Author's Note: Here it is! Chapter Two! Woohoo! Katrina, thank you so much
for the review. Glad you like it. As for everyone else, if you can, reviews
are not only accepted, but MUCH appreciated! After I upload this, I'm off
to watch Part II of the movie and get myself all depressed over the great
acting job Victor Garber does as Andrews. . . sniffle. Man, is that sad.
Oh, and Dearborn, MI is going through a Titanic craze. . . just got back
from vacation there, and I saw a billboard for a museum display with
Titanic artifacts, and at the Henry Ford Museum, there's an IMAX Titanic
movie called "Ghosts of the Abyss", and it's actually directed by James
Cameron. I wanted to see it, but the folks could have cared less. Much
less. If anyone's seen it, please tell me what you thought! Anyway. . .
hope you guys are enjoying this so far. If you're reading this and don't
have a fanfiction.net account and want to review it, please feel free to
email me at the24fan4ever2@aol.com, or Instant Message me, AIM style, on
the same screen name. I love talking about this stuff, and I will email/IM
you back! Enjoy. . . I'm off to feel sorry for Thomas.
TWO
After the sick guy was put away, Andrews took me back to my quarters. We talked the whole walk back, and, feeling a little guilty, I led him to just outside my room in the women's quarters as not to let him think that I slept in a room that was also occupied with four single men. But when we got to my rooms, I found I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to learn more about him, and wondered in the back of my mind if he would be interested in hearing what I'd done two years ago. That was when I'd abandoned my three-year's working with a shipyard on the American east coast. It'd been hell trying to find work, but when the workers in the shipyard saw that I was capable of it, they took me in, and there I'd stayed until I met up with Jack.
I brought my thoughts back to the present, where Thomas was standing before me, his eyes kind. "Thanks," I told him, knowing my words weren't enough. "I appreciate you doing all this."
"T'wasn't a problem." he assured me gently, and then, serious but hopeful, he said, "Carrie, I'd be honored. . . if you would join me-- and my companions for dinner tomorrow evening."
My heart jumped at hearing this. He wanted me to go to dinner with him? Me go with him to dinner? I was nearly speechless. "Thomas, I would. . . my God, I'd love to. . ."
His smile broadened by quite a bit. "Wonderful. I'll meet you at the stairs, B Deck."
At the words "B Deck", I remembered. Thomas was first class. I was third class. Didn't he know that? I gulped, wondering if that had fully sunk in with him. But we were standing here on G Deck, for Chrissake. Of course it would have sunk in. The man wasn't stupid.
"Alright, but. . ." I gulped, and gave in: he knew, and he obviously didn't care. I focused now on the more important problem. "Look, I don't have anything to wear. I mean, the rest of my wardrobe isn't much better than this. . ."
To my surprise, he had a solution all ready. "Tell you what we'll do." he pulled a tiny notepad from his pocket, and a pencil, and then stopped, and looked at me. "Can you read?"
"Since I was four." I said, proud to be able to tell him so.
"Good." he turned to his little piece of paper and began scribbling. "Look, find this room this evening, round about. . . four thirty. A Mrs. Peckdash is staying here, and her trade is tailoring. She'll find something suitable for you. Tell her I sent you, and you won't have to do a thing." He passed me the finished note.
"Thomas, I. . ." I could hardly voice my gratitude. "Thank you so much. . . for this, and, and for helping me with that man, and-- and everything." I suddenly realized that I was still wearing his jacket, and I slipped it off of my shoulders and passed it back to him, realizing that my hand was trembling. Never in my life had anyone been this kind to me. "I. . . thanks." I stuffed my free fist into the pockets of my skirt.
He took the coat, his eyes soft and twinkling. "T'was my pleasure, Carrie. And thank you, for accepting my dinner proposal."
I could feel my cheeks warm with a blush. "You're welcome."
Thomas smiled slightly. "If there's anything you need at all, find Mr. Murdoch or myself. We'll be glad to help you." He held out his hand for me to shake it.
I took it; we shook hands. Both of our grips were tight; his palm was large and warm. "Thanks again," I told him, hating myself for how many times I'd said "thank you" in the past thirty seconds.
"See you tomorrow." he smiled, his eyes meeting mine, and released my hand, turning to go.
For a moment I took control of the odd feeling in my stomach, and then suddenly, I felt uneasy. Maybe he really didn't know what he was doing. "Thomas, wait!" I hurried after him.
He was no more than twenty paces ahead of me, but he stopped and turned, his voice and eyes extremely concerned. "Carrie?"
His look made me stumble over words. "Are. . . are you sure you want to do this?" I couldn't help but ask it. I didn't want to be forcing him into this. "I mean, this is crazy--" I cut myself off; I hadn't meant it like that. "--I mean-- that's not what I meant. . . I just. . ."
"I'm listening." Thomas assured me, and from the way his eyes looked so sincere, I knew that he was.
I found the words. "I'm. . . I'm steerage. I'm just above the rats on this ship. Are you sure you want to invite a third-class girl to a first- class dinner?"
He spoke softly, concerned eyes pouring into mine. "Is that whatche think, Carrie? That I'm going to be concerned about what class you're in?"
I was taken aback by his answer. "I'm so used to it in everybody else. . ."
"I'm not like those dogs who immediately judge people by what position they're in on my ship." he assured me quietly. Silence passed between us, but it might as well have been filled with hours' worth of conversation. I felt as though I knew this man better. "Yes, Carrie. I'm sure I want to do this."
I had to take in a breath to steady myself, and I forced myself to look up at him. "Thanks. It. . . it means a lot to me."
His face relaxed into a smile. "You're quite welcome." He reached out suddenly, and gently gripped my shoulder, his eyes intent as he stared into mine. "And please, Carrie Stevenson. You're not just above the rats on this ship. You're far, far above them, in a higher class than any that could be designated by this ship. The good Lord knows it. . ." he shifted his eyes upward briefly, then brought them right back to mine, and nodded so slightly it looked as though his head had twitched. ". . . and I know it."
I didn't break the stare this time. His comment had somehow hit a chord in me. No one had ever given me praise like that. I hardly knew what to say. "I. . ." For some reason my throat was tight. I cursed silently, knowing this was a prologue to tears, and I never, ever cried. ". . . that was. . ." I let out a frustrated breath, not knowing what to say. ". . . thank you very much."
From the way his eyes poured into mine, I could tell that those words had been enough. He knew I was trying to thank him but couldn't. He released my shoulder, and smiled gently. "You're quite welcome. See you tomorrow?"
I nodded, smiling back, my eyes still burning, my voice slightly choked. "Yes. See you then."
I watched him go, and as he rounded the corner, I headed for my real rooms. Pushing the key into the lock, the weight of what he'd said finally sank in. I leaned my head against the door, giving up on the key. I let my shoulders shake, and allowed the tears of gratitude drip one by one onto my knuckles.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Hours later, I looked down at the paper, and then up at the door. The room numbers (B24) matched, one in pencil, the other in gold lettering on the door. I raised my hand timidly, feeling quite out of place in the fine carpeted hallway of the first class passengers. A woman passed me, looking me up and down, and sniffed. I set my teeth and ignored her, and knocked firmly on the door before me.
For a moment nothing happened, and then the lock clicked and the door was pulled open.
A slightly large woman in her early forties or so opened the door. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back from her face, and her afternoon dress still clung to her frame. She looked extremely elegant, and to my surprise, smiled at me. "Hello," she said. Her voice was low but friendly. "May I help you?"
"Mr. Andrews sent me," I said, tucking the paper into my pocket, curling my hand around it. "I told him I didn't have anything to wear for supper tomorrow, so. . ."
She smiled again. "You're Carrie Stevenson. Yes, he mentioned you'd be stopping by. Please, come in. I'm Mrs. Peckdash."
She stepped aside and I entered, nearly gasping at the elegance before me. The wood-paneled walls flashed with golden decor; a large- windowed door led out to a private deck, the carpet was thick and luxurious. There were also clothing and fabric draped over every inch of available space.
"You'll be wanting something to wear for dinner, eh?" she went to a small box sitting on the desk, and pulled out a long cord of measuring tape. "Well, Carrie, I'll have to take your measurements. Come here." The cord whisked around me for a few moments as she recorded her findings on a scrap of paper, and then she began to sort through the stacks of clothing. "You partial to a certain color?"
"Blue's my favorite." I confessed. "A dark, midnight-y blue."
She smiled and glanced back at me. "Yes, blue would do wonders for you. Alright. . ." she continued hunting around, throwing things over her arm, and then finally thrust the pile into my arms. "Now we've got to get you a corset."
"Wonderful." I muttered.
She actually found one and helped me into it, tightening the laces until I felt as though I could hardly breathe. "Anyone ever passed out from lack of oxygen?" I squeaked.
"You bet they have." she said unconcernedly. "There. See, look in that mirror over there."
I looked, feeling pretty stupid, but then I noticed that I'd just lost a few inches due to it. "Wow." I said, shocked. "Thanks."
"Now step into this," she held out one of the blue garments she'd found. I did so, and she began to tie it at the back. I looked back in the mirror, startled. The dress' sleeves stopped right above my elbow, the neckline low and square. From the neckline emerged a rectangle that went down to the sash at the waist. It was a fabric of a slightly lighter blue, delicate designs upon it, tiny beads clinging to it that matched the main color of the dress. The sash was cream-colored and satin. The skirt was long and clingy, flowing into a slightly long train in the back. The rectangle of blue and beads went right down the skirt itself.
"I love it." I whispered.
"Wonderful." she stared at it in the mirror, her eyes narrowed. "Funny, it seems to fit you very well. Anything feel too loose or tight?
"No." I took a step, corset restricting my movements. "Feels pretty good."
"Oh, goodness!" Mrs. Peckdash said suddenly.
I winced at her cry, but turned to look at her. "What is it?"
"You poor girl. You've no idea how to walk like a lady!"
I stared. "What? How is a lady supposed to walk?" I bit back a smile. "Last time I checked, all one had to do was pick up one foot and put it in front of the other."
"Not quite." she said. "You're trying to move in strides. A first- class lady must limit her steps. Take twice as many, and move slowly. You'll find, once we get you into a pair of shoes, that you'll have to move like that anyway."
"Great." I said sarcastically, but turned again to my reflection. Learning to walk like a lady would be worth it to actually have dinner with Thomas.
Peckdash was rolling up her measuring tape. "Listen, I'll keep the dress tonight, but Saturday at around. . . say, five thirty, you stop on by and I'll help you into this again. Then we'll get your hair done and put some makeup on for you."
"You'd do that?" I asked, surprised.
"You bet." she said with a wink. "Now come along, I've got to get ready for supper myself."
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Back at our quarters late that evening, I was awake, flat on my stomach on the bed, writing with my notebook propped on my pillow. I was alone, but not for long; Fabrizio entered.. He was the first one back from dinner, and he climbed into the top bunk beside me. "Sorry," I said, scooting over, putting my thoughts about the shipyard and Thomas aside.
"Don't worry about it." he said, scooting to his side, facing the wall. "Grazie."
"Prego." For a moment I stared down at my half-full notebook page. "Fabrizio?"
"Si?"
I blinked, staring at the darkness. "How does a person know they're in love?"
"Carrie," he said. "People have been asking the same question for hundreds of years and the answer is never good enough."
I half-smiled. "Try me."
"You just. . ." Fabrizio trailed off, then finished. "You just know."
My smile broadened. "That was good enough. More than."
"Why?" he turned to face me, a grin alight on his face. "Are you in love?"
"I believe I am." I said, smiling back.
"With Andrews?"
I paused. "Yes."
"And he with you?"
Again, I hesitated. "Maybe."
"Good." he said. "Then there will actually be room in my bunk." And he laughed when I pummeled him with my pillow.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Saturday morning, I was up before dawn, and I slipped out of my bunk quietly, pulling on a skirt and a shirt, rolling up the sleeves. I headed for the steerage dining room, where the cooks there were already making breakfast. They were surprised to see someone up this early, but they had some food ready, so I took a stack of toast and a cup of coffee up to the deck to watch the sun come up. I sat up near the captain's quarters, my legs on the deck chair and crossed under my skirt as I ate and drank silently. A hundred thoughts were crowding my mind, most of them about Thomas.
When I was finished with my toast, and half through with my coffee, I pulled my notebook from the folds of my skirt, and began to write to take my mind off of Thomas. I wrote:
Possibilities after the Titanic docks: 1. Continue with Jack and Fabrizio 2. Return to New York harbor and shipyards, try to get into a higher position in the company 3. Strike out on my own and try to find work elsewhere 4. ?
The first two seemed like the best possibility. I hated the idea of leaving Jack and Fabrizio, but we couldn't stick together forever, and I didn't want to make them stay in New York with me. I didn't like the idea of traveling alone, only because if anything ever happened, no one would know or even care. And I doubted that I'd have much success finding work anywhere besides the shipyard. What I was really interested in was designing ships, the grand ones like the Olympic, and the one right under my shoes. But I doubted that even they would give me a position as high up as that one.
I decided to quit thinking about it, gnawed my pencil for a moment, and then pressed it to the paper again.
Things to ask Thomas: 1. Tell me about your childhood, how did you get started with the shipping business, etc 2. Are you married?
I paused at #2, surprised at what had come out of my pencil. Yeah, right. I could never ask him that. It wouldn't only be downright rude, but it would as much as shout to his face that I was falling fast for him. And he'd probably think I was too forward. Holy Moses, was love complicated. I didn't cross it out, though.
3. Do you have another ship in the works? 4. ???!
Once again, I was stumped for a #4. I thought for a moment about writing down if I could ask him for a job working as a maid or stewardess on his ship; they were always in demand, and I knew plenty about ships. Not that the knowing ships part would do much good.
Then, before I could write it, a shadow fell across my notebook. I snapped it closed and looked up; the smiling face of First Officer Murdoch beamed down at me in the post-dawn light.
"Good morning, Miss Stevenson." he greeted kindly, holding out his hand, looking trim and tall (I shit you not) in his uniform.
I stood up, grinning back; we shook hands. "Mr. Murdoch." I said, and we both sat, he on the deck chair next to me. "Nice to see you again. How are you?"
"Thank you; I'm excellent. How about yourself? Feeling all right after the other day?"
"Never better," I said, with only a tiny hint of sarcasm.
He heard it, but didn't mind; he only nodded a little. "We've telegraphed the coast already; we've gotten a local court there to set a trial date."
I nodded back, even though I didn't like the idea. They'd told me Thursday that they were going to try to do this, because "molestation", as they'd called it, along with attempted rape, was against American law, and that man, though immigrated from Ireland years back, was an American citizen. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." he smiled again, and looked at my closed notebook. "What were you writing?"
"Nothing," I said, trying to dismiss his question. "Just thoughts."
"I understand." Murdoch said. "I'm sorry to interrupt you."
"No, no, that's okay." I watched him. His elbows were on his knees, his fingers folded. He looked as though he were on the edge of saying something important, but didn't know how to get the words out. "Mr. Murdoch, something tells me you didn't come here just to mention the trial."
He let out a long breath, one of resignation. "You're right, Miss Stevenson. There's more than that." his glance at me was hesitant. "That is, if you'll permit me to do so."
"Believe me," I assured him. "There isn't much you can talk about that'll make me uncomfortable."
"Good." he said. "Now. . . did Mr. Andrews really invite you to dinner this evening?"
I nearly jumped. Of all the things I was expecting Murdoch to talk about, that was at the bottom of the list. "Yes," I said, surprised. "He did. How did you find out?"
"Andrews and I are close friends." he said, very interested on the seams of his gloves. "He comes to me a lot for advice, and sometimes he gets around to venting his feelings to me. Yesterday. . . well, yesterday, he came to speak about you."
"Uh oh," I said, beginning to smile. Thomas talked to Murdoch! About me! "Whatever it is he said, I didn't do it."
Murdoch nearly laughed. "No, no, it's nothing dreadful. In fact, it's quite the contrary." he was growing bolder now, and looked at me as he spoke. "He told me about how he was feeling such affection for you--" Affection! Holy crap! "-- and how. . . well, how unnerving it all is, because he's never-- never grown attached to someone this fast."
Aha! I wasn't alone! "I know the feeling exactly." I told Murdoch. "I'm. . . I'm going through the same thing."
His grin could have spanned the deck of the ship. "Really! For him?"
My blush matched the red and pink hues that streaked the sky. "Well. Yes." Suddenly I thought of my list. "Mr. Murdoch, is Thomas married?"
"No," Murdoch said, serious this time. "Never has been. As far as I know-- and I know exceptionally far-- he doesn't have a. . . a girlfriend, either."
"Wow." I said, trying to digest this information all at once. "Single and ready to mingle, eh?"
Murdoch did laugh this time. "Indeed. Anyway, he was telling me about how nervous he was to take you to dinner this evening. From the way I see it, he doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of you."
"Mr. Murdoch," I said truthfully. "He could trip over his own feet and he wouldn't look like a fool to me."
"I can't believe this," he said, and there was no other word to describe him besides "merry". "This is extraordinary, the way this is happening to you two at the same time."
I thought of something then. "Mr. Murdoch," I said slowly. "Did he come to you and ask you to tell me all this?"
Murdoch grew serious once again, but his eyes still twinkled. "Miss Stevenson," he said. "I'll put it this way: if he knew I'd come to speak to you about it, he'd have my head on a silver platter." He hesitated. "That is to say, please don't tell him I came to you. He's quite reluctant to share his feelings with anyone. . . he has to trust first." he said the last sentence with his eyes staring sincerely into mine.
"I'll keep that in mind." I said quietly, from my heart.
"Good." Murdoch smiled again. "I--"
"Will?"
Murdoch broke off and turned around at the interruption, and then was immediately on his feet, facing the man who'd come up behind him. For a split second I was confused, then realized that "Will" must be Murdoch's first name. I stood up as well, sensing that the white-haired, uniformed, bearded man was an important one.
"Captain," Murdoch said, smiling, but a little nervous all the same as he saluted the newcomer. "Good morning, sir."
"A good morning to you as well," the man said. From the way Murdoch had addressed him, and just by the look of his spectacular uniform, I guessed that this man was Captain Smith. The captain smiled gently at me. "Introduce me to your friend?"
I couldn't help but to smile back; I could feel in my bones that this was a good man. "I'm Carrie Stevenson, sir." I said, wondering if I should curtsey, or something to that affect.
"Miss Stevenson." he smiled and stepped forward, as did I. We shook hands warmly. "Pleasure to meet you."
"And you, sir." I said.
"Miss Stevenson and I were chatting, that's all." Murdoch informed his superior.
"Wonderful to see you getting along with the passengers," Smith said kindly. "But I'm afraid I need you. Hastings is having trouble in the engine room again."
"Third bloody time this passage." Murdoch muttered, but turned to me, and smiled. "See you around, Miss Stevenson."
"I hope so," I said, and we shook hands. "Thank you, Mr. Murdoch."
"You're very welcome." he turned to go with the captain.
I lowered myself back into my deck chair, and took in a deep swallow, trying to remember and absorb everything I'd just heard from Murdoch. When I finally stood up, the smile on my face was the largest I'd worn in a long, long time.
TWO
After the sick guy was put away, Andrews took me back to my quarters. We talked the whole walk back, and, feeling a little guilty, I led him to just outside my room in the women's quarters as not to let him think that I slept in a room that was also occupied with four single men. But when we got to my rooms, I found I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to learn more about him, and wondered in the back of my mind if he would be interested in hearing what I'd done two years ago. That was when I'd abandoned my three-year's working with a shipyard on the American east coast. It'd been hell trying to find work, but when the workers in the shipyard saw that I was capable of it, they took me in, and there I'd stayed until I met up with Jack.
I brought my thoughts back to the present, where Thomas was standing before me, his eyes kind. "Thanks," I told him, knowing my words weren't enough. "I appreciate you doing all this."
"T'wasn't a problem." he assured me gently, and then, serious but hopeful, he said, "Carrie, I'd be honored. . . if you would join me-- and my companions for dinner tomorrow evening."
My heart jumped at hearing this. He wanted me to go to dinner with him? Me go with him to dinner? I was nearly speechless. "Thomas, I would. . . my God, I'd love to. . ."
His smile broadened by quite a bit. "Wonderful. I'll meet you at the stairs, B Deck."
At the words "B Deck", I remembered. Thomas was first class. I was third class. Didn't he know that? I gulped, wondering if that had fully sunk in with him. But we were standing here on G Deck, for Chrissake. Of course it would have sunk in. The man wasn't stupid.
"Alright, but. . ." I gulped, and gave in: he knew, and he obviously didn't care. I focused now on the more important problem. "Look, I don't have anything to wear. I mean, the rest of my wardrobe isn't much better than this. . ."
To my surprise, he had a solution all ready. "Tell you what we'll do." he pulled a tiny notepad from his pocket, and a pencil, and then stopped, and looked at me. "Can you read?"
"Since I was four." I said, proud to be able to tell him so.
"Good." he turned to his little piece of paper and began scribbling. "Look, find this room this evening, round about. . . four thirty. A Mrs. Peckdash is staying here, and her trade is tailoring. She'll find something suitable for you. Tell her I sent you, and you won't have to do a thing." He passed me the finished note.
"Thomas, I. . ." I could hardly voice my gratitude. "Thank you so much. . . for this, and, and for helping me with that man, and-- and everything." I suddenly realized that I was still wearing his jacket, and I slipped it off of my shoulders and passed it back to him, realizing that my hand was trembling. Never in my life had anyone been this kind to me. "I. . . thanks." I stuffed my free fist into the pockets of my skirt.
He took the coat, his eyes soft and twinkling. "T'was my pleasure, Carrie. And thank you, for accepting my dinner proposal."
I could feel my cheeks warm with a blush. "You're welcome."
Thomas smiled slightly. "If there's anything you need at all, find Mr. Murdoch or myself. We'll be glad to help you." He held out his hand for me to shake it.
I took it; we shook hands. Both of our grips were tight; his palm was large and warm. "Thanks again," I told him, hating myself for how many times I'd said "thank you" in the past thirty seconds.
"See you tomorrow." he smiled, his eyes meeting mine, and released my hand, turning to go.
For a moment I took control of the odd feeling in my stomach, and then suddenly, I felt uneasy. Maybe he really didn't know what he was doing. "Thomas, wait!" I hurried after him.
He was no more than twenty paces ahead of me, but he stopped and turned, his voice and eyes extremely concerned. "Carrie?"
His look made me stumble over words. "Are. . . are you sure you want to do this?" I couldn't help but ask it. I didn't want to be forcing him into this. "I mean, this is crazy--" I cut myself off; I hadn't meant it like that. "--I mean-- that's not what I meant. . . I just. . ."
"I'm listening." Thomas assured me, and from the way his eyes looked so sincere, I knew that he was.
I found the words. "I'm. . . I'm steerage. I'm just above the rats on this ship. Are you sure you want to invite a third-class girl to a first- class dinner?"
He spoke softly, concerned eyes pouring into mine. "Is that whatche think, Carrie? That I'm going to be concerned about what class you're in?"
I was taken aback by his answer. "I'm so used to it in everybody else. . ."
"I'm not like those dogs who immediately judge people by what position they're in on my ship." he assured me quietly. Silence passed between us, but it might as well have been filled with hours' worth of conversation. I felt as though I knew this man better. "Yes, Carrie. I'm sure I want to do this."
I had to take in a breath to steady myself, and I forced myself to look up at him. "Thanks. It. . . it means a lot to me."
His face relaxed into a smile. "You're quite welcome." He reached out suddenly, and gently gripped my shoulder, his eyes intent as he stared into mine. "And please, Carrie Stevenson. You're not just above the rats on this ship. You're far, far above them, in a higher class than any that could be designated by this ship. The good Lord knows it. . ." he shifted his eyes upward briefly, then brought them right back to mine, and nodded so slightly it looked as though his head had twitched. ". . . and I know it."
I didn't break the stare this time. His comment had somehow hit a chord in me. No one had ever given me praise like that. I hardly knew what to say. "I. . ." For some reason my throat was tight. I cursed silently, knowing this was a prologue to tears, and I never, ever cried. ". . . that was. . ." I let out a frustrated breath, not knowing what to say. ". . . thank you very much."
From the way his eyes poured into mine, I could tell that those words had been enough. He knew I was trying to thank him but couldn't. He released my shoulder, and smiled gently. "You're quite welcome. See you tomorrow?"
I nodded, smiling back, my eyes still burning, my voice slightly choked. "Yes. See you then."
I watched him go, and as he rounded the corner, I headed for my real rooms. Pushing the key into the lock, the weight of what he'd said finally sank in. I leaned my head against the door, giving up on the key. I let my shoulders shake, and allowed the tears of gratitude drip one by one onto my knuckles.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Hours later, I looked down at the paper, and then up at the door. The room numbers (B24) matched, one in pencil, the other in gold lettering on the door. I raised my hand timidly, feeling quite out of place in the fine carpeted hallway of the first class passengers. A woman passed me, looking me up and down, and sniffed. I set my teeth and ignored her, and knocked firmly on the door before me.
For a moment nothing happened, and then the lock clicked and the door was pulled open.
A slightly large woman in her early forties or so opened the door. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back from her face, and her afternoon dress still clung to her frame. She looked extremely elegant, and to my surprise, smiled at me. "Hello," she said. Her voice was low but friendly. "May I help you?"
"Mr. Andrews sent me," I said, tucking the paper into my pocket, curling my hand around it. "I told him I didn't have anything to wear for supper tomorrow, so. . ."
She smiled again. "You're Carrie Stevenson. Yes, he mentioned you'd be stopping by. Please, come in. I'm Mrs. Peckdash."
She stepped aside and I entered, nearly gasping at the elegance before me. The wood-paneled walls flashed with golden decor; a large- windowed door led out to a private deck, the carpet was thick and luxurious. There were also clothing and fabric draped over every inch of available space.
"You'll be wanting something to wear for dinner, eh?" she went to a small box sitting on the desk, and pulled out a long cord of measuring tape. "Well, Carrie, I'll have to take your measurements. Come here." The cord whisked around me for a few moments as she recorded her findings on a scrap of paper, and then she began to sort through the stacks of clothing. "You partial to a certain color?"
"Blue's my favorite." I confessed. "A dark, midnight-y blue."
She smiled and glanced back at me. "Yes, blue would do wonders for you. Alright. . ." she continued hunting around, throwing things over her arm, and then finally thrust the pile into my arms. "Now we've got to get you a corset."
"Wonderful." I muttered.
She actually found one and helped me into it, tightening the laces until I felt as though I could hardly breathe. "Anyone ever passed out from lack of oxygen?" I squeaked.
"You bet they have." she said unconcernedly. "There. See, look in that mirror over there."
I looked, feeling pretty stupid, but then I noticed that I'd just lost a few inches due to it. "Wow." I said, shocked. "Thanks."
"Now step into this," she held out one of the blue garments she'd found. I did so, and she began to tie it at the back. I looked back in the mirror, startled. The dress' sleeves stopped right above my elbow, the neckline low and square. From the neckline emerged a rectangle that went down to the sash at the waist. It was a fabric of a slightly lighter blue, delicate designs upon it, tiny beads clinging to it that matched the main color of the dress. The sash was cream-colored and satin. The skirt was long and clingy, flowing into a slightly long train in the back. The rectangle of blue and beads went right down the skirt itself.
"I love it." I whispered.
"Wonderful." she stared at it in the mirror, her eyes narrowed. "Funny, it seems to fit you very well. Anything feel too loose or tight?
"No." I took a step, corset restricting my movements. "Feels pretty good."
"Oh, goodness!" Mrs. Peckdash said suddenly.
I winced at her cry, but turned to look at her. "What is it?"
"You poor girl. You've no idea how to walk like a lady!"
I stared. "What? How is a lady supposed to walk?" I bit back a smile. "Last time I checked, all one had to do was pick up one foot and put it in front of the other."
"Not quite." she said. "You're trying to move in strides. A first- class lady must limit her steps. Take twice as many, and move slowly. You'll find, once we get you into a pair of shoes, that you'll have to move like that anyway."
"Great." I said sarcastically, but turned again to my reflection. Learning to walk like a lady would be worth it to actually have dinner with Thomas.
Peckdash was rolling up her measuring tape. "Listen, I'll keep the dress tonight, but Saturday at around. . . say, five thirty, you stop on by and I'll help you into this again. Then we'll get your hair done and put some makeup on for you."
"You'd do that?" I asked, surprised.
"You bet." she said with a wink. "Now come along, I've got to get ready for supper myself."
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Back at our quarters late that evening, I was awake, flat on my stomach on the bed, writing with my notebook propped on my pillow. I was alone, but not for long; Fabrizio entered.. He was the first one back from dinner, and he climbed into the top bunk beside me. "Sorry," I said, scooting over, putting my thoughts about the shipyard and Thomas aside.
"Don't worry about it." he said, scooting to his side, facing the wall. "Grazie."
"Prego." For a moment I stared down at my half-full notebook page. "Fabrizio?"
"Si?"
I blinked, staring at the darkness. "How does a person know they're in love?"
"Carrie," he said. "People have been asking the same question for hundreds of years and the answer is never good enough."
I half-smiled. "Try me."
"You just. . ." Fabrizio trailed off, then finished. "You just know."
My smile broadened. "That was good enough. More than."
"Why?" he turned to face me, a grin alight on his face. "Are you in love?"
"I believe I am." I said, smiling back.
"With Andrews?"
I paused. "Yes."
"And he with you?"
Again, I hesitated. "Maybe."
"Good." he said. "Then there will actually be room in my bunk." And he laughed when I pummeled him with my pillow.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Saturday morning, I was up before dawn, and I slipped out of my bunk quietly, pulling on a skirt and a shirt, rolling up the sleeves. I headed for the steerage dining room, where the cooks there were already making breakfast. They were surprised to see someone up this early, but they had some food ready, so I took a stack of toast and a cup of coffee up to the deck to watch the sun come up. I sat up near the captain's quarters, my legs on the deck chair and crossed under my skirt as I ate and drank silently. A hundred thoughts were crowding my mind, most of them about Thomas.
When I was finished with my toast, and half through with my coffee, I pulled my notebook from the folds of my skirt, and began to write to take my mind off of Thomas. I wrote:
Possibilities after the Titanic docks: 1. Continue with Jack and Fabrizio 2. Return to New York harbor and shipyards, try to get into a higher position in the company 3. Strike out on my own and try to find work elsewhere 4. ?
The first two seemed like the best possibility. I hated the idea of leaving Jack and Fabrizio, but we couldn't stick together forever, and I didn't want to make them stay in New York with me. I didn't like the idea of traveling alone, only because if anything ever happened, no one would know or even care. And I doubted that I'd have much success finding work anywhere besides the shipyard. What I was really interested in was designing ships, the grand ones like the Olympic, and the one right under my shoes. But I doubted that even they would give me a position as high up as that one.
I decided to quit thinking about it, gnawed my pencil for a moment, and then pressed it to the paper again.
Things to ask Thomas: 1. Tell me about your childhood, how did you get started with the shipping business, etc 2. Are you married?
I paused at #2, surprised at what had come out of my pencil. Yeah, right. I could never ask him that. It wouldn't only be downright rude, but it would as much as shout to his face that I was falling fast for him. And he'd probably think I was too forward. Holy Moses, was love complicated. I didn't cross it out, though.
3. Do you have another ship in the works? 4. ???!
Once again, I was stumped for a #4. I thought for a moment about writing down if I could ask him for a job working as a maid or stewardess on his ship; they were always in demand, and I knew plenty about ships. Not that the knowing ships part would do much good.
Then, before I could write it, a shadow fell across my notebook. I snapped it closed and looked up; the smiling face of First Officer Murdoch beamed down at me in the post-dawn light.
"Good morning, Miss Stevenson." he greeted kindly, holding out his hand, looking trim and tall (I shit you not) in his uniform.
I stood up, grinning back; we shook hands. "Mr. Murdoch." I said, and we both sat, he on the deck chair next to me. "Nice to see you again. How are you?"
"Thank you; I'm excellent. How about yourself? Feeling all right after the other day?"
"Never better," I said, with only a tiny hint of sarcasm.
He heard it, but didn't mind; he only nodded a little. "We've telegraphed the coast already; we've gotten a local court there to set a trial date."
I nodded back, even though I didn't like the idea. They'd told me Thursday that they were going to try to do this, because "molestation", as they'd called it, along with attempted rape, was against American law, and that man, though immigrated from Ireland years back, was an American citizen. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." he smiled again, and looked at my closed notebook. "What were you writing?"
"Nothing," I said, trying to dismiss his question. "Just thoughts."
"I understand." Murdoch said. "I'm sorry to interrupt you."
"No, no, that's okay." I watched him. His elbows were on his knees, his fingers folded. He looked as though he were on the edge of saying something important, but didn't know how to get the words out. "Mr. Murdoch, something tells me you didn't come here just to mention the trial."
He let out a long breath, one of resignation. "You're right, Miss Stevenson. There's more than that." his glance at me was hesitant. "That is, if you'll permit me to do so."
"Believe me," I assured him. "There isn't much you can talk about that'll make me uncomfortable."
"Good." he said. "Now. . . did Mr. Andrews really invite you to dinner this evening?"
I nearly jumped. Of all the things I was expecting Murdoch to talk about, that was at the bottom of the list. "Yes," I said, surprised. "He did. How did you find out?"
"Andrews and I are close friends." he said, very interested on the seams of his gloves. "He comes to me a lot for advice, and sometimes he gets around to venting his feelings to me. Yesterday. . . well, yesterday, he came to speak about you."
"Uh oh," I said, beginning to smile. Thomas talked to Murdoch! About me! "Whatever it is he said, I didn't do it."
Murdoch nearly laughed. "No, no, it's nothing dreadful. In fact, it's quite the contrary." he was growing bolder now, and looked at me as he spoke. "He told me about how he was feeling such affection for you--" Affection! Holy crap! "-- and how. . . well, how unnerving it all is, because he's never-- never grown attached to someone this fast."
Aha! I wasn't alone! "I know the feeling exactly." I told Murdoch. "I'm. . . I'm going through the same thing."
His grin could have spanned the deck of the ship. "Really! For him?"
My blush matched the red and pink hues that streaked the sky. "Well. Yes." Suddenly I thought of my list. "Mr. Murdoch, is Thomas married?"
"No," Murdoch said, serious this time. "Never has been. As far as I know-- and I know exceptionally far-- he doesn't have a. . . a girlfriend, either."
"Wow." I said, trying to digest this information all at once. "Single and ready to mingle, eh?"
Murdoch did laugh this time. "Indeed. Anyway, he was telling me about how nervous he was to take you to dinner this evening. From the way I see it, he doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of you."
"Mr. Murdoch," I said truthfully. "He could trip over his own feet and he wouldn't look like a fool to me."
"I can't believe this," he said, and there was no other word to describe him besides "merry". "This is extraordinary, the way this is happening to you two at the same time."
I thought of something then. "Mr. Murdoch," I said slowly. "Did he come to you and ask you to tell me all this?"
Murdoch grew serious once again, but his eyes still twinkled. "Miss Stevenson," he said. "I'll put it this way: if he knew I'd come to speak to you about it, he'd have my head on a silver platter." He hesitated. "That is to say, please don't tell him I came to you. He's quite reluctant to share his feelings with anyone. . . he has to trust first." he said the last sentence with his eyes staring sincerely into mine.
"I'll keep that in mind." I said quietly, from my heart.
"Good." Murdoch smiled again. "I--"
"Will?"
Murdoch broke off and turned around at the interruption, and then was immediately on his feet, facing the man who'd come up behind him. For a split second I was confused, then realized that "Will" must be Murdoch's first name. I stood up as well, sensing that the white-haired, uniformed, bearded man was an important one.
"Captain," Murdoch said, smiling, but a little nervous all the same as he saluted the newcomer. "Good morning, sir."
"A good morning to you as well," the man said. From the way Murdoch had addressed him, and just by the look of his spectacular uniform, I guessed that this man was Captain Smith. The captain smiled gently at me. "Introduce me to your friend?"
I couldn't help but to smile back; I could feel in my bones that this was a good man. "I'm Carrie Stevenson, sir." I said, wondering if I should curtsey, or something to that affect.
"Miss Stevenson." he smiled and stepped forward, as did I. We shook hands warmly. "Pleasure to meet you."
"And you, sir." I said.
"Miss Stevenson and I were chatting, that's all." Murdoch informed his superior.
"Wonderful to see you getting along with the passengers," Smith said kindly. "But I'm afraid I need you. Hastings is having trouble in the engine room again."
"Third bloody time this passage." Murdoch muttered, but turned to me, and smiled. "See you around, Miss Stevenson."
"I hope so," I said, and we shook hands. "Thank you, Mr. Murdoch."
"You're very welcome." he turned to go with the captain.
I lowered myself back into my deck chair, and took in a deep swallow, trying to remember and absorb everything I'd just heard from Murdoch. When I finally stood up, the smile on my face was the largest I'd worn in a long, long time.