It's epilogue time! Sam, if you are still reading, I hope this will answer your question ;)

Wanna know why Harry is so infuriatingly complicated? Look no further than George Lowe...


At the sound of crunching gravel, George Lowe flicked back the curtains surreptitiously. He saw the automobile come to a halt in the driveway and watched his son spring from the back. He held the door for the other passenger, who emerged slowly.

They were finally here, then. When his rebellious, impulsive, temperamental son first announced his betrothal, George had thought he was joking. Why, he hadn't even been courting anybody, to George's knowledge, and anyway, there hadn't exactly been time for him to meet a bride, what with the sinking and the aftermath and all. But Harold had firmly insisted that it was true, and that everything would be explained when he brought her to Penrallt to meet him. In his last communication, via telegram, he had tersely warned his father to be on his best behavior.

And now, here she was, alighting in his driveway to meet him for the first time. She was tiny, looked very young, and- dear God in heaven, is she expecting?

Indeed, as she stood to her full height, he could see the unmistakable roundness of her belly. Oh, Harold, he thought in consternation and disbelief. What have you done now?

George strode to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy, which he downed in one quick gulp. He knew Harold despised his drinking, but he had a feeling he would need some fortification in order to get through this day.

He sat rigidly on the settee, his mind purposely blank, facing the enormous fireplace, waiting as they made their way to the house and were greeted warmly by his manservant, Alfred, at the door. When he heard Harold clear his throat pointedly at the entrance to the sitting room, he rose and turned to face them.

They stood at the threshold of the room, a united front. Harold's arm was tucked protectively around her waist, as if attempting to shield her from the vitriol sure to come. He looked insolent, combative. George smirked to himself. No surprises there.

He spared a glance at the girl that had somehow trapped his son. She was not was he was expecting at all. He thought she would be sly, crafty, shrewd - triumphant at getting her hooks into Harold. Instead, she looked... sweet, open, almost innocent, despite her condition. Her appearance was captivating, if he were being quite honest. She smiled at him, a warm, genuine expression that caught him off-guard. Stone-faced, he stared back at her.

His son didn't miss the iciness emanating from George, and his shoulders tensed. "Father," said Harold stiffly, inclining his head.

"Harold," he replied with no trace of emotion.

"As promised, I have brought my bride-to-be to meet you before our wedding. Corrine, this is my father, George Lowe. Father, this is Corrine Donnelly."

She smiled at him again, and this time, her eyes held a little glint, as if to say, are you going to acknowledge me, or keep pretending that I don't exist?

He chose the latter. "Harold, we need to talk about this... plan of yours," he said without preface. "It is quite frankly unacceptable."

Harold bristled, but he saw the girl lay a hand on his arm, and he immediately relaxed. Interesting, thought George. I've never seen that before.

"Might we have a seat and discuss this? My fiancee is in a... delicate condition."

"Yes, I can see that," George replied tonelessly. He waved his hand dismissively at the settee he had recently vacated.

Harold ushered her to it, and she sat back on the cushions with a sigh, cradling her belly, looking for all the world like she felt right at home. She was certainly the most relaxed person in the room. Harold perched on the edge next to her, right knee jiggling nervously. George, who now stood near the fireplace, gave him a pointed glare, and the movement stopped abruptly.

George spoke first. "What is this about, then?" he demanded, waving a hand in the general direction of the girl.

"My fiancee," Harold ground out, emphasizing the word, "wanted to meet you. I told her it was a waste of time, but here we are." He looked over at her, and she arched an eyebrow at him, as if to say, we'll see.

"And how did you two meet, exactly?" George pressed. "It seems like you've been rather too busy in the past few months for... courting." The pause was delicately couched, but barbed.

"Actually, Father, we met on the Titanic," said Harold, choosing to ignore the innuendo. "She was a passenger, and-"

"And he saved my life," she said softly, speaking for the first time.

He covered his surprise with a show of disdain. "I've heard he saved many lives," he said dismissively. "That doesn't obligate him to marry anyone." At Harold's outraged expression, he leaned in, sensing a kill, and directed his next comment to his son. "So that's what this is, then?" he said, pointing at her swollen abdomen. "This is her way of showing you gratitude?" he mocked.

Calmly, unfazed, the girl replied instead. "No, Mr. Lowe. I fell in love with Harry the moment I met him."

For some reason, that moved him. For a woman to love his intractable son that much, she had to be mad - or damn near a saint. But he kept his face still, unreadable. She turned to Harold, taking his hands in hers and speaking directly to him. "And I love him with all my heart."

The obvious affection and frank display of emotion were far too much for George, who decided to steer the conversation back to more familiar turf. "Seems like you've been loving him with more than that," George retorted, eyeing her distended stomach again.

He saw Harold's fists clench under her soft grip, but to his surprise, the girl laughed delightedly.

"I appreciate your candor, Mr. Lowe. You sound just like your son, you know." She smiled indulgently at Harold, who scowled. "And it's true; we have been together since the American inquiry." Her words subtly conveyed her meaning, and her voice held no hint of shame.

"And you?" he said, sparing a glance for his son. "How do you feel?"

"I'd die for her," was his blunt response. "And you'll not stand in our way, Father. I will marry her with or without your approval." His eyes blazed with defiance.

Inwardly, George sighed. He knew he was up against a wall, and was out of options - but he sure as hell didn't want to make it too easy. "I'll be honest," he said, standing up and walking to the sideboard again. He'd be damned if he would be intimidated by his son in his own house. "I think you're making a poor match, Harold. I was hoping for much better for you. This girl appears to have no money, no pedigree. There are several ladies in town that have been waiting patiently for you to come around for years, and all of them have substantial dowries. You should be marrying one of them instead." He poured another glass, swirled it, and sipped slowly.

He glanced at the couple. Harold sat stock-still on the couch, face white with fury, eyes burning, for once rendered speechless. The girl, on the other hand, seemed neither shocked nor offended. She was studying him contemplatively.

George heaved a deep sigh. "That being said, it seems that this is a love match." The words came reluctantly, slowly. "And so I have no formal objection to your marriage."

"How kind of you, Father," Harold bit out, sarcasm lacing his voice.

George nodded magnanimously, as if he had just presented the couple with a great gift. "I suppose the two of you will want to stay here until the wedding, then?" he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Harold started to object, but the girl cut in. "Yes, sir, that is most generous of you and would be greatly appreciated. We have so little time to prepare," she confessed brightly.

Harold sighed heavily and stood, holding out a hand to his girl. "Come, then, Corrine. I'll show you to our room." George didn't miss the emphasis he put on 'our', as if daring his father to contradict him.

George let it pass. They might as well stay in the same room; the damage had already been done, after all.

She stood but hesitated, looking back at George. "I'll be there directly, Harry," she said softly, touching his arm.

He gazed down at her, as if for reassurance, and she silently nodded. He stalked from the room without a backward glance at his father.

She sauntered toward him, a slow grin spreading across her heart-shaped face. She stood a short distance away studying him, head cocked slightly, and he knew she was looking for echoes of Harold in his craggy, heavily mustachioed face. Harold had gotten his good looks from his mother, though. It was his personality that he had inherited from George - a fact that was not lost on the girl in front of him. He could see that she had taken his measure, and instead of being frightened or upset at his boorish behavior, she was clearly amused.

"Whatever you have to say to me, it won't make a damn bit of difference," he growled.

Her smile didn't falter. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Lowe, and I know all of this," she gestured to her body "is a lot to take in." He eyes grew serious then. "But I can see how much you love your son, and so do I - more than you could ever know. And I will find a way to win you over, for his sake. I promise you that."

He ground his teeth. It seemed that she possessed more insight into his complex relationship with Harold than even he did. But he wouldn't let this girl get to him. "That sounds like a challenge, lass - and I happen to be a man that doesn't like to lose," he warned.

"Oh, but you've lost before. Harry never did become a businessman, did he?" She smiled sweetly at him, taking the sting out of the gentle gibe. He managed to grunt noncommittally. She had him there.

She turned to go and follow Harold from the room, then paused. "I also want you to know that I am well accustomed to the bluster and storm of House Lowe. So you can't scare me, sir." She gave him a saucy wink. "I am Irish, after all."

He watched her leave, a ghost of a smile creeping reluctantly to his lips. Maybe he had underestimated this girl, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, she would do.