A/N: This is actually a very short chapter and I apologize for that. I'm also about 99.9% positive that there will only be two chapters left after this one. Chapter Fourteen and an Epilogue. I think I'm quite pleased with the way they turned out, too, so I can't wait to see what you think! And without further ado…

The Secret Life Of The Titanic

Chapter Thirteen

The next time Richard opened his eyes, it was to ripe yellow sunlight. He found himself wrapped in a plaid blanket as the boat he was in neared a much larger ship. For a fuzzy blip, he thought it was Titanic and that, just maybe, everything had been a horrible nightmare. But then he saw the words along the ship's side: Carpathia.

He sat up. He was still cold, but no longer shivering and the numbness had been replaced by pain. Physical, naturally, but the more damning was the pain in his heart. The events of hours before – or at least, he assumed hours – replayed against his mind's eye. Jason and Adrian. The blackness that Adrian had disappeared into.

"Sir, we're ready to board."

Richard sat up, realizing that one of the crewman was speaking to him. His head swirled and the man caught him, holding him upright. He couldn't find words to thank the man, but he seemed to understand anyway, and helped Richard to step into another life boat. This one was connected to ropes. Instead of going down, they went up, carrying him to the top of the Carpathia and allowing two Carpathia crewman in to help him onto the deck of the ship itself.

A couple of women dressed in long black dresses, starched white aprons, black capelets, and white hands were there to take away his wet blanket and wrap him in two more dry ones. One of the women guided him over to a bench and sat him down, handing him a bowl of steaming broth.

"Drink up, Sir." Her accent was thick and Welsh. "Let one of us know if you need anything else."

Richard held the soup below his face, absorbing the steam into his pores. The chicken smell began to waft into his nostrils and his stomach growled accordingly. He spooned some to his lips but when the hot liquid touched his teeth he dropped the spoon back into the bowl and ran his tongue along his teeth to sooth them. After the shock had subsided, he began to blow along the golden broth until he didn't see anymore steam and risked tasting the soup again. The more he slurped, the hungrier he realized he was. He felt like a wild animal the way he was attacking the spoon. It certainly wouldn't have been an acceptable way to eat at a first class dining table.

But then again, that was all gone. He'd never be in first class again. He never wanted to be. Whether or not Zoe and his father had made it onto the Carpathia entered his mind. He looked up but all the faces looked the same. Richard decided to finish his soup before he let himself worry anymore and ended up cleaning the bowl out entirely. He even licked it, which he knew was far from couth. Then he set it aside and stood up. He didn't see the woman who had given him the soup and the others dressed similarly were all busy.

Richard began to wander. His eyes roamed the occupants. Many were crying, some were huddled together, others prayed, and then there were those like himself who sat alone, staring off into the distance at nothing and everything. His journey took him inside the ship where he found most of the first class passengers had congregated so he steered out and fumbled down a few flights of stairs on the outside decks until he saw people in clothes that resembled Adrian's. As he stepped off the last of a flight of stairs, a crewman passed him.

"Sir," the man said, his accent English. "I don' think you'll find any of your people down 'ere. It's all steerage."

Richard winced at the term steerage and shook the man off, moving into the crowd. There were considerably less numbers than there had been inside. He could hear many different conversations going on around him, most in languages he didn't recognize. He even passed one woman who was struggling to communicate with an officer. From what he could make of her broken English, she was searching for her husband, and she couldn't accept the fact that all of the twenty life boats had already unloaded.

He spent the entire day searching the upper and lower decks for Grace, but he'd come up dry every time. The false leads – the back of the blonde heads that he had thought might be her – were the most draining on him, and by dinner, his heart had sunk when he finally came to terms with the fact that he'd let Jason and Adrian down. He wondered what had happened to her: had she jumped off the boat too? Had the cold gotten to her before the boat had gotten to the Carpathia?

With yet another death on his conscious, Richard resigned himself to lonesome corners. He drained that evening's soup and fell asleep on a pile of itchy wool. He dreamed of fresh lacquer, ocean air, sparkling lights, and rushing water. He dreamed of death. He didn't dream of Adrian. When he awoke the next morning, he made several more rounds of the ship, hoping against the odds that maybe he would find Grace, but alas, nothing.

By April 18, 2012, two days later, the rain was coming down in sheets. All around him people held umbrellas above their heads, but Richard was content to stand on the deck and hold his head back as the rain lashed against him. The Statue of Liberty loomed above him and it almost seemed as if she was mocking him.

"Sir, would you like an umbrella?"

Richard turned suddenly and nearly choked.

"Richard?"

"Grace!" Throwing caution to the wind, he threw his arms around her. "Wh – I've been looking everywhere for you for two days!"

Grace flushed. "I've been volunteering! Feeding people, fetching blankets," she shook her hand which held the umbrella, "getting umbrellas! Oh my God, Richard!" Tears flooded her eyes as she held her own umbrella over Richard's head and hugged his neck. "Thank God you're alive! Where're Jason and Adrian?"

Richard went ridged in her arms. As she slowly pulled away, he saw the grim in her silver orbs. "I – I'm so sorry…"

Grace shook her head. "No. No…"

"I – we – did everything we could…but it wasn't enough." Richard closed his eyes. The sound of Grace's sobs drowning in the rain made him want to sink to the floor. "She saved my life."

Grace moved close to Richard, keeping the umbrella above both of their heads. She hugged him suddenly, surprising him. "She saved mine too."

Richard wrapped his arm around Grace, holding her close to his side as the rain pelted her umbrella.

"Can you believe it?" Grace whispered.

"Believe what?"

She motioned her hand to the mammoth statue. "It's brilliant. I – I always thought the first time I'd see it though, it would he with Adrian at my side."

"I'm sorry."

Grace shook her head. "It's not your fault. When I couldn't find you – any of you – I knew. I put everything I had into helping others just to get me through. I suppose finding you here, at this moment, was just part of God's plan. I'm not sure what to make of it yet, but I suppose He has something else in store for us."

Richard was silent. He wasn't sure about plans or any kind of grand design, but what he did know was that he still had a promise to keep, and he would hold onto it for as long as he lived.

The Carpathia docked in New York that night, but it wasn't until morning that Grace and Richard found themselves able to finally leave the media frenzied dock. However, before they could slip off into the shadows – and into their new lives – a single reporter caught Grace by the arm. "Excuse me, Miss, but I was wondering if I might get a picture for the paper?"

Grace wavered. "Oh, I don't know-"

"You were pointed out to me," he insisted. "They said you were a volunteer. I'm writing an article on the heroic actions of the volunteers in the aftermath of the Titanic's sinking."

"I promise I'm not that heroic, I was just doing what anyone would do," Grace argued bashfully.

"Please, Miss. Just one photograph."

Grace sighed heavily. "All right. I suppose, if it means that much to you."

Richard stood protectively by Grace's side, not about to let her out of his sight again, even in spite of the offense of the camera. He'd never liked them.

Minutes later, when he'd gotten what he'd needed, the reporter smiled. "Just one more thing: may I get your name, Miss?"

"Grace Bowman."

The reporter noted her name and the spelling and then turned expectantly towards Richard. "And you, Sir?"

Richard glanced over his shoulder, staring at the Statue of Liberty against the distant sunrise. He turned back with a solemn expression. "Lee," he said finally. "Ricky Lee."