Thank you, Fiction.2020 and Lowekey, for your constant support - it means so much to me! (And of course you, too, Rosie - what would I do without you?!). I do understand the mixed feelings that some readers may have about Harry, though, and I do not shy away from the criticism... but I hope that those I have lost through the interlude may be willing to return for the final part of the story. Yes, this is the last section - although it's a rather long one, and there are some epilogues, too. Hopefully in the end, even if parts of the story were difficult, the journey will have been worth it :)

So, let's get to it: will Corrine ever see Harry again? Will Harry ever stop being an ass? It's time to go back to the present (their present) and find out!

Part 4

Corrine was carried off the Carpathia on a stretcher, flanked by her best friends and followed by a somber-looking female nurse. Her sudden tumble to the deck was dramatic enough to have attracted the attention of Dr. McGee, who had wasted no time in relaying her story to the medical workers waiting to escort passengers to nearby hospitals. Although she kept repeating that she was fine, that she had only become temporarily dizzy and disoriented, no amount of entreaties and pleading seemed to matter. The hospital staff was immovable; she would spend at least one night under observation, and that was that. She sighed and laid down on the stretcher meekly, resigned to her fate. To be honest, she didn't much care what happened to her anyway, although she resented being carried like an invalid. Resolutely ignoring the rain peppering her face and the flashbulbs of the photographers' cameras as they passed through the rows of desperate family members still lining the dock, Corrine stared up at the starless sky.

She was loaded in an ambulance and driven to St. Vincent's hospital, where many of the survivors had been taken to recuperate. As the vehicle bumped over the wet cobblestone streets, she looked up at her friends, who were clinging to handholds in the back of the ambulance, determined to stay by her side despite their own precarious and unknown futures. She felt a rush of gratitude and love that they, at least, had not abandoned her; she honestly didn't know how she would have gotten through the last hour without them. Grasping their free hands in hers, she gave them a feeble smile. "Thank you," she said simply. Although her voice was faint, her words resonated with sincerity and deep appreciation.

"You'll be all right, Corr," Katie assured her. "The doctors'll get you sorted, and then you can find-" Kate glared at her sharply, and Katie trailed off into an awkward silence.

Kate didn't say anything, and Corrine noticed that she couldn't quite meet her eyes.

As the door to the ambulance slammed open and attendants rushed her stretcher out, she took a perfunctory glance around. Despite her detachment, she was suitably impressed by the imposing brick building into which she was carried. Corrine had never been to a hospital before, and if she hadn't felt so empty inside, she might have taken more of an interest in her surroundings; she had, after all, entertained the notion of becoming a nurse one day, before she had met-

No. She shut off the thought before it could fully form in her head.

In contrast to its austere and tranquil facade, the inside of the hospital was pandemonium. Past the physical barrier of the stretcher, people rushed by in all directions. Some were shouting names of missing passengers, while others were weeping; still others staggered in various stages of exhaustion or hysteria.

The attendants hauled her around like she weighed nothing - which, she supposed, was more true than usual given her undernourished state of late. They loaded her into an elevator, another first for Corrine, which creaked its way up several floors before the doors were opened again. Finally, she was carried into a large room filled with beds, many of which already contained the sick, injured, or catatonic survivors of the disaster. The room was blindingly white - white beds, white walls, white everywhere. The color of cleanliness, of sterility. And of heaven, too, she supposed, although it certainly didn't feel like it. It was too bright for her aching eyes; they burned with the pain of unshed tears, and she half-closed her eyelids to protect her pupils from the assault.

The head nurse, who appeared as she was being lifted from the stretcher, immediately tried to put her under sedation. Corrine adamantly refused; she didn't want to be any more numb than she already was. On this, she received the support of her friends, who stood by as she was eased onto the bed, and the nurse eventually nodded, relenting. "I suppose if you can argue that fiercely, you're well enough to make the decision for yourself," she said grudgingly. "Although it would help," she added, looking her over. "You look like you've had a frightful time of it." Corrine grunted noncommittally, and the nurse moved on, tutting to herself.

She waited, watching without much interest as more survivors were brought in. Many of the women were still weeping; it seemed that there was a never-ending supply of tears to accompany this disaster. A reporter skidded to a stop at the door and looked abashed when he found only a room full of women. "I'm looking for the wireless operator," he barked at the head nurse. She pointed down the hall and he raced off, notebook flapping.

The staff were doing their best to attend to the patients while policing the nosy bystanders hovering in the hallway, but it was a losing battle. They finally shut the doors with a bang, sequestering the patients from the crowds milling about outside, and a welcome silence fell over the room. One man, however, was allowed to move among the survivors unimpeded. He carried a pad and pencil in his hand, and slowly worked his way from one bed to another, writing down information. Finally, he came to her side.

"Miss," he said gently, "I need your name, to add to the list of survivors."

She told him. Katie's and Kate's eyebrows rose simultaneously in surprise. But they said nothing.

After the man left, Corrine asked Kate to reach into her coat hanging on the back of the bed and dig out her battered money purse; she couldn't bear to do it herself, knowing what was in the pocket. Kate handed it to her silently, and Corrine opened it, pulled out some coins, and pressed them into Kate's hand.

"Please send a telegram to my father and my uncle, and let them know that I'm alive," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes. The girls left the room without another word, wondering if her last assertion was really true.

Corrine slept as long as she could, but the sun streaming through the windows and the unfamiliar murmur of activity around her eventually made her reluctantly open her eyes late the next morning. For a long moment, she forgot where she was, until she spotted Katie sitting beside her bed in an unconscious imitation of the position Harry had once held on the Carpathia. Then it all came back in a sickening rush. Yesterday morning - was it so long ago already? - Harry had ended things with her, a memory that was still too raw to process. And although she was now in America at last, instead of spending time with Harry or searching for a job and a place to live, she was trapped in a hospital bed with a broken heart and an unknown future. She sighed and closed her eyes again, willing sleep to overtake her once again, so that she could escape the reality to which she had awoken.

But Katie wasn't having it. She nudged her leg until Corrine reluctantly peeked at her through one half-closed eye. "Morning, love," Katie said, looking closely at her. "And how do we feel today?"

Corrine shrugged apathetically.

"You look a little more rested than you did yesterday," she said encouragingly, giving her a cheerful smile. Corrine heaved an indifferent sigh. She couldn't even muster the strength to respond politely.

"You need to eat something, you know," Katie urged. "You look like death warmed over." Corrine didn't smile at the joke, and Katie's smile quickly slid from her face as she realized that her choice of phrase unfortunately hit too close to the truth. "I'm sorry," she said, patting her hand. "That was a terrible thing to say. I know you haven't been well... I shouldn't tease."

Poor Katie. Her heart was in the right place, and she was trying to keep Corrine's spirits up. It wasn't her fault Corrine was a hopeless cause. Even though she wanted nothing more than to remain silent for the rest of her life, she couldn't bear to see the hangdog expression on her friend's face. "Katie, you don't have to be so careful around me. I won't break," she murmured at last, hoping her voice sounded reassuring. Katie nodded warily, evidently not convinced.

There was an awkward pause for a few moments until Katie tried a new tack. "Can I get you anything?" she tentatively ventured. "Other than Harry, of course." Corrine immediately flinched, and Kate muttered, "Oh, I just keep putting my foot in it, don't I."

Corrine dismissed her faux pas with a wave; she couldn't expect Katie keep tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. Besides, there was one thing she wanted, and wanted badly. "I would like to see a newspaper, please." Other than gratitude at her friend's presence, it was the only thing on her mind right now.

Katie's hands fumbled awkwardly in her lap. "Er... all right, Corrine," she agreed at last. "Although... well, they're full of news about the disaster right now - "

"I'm counting on it," Corrine said grimly. Katie gave her an uneasy look but said nothing.

A moment later a kindly-looking young nurse in a starched white cap who had been rounding the room appeared at Corrine's bedside. Katie took that as her cue to leave. "Kate and I will be back later," she said consolingly. "Mind you get some rest, now."

The nurse took her temperature, asked some general questions about her health, and then scribbled something down on a clipboard. "You seem to be recovering well - physically at least." She hesitated. "I hope you don't mind my bluntness, but the note in your chart says that you were catatonic when you were brought in last night."

Corrine bristled at the description. She had been entirely rational and clear-headed when she arrived at the hospital, albeit detached; evidently someone had felt the need to exaggerate her condition. But then the nurse went on, "Did you... did you lose someone in the sinking?"

How to answer that question? Corrine thought for a long moment. "Yes," she whispered at last. It was easier to agree to a half-truth than to tell her story to a stranger.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, then, miss," she said, her voice filled with compassion. "Can I get you an opiate? It may help ease the pain."

"No!" Corrine bit out, before remembering her manners. "Thank you, but I would prefer to remain lucid."

The nurse blinked at her choice of words and then nodded, chastened. "You should try to get up and moving soon, if you think your nerves can handle it," she said as she made to leave for the next patient. "There's no better restorative than exercise." After she left, Corrine reflected that she sounded just like Dr. McGee.

As the morning progressed, the room became a hive of activity, most of it unwelcome. Despite the overburdened staff's best efforts, reporters scurried around everywhere, trying to get an exclusive from a previously overlooked passenger in order to scoop their rivals. Corrine closed her eyes resolutely, pretending to sleep, and they passed by her bed. She would not consent to be interviewed, did not even want to give a quote. Let someone else sensationalize this disaster; she refused to participate.

Fortunately, not all of the visitors were opportunists. There were a few reunions as well, and they created several happy moments among the patients in the ward. The entire room would brighten considerably when family members blew in, hugging, crying, and celebrating to see their loved ones. A beautiful English girl a few beds down from hers was one such lucky patient; she had been swept up in an embrace by a handsome man who had hurried into the room and given a joyous cry as soon as he laid eyes on her. From the excited babble coming from the beds around her, she found out that the man was this woman's fiance. He had come over from England several years before and finally saved enough money to send his beloved a third-class ticket to sail on Titanic. She had survived in one of the last boats to leave the ship, likely the same collapsible she had leapt from. Just when her man thought all hope had been lost, he received the happy news that she lived, and had rushed to the hospital immediately to see her. Corrine's heart squeezed painfully in her chest as she listened to their emotional declarations of relief and love.

She sighed and lay back down on the bed. Oh, wouldn't it be grand if Harry suddenly appeared like that! Indulging in an uncharacteristic fit of romanticism, she allowed her imagination to create her own happily ever after scenario for a moment. She pictured how his expression would swiftly change from tenderness to concern at seeing her lying so fragile and vulnerable in the bed, how he would cradle her in his arms and tell her that he was sorry, that he missed her, that everything he said on the Carpathia had been a big mistake, and that he loved her so much...

She scrubbed her hand across her face in frustration. Was she ever going to stop living in a dream world? Harry wasn't coming for her. He had probably already forgotten all about her. She resolutely blocked out her childish fantasies and closed her eyes again.

Her friends returned after lunch, which Corrine had not touched. She could hear them arguing as they came down the hall toward her room.

"But I bought all of them, except for the New York Herald-"

"Don't say that name!"

"-for that very reason," Katie finished, a bit smugly. "She insisted, Kate; I couldn't tell her no."

"You could have saved my money, girls, and only bought the New York Times," she said as they approached her bed meekly. They gaped at her, realizing that she had overheard their conversation. "The rest are rubbish anyway," Corrine continued. "The Times is the only accurate one of the lot, I've heard." She snatched the pile from Kate's hand in the first sign of since life she had shown since disembarking and scanned the front pages. "I heard there's to be an inquiry," she said slowly. "Do any of these mention it?"

Kate tried to pull the papers from her hand. "Corrine, you really need to recover first-"

Corrine tugged back, her eyes flashing. "Let me see," she gritted out. She skipped the survivor accounts; there would be time to read those in depth later. Her eyes darted back and forth as she searched in vain for the one name she was desperate to see. After a few seconds, she threw the paper down in disgust. "Right, the next one, please," she said, holding out her hand. Katie sighed and handed it over.

After half an hour, Corrine's fingers were covered in ink, and she had turned up nothing about Harry. She squeezed her eyes shut, looking pained. When she opened them again, she caught her friends staring at one another in helpless dismay.

With an effort, she pushed aside her frustration and disappointment; she didn't want to burden them with her drama when they were likely facing their own challenges. It was then that she realized she knew very little of her friends' activity since they had arrived, and after apologizing for her insensitivity and oversight, she asked them about it now. With obvious relief at the change of subject, Kate explained that they were staying in a nearby shelter provided by the Women's Relief Organization. This was an association of New York society women that had sprung up in the wake of the disaster to provide steerage passengers with food, clothing, and temporary housing. The women had realized that most third-class passengers were destitute, having lost everything they owned in the sinking, and would also likely not have friends or family to meet them at the pier when the Carpathia docked. So they organized relief stations, distributed emergency funds, and delivered patients to hospitals or housing. Corrine thought the gesture quite generous, and was grateful that her friends were being cared for so well.

The rest of the visit passed pleasantly enough, as her friends described their first impressions of the colossus that was New York City. Soon, however, they were shooed away by the same cheerful nurse from earlier, who told the girls that visiting hours were over because the patients needed their rest. After promising to return the next morning to check on her, the girls left, and Corrine was alone once again.

She tried to rest, but she could only sit idle for so long. Trying to distract herself, she picked up the discarded papers. The entire front page of the Times was taken up by a first-person article from the Marconi operator that everyone was talking about, Harold Bride. An unfortunate first name, she mused sardonically, but a fascinating, thrilling tale of bravery and duty nonetheless. Particularly gripping were the details of his escape from the same icy waters that Corrine herself had survived. She found herself admiring the young man, who had played a pivotal role in their ultimate rescue by the Carpathia.

Almost all the rest of the copy was taken up by reporting on and speculation about the first-class passengers, like the Astors, Wideners, Thayers, and the Duff Gordons. Much was also being made of the examples of manhood that night: Mr. Butt, the American president's aide, holding back foreign men from the boats at gunpoint; Mr. Guggenheim, facing his death in an evening jacket and stating that he would 'go down like a gentleman'; Mr. Astor, waving a laconic good-bye to his young wife while casually smoking a cigarette. The willingness of men to sacrifice their own lives for the fairer sex, some editorials stated, was proof of their gender superiority; feminists who were fighting for equality were labeled as ungrateful in light of such noble deeds.

Corrine was neither a proponent of male chivalry nor a suffragist per se, so she had no opinion on the debate over male survival. But the fact that so many third class children had died - likely because the captain and most of the crew had forgotten about the steerage passengers - grieved her deeply. The numbers were shocking: the percentage of first-class men that survived - 32% - was approximately the same as the percentage of third-class children that survived - 34%.

She had to put considerable effort into searching out this data, though, as the papers were far more interested in reporting the fate of the richest passengers than the fate of Titanic's poorest. She realized with no small amount of bitterness that in that way, Americans were no different than the British after all - instead of royalty, money served as their sovereign here.

Finally she was able to obtain a list of third-class victims, and she scanned it until she found the column for the third class children who had been lost. She forced herself to read their names: Abbott, Rossmore, aged 16; Abbott, Eugene, aged 14; Andersson, Sigrid, aged 11; Andersson, Ingeborg, aged 9; Andersson, Ebba Iris, aged 6; Andersson, Sigvard Harald, aged 4; Andersson, Ellis Anna, aged 2...

Two years old?! And all from the same family...

She shoved the paper aside quickly, her stomach roiling. Oh, why hadn't she done more to save these people? she thought desolately. She had been so consumed with Harry's fate, his safety...

No. She would not think that name.

The papers were not an effective diversion; if anything, they were making her torment worse. With a sigh, she decided to heed the nurse's advice from earlier and take a walk around the ward.

She was still in her dress, so she sat on the edge of the bed, dragged her boots out from underneath it, and shoved her feet into them. Wrestling her hair into some semblance of order, she was soon ready.

Walking wasn't nearly as difficult as she thought it might be. She made it to the door without staggering once and stepped out into the hallway. The corridors were mostly deserted; almost all the reporters had left at last, and the merely curious had given up trying to get a glimpse of the bedraggled survivors. She walked slowly past the nurses' station, turned toward the elevator - and stopped dead in her tracks. Exiting the elevator together were Mr. Ismay and Charles Lightoller, engaged in a rather heated conversation with one another.

The jolt of surprise that shot through her nearly knocked her off her feet. Fortunately, she was able to compose herself just as the men spotted her. Ismay quickly looked away, avoiding her eyes, but Charles hailed her with a hearty grin. Breaking away from Ismay, who was awkwardly studying his shoes, he strode over to her.

"It's so good to see you up and moving again, Corrine!" he exclaimed. His pleased expression quickly changed to concern. "But what brings you here, lass?" he inquired, gesturing to the hallway they stood in.

Corrine thought quickly. "I'm... well, that is... I'm visiting a friend who's in hospital," she wobbled out. She didn't want to tell him she'd been admitted; there was no need to get into the details about how and why she had collapsed on the Carpathia. Needing to change the subject, she asked, "Are you also here to see someone, Charles?"

He glanced behind him before saying in a low voice, "Mr. Ismay and I are visiting the wireless man, Bride. He's going to testify tomorrow."

She nodded slowly. She had a hunch they were going to ask him about the ice warnings. According to the papers, the Titanic had received - and ignored - several of these messages in the days before the sinking. She wondered if Ismay and the officers, including Harry, had known.

Despite her best efforts to appear normal, his sharp eyes must have caught the wooden expression on her face, the listlessness in her gaze. "Are you well, Corrine?" he asked, looking more closely at her. "Have you found a place to stay? You look like you could use some rest." He took a step toward her, his expression worried.

"Er... yes, actually, the-" she wracked her brain for the name, "-Women's Relief Organization is taking very good care of all the steerage passengers. They've put us up in a lovely hotel," she lied.

"I hope you won't have to stay there for long," he said, smiling enigmatically, as if he knew a secret she didn't.

That intrigued her, but she had enough difficulty just trying to keep her face from betraying her emotions without trying to puzzle out his meaning just then. She nodded again, not sure how she was supposed to respond.

"Well, if you need anything - anything at all - please feel free to come and find me. I'm staying at the Waldorf-Astoria, in the company of your friend, Mr. Lowe." He gave her a conspiratorial little wink.

She sucked in a breath. He didn't know, then. She nodded faintly. "Right. That's... that's very kind of you, Charles." Her tongue seemed to be made of lead; she could barely force any words from her frozen lips.

His brow furrowed. "Are you sure you're well, Corrine?"

She schooled her face into a pleasantly neutral expression. She couldn't let him see... couldn't tell him the truth. "Yes, of course... I think I'm just tired, and still in shock, is all." She gave him a tremulous smile.

He nodded slowly, his expression skeptical. But as he contemplated her, his face suddenly cleared, as if he had remembered something. Eyes crinkling with affection, he said, "I think you'll be feeling like yourself again very soon, Corrine. And I expect I'll be seeing you around." He gave her another mysterious smile, touched the brim of his hat in farewell, and then rejoined Ismay. The two soon moved off down the hall.

After that, she no longer felt like walking, or even standing anymore. On shaky legs, she made her way back to her bed and lay down with her boots still on.

She ignored dinner as well, and as the room began to settle down for the night, she stared up at the darkening ceiling while thoughts of Harry crept unbidden to her mind.

He hadn't told Charles that he had ended their relationship. He probably hadn't even thought it important enough to mention to anyone. After all, they had only just met a few short days ago; what was she to him, in the grand scheme of things? A brief love affair, probably one of many that he had had in his lifetime.

Was it truly love, though, on his part? Love, like marriage, was supposed to last forever; her father's eternal adoration of her long-dead mother was proof of that. One-sided love, on the other hand... that kind never stood a chance. Was that what this was, then: an unrequited love that was destined to end? Her thoughts whirled around and around in her head, intermingling with the words that had broken her heart:

'It's over... it's over...'

The reminder echoed repeatedly, like a litany, until she finally escaped to oblivion.

A bit of Titanic trivia: the 'beautiful English girl' that had the happy reunion in the ward was named Sarah Roth :)