A/N: We have officially reached chapter fifty, it's a nice whole number that's half of one hundred and I feel it needs a little commemoration. This chapter came from a sudden bout of inspiration, and a whole day off in which I wrote till my fingers grew sore. I hope you enjoy, but first my usual thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted and favoured.

ForgeandGred4Ever: I can't wait for Emmett to join, a little comic relief and boyish behaviour. Thanks for reviewing.

CullenBoy123: He seems to be everyone's favourite character, who doesn't love him and his unperturbed nature towards being a vampire. Thanks for another review.

MissMartha: Thanks for your review. I'm glad you picked up on that, I wanted to show Bella's emotional growth and her ability to deal with situations (although hiding under the duvet probably didn't reflect that.) And with Bella telling him to cut Rosalie some slack, I think he'll do as he's told.

Sarah.A.A: Another keen Emmett fan! I have definitely got my work cut out for his story. I certainly hope Rosalie will be more agreeable, if not there are numerous people who can give her a gentle reminder. If not I'm sure the addition of her love interest will make her much more agreeable. Hope your sister is enjoying the story, and thanks for the review.

viola1701e: Indeed I am going to have fun writing him into the story. Emmett will definitely have a profound effect on Rosalie; and subsequently the destruction of houses. I can imagine Esme making him live in a tent, I love that idea! Thanks for the review.

Matthias Stormcrow: Thank you for another kind review!

Dislaimer: I do not own the rights to the Twilight Saga.


Chapter Fifty: Iustitia

Wednesday 3rd July 1912: Wreck Commissioner's Court, Westminster, London.

From the public gallery the mirage of jet clothing swaddled the stoic figures sat on the benches, while most would have complained about common seating arrangement given any other situation, today they were silent. Ebony lace, black ribbon and dark French muslin became a repetitive theme for all those who looked into the veiled faces of the public.

The Wreck Commissioner and his assessors could feel the heat of society's expectations; their penetrating gaze burnt every man who stood within the Royal Court. The people watching down upon them were not the general public, they were society's aristocrats. Primarily made of widows, mothers and sisters, female relations of RMS Titanic's victims.

Members of the court had been notified beforehand to the selection of the final day's community sentries, there were the familiar names; those who had attended nearly every hearing, and those who had come to listen to the final report. But amongst the vision in the black, the gentlemen were wary of one figure in particular who had watched over every single day of the inquest. Sitting in a seat than had become her designated spot, and harbouring a loss that could produce no recovery, Mrs Charles J Swan had come for the last day.

She sat on the front bench, left hand side and closest to the witness stand, never uttering a word throughout the long days. Each morning she came to the court in her motorcar, dress immaculately in the heavy garments of morning and pinned with stunning variations of Whitby Jet. She void any attention from the press, unperturbed by their call and shouts for information as they were kept at bay by the court officials.

The papers had begun to use her as symbol of respectable morals, mourning her loss with proper integrity and standing with chaste lingering Victorian Values. But the hand woven lace veil that fell from her black Ascot hat, cast a shadow that could not be penetrated by the flash-lamp cameras. Today they were particularly pressing, a hunger for the final story, and answers for their readers.

Inside the inquiry court the evidence was still being considered, questions still being asked and a formal report still within note form.

"It is a most extraordinary thing that no attempt was made to communicate with the Titanic." The Commissioner stated, leaning forward over the high dock to address the members below.

"Quite, the more extraordinary inasmuch as I have certainly understood as the Rule which everybody who goes to sea would never fail to observe, that if you see a vessel in distress you must do your utmost to get to it." Replied the tall Attorney-General, pacing the floor ahead of the table of naval and maritime experts.

"You are correct, Sir." Confirmed one.

"And I have come to understand, certainly amongst sailors, not only in this country, but elsewhere, that it is a Rule of honour from which they do not depart." The Attorney continued.

"Tis." Confirmed another expert, with a nod.

"Well then in this particular case, I am unable to find any possible explanation of what happened." The Attorney said, slicing his hand through the air to hit his palm. "The only explanation may be that the Captain of the rescue vessel was in ice for the first time, and would not take the risk of going to the rescue of another vessel. But even that does not explain why they did not call up the wireless operator to ascertain what the condition of things. We have heard no explanation of it."

"And so what do you suggest?" Frowned the stern Commissioner.

"That this vessel, the Californian, could have got to the Titanic, and might have got to the Titanic in time to save the passengers. It is; I am afraid, the irresistible conclusion from this evidence. If she was at this distance of five to seven miles, and she could steam eleven knots an hour; she did steam eleven - she could, in fact, do as much as thirteen - even allowing for her having to deviate so as to avoid the ice-field, there still would have been a very considerable opportunity for her to have got there in time, more especially, I think, if you take into account that there must have been some discrepancy between the clocks, or anyhow, the time as given of these events by the Witnesses for the Californian."

There were loud sobs from the public gallery, and two women were escorted from the court.

"Now I do not propose to go further into the evidence of the Californian; unless your Lordship desires it, because it seems to me that when you have got those facts, really there is sufficient to establish quite clearly that these distress signals which were seen, and seen at a distance which would have enabled the Californian to get to the Titanic. I entail that when the consorting evidence is once again consider at trial, the proper action is taken."

"Hear-hear." Agreed the experts.

"Your final conclusion, Sir?" Nodded the Commissioner.

"The final conclusion to which I would call attention would be this: that this Court may recommend most useful precautions for saving life. And The Board of Trade and Parliament may take the amplest care that proper precautions should be prescribed, and that there should be a sufficient protection given to those who are sailing on the seas against loss of life in the event of disaster."

The harsh whisper from the gallery, warrant a reminder from the Commissioner for silence.

"And I can only say that as the result of this Enquiry it is to be hoped that no vessel will ever take such utterly unnecessary risks as I submit were taken on this voyage - that no vessel will ever again take such a risk as that, and that it will always be borne in mind by those who are responsible for the navigation. With that, and thanking your Lordship, and thanking your Lordship in all earnestness and sincerity for the patience with which you have listened to this long Enquiry, I leave the matter to your Lordship for your Report." The Attorney-General finished, mopping his brow with the edge of his handkerchief.

"Very well. Thank you, Mr. Attorney, members of the board and to all witnesses to have attended their accounts. For the benefit of all those who have suffered at the hands of this horrific disaster and to those who seek answers." He gazed meaningfully at the row of mourning jet. "I will do my upmost to get this Report out in reasonable time. And with that I duly conclude this inquiry, you may all rise."

There immediately came a great barrage noise, moving chairs, shuffling papers and murmuring voices. A rather lithe looking clerk collected up his piles of handwritten documents, filing them away within a severe looking case. Once his task complete he quickly following after the departing figure of the Chief Commissioner, his great strides sending his black robe billowing dramatically out behind him. He cast a final look back, catching sight of the empty public gallery. They would be full of spectators once the lawsuits and expense charges came; he wondered how many cases against White Star Line he would pervade over.


One by one the line of carriages and motorcars became filled with their owners; chauffeurs attempting to open doors amongst the hustle of the press and explosions of magnesium flash powder. The streets around the Royal Court of Justice were packed with every type of class, those affected by the disaster and those with simple morbid curiosity. All kept at bay by a formidable line of metropolitan constables and mounted officers.

The moment a familiar Wolseley graced the scene the ruckus only got louder, and they were soon rewarded by the departing figure of one of society's most wealthy widows. As per usual nothing was exchanged with the journalists, as she walked straight to her awaiting motorcar and departed the scene.

Amongst the plush upholstered seating and covered windows of the car, Mrs Swan let out a harsh ragged breath against the confines of her corset. The leather in her tailored gloves creaked as she attempted to calm the uncontrollable shakes of her hands, and trembles in her weak legs.

"Home." She whispered to the driver.

Without fail for thirty six days she had attended the British Wreck Commissioner's Inquiry; before everything had transpired the idea of sitting through something so monotonous would have never appealed. Yet things were not commonplace anymore.

She could feel it, every day since that moment she had felt it. A great hole that burnt within her chest, continuous aching and yearning that was unrelenting. It made her weak, breathless and sick. And the worst part of the barrage of pain, was the notion it could never be cured. For it accompanied a loss she knew she would never recover from.

Seventy four days had passed, every waking moment, every moment she closed her eyes, she could see them. Their smiling faces, the sound of their voices, the overwhelming blithe that accompanied their very presence. But after every happy memory she could not control the way her mind jumped to that last moment. The last time she saw her husband on the deck of that ship, smoking his cigar with a serene look upon his handsome face. Looking so tall and grand, the vision she had been so charmed by all those years ago.

She had buried her beloved husband; in his favourite spot amongst the great gardens of their Kent estate, having been given the chance to say her goodbyes.

But fate had been cruel and dealt its most heartless hand, taking away her only child. Her baby, her daughter. There was no recovery of the body from the water, and so no chance to say goodbye, no chance to grieve. Even to this moment she could hear the sound of her child's scream, her failed attempts to reach her, and the agonizing way the fabric of her dress slipped through her fingers. The memories were raw and riddled with guilt, immediately inflaming the hole, bringing a great aching lump to her throat and burning tears to the surface.

Behind her glove and veil she stifled an anguished sob, biting down painfully on her lip to stop the noise. The driver either didn't notice, or had the dexterity to pretend. Allowing her to take several haggard breaths and settle her simmering emotions from the surface.

Each day she had returned to court, listened with macabre rapture to each witness, every scrap of information and the insight given by the naval experts. And so after thirty four days, they declared the reasons for her loss had been through human error and oversight. A ship that had failed to answer the distress call, a record speed in ice-fields, engineering faults in the water tight bulk heads. Yet nothing would have mattered, had there been a sufficient number of lifeboats upon that ship.

White Star Line could have made it so, they possessed the money to install life preservation for every person on that ship. As the reasons mounted her mind decided, she was going to deliver a lawsuit straight to the shipping company. Liability had to be taken; they needed to be held accountable.

She may not have been the most intellectual type, not well read like her daughter, or proficient in other languages. But she was cunning. The daughter of a middle class doctor with higher ambitions than her simple situation. Once upon a time she had set her sights on a wealthy and handsome older gentleman, through carefully planned meetings and smiles, her cunning nature had paid off. She had married that gentleman.

And now she would use that cunning nature to ruin White Star Line, the money was of no consequence, but justice would be served.

Mrs Swan exited her motorcar outside Number Six Grosvenor Square, ignoring the people passing along the street and entering the house in a sway of black. Her black coat was removed with aid of the house butler, he offered her high tea but she declined, feinting fatigue. She walked up the grand staircase, averting her eyes from the portraits that hung along the walls. Her destination was the master suite, the safety and comfort of its walls and the promise of a dark sanctuary.

But her feet stopped well before reaching that door, instead she found herself face to face with another. One that she had denied her house staff access to, one that she herself had not entered since they had departed that morning.

She could hear her laboured breathing, the lump returning to her throat and the familiar flare of pain. Her gloved hand reached out independently of her want, clasping the brass handle and twisting it. The click of the spring lock, sending her legs into uncontrollable tremors.

It swung open with no hesitation in the hinges, revealing the perfectly persevered cream and lavender bedroom. The sunlight streamed into the room through three great single hung windows, catching the dancing dust from months of neglect. Onto to soft cream carpet she walked, automatically tracing a path she had taken so frequently. Barraging in to tell her some idle piece of gossip, what to wear and how to pin her hair. She could picture everything so clearly.

Tears began to build up along the lids of her hazel eyes, clinging along her lashes until they began to fall. Snaking tracks through the light powder on her face, and dripping onto the jet stone of her necklace.

It was a sight on the bedside cabinet that became her undoing, that allowed a cry to break through her lips. A simple book, pages and binding worn through repetitive reading. Lying spine down and open, waiting for its reader to pick it up and continue.

But they never would.

The hole got impossibly wider, spilling its bounty of emotions through her; uncontrollable tremors accompanied heart wrenching wails. Her hands found their way to the veil, ripping it painfully from the snarls of hair.

"Why?!" She screamed over and over, ignoring the hastening sounds of footsteps approaching.

There were sudden voices within the room, people calling her name. She attempted to fight against the first hands trying to subdue her, but couldn't fight for long, the repercussion of the never ending emotions had taken their toll. She gave into the next, gripping on tightly to their arms in search of support. Something to take away the loneliness.

"Hush now." Came the familiar strong accent of Margret, struggling to calm the hysterical outburst of her mistress. Eventually she began to calm, the incessant cries becoming less frequent.

"Why?" She whispered brokenly. "Why did they take my Isabella?"


A/N: Ok so it's a little angsty, but I wanted to do something different for chapter fifty. I hope you enjoyed the chapter (enjoyed perhaps being the key word.)

I can't take all the credit for the inquest speech, after doing a little research I found a great website called the "Titanic Inquest Project", which has made electronic copies of the inquest speeches; both the American and British. It would be impossible to include everything within the report, even on the last day. So I have summed up the speeches and tried to make them a little easier to understand; there was a lot of maritime jargon. So thank goodness for them.

Thanks for reading!