This is the final epilogue (I can't believe I'm typing that - makes me so sad). Next week I'll be posting a short postscript to wrap up Harry's and Corrine's story. Thank you once again, my lovely readers, for everything :)
April, 1922
George was in his workshop when the sound of an automobile motor drifted in through the open window.
They were here at last.
His heart gave a sudden leap, but he didn't immediately abandon his task. No, he had always subscribed to the philosophy that a man should finish what he started, regardless of whether it kept others waiting. So he took his time, putting the final touches on the foam-capped waves of his seascape with a flourish. Finally, he laid down his paintbrush with a sigh, set aside his palette, and carefully wiped the paint from his hands. He closed and locked the workshop and then traversed the short path to the house, ignoring the flutter of apprehension in his belly as he strode toward the front door.
They were standing in the foyer, milling about amongst the bags, trunks, and gear strewn everywhere. Alfred, who wore a look of alarm at the sheer volume of luggage and humanity, breathed a huge sigh of relief when he saw George enter the house. Obviously everyone had been waiting for him to show his face, and now that he had, everything could get sorted at last.
But first, the greetings had to be dealt with. George marched right up to the small woman in the smart green traveling suit, clearing his throat ominously.
"Daughter," he glowered down at her.
"Father," she replied icily, head high. They locked eyes, each refusing to yield.
Corrine broke first. With a snort, followed by a loud belly laugh, she embraced him. His face cracked into a smile, and he held her close. "Welcome home," he whispered in her ear.
Harold rolled his eyes and groaned; the humor of their repartee was always lost on him.
George leaned back to look at her, eyes alight with a happiness he no longer tried to conceal. She looked back at him with the same affection and love that she always had. And as she led him over to grasp his son's hand in a hearty shake, he reflected on how the years had mellowed him - while somehow leaving her almost completely untouched.
In fact, Corrine had barely changed at all in the nearly ten years he had known her. If anything, she was more beautiful now in maturity than she was as a young woman. But it was her perpetual state of youth and dewy innocence that always confounded him the most. No matter what she had experienced - the emotional burdens from the sinking, the constant worry for Harold's safety, the loneliness she often felt while Harold was at sea - it never showed; she was the same warm, honest, gentle soul she had always been.
And she had indeed won him over, as she had threatened at their first meeting. After the wedding, Harold had returned to the damnable sea, and she had stayed at Penrallt with him. He hadn't thought it proper to send her back to her father or her uncle; she was his family's responsibility now, as he saw it, and so he decided that he would reluctantly tolerate her presence.
Over time, though, his feelings had grown from dislike, to acceptance, to grudging admiration, to genuine affection, culminating at the birth of Harold's first child. Since Harold was at sea when he was born, George was the first person - aside from Corrine and the midwife - to hold the baby. When he looked down at that tiny face and saw Corrine's eyes looking back at him, he was a goner. He fell head over heels in love with his grandson - and finally admitted that he loved her just as much.
Harold's family lived at Penrallt for many years, and Corrine became an indispensable part of the household - and George's life as well. The family grew quickly, one child following the other in rapid succession. The two of them certainly seemed to have no problems conceiving babies, he thought wryly - likely because they were quite adept at the act that produced them. But because of Harold's frequent absences, Corrine was left alone with the children often - and she rose to her role as matriarch as if she had been born to it. She managed the children and George with calm, quiet authority, tempered with a healthy dose of humor and playfulness, instilling a sense of security and love in every member of the house. Truth be told, she was the glue the held everyone together, the heart of the family whether Harold was present or not.
The intervening years, while not exactly fraught with hardship, had been characterized by developments both joyous and sobering. Marriages and births abounded, but a worldwide epidemic - and a world war - had changed society forever. Fortunately the Great War had been merciful to his family. Harold had served, of course - he was a member of the Royal Navy Reserve, and had been called up for duty at the start of the fighting. Both George and Corrine had been in a constant state of anxiety, worrying about his safety. But he had emerged unscathed, in spite of a few close calls.
After that, though, he only took assignments that allowed him to return regularly to Penrallt between voyages. He had finally found something he loved more than the sea: his wife and family. Unfortunately, he had never risen to command his own vessel. Ismay's long reach had likely prevented his ascension to captain even long after the man's forced retirement.
But another opportunity had eventually arisen, one even more lucrative - and appealing - than a captaincy. After the sinking of the Lusitania and the Britannic, there had been increased pressure from the public to further improve the safety of transatlantic travel. As a result, Harold had been named as head of White Star's newly minted Division of Disaster Prevention and Safety. This arrangement mutually benefited both parties; Harold's notoriety from the Titanic sinking gained visibility - and respect - for the division, and the position offered a more predictable - and safer - life for him. The job meant that he no longer had to stand a watch, nor did he have to leave his family for long stretches at a time; many of his duties could be performed on land. But he did travel back and forth across the Atlantic frequently enough to satisfy his wanderlust. His responsibilities included supervising boat drills at sea, in addition to soliciting suggestions from both crewmembers and passengers regarding safety, and writing up and making recommendations to the board of directors.
Unfortunately, the new division was based in, of all places, New York. When Corrine found out, she could barely disguise her delight. She would be returning to her beloved America, at least for a significant portion of each year; their summer months could still be spent in Wales, to Harold's relief. Seeing the happiness on his wife's face when she found out he would no longer be subject to the uncertainties of a life at sea was the final factor in convincing Harold to accept the position.
They weren't even supposed to be on this side of the Atlantic in April, but this year was different. It was the tenth anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, and there were going to be ceremonies honoring those lost, as well as the heroes of the disaster, in both London and Southampton. Harold was one of the latter, of course, and so, despite his distaste for ceremony and attention, he had reluctantly agreed to participate.
As far as George was concerned, the timing couldn't have been better. Because if they hadn't come for a visit, he would have had to drag himself over the ocean for one of his infrequent sojourns to that infernal city. He missed them that much.
He was pulled abruptly from his reverie as his four boisterous grandchildren swarmed him. Harold Godfrey Junior - who preferred to be called Godfrey - was a thin, serious boy of nine; intelligent and mature, he was a steadying influence on the others. Irene - who demanded that everyone call her Renee, like her idol and namesake, Rene Harris - was a pretty, vivacious girl of seven, and the ruler of the roost. Charles, aged four, was the adventurer, always getting into trouble and never sitting still. He was George's favorite; he reminded him of another mischievous boy he knew long ago. Catherine, the youngest, was barely two, and had the sweetest, most pleasant personality of all the children. She was, thought George, just like her mother.
George hugged each child tightly before swinging Charles high up into the air to the accompaniment of his shrieks. It was a game that he loved, and he insisted that George do it every time he saw him ('I wanna fly, Papa!'). Then he picked up Catherine, snuggling her into his arms as he listened to the older children's excited chatter about their voyage ('Godfrey was sick!' 'No I wasn't!' 'I got to see the engines, Papa!') with an air of supreme contentment.
By this time, the servants had mustered to ferry the luggage to the suite of rooms his son's family typically occupied during the summer months. George almost chuckled out loud at Corrine's look of dismay; she still hated having anyone wait on her, even after all these years. She fluttered her hands at them and made to pick up a handful of bags herself, but before she could start up the stairs, Renee accosted her. "Ma, may we go exploring now?" she begged, bouncing on her toes. "Please?"
Corrine allowed Alfred to wrestle a bag from her with a laugh of defeat that encompassed both him and her high-spirited daughter. "Of course, darling, go ahead. Godfrey, you're in charge of Charles. Don't let him out of your sight. But remember, after dinner you'll need to catch up on your studies," she added. Godfrey, who had pulled a frown at the prospect of being saddled with Charles, lit up at his mother's last words.
Corrine was teaching the children while they traveled - a task that she enjoyed immensely. Before meeting Harold, she had aspired to be a teacher or a nurse, she had told George once, and presiding over her own rather large brood had, in an indirect way, given her the opportunity to fulfill those ambitions. She had even taken a few classes after Godfrey was born, to familiarize herself with subjects such as science and literature that she hadn't had the opportunity to learn as a child in Ireland. To Renee's consternation - and Godfrey's delight - their mother strictly enforced their learning, insisting that it was the key to success, and her infectious love for education rubbed off even on the often-reluctant Renee and Charles.
But for now, the children were free, and they bolted for the door, shoving one another out of the way in their eagerness to run unsupervised over the expansive gardens and woods surrounding Penrallt. They never grew tired of inventing new games and frolicking over the countryside, as the opportunities for such activities were limited in the concrete confines of New York. And yet they loved the city, too, with its constant bustle and activity, vibrant culture, never-ending variety of shops and restaurants, and boundless entertainment. By having one foot in America and the other in Wales, they were able to experience the best of both worlds.
"Don't stay out too long!" George shouted at their retreating backs. "Dinner will be served in an hour and a half!"
Harold, who had had the good sense to stay quiet and out of the way, now spoke up from behind Corrine. "Father, I... I'd like to see your new paintings, if you have the time." He scuffed his shoe against the floor, his bashful demeanor reflecting the residual awkwardness he still occasionally felt around his father. They had reconciled years ago, but the scars of their formerly antagonistic relationship were sometimes still visible, making both of them hesitant and vulnerable. Fortunately, they had Corrine to smooth over the rougher edges, and a newfound understanding had bloomed between father and son, bringing them closer than they had been since before Harold's older brother had died.
Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Corrine beam from ear to ear. Nothing made her happier than to see the two of them bonding, although she knew that realistically they'd be doing more smoking and yarning than admiring art out in the workshop.
George was inordinately grateful, too. Even after all this time, it still pleased him enormously that Harold showed a genuine interest in his life and hobbies - it was the surest evidence that his antipathy was now a distant memory. George nodded, slapping him on the back good-naturedly. "I'd like that, son. I've got some paintings of the sea that I think you'll really appreciate."
Before turning and heading to the door, Harold leaned down and gave Corrine a long, lingering kiss. George looked away, uncomfortable. The two of them had absolutely no shame whatsoever, even after all these years.
"I'll just go put Catherine down for a nap, and then we can catch up when you two come back in," Corrine chirped, looking pleased as punch. "And in the meantime, I'll unpack our things." She threw Alfred a playfully defiant glare, and he gave her a very unprofessional smirk in return.
That lass has upset my entire household... and my entire life, grumbled George to himself as he led the way out to his workshop. And I love her to death for it.
When they finally returned to the house, stomachs rumbling and reeking of smoke, George was surprised to see that his daughter Ada, who had also planned to visit for a few days, still hadn't arrived. Although ostensibly invited so that she could spend time with her brother, George had an ulterior motive as well: he hoped she would help with the children while she was there. As much as he loved those wee ones, and thoroughly enjoyed having them at Penrallt, by the end of each day he was bloody exhausted. Keeping up with them took a lot of energy, and his old body wasn't getting any younger. And Harold and Corrine had a habit of disappearing after dinner for a few hours, at exactly the time of day he most needed help.
"Where is Ada?" he muttered to no one in particular. Harold shrugged noncommittally. He didn't seem particularly bothered by her absence; they had always been rivals of a sort, and although he loved his sister, he certainly wasn't going to shed any tears at her absence.
They had stayed outside longer than George had planned, so there was no time to chat with Corrine; dinner was already waiting for them. After Corrine herded everyone inside and made them wash up (Charles, George noted, was covered head to toe in dirt), they all headed into the dining room, where the food was served with a flourish. The kitchen had gone all out for Harold and his family; his cook, who was approaching sixty, had known Harold since childhood, and she adored him like he was her own son. So she served all his favorites - rarebit and roast lamb with leeks, potato cakes, and a side of prawns and mussels - as well as her specialty, cawl, which was made from a recipe handed down for generations and was considered one of the finest variants of the dish in North Wales.
Dinner was a lovely - and tumultuous - affair. With four young children in the house, George hadn't expected any less, and in fact, he welcomed it; the chaos provided a constant source of entertainment. And since he didn't have to worry about supervising it, he could just sit back and watch the spectacle unfold with a certain amount of detached mirth.
And the most entertaining part of the meal was watching Harold - blunt, emphatic, opinionated Harold, who had always had trouble keeping his own counsel - rein in his impulsive nature and keep his calm. Honestly, though, he was more even-tempered with his children than he was with anyone else - including Corrine, who had never really seemed fazed by his occasional outbursts anyway. He never chastised them, and although he tried to instill a sense of self-discipline in his children, he gave them a surprising amount of latitude as well.
And they loved and admired him immensely, of that there was no doubt. But George noticed that although they always treated their father with respect and affection, it was their mother that the children turned to the most, whether it be to resolve a dispute (Godfrey and Renee argued constantly), for help cutting meat (Charles ate like an animal if not supervised - just like his father), or for a soothing cuddle (Catherine burst into tears when she spilled her bowl of cawl on the floor). Corrine handled these incidents with cool aplomb - and not a little humor - which helped keep even the most rambunctious situation under control.
Although he was very patient with the children, and lent a hand whenever he could, Harold fidgeted continuously throughout dinner. He shifted in his seat, drummed his fingers on the table, and cleared his throat, the picture of restless, pent-up energy. Vaguely, George wondered what was bothering his son. He couldn't be bored already; they had just arrived, after all. But he was too busy to think on it just then; the constant clamor at the table commanded his full attention.
It wasn't until Corrine stood up after dinner was finally finished and he saw Harold's eyes crawl greedily over her body that he began to have an inkling of what was on his mind.
By that time, the children had had quite enough of sitting still, and Corrine excused them from the table. "Go with your Papa and Da to the study, now," Corrine said as she shooed them off. "I'll be right in after I help Alfred and Agnes clean up- oh, yes I will, Alfred, and you can't stop me." As she wagged her finger at him, George silently shook his head at Alfred behind her back. There was no arguing with that girl when her Irish was up.
With a shrug, Harold grabbed a serving tray. "I may as well stay, too," he said by way of explanation. "Where she goes, I go."
George gaped at him. He had never in his life seen Harold clean up after dinner. Helping with his children was one thing, but the poor lad was going soft in the head if he thought a man should assist with the household chores. He resolved to give his son a stern talking-to later. But for now, he decided that he was staying put as well; he wasn't going to miss the opportunity to watch this new, fully domesticated version of Harold in action.
While the two of them circled around him, clearing dishes and wiping the table, George glanced longingly at the sideboard. Around this time of day, he usually had already consumed two or three aperitifs, and would normally be working on his after-dinner drink. He had abstained today, but now the desire for a refreshment was overpowering his common sense. Surreptitiously, hoping they wouldn't notice, he sidled over and began pouring himself a few splashes of brandy. Surely just one drink-
"Now, now, George," Corrine chided gently behind him. "Not in front of the children." She lifted the tumbler from his fingers and placed it back down on the sideboard.
He looked up to see his son's dark eyes watching them intently. He hesitated. "Right you are, then, Corrine," he said lightly. He saw Harold's shoulders relax visibly.
He never had been able to give up the bottle completely, although God knows he had tried, and it was the only remaining point of contention between father and son. While she was living with him, Corrine had tried to help, encouraging and cajoling, but never judging, which he deeply appreciated. She told him that her own father had quit cold turkey the day after the Titanic sank, and hadn't had a drop since. The man himself had confirmed it when he came to Penrallt for the wedding. Testing him, George had offered him a drink when the two of them were alone, and Frank had adamantly refused, looking both horrified and almost superstitiously fearful. He said that when he heard about the sinking, he had made a pact with God that if Corrine survived, he would forswear alcohol for the rest of his life in penance and thanksgiving. And George believed he would; one thing he knew for certain about the man was that he loved his daughter beyond all reason - although for the longest time, he had been incapable of showing it. When he had told Corrine that, she had just laughed and said 'listen to the pot calling the kettle black.'
He had no idea what she was talking about.
That reminded him; he needed to tell Corrine the good news. "By the way, your da telegrammed this morning. He said he'll be here in two days; he just needs to finish tilling the garden and supervise the workmen painting the exterior of the inn."
She clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, I can't wait to see him! He hasn't visited New York since last summer, and I've missed him so!"
George, too, was looking forward to seeing him again. It always surprised George how much he had warmed to Frank after their initial cool meeting the day before Harold and Corrine's wedding. There were obvious reservations on both sides: at the time, George was still harboring misgivings about the suitability of his future daughter-in-law, and in turn, Frank was wary and suspicious of Harold's intentions and the family's higher social standing. Corrine told him later that the Lowes' lifestyle was uncomfortably similar to that of his late wife's family in Liverpool. Despite this mutual distrust, however, the two men reluctantly acknowledged that they had much in common - as did their children - and over the course of the two weeks that Frank had stayed at Penrallt after the wedding, George found himself seeking him out for cigars and conversation. It didn't hurt that the man had a new lease on life after the Titanic sank. Gone were all the negative personality traits - the bitterness, the constant criticism, the remoteness - that had made Corrine flee Ireland in the first place. The Frank that George knew was charming, witty, and could tell a ripping yarn, and by the end of the visit, they had become thick as thieves. Over the years, Frank had returned to Penrallt many times, both to visit Corrine and later, after the family moved to New York, for yearly trips specifically to see George. The dour independently-wealthy Welshman and the ebullient working-class Irishman had forged an unlikely but lasting friendship.
In fact, Frank had become quite the well-traveled individual in recent years. He made regular visits to America to visit Corrine and her family, where he was always welcomed with open arms. He had even visited his wayward sons in Australia once, where he had a 'gas time', as he put it. But he always returned home to Clonakilty. One time, George had hesitantly floated the idea of 'two old men, living out their days in Penrallt', but Frank had gently turned him down. I can't leave Eleanor's resting place, he had said simply, and that was that.
"And of course, we're going to stay with Uncle John when we're in Southampton," Corrine remarked as she returned from the kitchen, picking up the conversation where they had left off.
Corrine's Aunt Gertrude had passed away five years ago, leaving John alone. Unlike Frank, however, he preferred not to travel to New York; Corrine's experience on the Titanic had soured him from transatlantic travel forever, he said. So his niece, who had always adored him and was the closest family member he had left, visited him during their summers in Wales, usually leaving the children at Penrallt with George and Harold for a few days to do so. Although George had never felt as close to him as he had to Frank, he still respected the man's place in Corrine's life, and had even floated him a loan to keep his shop open a few years ago during the war, a favor the man had paid back with interest when business picked up again afterward.
The dining room had finally been put in order, and Corrine glanced at Harold and George. "Shall we retire to the study now and check on the children?" Harold nodded and immediately headed for the door. It seemed he was wasting little time in getting on with the night... no doubt so that he could get his end away sooner, George thought cynically.
George's favorite sanctuary was full of activity. Both Godfrey and Renee had books spread out on the desk, but only Godfrey was studying; Renee was playing with Catherine, spinning a top on the floor to entertain her and regaling her with a familiar tale:
"And then he pulled her from the icy water and gave her a kiss, waking her from her sleep..."
Harold plucked Charles off of the armchair, where he had been perched on the back, examining the ornamental swords hung by the fireplace, and sat him down on the floor next to Catherine. "No weapons," he admonished his youngest son. "You know we've talked about this before."
"But I want to take one to show Captain Lightoller!" Charles protested.
At George's look of confusion, Corrine hastened to explain. "After the Southampton ceremony, we're going to visit with the Lightollers for five days," she trilled. Behind her, he saw Harold roll his eyes. He obviously wasn't looking forward to the visit as much as his wife was. "Captain Lightoller is eager to meet his namesake." She glanced fondly over at Charles.
The only one of Titanic's officers to receive his own command, Lightoller would normally be plying the Atlantic in the Olympic, but like Harold was currently ashore for the anniversary of the sinking. Corrine, whose affection for the man had never abated, had maintained a warm and frequent correspondence with him over the years. George had met him once, and though the Titanic's former second officer was affable and charming, he could also understand why his queer bond with Corrine made Harold a bit uncomfortable.
Quickly changing the subject, George inquired, "And your friend Katie?"
"Ah, Katie," Corrine sighed, her eyes lighting with affection. "After the London events are finished, we're going to Paris to see her."
Corrine's life may have taken her on a different path from that of her best friends, but they were nonetheless still as close as ever. Kate, who still lived in New York, had married a fellow Titanic survivor, Daniel Buckley. After only a few happy years together, however, Daniel was killed in the final days of the Great War. Lost in her grief, Kate threw herself into her work, eventually becoming the first-ever female manager of the hotel where she and Daniel had first found employment after the sinking. In addition to her career, she was also busy raising her son, also named Daniel, who was born two months after his father died. However, Corrine made a point to see her dear Kate as often as their busy schedules allowed - which was usually at least once a week.
Katie, on the other hand, had led a life of glamour and romance. Shortly after moving to Washington to work as a maid, her lively air and striking good looks had caught the eye of a French diplomat, Antoine Boucher, who worked in the city. Initially reluctant to give her heart to a man she was convinced would only break it, she eventually allowed herself to be wooed by his obvious sincerity. They married and lived in Washington for many years before returning to France just last spring. When Harry was away during his now-infrequent trips to the sea, Corrine would often take the children down for a weekend jaunt to visit Katie, occasionally accompanied by Kate and Dan as well. Although she adored Corrine's and Kate's children and doted on them with a near fanaticism, Katie had never wanted children of her own - until one day she did. She joyfully told Corrine she was pregnant when she visited New York after Catherine's birth. "I don't know if you named this wee one after me or Kate," Katie had teased. "But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and return the favor. Besides, Corrine's a French name, anyway." And six months later, she did indeed name her newborn daughter Corrine.
"This trip is going to be longer than an Australian run," Harold grumbled good-naturedly. But as his eyes fell on Corrine, George could tell there was no rancor in the statement. They glowed with devotion - and, he noted, with an odd sort of fever as well.
Just as I suspected, George thought to himself.
Corrine took the hint. "Your da and I will be back in an hour or so, and then we'll put you to bed," Corrine told the children. "We have to... take care of something. But for now, you are free to do as you please." She hung back for a bit, giving them each a kiss, while Harold indicated for George to follow them out into the foyer with a jerk of his head.
Once the door was closed, Harold wasted no time. "We haven't been alone in a week." Taking Corrine's hand, he pulled her toward the staircase. "And you don't know how hard... er, difficult... it is to sleep next to her and not..." He left the sentence unfinished, but his smoldering look at her - and her equally sultry look back - spoke volumes. "No matter what happens," he growled at his father, "don't interrupt me." Corrine squealed and let out a giggle as he chased her up the stairs. Harold stopped and looked down from the landing at George. "If you're lucky, you'll end up with a fifth grandchild soon," he said smugly, his voice fading as he disappeared down the hallway.
Wonderful, thought George. He had been subjected to their 'reunions' before, and had had to stuff a pillow over his head to keep out the noise. Apparently, his son knew words that George hadn't even known existed - and he could only guess in horror at their meaning. And his daughter-in-law... well she was a lusty girl with a good set of lungs, that was for sure. He hoped they'd show some restraint this time, at least for the sake of their children.
He stood in the foyer, indecisive for a moment. Finally, he concluded that for his own sanity, rather than wait in the sitting room until Ada arrived - and possibly overhear things he didn't want to hear - he would go back to the study and spend more time with Harold's noisy brood.
And for a while, all was well. Renee had returned to her books with a sigh, and the two older children were now quietly studying. Charles and Catherine were playing with Charles's collection of toy boats on the rug before the fireplace. George settled back into his armchair, enjoying the warmth of the room, the temporary silence, and the comfort of having Harold's family surrounding him.
Of course, the peace couldn't last for long. Already bored with her studies, Renee hopped up from her chair and imperiously informed Charles that he was playing all wrong: "Da says that ships should pass each other on their port sides."
Incensed, Charles stood up, throwing his toy down, and shouted, "Well, you don't know a bloody thing about ships!" Before George could scold him for his language, Catherine started bawling, huge tears rolling down her cheeks as she watched her older brother and sister argue. Helpless, George blustered ineffectually, waving his hands in an attempt to quiet them, all to no avail.
After a short time, Catherine left off crying and toddled over to her older brother Godfrey, who still had his nose in a book. Absently, he reached down to pick her up and pull her into his lap, but then hesitated, wrinkling his nose. "She needs her nappy changed, Papa," Godfrey informed him with a grimace.
George looked at him helplessly. Just what was he supposed to do about that? He glanced around, looking for the bag of supplies Corrine had left for him - and spotted Charles sullenly stoking the red-hot logs with a metal poker. He rushed over and yanked it out of his hand, sending a shower of sparks raining down on the fireplace.
Just then, Alfred poked his head in the door. "Sir, your daughter rang up a few minutes ago. Said that she won't be able to make it tonight after all; the train was delayed, and isn't scheduled to depart now until almost midnight. She promised she'd be on the first one tomorrow morning, though." At George's incredulous and thunderous expression, he beat a hasty retreat.
Damn, George swore to himself. He needed Ada's help; he might be able to entertain the older two adequately, but he had not the least idea of what to do with a baby - and Charles needed constant monitoring.
That was it. George squared his shoulders. No matter what Harold had said, he was going to have to drag the both of them back down here; he couldn't be expected to do this by himself.
"Renee, you're in charge," he barked as he hauled himself out of the armchair and stomped toward the door.
A smug smile crossed her lips. "Hear that, you two? You'll obey my orders now," she preened at Catherine and Charles.
She sounds just like her father, George thought. He could hear them arguing as he hurriedly closed the door.
He climbed the stairs and marched down the hall until he stood outside the door to Harry's and Corrine's bedroom. He hesitated briefly, then knocked firmly and waited. Nothing.
He knocked again, louder this time. "Busy!" he heard Harold shout hoarsely, followed by a gasp, and then: "Good God, Corrine..."
George shook his head, disgusted, and moved away quickly. He was going to have to find a way to manage this on his own.
He went back downstairs to the study. Things had quieted somewhat - Renee must have put the fear of God in everyone - but George knew he was still in way over his head. He looked at the sideboard longingly. No. He had promised Corrine... and he didn't want to disappoint Harold, either, he admitted to himself.
"Papa, Catherine's nappy," Godfrey reminded him patiently.
Exasperated, George turned to the only other female in the room. "Do you know how to change a nappy, Renee?" he asked somewhat desperately.
"Nope," she replied cheerfully, which he took to mean "no, sir," in American English. "Ma always does that." She pondered a minute. "Well, sometimes Da lends a hand, too," she added helpfully.
Harold? Really? George suppressed a grin; he would have paid money to see that.
Renee began tap-dancing around the room as George wrestled Catherine to the floor. To be fair, she was such a gentle soul that it hardly took any wrestling at all; if he had known what the hell he was doing, he surely could have made short work of the entire process. But between Renee's dancing and singing, and Charles blithering right next to his ear, his brain wasn't working properly. To his immense relief, he found that the nappy was only full of liquid, not... the other... so once he removed it (holding his nose, of course), it was only a matter of re-pinning the new one correctly. He was almost certain he was cocking it up, though. He sighed, looking once again to Renee for salvation, but the girl was no help at all; she was bragging about her latest trip to the theater and how her godmother, who had become a famous theater producer in her own right since the death of her husband on the Titanic, had brought her backstage afterward to meet all the stars of the show.
"Mrs. Harris says I'll be a Broadway star myself someday." She tossed her head and stuck her chin high in the air, then dipped deep into an exaggerated curtsey, as if already anticipating the applause.
She certainly had a flair for the dramatic, George had to admit. And she could be as charming as Corrine when she wanted to be - and as hard-nosed as Harold every other time. "You sound so... utterly American," he said, voice tinged with disdain.
"I am American, Papa," she reminded him haughtily.
"Only on your mother's side," he muttered.
That earned him a glare and a stuck-out tongue, followed by a good-natured giggle. He permitted it, of course. Ah, he spoiled these children so much. He was growing quite soft in his old age, he thought deprecatingly.
Godfrey was tucked into a nearby chair, his studies finished for now, devouring a thick book from the library. George smiled fondly. Just like his mother, he thought. He remembered the first time Corrine had laid eyes on their expansive library. She had nearly gone into paroxysms of joy at the shelves and shelves of books that surrounded her everywhere she turned. Harold had never shown much interest in reading, or writing, for that matter - but Corrine certainly did. During her confinement with Godfrey, he had barely been able to rouse her from the library sofa, even to take meals; she would nurse the baby in one arm while holding a book in the other. Maybe that's where Godfrey gets his love of reading, George thought; he learned it in infancy.
"Papa," he asked now, looking up from his book, "Are you familiar with Mendelian inheritance and its implications for Darwin's theory of evolution?"
George shook his head, flabbergasted; he had no idea what he the boy had just said. Was he speaking English? Maybe it was American English again. In any case, it was probably something he learned from those books. George, like Harold, had never been much of a reader; he preferred drawing, painting, carving - creating things with his hands. To his consternation, none of these children had acquired his passion for art. He smiled down at Catherine. Maybe this one would, he thought, cooing at her. It certainly wouldn't be Charles-
Wait. Where was Charles, anyway? He had been here a minute ago, right beside him, babbling on and on about the ship, and how his father had taken him to the bridge to meet the captain, and to the stern at night to look at the stars...
He looked over at Renee. "Where's Charles?" he barked.
She shook her head and shrugged, wide-eyed. Godfrey looked up from his book again, concerned.
George stood up suddenly, ignoring the aching in his back and the popping in his knees. "Charles!" he roared.
No answer.
"Quickly, children - help me look," he ordered, and they sprang into action, Godfrey scooping up Catherine in his arms as they darted out the study door.
The three of them checked the entire first floor, calling his name, opening closets and checking under tables where he might be hiding for a lark, but turned up no sign of him. After about ten minutes of fruitless searching, Godfrey touched George's arm. "I think it's time we tell Ma and Da," he said firmly.
"I'll get them," George said, face grim. He stormed up the stairs and down the hallway. This time, he pounded on the door, heedless of the coitus inside he was most certainly interrupting. "Stop... whatever it is you're doing in there, and come out at once," he roared. "Charles is missing!"
He heard a flurry of movement inside the room, and then Harold threw open the door a few moments later, wearing only trousers, his chest bare. Corrine emerged right behind him. She had on Harold's shirt, which reached nearly to her knees, and nothing else.
"Corrine, where is your dress?" George hissed at her, scandalized.
"I- I can't find it at the moment," she admitted. She had the temerity to blush.
"What happened?" Harold demanded.
"I was changing Catherine - and I have no idea how those things, work by the way, those... nappies - and when I was done, I looked up, and Charles was gone. He was right beside me - I don't know how he got away so fast."
Harold had been watching him closely, and now he stalked toward him. "Have you been drinking, Father?" he asked, low and menacing.
"Harry-" Corrine warned.
"No," George said firmly. He stood his ground as Harold stared hard into his eyes. He must have been satisfied at what he saw there, because he nodded tersely. He ran his hand through his hair. "I can't believe you lost my child."
"There's too many of them!" George roared, anxiety edging his tone. "I can't possibly keep track of them all!"
Corrine threw him a look as they rushed down the hall toward the stairs, but said nothing.
Harold and Corrine wasted several minutes re-checking all the places George and the children had already looked before Corrine suddenly grabbed his arm. "Have you looked outside?" she asked him.
"Outside? In this cold?" George said incredulously.
"I know my son," she said simply. "He'll be outside any chance he can get."
George gave her a dubious look, but Harold was already in motion, bolting for the front door, Corrine hot on his heels.
Harold stuffed his feet in his shoes, and then dug in the foyer closet until he found a pair of old wellies for Corrine. He pulled a greatcoat from a hanger and draped it over her shoulders as well, and she gave him a grateful, loving look in return. The children assembled and dressed for the cold too, and soon the entire group was trooping out into the frosty night, Harold holding tightly to his wife's hand.
As soon as he stepped outside, George started shivering; he could only imagine what Corrine and Harold were enduring, being half-dressed as they were. She saw Renee look at her mother dubiously, and ask, in an almost-perfect imitation of George earlier, "Ma, where's your dress?"
"Never mind that now, Renee," she reprimanded gently, and blushed again.
The group spread out, Harold heading toward the workshop, Godfrey and Renee looking behind the bushes near the door, Corrine hurrying around the side of the house. George stood helplessly in the driveway, turning in circles. Where could that boy have gone off to? He glanced up at the moon, hoping its brightness would shed some light on their search-
His heart caught in his throat. There was Charles, balanced precariously on the very peak of the roof.
George's normally robust baritone came out like a squeak as he called Harold and Corrine over. Wordlessly, he pointed. Their heads craned upward, and they both gasped simultaneously, Corrine clinging to Harold's arm in sheer terror.
Charles noticed them gathering underneath his foothold. "Look, Da!" he shouted. "I'm on the bridge!" He lifted his chin and folded his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like an officer of the watch.
Harold stared up at him, his eyes bulging with astonishment. "How-" he breathed.
"He must have shimmied up the gutterspouts. Oh, Harry..." Corrine's voice broke.
But despite his parents' fear, Charles seemed quite stable on his lofty perch. He didn't so much as wobble, despite all the excited clamor below him. The boy was either very sure-footed... or very lucky. George saw Harold relax a bit, although Corrine was still stiff with tension and fear.
Harold moved protectively behind his wife and rubbed her arms. "He'll be all right, darling," he murmured. "He's skylarking, is all, just like I used to do." His lips twitched in a smirk.
Corrine, however, was not comforted - and neither was George. One wrong move, one false step, and... George didn't want to contemplate it, not even for a second.
"What are we going to do?" Corrine whispered. She was trying to stay calm for Charles and the other children, but her face was drained of all color, and her glistening eyes were glued to her little boy.
"I'll get him down!" Renee shouted, jumping up and down. She was nearly buoyant with excitement.
Harold hushed her. "No, you won't," he said firmly, kissing the top of her head. "I'm going up there myself."
Godfrey, who was still holding a sleepy Catherine in his arms, spoke up. "Da, there's a tree over near the right side of the house. I think you may be able to climb up and reach the roof."
Harold reached over and tousled the boy's hair. He seemed rather tranquil for a man whose youngest son was currently hovering three storeys above their heads. "Quite right, Godfrey," he grinned. "I actually already knew about it. Used it a few times myself when I was a lad." He chanced a look at his father. George raised his eyebrows, but kept his mouth shut.
The children ran off toward the tree, Godfrey leading with Catherine bouncing on his shoulder. Harold quickly followed his offspring, but George hung back for a bit, watching Corrine, who still stood directly below Charles. "Don't move an inch, sweet boy," she pleaded with him. He obliged, staring out into the night with all his concentration, as if looking for land - or ice.
A chill ran down George's spine as he hurried after the others.
As he reached the group, huffing and puffing, George saw that Harold was already scrambling up the tree. His son clambered from branch to branch, more agile than any man near forty had a right to be, until he was level with the edge of the roof. Using a thick bough as support, he leaped lightly onto the slate tiles, landing in a graceful crouch. Then, holding his arms from his sides, he slowly eased his way over to Charles, who made circles of his hands and put them to his eyes, pretending to peer at his father through binoculars.
"Where are you bound, Da?" he piped.
Harold's foot wobbled slightly, and George could see even from his vantage point on the ground that he was trying to hold in a chuckle.
George waited with bated breath as Harold edged ever closer to the small boy, praying that neither of them suddenly lost their balance and stumbled on the slippery, slanting roof. Fortunately, Harold reached him without incident, and quickly snatched him up, throwing him over his shoulder. Charles squealed and pounded on his father's bare back, and Harold let out a bark of relieved laughter as he retraced his steps, carrying him carefully back over to the tree.
George didn't exhale until they were safely back within the tree's branches, Charles clinging to his father's shoulders as they climbed down together. Godfrey and Renee set up a bedlam of noise at their safe return, waking Catherine, who also joined in her cries with the others.
George moved away from the cheering children and back to the front of the house, toward Corrine. A broad, exultant smile wreathed her face as she spotted him. "Harry saves the day again," she crowed, unable to hide her pride and delight.
He reached her side at last and gazed down at his beloved daughter-in-law. "Crisis averted, indeed," he announced, relief evident in his voice as well. Then he grew serious, shaking his finger at her. "And this is why you two need to stop... well, procreating. Having Charles around is like having ten children."
She smiled enigmatically, then checked to see if anyone else was in earshot. "It's too late," she whispered conspiratorially. "There's already another one on the way. I just haven't told Harry yet."
George smacked his forehead in disbelief. "Good heavens, Corrine, when are the two of you going to quit?" he groaned.
"Maybe after this one," she replied coyly.
"You say that after every one," he said, unconvinced. "I don't know if I can handle any more."
She suppressed a snort. "I guess I'm still Catholic at heart," she said by way of explanation, giving him a cheeky wink. She patted her still-flat belly, her expression suddenly turning sober. "This one's going to be called William," she announced quietly.
"How do you know it's going to be a boy?" George demanded.
She watched her family approach with a thoughtful twinkle in her eye. "I just know. And I've been right about all four of the others," she reminded him.
"William, eh? Why not call him George, instead?" he countered.
She gave him a look of amused exasperation, gesturing to the chaos around them, for which he was at least partly responsible. "Let's just stick with Will, shall we?"
They laughed together, and as the family rejoined them, George threw his arm around her small shoulders, sending up a prayer of thanks to all the stars above for gifting these two restless children one another.
