Jemma looked past his outstretched hand to the windows and the expansive deck beyond it in question, with its potted plants, ivy-covered trellises, and sliding glass windows. "Oh," she said, fumbling. "Yes. Right. Well. It's only half past noon, not even tea time yet. Perhaps some of the other ladies are out for a walk and could use the company."
Grant peered at her. "I've never known you to be so eager for other people's company."
He was right-she normally eschewed socializing on the rare occasions when she could get away with it. Jemma refrained from biting her lip, instead giving him what she hoped was a small, disarming smile. "First time for everything, I suppose."
It seemed to work. Grant shook his head and pushed away from the door, moving to turn and go back into his, toward the sitting room. "I have to see that the rest of our belongings make it here securely. I won't have a greedy steward deciding to steal any of our things. Maybe your mother might like to join you."
Jemma felt a tiny plume of triumph rise in her chest as she watched him go. Maybe her mother would like to join her, or maybe she wouldn't ask her at all. Then she would finally have a few blessed moments of peace to herself.
-:-
"She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history…"
It was early in the afternoon the next day, and Titanic was finally headed out into the open ocean. Jemma, her mother, and Grant were taking lunch at the Palm Court with J. Bruce Ismay, Thomas Andrews, and Daisy Johnson. Ismay was the managing director of the White Star Line, the company that owned Titanic, while Andrews was the architect who had designed the ship. Daisy was an American millionairess who had struck it rich by patenting a safety mechanism widely used in automobile manufacturing. She was considered "new" money, something Jemma's mother and social circle in England looked down upon-along with some of the company Daisy chose to keep-but Jemma found her to be absolutely delightful. These were just some of the many luminaries onboard the ship with whom she would be expected to spend time and make courteous conversation.
Currently, Ismay was extolling the great ship's many virtues. He'd already covered her swift speed and lavish accommodations; now he'd moved on to size. He gestured to his right. "And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up."
Andrews smiled modestly, looking a little uncomfortable under such praise. "Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was all Mr. Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand, so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is-" He slapped the edge of the table. "Willed into solid reality."
Daisy grinned. "I've never understood why ships are called 'she.' Is it because you men think some women look like ships and need to be weighed like one, too?"
Everyone laughed politely except for Jemma, who was only half paying attention to the conversation. Instead, she was allowing herself to daydream about what her life might have been like if she'd been allowed to go to university, rather than being married off to the first wealthy suitor who came knocking. It was an oft-visited fantasy, and one she'd made no secret of to her mother, who had disposed of any notion of it actually happening before her father had been barely cold in the ground. Though Jemma knew it would never come to fruition, not now that she was to be married, she still liked to entertain the idea; it helped to get her through long dinner parties and endless teas, through interminable conversations about fashion and the tedium of social gossip.
Easter term would be starting at Cambridge soon. That was her school of choice, where she had wanted to study the natural sciences, against the advice of almost every advisor and professor to whom she had spoken. Learning the intricacies of biology, chemistry, and especially anatomy was just too potentially upsetting for her delicate feminine sensibilities, she'd been told. She had been adamant, though, as she had always been fascinated by the human body, as well as all other plant and animal life, and she wanted to understand how they worked. Cambridge was the best place for her to learn such things, having a few colleges that permitted women. Even though she would not be able to hold a degree, by virtue of her gender, she would still be able to attend lectures and sit examinations in those hallowed halls. It was one of her heart's deepest desires.
Noticing that her daughter's thoughts were clearly elsewhere, Edith squinted at her. "Jemma? Jemma, are you even paying attention?"
Jemma blinked, looking back at her in mild surprise. She'd gone a little too far inside her own head this time. "I'm sorry, Mother," she said quietly. "I must have been distracted."
Her mother frowned her disapproval. "You know I don't like it when you go on your little flights of fancy, Jemma," she said, indicating she knew full well the content of her daughter's daydreams. "It's very rude to our companions."
"I'm sorry," Jemma said again. "I was only thinking that-"
"She knows," Grant cut in, giving Jemma a flat, displeased glare from where he was sitting next to her.
Jemma folded her hands in her lap and looked down at the table, chastened, angered, and embarrassed. If only she were able to show that she was capable of holding her own in a conversation, that she was just as knowledgeable as men on a great many subjects, that she could even outdo them on a good deal more...
A waiter appeared at Grant's elbow. "We'll both have the lamb," Grant said, indicating himself and Jemma. "Rare, with a little mint sauce." The waiter nodded before moving away, and Grant smiled at her-such a different look from the one he'd worn only a moment ago. "You like mint sauce, don't you, darling?"
Jemma gave him a tight smile. She loathed mint sauce.
Daisy looked between the pair of them with a glint in her eye. "So, are you gonna cut her meat for her too, Grant?" she asked with a smirk, leaning forward slightly over her plate. When Grant didn't answer, electing to ignore her, she turned her attention to Ismay. "So, who came up with the name Titanic? Was it you, Bruce?"
Ismay nodded as he delicately speared a grape on his fork. "Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury... safety-"
Something in Jemma's well of composure snapped. Turning in her seat to face Ismay, she put on her most polite face and said, "Tell me, Mr. Ismay, have you ever heard of Dr. Sigmund Freud? I think his ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you."
Ismay's jaw dropped slightly. "I beg your pardon?"
Across the table from her, Daisy's eyes lit up in undisguised delight while Andrews moved to smother a grin behind one hand. Edith, on the other hand, looked at Jemma in horror, her eyes as wide as the saucers on the table in front of them.
"For God's sake, Jemma," she hissed, "what's gotten into you?"
Feeling a tight pressure building in her chest and the urgent need to get away, Jemma placed her napkin on the table. "Excuse me."
She stood awkwardly, avoiding everyone's eyes, and walked hastily to the exit of the Palm Court and out onto the promenade deck, acutely aware of their gazes following her every step of the way.
-:-
Outside on the weather deck, Fitz was sitting on a bench with a leg crossed over one knee, taking advantage of the afternoon sunlight. Around him, other passengers were enjoying the pleasant day as well: two boys ran up and down the deck, kicking a ball back and forth between them; on the far side of the deck, a matronly lady worked on some knitting while talking with her daughter; and a young immigrant family stood together near the railing, looking out over the ocean.
In his lap, Fitz held a worn, leather-bound sketchbook, one of the few possessions he valued. All of his best ideas, sketches, and designs lived within its pages, and he took it with him whenever he went by the Harland & Wolff offices, because he never knew who he might run into while he was there. He'd decided to spend his afternoon tweaking some existing sketches and outlining some new ones. He might be off on an adventure, but that was no excuse for laziness; fortunately, seeing Titanic for himself had left him feeling particularly inspired.
A sudden patter of feet caught his attention. He looked up in time to see a member of the crew pass by, walking three fine-looking dogs on their leads. He watched them go for a moment, and was about to turn back to his paper when a derisive huff made him look back up. The young man sitting on the opposite end of the bench was watching the dogs, too, shaking his head.
"That's just typical," he muttered, scowling. "First class dogs come down here to take a shit."
Fitz smiled. "Are you really surprised?"
The man turned to look at him with raised eyebrows, clearly taken aback by Fitz's response to his grousing. "No," he retorted, grinning in spite of himself. "They've got to remind us of our place in the rank and file, yeah?" He leaned across the bench to offer his hand in greeting. "Lance Hunter."
"Leo Fitz," Fitz replied, shaking his hand. "But just Fitz is fine."
"Ah, another man who prefers to go by his surname, excellent," Hunter said, leaning back against the bench and propping his elbows up along the top of it. "So what brings you to the good ship Titanic?"
Fitz reached up to scratch at his eyebrow. "Well... I was originally supposed to travel second class, but those arrangements, um, fell through, so... I ended up winning a third class ticket in a very well-played game of poker."
Hunter eyed him over. "Oh, really? Second class? And you've been forced down here with us peasants in steerage? Rotten luck, you."
"Oh! No, no." Fitz laughed, looking down at his worn brown shirt and plucking at it. Once he'd gotten settled on the ship, he'd traded out the nicer jacket and tie he'd bought for the guarantee group for his regular day-to-day clothes. "No, believe me, I'm as regular as the next man. Second class would've been a luxury for me."
"Ah, gotcha." Hunter took a swig out of the silver flask he held in one hand before offering it to Fitz. He politely declined, and Hunter withdrew the flask with an amicable shrug.
"And you?" Fitz asked.
Hunter smiled. "I'm headed all the way across America to the great city of San Diego."
Fitz let out a low whistle. "That's a really long way to go. What's in San Diego for you?"
Spreading his hands, Hunter's smile turned rakish. "Bit of a gamble of my own, I s'pose. What else drives men to go long distances or do very stupid things they definitely shouldn't do?" When Fitz stayed quiet, looking at him expectantly, Hunter smacked him lightly on the arm. "Love, mate! I'm going to meet a lady."
Fitz laughed. "Must be some lady if you're willing to travel halfway across the world just for her."
Hunter's expression turned distinctly fond. "You haven't met Barbara Morse."
Movement on one of the upper decks beyond their bench suddenly caught Fitz's eye. He looked up without thinking-and promptly had his breath stolen away.
A young woman in a pale green dress overlaid with layers of intricate white lace had just strode up to the rail overlooking the well deck that separated her where Fitz and Hunter sat. She was slim and pale with delicate features, her dark hair swept elegantly back from her face. Without a doubt, she was by far the most beautiful woman Fitz had ever seen. But that wasn't what had caught his attention, not entirely. The expression on her face was deeply troubled, mouth set in a frown and posture stiff. She came right up to the rail and curled her hands over it, gripping it tightly; then she inhaled deeply, as if she couldn't quite breathe.
Hunter, noticing that Fitz's attention had shifted, turned to follow his gaze. His smile turned knowing and he twisted back around in his seat, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Ah, forget that, mate," he said. "She's way out of your league. Pigs'll fly and I'll get an audience with the bloody King before you'll ever get next to the likes of her."
But Fitz kept staring. She looked so sad, isolated from the other people out on her deck. They moved around her, hardly sparing a glance in her direction, as if her misery-which was so apparent to Fitz-didn't exist to them at all. He wondered what could possibly have happened in her life that had brought her such great sorrow, that she was unable to keep it carefully hidden away behind the veil of social propriety.
It was then, as her morose gaze drifted across the view before her, that her eyes happened to meet his. Fitz's heart stuttered in shock, but she looked quickly away again. A moment later, though, she looked back... and held his stare.
Were he to be questioned, he couldn't have possibly explained it. He had never seen this woman before in his life. Yet Fitz had the sudden inexplicable feeling that he recognized the melancholy in her eyes-that he could identify it, that the loneliness that seemed to envelop her like a shroud echoed the sense of solitude that had plagued him his entire life.
Beside him, Hunter waved a hand in his face, laughing quietly as he tried to catch his attention. It was to no avail. Fitz was absolutely captivated, unable to look away, drawn to the unhappy woman on the higher deck despite both the physical and social barriers between them. And maybe he dreamt it, but judging by the way she stared intently back at him… perhaps she felt the same way.
Just then, a well-dressed young man came up behind her and wrapped a hand around her elbow. She startled, tearing her eyes away from Fitz, and glanced up over her shoulder at the man. He spoke to her, appearing irritated, and whatever it was he said only made her pull her arm away from him, turning to look back over the water. But the man took her arm again, turning her to fully face him and speaking even more insistently than before. Fitz felt his ire raise as he watched the man scowl at her while he spoke, as her chin lifted defiantly before her shoulders suddenly slumped in defeat. The man nodded, looking sickeningly smug. Then he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her away, back toward the double doors leading into one of the ship's fancy restaurants.
Fitz watched them go, a pit of unease forming in his stomach. It lasted well into the late afternoon, past his continued conversations with Hunter and his unfocused scribblings in his notebook. He knew the chances of him ever seeing that woman again were highly unlikely, but she wouldn't leave his thoughts. Something had been very wrong with what he had witnessed, and a part of him-the part that recognized the haunted expression on her face-wanted to try and help her somehow, impossible though he knew it was. Hunter had been right when he'd said that Fitz, as poor as he was, would never get anywhere close to the social circles she moved in.
Still, he found himself thinking of her more as he went to the dining saloon for dinner that evening. Try as he might, he couldn't stop picturing how dark and sad her eyes had looked as she'd watched him, or how the sun had made her hair shine, or that even though the afternoon had been bright, she still managed to seem lost. What had happened to her? Why was she so distraught? Why had that man treated her with such disregard? And why could he focus on nothing else?