Ah, thank you all once again for sticking with me! That last one was ROUGH, but the worst has passed, I promise! However, Harry's existential crisis continues ;) This interlude takes place during the chapter 'Interference'; as a brief reminder, Corrine takes Lightoller's warning about Harry to heart, and when she's on the well deck with Katie the next morning, she leaves without acknowledging him. 'The Note' picks up with Harry's POV that afternoon.

An alternate title for this interlude is 'The Return of the King' ;)

Harold sat on his settee with a blank piece of paper on his lap and a completely blank mind in his head.

What was he going to say to her?

He was terrible at writing letters. He had an entire stack of fresh creamy White Star stationery sitting in his secretaire chest, and he hadn't used a single sheet. He had thought about writing to his favorite sibling, Edgar, but what would he tell him? Besides, like Harold, Edgar was a sailor; he likely wouldn't get the letter for months, and by then any news would be stale. He wasn't all that close to any of his other siblings - he and his sister, Ada, had nursed a years-long rivalry, for one - and his father... well, that wasn't happening. Although they had established an uneasy truce a few years ago that allowed Harold to return to Penrallt occasionally, the animosity that was always lurking just beneath the surface could be stoked to a flame again with a few careless words. Anyway, the best time to post a letter would have been yesterday at Queenstown, and he had been too... preoccupied the night before that to write at all.

But the letter he had to write now was important - and necessary. He needed to tell Corrine... what? That he had spent an hour with her the day before, and wanted more - much more? That he had gone to look for her so many times today that the stewards working that end of the boat deck were starting to think he was daft? That he couldn't understand why she didn't wave at him this morning - why she pretended she didn't see him?

Yes. That last one. Why had she left? What had he done wrong?

There was only one way to find out - he had to meet with her again. And writing a formal letter to request such a meeting seemed like a harmless enough plan. But he knew even the act of writing and sending a letter would reveal that she had gotten into his head - and he wasn't quite ready to admit that to himself yet, much less to her. So it had to be phrased delicately. He mulled over it for a little while, wrote several disastrous drafts where he disclosed far too much, and crumpled them up in frustration. Ultimately, the version he decided on was simple: 'C- I would like to talk to you about this morning. Can we meet? Please give Mr. Kieran a time and place.'

He looked the note over one more time, signed it with a bold, dark, "H", and folded the paper twice.

Now, to deliver it. He already knew he wasn't going to do it in person. First, it would be exquisitely awkward to hand her a note revealing his interest in her and wait there while she read it. Second, he hadn't the slightest idea of where she was berthed or how to find her. Third... well, passing notes was a bit childish, and would only appear sophisticated if he were able to compel an underling to handle it. So he had decided to make a steward do his dirty work for him.

One bell earlier, he had sent word that he wanted to speak to the third-class chief steward. Now, just as he was rising from the settee, he heard the knock at his cabin door. In a few curt words, he explained to the man what he wanted him to do and handed over the note. The bewildered steward was obviously taken aback by his order, but he was far too professional to question an officer. After telling the steward to meet him in either the smoking room or the officer's mess with her answer, he dismissed him and closed the door.

He stood and paced his cabin for awhile, nervously passing the time by straightening up his already-messy living space. His things were strewn about everywhere: dirty shirts stuffed in corners, coats hung precariously on the corner of the wardrobe, spare ties, caps, and waistcoats thrown carelessly on the settee, navigational books (the only kind of book he ever read) open on the floor next to the bed. He hated cleaning. Sighing, he restored the room to some semblance of order, then left and headed down the corridor.

Harold peeked in the doorway of the officer's smoking room, saw Lightoller holding court there, and rolled his eyes. Right. He would wait for the steward in the mess.

He exited the officer's corridor on the starboard side and strode down the promenade. Leaving the boundaries of the officer's area and going into the first-class section always put him on edge - he never knew if he would see anyone he recognized - so he kept his cap low over his face and stared resolutely at the shining deck as he walked. Moving quickly, he soon passed the grand staircase and the gymnasium, and then the raised roof over the first-class lounge. It was a hell of a long way to the officer's mess, he grumbled to himself, but that was because of its convenient proximity to the kitchens a few decks below. The officer's food was sent up to the boat deck by hoist, and couldn't very well be carried half the length of Titanic down to the officer's area every time one of them wanted a meal. It was impractical, both for the stewards and for the officers who would have to sit down to cold victuals. But it meant that every time he was hungry, he had to make the long journey - and in between the dog watches, the trip there and back could easily take up a quarter of his free time. He supposed he had had worse problems, though. His mouth quirked up into a wry grin as he remembered some of the earlier schooners he had sailed on. Leaky quarters, moldy, weevil-ridden food, unsanitary conditions... this walk was paradise compared to that.

Harold breathed a sigh of relief as he walked into the mess. At this time of day, it was empty; most of the other officers either hadn't eaten yet, or, like Lightoller, had already finished and were relaxing in the smoking room. He checked his watch. He still had about half an hour before his next watch. Enough time for the steward to return... and maybe even enough time to see her, if the response was positive, as he expected it would be.

He rubbed his temples, exhausted. Part of his two-hour break this afternoon had been spent escorting a first-class lady around the boat deck at the request of Mr. Wilde and mulling about Corrine - and he was still dwelling on her, which is what had prompted the note. She had snubbed him that morning when she was on the well deck, he was sure of it. He knew she saw him, and yet she walked right in that door without acknowledging him, and without looking back. That had hurt a lot more than it should've, to be honest... and it didn't fit at all with what he thought he knew of her.

Women, as far as he could tell, were all raging hypocrites. They expected perfect manners and language in public; appearances had to be maintained, after all. But between the sheets, they wanted decidedly ungentlemanly behavior. He saw through it all, and that was why he had never been interested in continuing any of his flings; doing one thing in public and another in private was too exhausting. But Corrine was different; with her, he had been set free of those public restraints. She had laughed at his temper, at his foul mouth; she didn't give a damn about any of it. She was carefree, refreshingly honest, and totally uninterested in propriety and respectability. He wondered if she would be just as shameless and uninhibited in bed...

He blushed; it was way too soon to be thinking such things, especially when she was giving him the cold shoulder. What the hell had that been about, anyway? he wondered again for the hundredth time that day. Was she playing hard to get...

- Or had she learned something about him that made her never want to speak to him again?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, his heart sank. He had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew the answer to the question. While Harold was barreling headlong down the boat deck for the bridge the previous afternoon, Lightoller must have taken the opportunity to pounce on the girl. He damned himself for a fool for not realizing it earlier. The second officer had likely recognized her from Southampton, probably picked up on the spark between them as well... and decided to make sure it went no further than that. It wouldn't have taken much; Lightoller would certainly have nothing good to say about him, and he surely wouldn't have held back. He probably told her that Harold was a rake and a scoundrel; he wouldn't put it past him.

His breath caught in his throat. What if he told her about the Cherbourg incident?

His rather alarming reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. With relief, Harold saw that the steward had returned. He waved him in, and the man approached reluctantly.

"Well?" Harold barked, his impatience and nervousness making him terse.

Mr. Kieran looked anxious. "Er... well, actually... she..." He trailed off.

Harold glared at him until he finished lamely, "There's no message, sir."

"What? Are you sure you gave the note to the right girl?"

"Yes, sir. She read it, and her face got really pale, and then she just stood there until I asked her for a reply. And she said there wasn't one," he repeated.

Harold nodded his head slowly. "Thank you." The man took his cue and left in a hurry, likely relieved to be done with this strange task.

Harold waited until the steward was out of sight before turning away from the door and giving vent to his raging temper. "Goddammit!" he roared at the top of his lungs. Why had she spurned him? He had humiliated himself, thrown himself at this girl, only for her to tell him to sod off. What a fool he had been! And to think he had been starting to have feelings for her-

Suddenly, he felt like he was choking. He tugged viciously at the knot of his tie, yanking it loose, and then clawed at the buttons of his coat until he had torn that off as well. He flung it to the floor, then tore the cap from his head and whipped it across the room.

Still, it wasn't enough to ease his frustration, his fury... his hurt. He pounded his fists against the table. "Fuck!" he shouted. He slammed them again, harder, hoping that the physical pain would deaden the emotional one.

"Language, Mr. Lowe," said a mild voice behind him.

His blood froze in his veins, and for a long moment, he was unable to move. Finally, he forced himself to turn around.

First Officer Murdoch stood in the doorway, taking in the chaotic scene - the clothing strewn about the room, the fuming, half-undressed man in the center - with a calm, relaxed expression.

His mind a tempest, Harold could only stare at him, mouth agape, as his heart sunk to his feet.

Capital luck, mate, he berated himself once his brain started working again. In the span of only a few days, not one but two superior officers had seen him either misbehave or lose his composure. At this rate, he'd be fortunate if he made it across the Atlantic alive and employed.

And yet, there was no judgement in the man's face as he looked steadily at Harold. If anything, he seemed mildly amused.

Harold found his voice once again. "I'm sorry, sir, I-"

Murdoch waved it off. "I suppose I'm the one who should be sorry, Mr. Lowe. All I wanted was a quiet room to drink a spot of tea, and I find that I'm interrupting a junior officer who felt an urgent need to strip and throw a tantrum." His Scottish burr resonated with gentle humor.

Harold hung his head, embarrassed. What a colossal cock-up he'd become. How was he going to justify himself to this man? But Murdoch didn't seem interested in an explanation - at least, not yet. Apparently his motive for coming to the mess was genuine, for he looked at Harold expectantly.

"Tea, Mr. Lowe? I suspect it might help whatever's ailing you."

Harold was taken aback at the man's thoughtfulness. He didn't think more than a dozen words had passed between them before this, and all strictly business at that, but here he was, offering to sit down to a cuppa like they were old schoolmates. And to his surprise, Harold found himself receptive to the idea. A natural loner, he found it difficult to get close to anyone, and especially preferred to remain aloof and guarded from fellow officers. In the back of his mind, he always feared that letting others see his true self might jeopardize the professionalism - and the career - he had worked so hard to cultivate; it had happened before with Williams, after all. But this man had already seen the worst of him, Harold realized with resignation, so his dignity was already in tatters. And besides, he could really use the company right about then.

He nodded. "Thank you, sir, I suppose I will." Then he realized that he should probably be making the tea for his superior, not the other way around, and bounced in front of Murdoch to get to the kettle.

"At ease, lad," Murdoch said, holding up a hand. Harold noticed that the man had slipped unconsciously into a less formal manner of address, but he rather unexpectedly found that it didn't bother him. "I like my tea a particular way, and anyway I don't mind taking care of myself." The rebuke was mild but firm, and Harold immediately halted, allowing the older man to pass by him on his way to the pantry.

Harold heard Murdoch rummaging around in the adjoining room, followed by the sound of the teakettle beginning to bubble. He took the opportunity to gather his scattered clothing from around the room - the second time in half an hour that he had performed the same task, his sarcastic mind noted - although he didn't put the uniform back on just yet. He was covered in a thin sheen of perspiration - a combination of residual anger, nervousness, and restless energy - and he didn't want to get his white shirt any sweatier than it already was. He laid the pieces on the back of a chair, sat down in a neighboring one, and contemplated his rapidly deteriorating mental state while he waited.

What in hell was wrong with him, anyway? He had learned to control his explosive temper long ago; it was a point of pride for him that he was able to overcome his natural inclination for emotional outbursts through sheer force of will. And yet in the span of a few days - only two days! - he had entirely lost all his self-restraint. His intuition told him it had something to do with Corrine. He put his head in his hands and sighed. Why had she gotten so deeply under his skin?

Murdoch soon emerged with two steaming cups of tea and handed one to Harold. Murdoch's tea was darker, Harold noted, with very little milk. Probably hadn't added much sugar, either, if he had to guess; he looked like the type to enjoy his tea strong and undiluted. Harold's was, blessedly, lighter. He took a tentative sip. Extra sweet, too, just like he preferred. He wondered how Murdoch knew.

The hot tea smoothed away some of the jagged edges of his mood, and he relaxed, leaning back casually in his chair. As he did, he studied the man sitting across from him. He knew very little about Murdoch, actually. He had already formed a first impression of his other fellow officers:

Wilde: friendly, but reserved; an air of mystery and tragedy

Lightoller: judgmental tyrant; supreme tosser; general all-around pain in the bollocks

Pitman: good-natured; mild; bland as boiled potatoes, but a decent bloke

Boxhall: arrogant; meticulous; uptight; remote

Moody: jolly; energetic; eager... and despite their night-and-day differences in personality, Harold found himself genuinely enjoying the company of that gregarious and personable lad.

But this one he couldn't really read at all. Harold knew Murdoch had been bumped from Chief to First only a few days before sailing, but if he was still harboring any resentment or bitterness about his demotion, it wasn't evident. Either he hid it well, or, more likely, he was just a consummate professional who didn't let emotions get in the way of his duties. Harold envied men like that.

Murdoch stirred the liquid in his cup, set the spoon down, and looked up. "So who's the lucky girl?" he said by way of starting the conversation.

Harold almost choked on his tea. He set the cup down and stared at Murdoch, flabbergasted. "How... Why-"

Murdoch shrugged. "Instinct. It can't be anything work-related; we've had nothing but smooth sailing since we left Southampton. Well, other than the New York incident," he amended, his expression thoughtful. "And I don't know you well, but you seem the type that might get in trouble with women quite a bit."

From anyone else, it might have sounded critical and disapproving, but he didn't get that sense from Murdoch. It was a blunt statement, but not an offensive one. And, Harold had to admit, it was a truthful one as well.

When Harold didn't answer right away, Murdoch asked, "Is it the girl you escorted around this afternoon?"

Harold snorted. "Not damn likely," he said, and then immediately regretted his choice of words. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled.

"I have no real objection to your unparliamentary language, Mr. Lowe. I was just taking the piss earlier." Lowe looked at him in astonishment, and Murdoch shrugged. "Senior officers are no different from juniors, you know. We're not saints. And we're really not as strict as all that." He smiled, and Harold found himself smiling back.

He remembered Lightoller's stern looks, and his smile faded somewhat. Murdoch's statement wasn't entirely true; some of them were intolerant, thick-headed, overly-critical bullies, amended Harold in his head. But maybe this one was a human being after all. He mood began to lighten again, but he was pulled up suddenly by the next line of questioning.

"And then there's the one you shagged at Cherbourg," Murdoch put forth casually. He raised an eyebrow and took a deliberate sip of his tea.

For the second time that day, Harold's mouth hung open in speechlessness.

Murdoch smiled again. "Relax, Mr. Lowe. It's not going any higher than me. I know how to keep secrets." He threw Harold a sly wink.

Harold blushed in mortification. "But- I mean, how do you... "

"Charlie's a bit of a bigmouth and a busybody," Murdoch admitted. Harold's eyes hardened. Mentally, he added 'nosey prat' and 'gossipy old maid' to the growing list of Lightoller's traits. "But it's not unheard of," Murdoch continued. His eyes twinkled. "I'll wager we've all done it at least once, in our younger and unmarried days."

Harold goggled at him. Well, that was a revelation. He tried to imagine tight-arsed Lightoller shagging a passenger, and couldn't wrap his mind around the idea. But he realized Murdoch was still waiting for an answer. "No sir. Definitely not that one." He suppressed a shudder and took another gulp of tea, as if to get the taste out of his mouth.

Now Murdoch looked genuinely curious. "Right. So if it's neither of those admittedly sensible prospects, then who's the lucky lady, if you don't mind my asking?"

He remembered Corrine's strident objection to being termed a lady and smiled. "Actually, she's not a lady per se." He looked away. "She comes from... er... a humble background."

"And does that bother you?" Murdoch prodded gently.

He shrugged, and then immediately hated himself for his momentary shame. Why should he give a damn about her social class, anyway? It shouldn't matter; it didn't matter, not really. It was just that... well, he never socialized with working-class women, never really interacted with any aside from the servants that worked at his father's house, or the occasional clerk or stewardess. He just moved in different circles, that was all. Not to mention that his genealogy-obsessed father would be absolutely horrified that he had designs on the daughter of a handyman. And she was Irish and Catholic to boot. He sighed. Honestly, he couldn't have picked a more inappropriate match if he tried.

Harold squared his shoulders. No, he refused to feel embarrassed by her lack of pedigree; she was the equal or better of any society woman he had ever known. Never mind what his father would say, anyway; he would never meet her, after all. He lifted his chin. "No, sir," he said, his voice wavering only a little.

Murdoch chose to ignore Harold's hesitation and ambivalence. "So what's got you worked into such a frenzy, then?"

Now it was time for a little lie, a little truth. Harold sighed. "I had sent her a letter recently, declaring my... affection... and she... well, she didn't respond favorably." He wasn't going to reveal that Corrine was a steerage passenger; he had enough of a reputation among his superior officers for mingling with passengers already. Let Murdoch think that she was some sweetheart from home, and that he had heard from her via wireless or the Queenstown post yesterday.

Although come to think of it, he was shocked that Lightoller hadn't blown the gaff on Corrine as well. He wondered briefly why the senior officer chose to hold onto that particular secret. Was it because he thought Harold's flirtation with her was more innocent and harmless? Or was he trying to protect her for some reason?

His speculation was cut short by Murdoch's hearty laugh; for some reason the man had found his confession highly entertaining. Seeing Harold's confused and offended expression, he amended hastily, "Sorry, lad. I meant no insult. But there's your problem right there. Letters are for old ladies."

Harold raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You can't possibly expect to convey your feelings properly through writing," Murdoch patiently explained. "You're going to have to wait until you see her in person, and then pour your heart out."

"You mean you don't write your wife letters?" Harold asked skeptically. He wasn't taking a guess; he knew the man was married. If the wedding ring on his finger hadn't given it away, the light in his eyes when he spoke to Lightoller about 'Aid', as he had called his wife, would've clued him in.

Murdoch rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Of course, lad. I write her all the time. But that was after we had already declared our feelings for one another in person," he emphasized. "I wouldn't have entrusted something as important as our future to a piece of paper."

Harold grunted in grudging agreement. The man had a point, he realized.

Now Murdoch leaned toward him, his expression earnest. "You care about this girl, do you?"

Harold found himself nodding his head before he could even fully process the question. Murdoch chuckled at the look of almost comical surprise that crossed Harold's face immediately following the admission.

"That's news to you, too, eh? Well, that's between you and your heart, lad, and I hope the two will come to terms someday. But now that you know, you owe it to her to look her in the eye when you confess your feelings. She has to see that you're sincere."

Murdoch took note of Harold's dubious look. "I know it's uncomfortable, but you're just gonna have to man up and do it. How else will you know if your feelings are returned? I remember when I first told Ada I wanted to court her I was bricking it. But I shouldn't have been." His face crinkled up in a wistful smile. "She said later she knew she was going to marry me from the moment we first met."

"Never argue with a woman who knows what she wants," Harold retorted with a grin.

Murdoch got a faraway look in his eyes, and Harold knew he wasn't seeing him, but the face of his beloved wife. "The last thing I'd ever want to do is argue with her. I know how lucky I am. My Ada's lively, intelligent - and the most beautiful woman in the world," he said softly. Silently, Harold disagreed with him on that last point; even in her modest clothing, with no adornments, he was sure that Corrine would eclipse even the world's most famous beauty. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he wished for a swift kick in the arse to rid himself of his ridiculous romanticism. This infatuation was making him mental.

"She sounds like a rare woman indeed, Mr. Murdoch," Harold said with respect. In truth, he was touched by the man's obvious adoration of his wife. It was like no other woman even existed at all as far as he was concerned. Harold wondered if he would ever feel that kind of all-consuming love. Maybe-

No. It was way too soon to be thinking such things.

Murdoch gave a quick shake of his head, as if trying to bring himself back to the present. "Mind what I said, lad. Go to your girl. As soon as you can." Harold noticed that he was unconsciously fiddling with his wedding ring as he spoke. "And I hope the answer is favorable."

Harold nodded slowly. "Thank you, sir. I... I think I will." And he would, he realized. Murdoch's advice was sound... but more than that, it was what Harold wanted - and needed - to hear. He rather enjoyed having someone to talk to about this, he realized with surprise. And he liked knowing that he could trust and confide in this man.

Murdoch inclined his head, as if satisfied with Harold's answer, and checked the time. "You should head to the bridge now for your watch, Mr. Lowe. Lights'll probably already be there."

Harold couldn't quite suppress his scowl at the mention of Lightoller's name, and Murdoch noticed.

"Ah, lad, don't be like that," he said gently. "Charlie's a good bloke - and a loyal friend. I'd trust him with my life. I know you two got off on the wrong foot, but give him a chance, eh?"

Harold wasn't about to argue with him, but he didn't want to agree either. He grunted noncommittally, which he hoped was enough of a compromise.

But he didn't want to leave before getting one more thing off his chest. "Thank you, sir. For listening to me, and for the suggestion." He paused, then decided to take the plunge. "This is... this is the most kindness anyone has shown me since I signed on."

Murdoch cocked his head. "I don't know about that, Mr. Lowe... seems that Mr. Moody took a shine to you right away," he replied mildly.

Harold nodded his head. "True. But, well, everyone else..." He trailed off, studiously staring down at the floor.

"Ah," Murdoch said softly. Harold looked up and saw to his chagrin that the man's face was lined with sympathy. "And here I thought you were a hard case, Mr. Lowe. Turns out you do have feelings; you just hide them pretty well."

Harold spluttered, but Murdoch cut him off. "You have to remember, you're one of the most junior officers on the bridge. And we don't know you from Adam," he said by way of explanation.

"So that's why everyone avoids me? I thought it was because I'm a loud, abrasive, obnoxious prat." Harold grinned self-deprecatingly.

"Well, that, too," Murdoch laughed. His refreshing bluntness made Harold chuckle in return. "You're a rough diamond for sure, lad," Murdoch continued. "A good deal more unpolished than most of us in the North Atlantic runs are used to."

Then he shrugged, taking the sting out of the criticism. "But you'll get to know all of them soon enough, and I'm sure they'll warm to you. I've been watching you. You're clever, conscientious, and a fine sailor. You'd be a handy bloke to have around in an emergency, God forbid. The rest'll see your merits too in time."

Harold flushed bright red from the unexpected praise. Once again at a loss for words, he could only clear his throat and nod his thanks.

Murdoch ignored his obvious discomfort. "Go on, then. I'll see you in a few hours."

Harold took one final sip of his tea and stood. "Aye aye, sir," he said flippantly, grinning.

He was almost at the door when he heard Murdoch's voice again. "Forgetting something?" Harold turned and saw Murdoch nodding at the pile of clothing still sitting on the back of the chair. With a gasp, Harold rushed back in and quickly struggled into them. He was still buttoning his coat on the way out the door when he heard Murdoch snickering to himself.

Harold walked back to the bridge with renewed purpose. Murdoch was right. If he wanted to continue to spend time with Corrine - and he did - then he would have to be persistent. There were obstacles to overcome, for sure: company regulations, a meddlesome superior, different backgrounds, perhaps even opposing dreams - she was moving to America after all, a place he found highly objectionable. But he was determined to let nothing - and no one - stand in his way. Tomorrow morning after his watch ended, he would go down to the third-class section and find her. No matter how long it took, no matter how it might look to the other passengers and crew, he would stay there until he spoke with her, until he set things right - until he convinced her to give him a chance. His natural persuasiveness and charm would eventually have to win her over. Confident of victory, he smiled to himself as he opened the door to the wheelhouse. No, he wasn't going to let this girl get away.

Inside, he nodded a greeting at Pitman and threw a haughty look at Lightoller, who was getting ready to take over from Wilde. As he walked back to the chart room and refocused his mind on the task of ship navigation, he also mentally revised his list of officer traits. To Murdoch's, he would have to add: perceptive; intelligent; compassionate. Devoted.

A hell of a good man.

Murdoch! *cries*

I didn't always love Murdoch; Wyn Craig Wade may have inadvertently prejudiced me against him by criticizing his decisions the night of the collision. But the more I have read about him - and the more I watched Titanic - the more I have come to respect and admire him - and he's now my third favorite officer. And hopefully now it makes sense why Harry was so broken up about his loss in 'Unease'; at that time I hadn't revealed that they had had any interactions at all, but I knew this interlude was coming, and that's why I alluded to it then.

Songs for this section: Some Kind of Disaster - All Time Low(e); What A Man Gotta Do - Jonas Brothers