So this chapter is a little different, to mark the one hundredth anniversary of Titanic's maiden voyage and sinking, I have written my own version. Kind of like a jump back in time to 1912, Bella of course will still be human. So unfortunately an Edward-less chapter (boo), but back to the good stuff in the next chapter (yay.) This took a little longer to update, but I was determined to publish this on April 15th, and here in London it still is. So I win!
Once again many thanks to those who review, alerted, or favour. Much thanks.
Of course I do not own the Twilight Saga Franchise. Because my bank balance doesn't have that many zero's.
Chapter Twenty Four: A Remembrance
April 10th, 1912, Southampton Berth 44
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Apart from the scattering of wispy white clouds lingering on the horizon, the day was pale and clear with a fresh north-west to west wind. Although a fair day forecast, I was increasingly glad for the velvet trimmed fur coat that mother had so strongly insisted I wear. But one drew the line at the ostentatious matching muff. It had been a mild spring that had yielded from a snowless winter, and the accessory was quite unneeded. But I doubted it was the last I had seen of the item, and was sure it had been packed into the depths of one of my trunks in secret.
I sincerely hoped New York to be warm.
The motorcar zipped cleanly through the Southampton streets, overtaking anything that dared to move at a slower pace. From the driver's seat the chauffeur made an indignant little sound as a carriage lingered in the road too long, he knew there was an appointment we could not be late for.
Within said automobile, I sat opposite my father and akin my mother; trying in earnest to shield myself from her excitable chit chat. With the days broadsheet cast upon his knee and the occasional nod towards my mother, father had the skill of keeping her subdued down to a fine art. I watched his up-flicked moustache twitch to the left every time he read something disagreeable, and how he bought the corners of the paper together in order to turn a page.
My father was a man of little words; conveniently paired with a woman of many, his emotions usually were displayed in gestures rather than speech. This was no pleasure trip for him, with the new yard in Nova Scotia his business was about to expand. And even I; who had no knowledge in the field, could see the light strain that appeared in his brown eyes, a couple more silver hairs and a constant compulsion for updates of the stock market.
He had even requested up-to-date news via Titanic's wireless station, at regular intervals during our seven day trip. Never wanting to be out of the proverbial loop.
Minding my atrociously broad hat; with its face-shadowing brim and feathered corsage, I skilfully managed to turn my head towards the window. Noting the view of the tiny terrace houses that lined most streets, had now given way to the great open expanse of the docklands. The mirage of shimmering water lined with seemingly hundreds of large vessels and small fishing boats. It was such a difference from the ample green countryside encountered on the train journey from Waterloo Station.
It was as the car turned onto the strait of berth 44, that Titanic did come into view, blocking out the entirety of my window and casting a great shadow over the dock. And what a sight it was.
The black and white trimmed hull towered over everything in her dock, smoke bellowed from three of the mustard coloured funnels creating its own string of clouds. The great body of the ship permeated with hundreds upon hundreds of perfectly round portholes, people already ambled and waving from the rails of the open upper decks. The whole scene swarmed with excitement and trepidation for the voyage ahead.
Mother's fingers gripped my forearm as she moved in her seat to get a better look; even father had folded the paper upon his knee to acquire a view. "Oh, the postcards do not do it justice." She trilled excitedly, shaking my arm to further prove her point.
"It is a fine luxury liner." He nodded in agreement. But even as a merchant shipper I was quite sure it was the most handsome ship he had ever seen, a lot more attractive than the cargo ships moored in London. On the odd occasion I visited the West India Docks; much rarer now I had come of age, were always punctuated by the smell of rotting cargo or sheer bedlam of people loading and offloading stock. The large steel vessels were built for the importation and exportation of goods, not luxury travel.
As soon as the automobile came to a steady stop along berth 44, a commotion sounded between a group of men stood in a huddle next to the covered gangway. Orders were given by the one who looked to be in charge, before a finely dressed fellow hastily made his way towards the car. The double rows of pressed brass buttons glinted in the morning sun as he made his approach, opening the door before standing stoic to one side.
Father was the first to exit, his expensive leather shoes tapping rhythmically against the wooden planks of the dock. The gold trim along his hat matched perfectly with the gold inlay upon his waistcoat, the three piece suit making him all the more gentlemanly against Titanic's backdrop. From the inner pocket of his black tailored jacket a bundle of bound documents were extracted, passed to the other man before he bowed quickly and departed towards the ship.
With his ivory topped cane under one arm, father extended his gloved hand into the car, to aid both mother and I. Once again, I was forced to mind my hat on the frame of the motorcar, dipping low to avoid snagging the corsage. And I was even more mindful of my footing against the uneven paving; for I was known to cause myself a mischief, and this really wasn't the social occasion to fall. Moving carefully to one side, I was finally given the chance to view Titanic in the open.
The notion made all the more incredible by the smell of the salty breeze that flowed along the pier, and the sound of her whistle reverberating through the air. Any apprehension I may have had regarding the trip instantly evaporated, and I was completely elated to be privileged enough to go on board.
"How wonderful." Mother breathed, almost quivering on the spot.
The sound of a vibrating motor took my attention as our secondary automobile arrived neatly behind the first, quickly swarmed by four men dressed in the same navy blue uniforms. Each one moved swiftly to offload our numerous trunks, cases and hat boxes. While from the car emerged the house staff, we were to travel with. Stepping down heavily; without the aid of anyone, my governess Margret appeared. She took a calculating scope of the surrounds, before brushing down her woollen coat and throwing a look of disfavour in the direction of father's manservant Wilkins.
I hoped in earnest the trip would calm her frayed temper; the woman was as fiery as her ruddy complexion. Although, I was quite glad she was putting the younger man in place, rather him than me.
"Isabella, come along, dear." I turned back to face mother and her beckoning hand, blushing at being caught idly staring. Quickly- but carefully- I followed the lead of my parents as they were chauffeured up the gangway by another meticulously dressed officer.
The moment I stepped upon Titanic I knew her luxury was surely unrivalled by any other ship afloat. The floors were covered with plush carpets and intricate Persian rugs, beautiful dark wood furniture, and stunning art decorated every room. We were greeted by our own personal steward and stewardess who were to show us to our designated staterooms, located on the starboard side of B deck. Also, upon this deck; located closer to the bow, were the Café Parisian and the À la Carte Restaurant, two places Mother was most elated to be visiting.
Dining on the likes of Titanic was sure to be a social affair, where the members of first class could mingle and parade their wealth in a way only they could. My parents were all too aware, packed into our entourage of luggage were the finest of clothing and jewellery. A good proportion of items were especially commissioned for the voyage, made with imported fabrics in exclusively uptight tailor shops.
Preparations had been a year in the making, ever since my father and Christopher Marvin made the announcement. With the opening of the new shipping dock in Nova Scotia, the main reason behind the trip; and Mr Marvin acting as my father's lawyer in the legal matters. It was supposed to be a chance to bring the two families together before the impending wedding, now set for August 12th. Although that very notion was enough to strike a fair bit of trepidation into me, at least George and I would have a chance to get to know each other before said alliance.
Still, we dutifully followed the lead of the stewards towards the staterooms, moving through a maze of beautifully decorated hallways. When a thought did strike.
"Do you know which cabins the Marvin's are residing in?" I asked, thinking it only polite to ask after them. Mother interpreted this differently and gave me a somewhat sly smile, and even though she was wrong, I could not help the blush that grew hotly against my cheeks.
"B57." Father stated in his baritone voice, looking impossibly taller against the narrow white hallway. "Their stateroom is just down from ours." I nodded in response, but purposely avoided eye contract with my mother whose brows were surely wagging.
With the thickness of the fur coat now becoming a burden within the warmth of the ship's decks, I was more than glad when our traipsing came to an end. And we were shown into the spacious stateroom.
Our parlour suite adorned cabin numbers fifty one, fifty three and fifty five, containing two bedrooms; each with their own entrance, and a shared sitting room in between. All decorated in a tasteful Georgian style, with cherry wood furniture and acanthus leaf mouldings. While Mother and Father were toured around their own private bedroom, I was shown to mine.
Having introduced herself as Anne Martin, my middle aged stewardess seemed to have a bright disposition about her. Her regional accent breaking through the Received Pronunciation, she had undoubtedly been taught.
"The door to your left is the one that adjoins the washroom and the one to the right is the wardrobe." Anne declared, smoothing her hands over the black cotton uniform.
I nodded in response, taking in the exquisite surrounds before my eyes landed upon the side table opposite the plush bed.
"The flowers were especially requested for you, Miss." She gestured to the fine bone china vase resting on the piece of furniture, and the red rose bouquet that almost engulfed it.
"They are beautiful." I observed, moving to touch the silky crimson petals. Although they were not my favourite flowers, the sweet fragrance was a warm comfort, reminding me of the rose soap we used at home.
"Your family staff have been situated straight across the hall. But if there are any other issues do not hesitate to call for me." She smiled politely, before turning to leave.
"Oh, and Miss?"
I turned to see her standing stoic in the door frame, hand clasped neatly on her starched white apron.
"Yes?" I replied.
"Welcome aboard."
Merely minutes after I had been left to my thoughts, a rapid knocking appeared from the other door. Quickly followed by Mothers excitable voice calling my name through the wood. "Come in." I answered, trying to reset my hair with an eye watering amount of hair pins.
From the reflection in the mirror, I watched as she tottered in as quickly as the confines of her skirt would allow, shutting the door with her hip and came to sit on the edge of my bed. Running her hand along the soft bedding and nodding approval. "Isn't this handsome." She sighed dreamily.
"It's incredible." I agreed. "I can't quite believe we're on Titanic, after all those photographs in the papers… they just do not do it justice."
"Oh, imagine the look on dear Mrs Barlette's face when she hears of the sights I have seen, her trip to Venice will be stale news when I get back." Her hands clapped together numerous times, before she was up on her feet and grabbing me by the shoulders. "And think… just think of New York Isabella. The fashion, the sights, the opera." She sighed, absently curling my hair around her fingers and pinning it up, a skill she had perfected over time.
Mother had always been a prolific socialite, with a love of being the center of many circles. Hosting lavish tea parties and being invited to exclusive events, she was always planning something new in her flighty ways. But it was this juvenile excitement and drive; not to mention her married name, that made her a fashionable friend to have.
Marriage at my age was the norm for her, having been in the same boat as I at eighteen. Although my father had been much older; already thirty by their nuptials, it was a well needed age gap to rein in her fickle ways. And I was quite sure my grandfather was relieved to find someone who would marry his wild daughter.
"All done." She declared. "Now hurry, hurry, put your hat on."
"Why where are we going?" I questioned, fixing the dastardly thing on my head.
"The Promenade Deck, silly, don't you want to see the ship depart?" I nodded quickly, wanting to be a part of the iconic moment Titanic would surely be remembered for and watch England disappear as we sailed towards Cherbourg. "Oh, and we shall be meeting the Marvin's on deck, so put a little rouge on your cheeks."
"Mother, we don't have our trunks yet." I reminded her slowly.
"Bother." She pouted, looking disgruntled at my news. But not one to be deterred by such an obstruction, her nimble fingers grabbed my cheeks and issued them with a sharp pinch. "Nice bit of colour." She mused, before giving them a pat and flouncing off.
The glass panelled Promenade deck seemed to go on for quite the distance, the ends only just visible over the groups of people viewing the scenes below. I strolled arm in arm with Mother, following the strong strides of my father. His walnut cane tapping rhythmically against the polished wood floor, setting a steady pace.
We politely nodded and greeted other persons in passing. Before mother's elbow began nudging me. "Look Isabella, there he is." She whispered erratically. Her eyes did not deceive her, standing impressively tall and gazing at the crowds below was George. Alongside him the portly Christopher and dainty Mary Marvin, looking on with idle interest.
"Marvin." My father announced loudly, grabbing the attention of the whole family. Christopher let out a gruff laugh and the two men shook hands, clapping each other on back in homage to their Eton education.
"Mrs Swan, a pleasure to see you again." George smiled, kissing Mothers hand, causing her to giggle outlandishly. "And of course not forgetting Miss Swan." He replayed the gesture upon my own hand. I would be a fool to admit I wasn't taken by his charm, and even more foolish to deny he was very handsome. His dark raven hair and piercing blue eyes; always so impeccably dressed and poised.
"George." I acknowledged with a smile. "How was your journey?"
"Agreeable." He placed his hand upon my waist and guided us closer to the glass windows. "Although we had hoped to join you on the boat train, but business in Oxford delayed our travel." He looked troubled by the turn of events, and my immediate response was to comfort him.
"But we are all together now." I tried, placing my hand on his arm in the hopes of providing some ease. It seemed to suffice, for he grasped my hand in his and tightly linked our arms together.
As noon arrived by the timing of George's pocket watch, there came a great cheer from the huge dock bound crowds and Titanic began to glide away from the berth. Surrounding her were numerous tiny tugs pulling and pushing her away from land and out towards the open sea. There reached a point in which the tugs no longer pulled, instead began to position the ship facing the opening of the River Test.
A great rumble from the bowels of the ship signalled the engines had started, and with it the mighty bronze propellers had started to turn.
"Excited?" George whispered.
"Exceedingly." I nodded feverishly.
Titanic's great bow began to edge faster and faster down river, leaving behind the masses of waving people. Visible now where two other ships moored further down and in tandem, both completely dwarfed by Titanic. Waves cast by the motion of our vessel caused the one closest to bob up and down uncontrollably. But as Titanic moved past the second; now identified as New York, the sound of gun shots pervaded the air. And it seemed as if New York's bow had begun to arc outwards, towards us.
"It's mooring lines have snapped." Father stated, narrowing his eyes as if to see better. Groups of people around us began muttering loudly, while slowly edging away from the windows.
"But it's not going to strike us." Mary Marvin replied confidently. She did not receive a reply, and the reassurance she had distilled upon herself was dulled. We all began to move backwards as New York continued its careering path; my grip on George's arm became parasitic. And we could only watch in muted horror as she came closer and closer.
The silence was pierced as someone yelled. "Tug." And all heads turned downwards, watching as a small red tug began to push against the unmanned ship. At the same moment Titanic's engines made a deep groaning noise, she came to a steady stop before beginning to move back towards the White Star Line docks.
There was an audible sigh of relief all round.
"Thank goodness." I whispered, hand against my racing heart. George was quick to soothe me, joining our hands together.
"Don't fret, my dear, Titanic is unsinkable."
Having watched both seasons one and two of Destination Truth (my new obsession), while writing this out, I have to apologise if there are any mistakes. Because I'll be damned if American TV shows aren't bloody addictive. My wages are just getting spent on buying the box sets, it's not healthy. Soon it will be food, or season three, and I'm pretty damn sure I'll pick box set.