Author's Note/Historical Note: YEEHA! Chapter Three (sorry it's so long)! A great big THANK YOU goes out to everyone who's reviewed so far. Thanks for taking the extra couple of minutes. Anyway, here we go-- chapter three is up and ready for the reading/reviewing. Just an historical note about this chapter: everything in his past that Andrews talks about is fact. I went around and looked all this stuff up and took notes. The only things fictional are the Garrison and Wheeler Company (made that up-- woohoo) and the non-fact that they patented the design for the Olympic. Truth be told, I have no idea who came up with the Olympic, but it really sounds like one of Andrews'/ Harland and Wolff projects. If anybody knows, get back to me-- I love finding out about this stuff. Anyway, this morning I watched Part II of Titanic again, and-- I am SO lame-- took notes. It's for the upcoming parts in this story, so I wanted to make sure that I have everything in the correct order, and some of the lines down pat that I'm supposed to use. Well, enough of my blabbering-- does anybody actually read this? LOL. Enjoy, and reviews are MUCH appreciated!!
THREE
"-- wait a second--" I stared at Jack, bewildered, as he told his story. He'd found me on the deck at slightly past eleven o'clock, A.M . "You pulled her back over the rail, but the crewmen thought--"
He blew a long breath of cigarette smoke out over the deck. "Her dress was torn to the knee, she'd just been screaming, and there I was right over her."
"Jesus." I said reverently, and threw my own cigarette over the railing. "Why aren't you in some sort of boiler-room dungeon?"
Jack grinned, a look that made most girls weak in the knees. I was used to it by now. "I'm gettin' there. But they dragged in some overweight penguin they said was the master-at-arms, and. . ." the smile faded. ". . and Rose's fiancee."
"Sorry." I said, wincing. It sounded like he really liked this girl.
"Yeah." he rolled his cigarette between his thumb and index finger. "Me, too. But she doesn't seem to get along with him. At all. Anyway, they were putting handcuffs on me and everything-- even the fiancee was getting into it, yelling at me-- you know, the whole 'how dare you touch my girl' gig." Another smile grew on his face.
"And?" I persisted. "Then what?"
"Rose--" he shook his head, his smile turning into a full-fledged grin. "-- I couldn't believe it. She made up this incredible lie about-- about how she was leaning over the rail to see the propellers, or some bull crap like that, and how she slipped-- she turned me into a hero. Made it sound like I saved her life."
"Well, you did!" I said, surprised. "You convinced her to come back over the rail."
"Yeah, well." he shrugged; he'd never been one to play savior. "Still. And the master-at-arms was congratulating me, and then Cal-- that's her fiancee-- he wanted to give me a twenty for saving Rose's life."
"Twenty bucks?" I said, shocked. "Twenty dollars for saving a life?"
"That's exactly what Rose said." Jack told me, smiling again. "She couldn't believe it, and said so, and then Cal invited me to dinner this evening."
I froze. "He invited you to dinner? Tonight?"
"Yeah, so now I guess I'm going to be dining with the first-class--" he noticed the look on my face. "What's wrong?"
I hadn't told him about Andrews' dinner offer, and I did so now. When I finished, he was laughing. "Christ on a roller coaster." he said, throwing his cigarette over the rail. "Watch us get seated at the same table."
"Two steerage kids among all those people. They'll flip."
"Rose won't." he said confidently.
"Neither will Andrews." I returned, then watched the misty glow in his eye as he stared over the water. "You really like her, don't you." It wasn't a question.
He looked at me, a cocky half-grin on his face. "You really like HIM, don't you."
"Maybe." I said, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to go return this coffee cup. If I don't see you before dinner, maybe I'll see you there."
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
"B Deck," I told the elevator operator as I climbed on board. I was trying to put as much distance as I could between myself and stairwells.
"Right away, miss." he turned the crank, and we started going up. A tiny light flashed above the gate. "Sorry." the operator apologized politely. "Someone's trying to get on at C Deck."
"That's alright." I said, and as the elevator slowed, the floor of C Deck came into view. A pair of well-shined shoes met my eyes, then dark gray trousers, then a long gray coat, and then--
Thomas Andrews, small olive-colored book open and balanced in his palm, looked up as the elevator rolled into view. He closed the book, a delighted smile spreading across his face. "Carrie!" he cried, eyes warm and kind. The operator slid the gates open to admit Thomas, who told him, "B Deck", and then turned to me. "How are you?"
We shook hands; his was again warm, grip tight. I couldn't stop smiling, Murdoch's conversation still fresh in my mind. "Fine, Thomas, thank you. How about yourself?"
"Excellent, now that I've--" he stopped, quickly changed the subject. "Where are you headed?"
"Back up to the deck." I told him. "I've been there most of the morning."
"Have you really?" he gestured that I step out first first as the elevator pulled to a stop on B Deck, and he followed me through, walking alongside me. "I was just headed that way. Care to come along?"
"Sure." We walked side by side. I couldn't help but to smile up at him.
He smiled back. "I'm just going to drop something off for the captain. He wanted me to take a look at something in the engine room."
I grinned. "Does this have something to do with a man named 'Hastings'?"
"As a matter of fact," his smile was amused and curious. "It does. How did you know?"
"I heard Murdoch and the captain talking about it. I was pretty close to them when I was on deck." I added the last part in a hurry so that Andrews wouldn't think that Murdoch had been around me so soon after they'd talked.
"I see." Suddenly a blush crept out of his collar, just as it had the other day in the steerage dining hall. "Oh, Carrie, I apologize." he offered his elbow, embarrassed at not having done so earlier. "I'm no gentleman."
"Bullshit." I said, taking the offered elbow. He looked down sharply, a laugh clearly being suppressed.
"Pardon me?" he managed.
I shrugged, thinking of how wonderful it was to hear my name on his lips. "I said bullshit. You're the best gentleman I've ever met."
"Well." he was still blushing as we went out onto the deck, toward the captain's quarters. "Thank you. I've just never heard it in quite that terminology."
"Sorry if I offended you." I said, now sporting a blush of my own. Damn it, I shouldn't have cursed. "The profanity in the shipyards rubbed off on me, I guess."
He looked down at me again, his eyes gentle but very curious. "The shipyards?" his tone was surprised.
"I worked in the Garrison and Wheeler Company shipyards in New York for three years." I just didn't know how to keep my damn mouth shut! Why did I say that!? He was frigging first class! He'd never respect a working woman. He'd wonder why in the world he ever bothered to invite me to dinner--
He interrupted my thoughts. "No-- are you serious?" His face was again alight with a grin; dinner regrets seemed to be the last thing on his mind. "I know of Garrison and Wheeler. Good company. They were the ones that patented the idea of the Olympic. They sold it to us at Harland and Wolff."
"You're with Harland and Wolff?" I said, shocked. It was one of the best companies in the world, and well-mentioned in the yards at G & W.
"I am." he said, smile shy. "That's where we developed every inch of the Titanic. Built her there, too." he was still watching me, and said, somewhat hesitantly, "Does that sort of thing interest you?"
"I wouldn't have stayed for three years if it hadn't." I said. "Yes. I'm interested."
"Ah, Mr. Andrews!" We'd reached the bridge, and there again was Captain Smith, as though he'd been expecting us, which I'm sure he was. "Have the report?"
"Yes, sir." I watched Thomas open the cover of his olive book and draw out a small, folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to the captain, who glanced over it, and then smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Andrews." The captain smiled at me. "And hello again, Miss Stevenson."
"Hello, sir." I replied, praying that Thomas wouldn't think it was odd that we knew each other.
Captain Smith smiled at us. "You two move along. I'll call you should I need you, Andrews."
"You know Captain Smith?" Thomas asked as soon as we were out of the officer's earshot.
"Murdoch introduced me." I said, trying not to gulp. "He was walking past, so. . ."
"Oh." Thomas tucked his book into his coat pocket. "Carrie, I have a question for you."
"Shoot." I said, wondering what in the world the question could be.
He stopped walking, and turned toward me. Kind brown eyes pouring into my own, he said hopefully, quietly, "Would you be interested in joining me for lunch?"
He did NOT just ask me that.
But then I looked into those gentle, anxious eyes, his eyebrows raised slightly in question, his face smooth, mouth biting his lower lip in anticipation.
I guess he DID just ask me that.
"Very interested, Thomas." I said, unable to stop the large smile that was spreading on my face. "Thank you."
He seemed to relax into one beaming smile. "Excellent. Do you want to go now?"
"Sure." I said, then tore my eyes from his, embarrassed again. "But. . . I don't. . . my outfit. . ."
"We'll go to the steerage cafe." he said gently, and my eyes traveled back up to meet his. "Is that alright?" he asked.
"You'd do that?" I'd been hoping, but never thought it possible he'd offer. "I mean, yes, that's excellent--"
"Yes, I'd do that." he laid his right hand over my hand that was around his elbow. "I would be more than happy to."
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
"So you got out of school when you were sixteen?"
Thomas and I were standing on the boat deck; the sun was just beginning to dip toward the horizon, creating a yellow-orange glow all over the ship. We'd just spent the whole afternoon together. He'd taken me to lunch (during which we talked the whole time), then we'd strolled the decks until we found a nice place to stand, where we'd been for the past forty-five minutes. He was only now telling me about how he'd gotten started in the boating business.
"Yes." he said, eyes unfocused as he gazed out at the sea, hands folded, forearms on the railing. "That's when my Uncle Bill sent me to Harland and Wolff for their five-year program."
I gave a low, looped whistle. Five years was no piece of cake, especially with ship builders. They took no crap from anyone; it took a lot to earn their respect. "Those are the ones that are designed for people with the intention of high positions in the company, right?"
"Right." he glanced toward me, his eyes shining. "Uncle wanted me to end up like him, and have two controlling owners in the family."
"Wait a minute--" a spark of recognition flared. "-- you said Uncle Bill-- you don't mean Baron William J. Pirrie?"
"Good Lord." his grin was enormous as he looked at me; I blushed. "You know it all. Yes, that's the Baron." he shifted his weight, still smiling. "Anyway, the program lasted five years, but I was shuffled around every few months. The last year and a half, I was in the drawing room."
"The best part." I said, almost wistfully. It would have been heaven on earth to get
instruction on how to put your ideas about ships on paper, and to design your own.
"It was." he agreed. "Nothing but blueprints, and punching out layouts and ideas. And the people I worked with. . . they were extraordinary." He was practically glowing, just as he had been all afternoon. It seemed to have been a long time since he'd shared all of this, if at all. "The best comrades a man could as for." He smiled gently at me, his voice softening. "I wish you could've been there with me, Carrie."
Ho-lee shit.
I didn't even know what to say, but I managed, "I wish I could have been there, too." I thought for a moment, and realized how much fun we would have had. I bit back a smile. And how much trouble we could have gotten into.
"About ten or eleven years ago," he was continuing with his tale, his gaze now locked with mine instead of the ocean's. "I became a member of the I.N.--" he paused. "You do know of the I.N.A., the--"
"Institution of Naval Architects." I finished for and with him, and we both grinned. "Yes, I know of it."
He shook his head slightly, eyes twinkling. "Well, I've been working there, bringing this--" he gestured toward the deck. "-- and other ships to life, along with Bruce Ismay." He lowered his voice and added, "Slimy git."
I grinned. "How so?"
Thomas wrinkled his nose and let out a bitter sigh. "Oh, the man thinks he's king of the world for having the idea about Titanic, but he doesn't much know his numbers. The whole project, he mostly sat 'round on his derriere and whined at how slow the progress was coming."
"Ouch." I knew how bad slackers could get. They never lasted long.
"He kept wanting longer shifts for the men working, but a man can only do so much work." his eyes softened as he glanced at me. "I'm sure you're well aware."
I met his stare. He was right-- countless times I'd seen my friends crumple to the ground from exhaustion in the shipyards, and twice it had been me. Several had been killed when they'd dozed on the scaffolding. That was before the new owner took over, six months after I'd entered the company. I nodded, slightly-- I was indeed well aware. God, how Thomas understood.
He seemed to notice that he'd hit a chord, but continued, slowly. "At the most grueling stretch of work, Ismay was getting nine hours of sleep each night with a satin pillow under his head, while the rest of the workers and I were averaging about a third of that per night."
"Jesus." I breathed reverently. It seemed that Thomas was a lot stronger than anyone gave him credit for.
"Well, it had to be done." he appreciated my concern, but it was only work. "And I got through it, didn't I?"
I smiled at him, loving this man. "Yes, you certainly did."
"And anyway, I didn't mind the work. I love this ship-- she's the first that I really worked on myself. I've shed my sweat and blood so that she can stay afloat. And-- well, I'm sure you know the feeling-- there's a bond that goes on when you put that much into it."
I knew exactly what he meant, and I knew that saying he'd shed his blood was no exaggeration. I'd gotten numerous cuts and bruises on the ships we'd worked on, and rather than being angry, I'd felt as though I were part of the ship, as though we shared a connection of some sort.
He smiled a little. "If I'm remembered at all in history, I want it to be for the Titanic. I'm working hard as I can to smooth out the little mistakes-- I've already become occupied with taking down notes about the imperfections on my ship."
"Impossible." I said shortly, but quietly, looking down at the sea far below us. "It's perfect. Nothing could be wrong with it."
There was the slightest of pauses. I looked back up at him, and he'd been watching me, as he was now, but it was his turn to look down. "Thank you." he murmured, looking almost sad. "It does my heart well to hear you say that, Carrie Stevenson." He put emphasis on the word "you".
"Me?" I said, touched at the way he'd taken my compliment. I hoped this was the way he saw me when I'd found myself at a loss for words the other day.
He looked up, eyes gentle, sincere. "Yes. You."
That hit home.
To keep myself from saying something stupid, I took in a deep breath, then said, "You mentioned taking notes-- is that what's in that book you've been carrying around?"
"Yes, actually." he pulled it out of his pocket, holding it as though it were a Bible.
"May I?" I asked.
"By all means." he passed it to me.
On the first page was information and statistics about the Titanic herself. Nine hundred and twelve feet long, eleven stories high, capacity for two thousand and two hundred people, etc. On the second page was there the notes began. In sharp, quick letters was the message: Pebble dashing on promenade-- too dark. Beneath that: Stateroom hat racks-- I paused in my reading. The sentence read, Coat room hat racks carry too many screws, but he'd made an error. Instead of spelling 'carry' as it should have been, it was written as "Carrie", with the "C" capitalized and everything, just like my name. Had it been a simple mistake? Did his spelling just plain suck? Or had he perhaps been thinking of me when he'd written it?
I had to know.
"You think the stateroom hat racks carry too many screws?"
"Yes, they look rather--" he stopped quite suddenly, then continued, his voice fairly unsteady. "-- rather crowded."
"They do." I agreed. He was remembering his mistake. "I saw them in Mrs. Peckdash's room. Not to terrible, but still." Not wanting to embarrass him, I turned the page. Before I could read another word, however, the trumpets were announcing supper from the entrance to B Deck.. "Dinner." I said, closing the book, passing it back to him.
"That's another thing I'm going to fix." Thomas muttered. "Damn horns-- sounds as if one's marching into battle rather than going to dinner."
I grinned. "I'm going to go find Mrs. Peckdash."
"I'm going to go get changed. Meet you at the B Deck stairs at six o'clock?"
"Sounds good to me." I said, grinning at him. "Thanks."
"You're quite welcome." He smiled, calm and quiet, almost lovingly. "See you there."
And we departed.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
I finally stared at my reflection in the mirror, shocked to the bone. Gone was the Carrie Stevenson of old, the one who ran around in denim workpants and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Gone was the Carrie Stevenson whose common appearance featured hair bursting out of its tying cords, sweat from the grueling work shining on her face and neck, hands streaked with black engine oil. Gone was the girl who slept under bridges with her friends Jack and Fabrizio, who wore plain calico skirts and starchy shirts.
The girl that stared back at me was a new woman. A lady stood there, not a tomboyish child with no home and no money. I hardly recognized her, with her hair all gorgeous and her makeup perfect. "Thank you." I breathed to Mrs. Peckdash, as much as I could due to the tight corset. "Thank you so much."
"Not a problem." Peckdash assured me. "Now step into these."
I stepped into the shoes. They were slightly-- very slightly-- too small, but they looked pretty good, and they matched the dress. I took a step, and saw immediately what she meant by the shoes restricting my movements.
"When you walk," she said, fixing pins in her hair in front of her own mirror. "take small steps, and put one foot directly in front of the other."
I tried it. "That's really weird." I told her. I had to admit, though-- it did look like how the first class ladies moved.
"But you've got it down." she smiled at me in the mirror. "Now go run along. You look marvelous."
With a final thank-you, I was out the door.
I walked as Peckdash had instructed, but didn't so much keep one foot exactly in front of
the other. I felt rather uncomfortable, with the neck of my dress lower than I was used to, but a lot of the women I passed had an even lower swoop to their outfit, so I did my best not to complain. I smiled at anyone who would catch my eye, and actually received a lot of smiles in return.
When I reached the wooden and glass door to B Deck, the steward there pulled it open for me. "Good evening, miss." he said, his accent English and refined. No stranger had ever opened a door for me; this had to be first class for sure.
"Thanks." I said, passing through the door, giving him the best smile I was capable of. I headed for the stairs, holding my back straight, praying that I still looked alright.
And then I saw him.
Thomas was standing about a fourth of the way up the stairs, his small olive book out, a pen scribbling another message onto the paper. His back was half turned as he faced the banister; he didn't see me. I gulped, took in a steadying breath, and moved forward. When I was two steps behind him, I said, grinning, "Is the wood grain too coarse?"
At the sound of my voice Thomas turned, a large smile growing on his face, and then he froze mid-turn. His eyes stayed on mine for a split second, then searched the rest of my face, saw my elegant hair, traveled quickly over my gown, then finally returned to my own eyes. "Carrie." he said softly, his notebook frozen in his hands as the rest of him. It was as though he were staring at a holy relic-- he was in awe.
I felt extremely self-conscious, knowing I was blushing like crazy. "Well?" I said finally, tugging a little at my skirt. "Did Peckdash do alright?"
"Hey, Tommy boy!"
Speak of the devil; Mrs. Peckdash was gliding down the stairs, her arm though a tall, bearded man's, grinning as she looked at Thomas.
It obviously took Thomas effort to look away from me. "Good-- good evening, Mrs. Peckdash. And Mr. Peckdash."
Mrs. Peckdash grinned. "She look alright, Thomas?" she asked, beaming at me.
Thomas looked back to me, eyes still wide, but unbelievably warm and kind, a smile tugging at his lips. "She's beautiful." He spoke quietly, meaning each word.
I let out a relieved breath, unable to help the grin that spread on my face. He'd called me beautiful. No one had ever done that before. "Thank you." I said to Thomas. "I was worried you didn't like it."
"Didn't--" he shook his head, bewildered, as his eyes poured into mine. "-- didn't like it? You could dress in rags for all I care, and I'd still. . ." he halted that line real quick, but it still made my heart jump. ". . . but it's just a shock, seeing you like this. . ."
I grinned at him. "You don't look so bad yourself." He didn't. His coat and tails made him look so handsome. "Nice tux."
"Thank you." he, too, was blushing again.
Peckdash was still grinning. "See you around, Andrews."
"Good-- good-bye." Thomas said, still looking at me.
"Well, thanks." I told Thomas, still blushing tremendously. "I'd still rather be back in those work pants in the shipyard. You could cover them with engine oil and I'd still take them over this."
He grinned, offering his elbow. I took it, and we moved down the stairs. "How bad is the corset?" he murmured near my ear, so that none of the other couples would hear.
"It hurts like hell," I said back, just as quiet, tingling from the feel of his breath so close to my skin. "But it's sure worth it."
As he'd done this afternoon, he placed his free hand over mine on his elbow, and squeezed it. A little surprised at this display of affection, but deeply touched by it, I squeezed back, and we made our way toward the dining room. It was down another flight of stairs we went before emerging in the dining hall. My God, was it elegant.
He spoke then, as we picked our way through the crowd. "Don't worry about remembering any of the people I introduce you to on the way to our seats. All you need to feel concern about is the people we're going to be sitting with. And I don't mind saying that most of them are some of the meaner dogs I mentioned last night. . ."
I was happy just to listen to him speak. Each person he introduced me to had a refined and lovely accent; I was stuck with American slang. I didn't mind, however-- I was proud of my country, and I held my head up and smiled to prove it. "How'm I doing?" I murmured to Tom after he gestured to the table we were sitting at, twenty feet away.
"Excellent." he whispered back, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes twinkling. "They love you."
I looked back at him. "Thank you for doing this."
"Don't thank me yet," he said quietly. "The worst is yet to come. . ."
We'd reached the rather large table, with seating for about fifteen or so. Some of its occupants I had met before; Thomas finally drew my hand from his arm and pulled out a chair for me, which was right next to him, all the while murmuring which occupants were which. I was in between him and an overweight woman.
"Molly," Thomas said, sitting down beside me, leaning across to speak to the large woman. "I'd like to introduce you to Miss Carrie Stevenson. She'll be dining with us tonight. Carrie, this is Mrs. Molly Brown."
Molly grinned at me and held out her hand for me to shake it. "Welcome aboard, Carrie. Nice to eat with you."
I was a little shocked by her straightforwardness, but was glad to find someone who didn't really follow the strict rules of conduct of first class. "Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Same here."
"Oh, quit the 'Mrs. Brown' rubbish." she said, her rebellious grin still shining. "The name's Molly."
Suddenly I noticed the boy to her left. He was staring at me with his jaw slightly open, blonde-brown hair slicked back, blue eyes wide-- and then I realized: it was Jack.
"Jack!" I said, grinning. "We did get seated at the same table!"
"Nice eye," he said sarcastically, but was grinning himself. "Geez, you look good!"
His compliment didn't make me blush near as much as Thomas' had. "Thanks."
"Where'd you get that dress?"
"Where'd you get that tux?" I retorted, then noticed Thomas following this conversation. "Jack, this is T-- Mr. Thomas Andrews. I was telling you about him earlier, remember?"
"Nice to meet you." Thomas said, and he and Jack reached across the table to shake hands.
"Likewise." Jack said, grinning, and at that moment, the countess (no joke) turned to Jack and began speaking to him.
"You know this boy?" Thomas asked me quietly, so that no one else could hear.
"Yeah." I said, taking a swallow of the water in the heavy goblet before me. "That's Jack Dawson-- he and his friend, Fabrizio-- I'm traveling with them." I stopped myself just in time from saying that I was rooming with them.
"So you're-- you're good friends, yes?"
When I looked at Thomas, I realized that he thought Jack and I were romantically interested in one another, and I immediately told him otherwise. "Yes, we're friends. But that's it." I put a lot of emphasis on the last words, but noticed that Thomas seemed somewhat relieved.
So did that. . . did that mean. . .
Suddenly Molly tapped her empty wine glass with her spoon. "Hey, everybody!" she called, and the table fell silent fairly quickly. She grinned at Thomas and I. "We've got a couple of people to introduce to our number this evening."
Thomas stood up, and glanced down at me, smiling. I figured it would have been rude to reach up, yank his arm, and hiss, Sit down!!!. "This is Carrie Stevenson. Carrie?" he offered his hand to me, smiling gently; I took it and stood, feeling even more self-conscious.
"Hi." I gave a small wave at the rest of the table; they greeted me with quiet hello's and good evening's.
A pretty girl on Thomas's other side then introduced Jack; I assumed that this must be Rose, the girl with whom Jack was so taken. I noticed the man who'd Thomas had told me was Cal Hockley staring at Jack with extreme distaste.
I also noticed that Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, mother Rose, shared Cal's deep feeling of dislike for Jack. I felt ready to jump out of my seat when she said casually but scathingly, "Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Dawson. I hear they're quite good on this ship."
I was all ready to snap back, but two things happened: one, I realized that saying something while I was pissed off was not a good idea in front of these people, and I'd embarrass Tom; two, Jack came back with a sarcastic reply. "The best I've seen, ma'am." he said calmly. "Hardly any rats."
Cal muttered something about Jack joining us from the third class, and then the thin mustachioed man on the other end of the table, Mr. Ismay, began jabbering about how first, second, and third class had exceptional rooms. "The ship was designed for luxury, and no matter what the class, that is what the passenger will find."
"Your ship really is lovely," the countess said daintily, and suddenly I felt a burst of pride for Thomas. It was Thomas's work that had this thing floating, not Ismay's.
"Yes, well, tell that to Thomas." Ismay smiled falsely. "His blood and soul are on this ship. On paper, she's mine, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews."
Thomas dipped his head slightly, a gentle smile on his features, even though his knuckles were white on the armrests of his chair. "Thank you, Bruce."
I chose that moment to look down at my plate, and suddenly realized that there were at least a dozen utensils on either side of it. "Oh, shit." I whispered, so quiet that no one heard except for Mr. Andrews, who leaned slightly to the left, his smile broadened.
"Start on the outside." he murmured. "It's not that hard."
A white-haired waiter tried to spoon out caviar to me; I declined as politely as I could. Fish eggs didn't sound very appetizing at the moment. Not that they ever did. In the midst of this, Jack was delivering a kind of speech; I found myself being proud of him, as though he were a brother.
"And you, Miss Stevenson." Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, it seemed, was growing tired of taunting Jack. "Where is it that you are roomed?"
I thought of lying, but was tired of Jack taking all of the hit. "To tell you the truth, ma'am, I'm traveling with Mr. Dawson. I'm down in steerage as well." I could see that she was trying to hold back her shock and disgust, and somehow it made me sit up straighter, and hold my chin up. "Mr. Andrews was kind enough to offer his assistance to me yesterday, and invited me to dinner."
"Very kind of you, Mr. Andrews." J.J. Astor said, with a curt nod, and turned back to his caviar.
Mrs. DeWitt Bukater wasn't finished. "So you, as well, travel homeless?"
"Yes, ma'am." I said, meeting her somewhat cold stare with a kind one, trying to behave properly. "But I find work where I can, and hunker down around where I work. Mostly it's along the east coast, because a lot of my working has been with the boatyards." I noticed that Thomas was sitting very still, glaring at Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, and I realized he was trying to keep himself calm. On impulse I laid my hand across his on the armrest of his chair. It was out of sight, but I was trying to tell him that I was fine, don't do something stupid. "Then I met up with Jack, and we started traveling around."
"It's not proper for a woman to work." DeWitt Bukater continued. "I believe it's rather vulgar." At this I felt Thomas's hand tighten under mine. I squeezed it, but it was probably out of my own rage.
However, I refused to show my anger with her. It was exactly what she wanted. I set my teeth, but smiled. "Thank you for letting me know. I'll remember that next time I need work to keep myself from starving."
Ismay changed subjects, immediately bringing up the weather.
I relaxed my grip on Thomas' hand just as he relaxed his own hand. I could have sworn I felt it trembling. "Carrie," he whispered, shame in his eyes as they burned into the edge of his plate. "I'm so sorry. I didn't bring you down here to humiliate you. . . I didn't. . ." He looked up, features pleading.
"I know you didn't." I whispered back, trying to make it show in my face that I forgave what didn't need to be forgiven. "If anyone should feel stupid, it's DeWitt Bukater."
"I'm going to speak with her after dinner." he murmured, looking relieved, but still a little upset. "That was entirely inappropriate of her."
"Please," I whispered back. "Don't make a big deal of this. I don't want an enemy."
"And what's her average speed, Thomas?" Bruce Ismay was speaking again.
"We'll discuss this later," Thomas murmured to me, then turned to Bruce. "We're averaging a steady twenty knots. . ."
The meal was large and excellent; I actually managed not to slop anything down my front. Finally, I heard Rose whispering to Jack. "Next it'll be brandies in the smoking room. "
"It's true." Andrews murmured, just loud enough for me and me alone to hear. "They all go and smoke and drink and talk politics. I never go, though. Usually I just head back to my quarters."
Finally, a man stood up whose name I couldn't remember. "Gentlemen," he announced. "Would you care to join me for a brandy in the smoking room?"
Ismay thanked us ladies for "the pleasure of our company", then he and the rest of the men stood up to head for the billiards. Jack, passing me on his way to Rose, said quietly, "You coming down to that party?"
"You bet your ass I am." I said back, and was suddenly struck with an idea. "Can I take Andrews?"
"I'm taking Rose." he said in reply with a mischievous grin.
Andrews stood, and I with him, and he smiled at me. I smiled back. "Tom, thank you so much for this. I appreciate it. I enjoyed staying with you."
"And I with you." he said, raising my hand to his lips to kiss it.
A jolt of lightening seemed to shoot through my stomach as his lips met my bare knuckles, even though I knew it was just manners. Looking back up at me, his dark eyes were soft and friendly. "Tom," I said quietly. "Look, I don't. . . I don't know if you'd be interested, but you know the third-class general room?"
"Very well." he assured me, eyes twinkling.
"Well, we've been using it for parties of our own." I said. "I was just wondering if you'd like to come down and join us?" I caught myself. "I mean, I know it's not very proper for me to be asking you to a party, you know, but--"
He half laughed again, and his grin was dazzling. "Carrie," he said gently. "I'd love to."
We were heading past the band when I suddenly realized that I wanted to compliment on their performance. They played such pretty music, and I'd never before been serenaded during a meal. I tugged on Thomas' arm. "Can I thank them?
He smiled down at me. "I think they'd like that. I'll introduce you." We stood by their stand until they finished the current waltz they were playing, and then I was introduced to each of them by Thomas.
"You guys are really good," I told them. "It's nice to hear some good music."
"Thank you, Miss Stevenson." the lead violinist said, embarrassed, but rather pleased. "We didn't know anyone listened."
"I certainly do." I said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for them. "It's beautiful."
"God bless you." said the pianist, smiling. "You made our week."
"You've a good heart, Carrie." Thomas murmured as we headed for the general room, eyes kind and smiling.
It's all yours, I ached to tell him. But I didn't.
THREE
"-- wait a second--" I stared at Jack, bewildered, as he told his story. He'd found me on the deck at slightly past eleven o'clock, A.M . "You pulled her back over the rail, but the crewmen thought--"
He blew a long breath of cigarette smoke out over the deck. "Her dress was torn to the knee, she'd just been screaming, and there I was right over her."
"Jesus." I said reverently, and threw my own cigarette over the railing. "Why aren't you in some sort of boiler-room dungeon?"
Jack grinned, a look that made most girls weak in the knees. I was used to it by now. "I'm gettin' there. But they dragged in some overweight penguin they said was the master-at-arms, and. . ." the smile faded. ". . and Rose's fiancee."
"Sorry." I said, wincing. It sounded like he really liked this girl.
"Yeah." he rolled his cigarette between his thumb and index finger. "Me, too. But she doesn't seem to get along with him. At all. Anyway, they were putting handcuffs on me and everything-- even the fiancee was getting into it, yelling at me-- you know, the whole 'how dare you touch my girl' gig." Another smile grew on his face.
"And?" I persisted. "Then what?"
"Rose--" he shook his head, his smile turning into a full-fledged grin. "-- I couldn't believe it. She made up this incredible lie about-- about how she was leaning over the rail to see the propellers, or some bull crap like that, and how she slipped-- she turned me into a hero. Made it sound like I saved her life."
"Well, you did!" I said, surprised. "You convinced her to come back over the rail."
"Yeah, well." he shrugged; he'd never been one to play savior. "Still. And the master-at-arms was congratulating me, and then Cal-- that's her fiancee-- he wanted to give me a twenty for saving Rose's life."
"Twenty bucks?" I said, shocked. "Twenty dollars for saving a life?"
"That's exactly what Rose said." Jack told me, smiling again. "She couldn't believe it, and said so, and then Cal invited me to dinner this evening."
I froze. "He invited you to dinner? Tonight?"
"Yeah, so now I guess I'm going to be dining with the first-class--" he noticed the look on my face. "What's wrong?"
I hadn't told him about Andrews' dinner offer, and I did so now. When I finished, he was laughing. "Christ on a roller coaster." he said, throwing his cigarette over the rail. "Watch us get seated at the same table."
"Two steerage kids among all those people. They'll flip."
"Rose won't." he said confidently.
"Neither will Andrews." I returned, then watched the misty glow in his eye as he stared over the water. "You really like her, don't you." It wasn't a question.
He looked at me, a cocky half-grin on his face. "You really like HIM, don't you."
"Maybe." I said, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to go return this coffee cup. If I don't see you before dinner, maybe I'll see you there."
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
"B Deck," I told the elevator operator as I climbed on board. I was trying to put as much distance as I could between myself and stairwells.
"Right away, miss." he turned the crank, and we started going up. A tiny light flashed above the gate. "Sorry." the operator apologized politely. "Someone's trying to get on at C Deck."
"That's alright." I said, and as the elevator slowed, the floor of C Deck came into view. A pair of well-shined shoes met my eyes, then dark gray trousers, then a long gray coat, and then--
Thomas Andrews, small olive-colored book open and balanced in his palm, looked up as the elevator rolled into view. He closed the book, a delighted smile spreading across his face. "Carrie!" he cried, eyes warm and kind. The operator slid the gates open to admit Thomas, who told him, "B Deck", and then turned to me. "How are you?"
We shook hands; his was again warm, grip tight. I couldn't stop smiling, Murdoch's conversation still fresh in my mind. "Fine, Thomas, thank you. How about yourself?"
"Excellent, now that I've--" he stopped, quickly changed the subject. "Where are you headed?"
"Back up to the deck." I told him. "I've been there most of the morning."
"Have you really?" he gestured that I step out first first as the elevator pulled to a stop on B Deck, and he followed me through, walking alongside me. "I was just headed that way. Care to come along?"
"Sure." We walked side by side. I couldn't help but to smile up at him.
He smiled back. "I'm just going to drop something off for the captain. He wanted me to take a look at something in the engine room."
I grinned. "Does this have something to do with a man named 'Hastings'?"
"As a matter of fact," his smile was amused and curious. "It does. How did you know?"
"I heard Murdoch and the captain talking about it. I was pretty close to them when I was on deck." I added the last part in a hurry so that Andrews wouldn't think that Murdoch had been around me so soon after they'd talked.
"I see." Suddenly a blush crept out of his collar, just as it had the other day in the steerage dining hall. "Oh, Carrie, I apologize." he offered his elbow, embarrassed at not having done so earlier. "I'm no gentleman."
"Bullshit." I said, taking the offered elbow. He looked down sharply, a laugh clearly being suppressed.
"Pardon me?" he managed.
I shrugged, thinking of how wonderful it was to hear my name on his lips. "I said bullshit. You're the best gentleman I've ever met."
"Well." he was still blushing as we went out onto the deck, toward the captain's quarters. "Thank you. I've just never heard it in quite that terminology."
"Sorry if I offended you." I said, now sporting a blush of my own. Damn it, I shouldn't have cursed. "The profanity in the shipyards rubbed off on me, I guess."
He looked down at me again, his eyes gentle but very curious. "The shipyards?" his tone was surprised.
"I worked in the Garrison and Wheeler Company shipyards in New York for three years." I just didn't know how to keep my damn mouth shut! Why did I say that!? He was frigging first class! He'd never respect a working woman. He'd wonder why in the world he ever bothered to invite me to dinner--
He interrupted my thoughts. "No-- are you serious?" His face was again alight with a grin; dinner regrets seemed to be the last thing on his mind. "I know of Garrison and Wheeler. Good company. They were the ones that patented the idea of the Olympic. They sold it to us at Harland and Wolff."
"You're with Harland and Wolff?" I said, shocked. It was one of the best companies in the world, and well-mentioned in the yards at G & W.
"I am." he said, smile shy. "That's where we developed every inch of the Titanic. Built her there, too." he was still watching me, and said, somewhat hesitantly, "Does that sort of thing interest you?"
"I wouldn't have stayed for three years if it hadn't." I said. "Yes. I'm interested."
"Ah, Mr. Andrews!" We'd reached the bridge, and there again was Captain Smith, as though he'd been expecting us, which I'm sure he was. "Have the report?"
"Yes, sir." I watched Thomas open the cover of his olive book and draw out a small, folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to the captain, who glanced over it, and then smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Andrews." The captain smiled at me. "And hello again, Miss Stevenson."
"Hello, sir." I replied, praying that Thomas wouldn't think it was odd that we knew each other.
Captain Smith smiled at us. "You two move along. I'll call you should I need you, Andrews."
"You know Captain Smith?" Thomas asked as soon as we were out of the officer's earshot.
"Murdoch introduced me." I said, trying not to gulp. "He was walking past, so. . ."
"Oh." Thomas tucked his book into his coat pocket. "Carrie, I have a question for you."
"Shoot." I said, wondering what in the world the question could be.
He stopped walking, and turned toward me. Kind brown eyes pouring into my own, he said hopefully, quietly, "Would you be interested in joining me for lunch?"
He did NOT just ask me that.
But then I looked into those gentle, anxious eyes, his eyebrows raised slightly in question, his face smooth, mouth biting his lower lip in anticipation.
I guess he DID just ask me that.
"Very interested, Thomas." I said, unable to stop the large smile that was spreading on my face. "Thank you."
He seemed to relax into one beaming smile. "Excellent. Do you want to go now?"
"Sure." I said, then tore my eyes from his, embarrassed again. "But. . . I don't. . . my outfit. . ."
"We'll go to the steerage cafe." he said gently, and my eyes traveled back up to meet his. "Is that alright?" he asked.
"You'd do that?" I'd been hoping, but never thought it possible he'd offer. "I mean, yes, that's excellent--"
"Yes, I'd do that." he laid his right hand over my hand that was around his elbow. "I would be more than happy to."
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
"So you got out of school when you were sixteen?"
Thomas and I were standing on the boat deck; the sun was just beginning to dip toward the horizon, creating a yellow-orange glow all over the ship. We'd just spent the whole afternoon together. He'd taken me to lunch (during which we talked the whole time), then we'd strolled the decks until we found a nice place to stand, where we'd been for the past forty-five minutes. He was only now telling me about how he'd gotten started in the boating business.
"Yes." he said, eyes unfocused as he gazed out at the sea, hands folded, forearms on the railing. "That's when my Uncle Bill sent me to Harland and Wolff for their five-year program."
I gave a low, looped whistle. Five years was no piece of cake, especially with ship builders. They took no crap from anyone; it took a lot to earn their respect. "Those are the ones that are designed for people with the intention of high positions in the company, right?"
"Right." he glanced toward me, his eyes shining. "Uncle wanted me to end up like him, and have two controlling owners in the family."
"Wait a minute--" a spark of recognition flared. "-- you said Uncle Bill-- you don't mean Baron William J. Pirrie?"
"Good Lord." his grin was enormous as he looked at me; I blushed. "You know it all. Yes, that's the Baron." he shifted his weight, still smiling. "Anyway, the program lasted five years, but I was shuffled around every few months. The last year and a half, I was in the drawing room."
"The best part." I said, almost wistfully. It would have been heaven on earth to get
instruction on how to put your ideas about ships on paper, and to design your own.
"It was." he agreed. "Nothing but blueprints, and punching out layouts and ideas. And the people I worked with. . . they were extraordinary." He was practically glowing, just as he had been all afternoon. It seemed to have been a long time since he'd shared all of this, if at all. "The best comrades a man could as for." He smiled gently at me, his voice softening. "I wish you could've been there with me, Carrie."
Ho-lee shit.
I didn't even know what to say, but I managed, "I wish I could have been there, too." I thought for a moment, and realized how much fun we would have had. I bit back a smile. And how much trouble we could have gotten into.
"About ten or eleven years ago," he was continuing with his tale, his gaze now locked with mine instead of the ocean's. "I became a member of the I.N.--" he paused. "You do know of the I.N.A., the--"
"Institution of Naval Architects." I finished for and with him, and we both grinned. "Yes, I know of it."
He shook his head slightly, eyes twinkling. "Well, I've been working there, bringing this--" he gestured toward the deck. "-- and other ships to life, along with Bruce Ismay." He lowered his voice and added, "Slimy git."
I grinned. "How so?"
Thomas wrinkled his nose and let out a bitter sigh. "Oh, the man thinks he's king of the world for having the idea about Titanic, but he doesn't much know his numbers. The whole project, he mostly sat 'round on his derriere and whined at how slow the progress was coming."
"Ouch." I knew how bad slackers could get. They never lasted long.
"He kept wanting longer shifts for the men working, but a man can only do so much work." his eyes softened as he glanced at me. "I'm sure you're well aware."
I met his stare. He was right-- countless times I'd seen my friends crumple to the ground from exhaustion in the shipyards, and twice it had been me. Several had been killed when they'd dozed on the scaffolding. That was before the new owner took over, six months after I'd entered the company. I nodded, slightly-- I was indeed well aware. God, how Thomas understood.
He seemed to notice that he'd hit a chord, but continued, slowly. "At the most grueling stretch of work, Ismay was getting nine hours of sleep each night with a satin pillow under his head, while the rest of the workers and I were averaging about a third of that per night."
"Jesus." I breathed reverently. It seemed that Thomas was a lot stronger than anyone gave him credit for.
"Well, it had to be done." he appreciated my concern, but it was only work. "And I got through it, didn't I?"
I smiled at him, loving this man. "Yes, you certainly did."
"And anyway, I didn't mind the work. I love this ship-- she's the first that I really worked on myself. I've shed my sweat and blood so that she can stay afloat. And-- well, I'm sure you know the feeling-- there's a bond that goes on when you put that much into it."
I knew exactly what he meant, and I knew that saying he'd shed his blood was no exaggeration. I'd gotten numerous cuts and bruises on the ships we'd worked on, and rather than being angry, I'd felt as though I were part of the ship, as though we shared a connection of some sort.
He smiled a little. "If I'm remembered at all in history, I want it to be for the Titanic. I'm working hard as I can to smooth out the little mistakes-- I've already become occupied with taking down notes about the imperfections on my ship."
"Impossible." I said shortly, but quietly, looking down at the sea far below us. "It's perfect. Nothing could be wrong with it."
There was the slightest of pauses. I looked back up at him, and he'd been watching me, as he was now, but it was his turn to look down. "Thank you." he murmured, looking almost sad. "It does my heart well to hear you say that, Carrie Stevenson." He put emphasis on the word "you".
"Me?" I said, touched at the way he'd taken my compliment. I hoped this was the way he saw me when I'd found myself at a loss for words the other day.
He looked up, eyes gentle, sincere. "Yes. You."
That hit home.
To keep myself from saying something stupid, I took in a deep breath, then said, "You mentioned taking notes-- is that what's in that book you've been carrying around?"
"Yes, actually." he pulled it out of his pocket, holding it as though it were a Bible.
"May I?" I asked.
"By all means." he passed it to me.
On the first page was information and statistics about the Titanic herself. Nine hundred and twelve feet long, eleven stories high, capacity for two thousand and two hundred people, etc. On the second page was there the notes began. In sharp, quick letters was the message: Pebble dashing on promenade-- too dark. Beneath that: Stateroom hat racks-- I paused in my reading. The sentence read, Coat room hat racks carry too many screws, but he'd made an error. Instead of spelling 'carry' as it should have been, it was written as "Carrie", with the "C" capitalized and everything, just like my name. Had it been a simple mistake? Did his spelling just plain suck? Or had he perhaps been thinking of me when he'd written it?
I had to know.
"You think the stateroom hat racks carry too many screws?"
"Yes, they look rather--" he stopped quite suddenly, then continued, his voice fairly unsteady. "-- rather crowded."
"They do." I agreed. He was remembering his mistake. "I saw them in Mrs. Peckdash's room. Not to terrible, but still." Not wanting to embarrass him, I turned the page. Before I could read another word, however, the trumpets were announcing supper from the entrance to B Deck.. "Dinner." I said, closing the book, passing it back to him.
"That's another thing I'm going to fix." Thomas muttered. "Damn horns-- sounds as if one's marching into battle rather than going to dinner."
I grinned. "I'm going to go find Mrs. Peckdash."
"I'm going to go get changed. Meet you at the B Deck stairs at six o'clock?"
"Sounds good to me." I said, grinning at him. "Thanks."
"You're quite welcome." He smiled, calm and quiet, almost lovingly. "See you there."
And we departed.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
I finally stared at my reflection in the mirror, shocked to the bone. Gone was the Carrie Stevenson of old, the one who ran around in denim workpants and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Gone was the Carrie Stevenson whose common appearance featured hair bursting out of its tying cords, sweat from the grueling work shining on her face and neck, hands streaked with black engine oil. Gone was the girl who slept under bridges with her friends Jack and Fabrizio, who wore plain calico skirts and starchy shirts.
The girl that stared back at me was a new woman. A lady stood there, not a tomboyish child with no home and no money. I hardly recognized her, with her hair all gorgeous and her makeup perfect. "Thank you." I breathed to Mrs. Peckdash, as much as I could due to the tight corset. "Thank you so much."
"Not a problem." Peckdash assured me. "Now step into these."
I stepped into the shoes. They were slightly-- very slightly-- too small, but they looked pretty good, and they matched the dress. I took a step, and saw immediately what she meant by the shoes restricting my movements.
"When you walk," she said, fixing pins in her hair in front of her own mirror. "take small steps, and put one foot directly in front of the other."
I tried it. "That's really weird." I told her. I had to admit, though-- it did look like how the first class ladies moved.
"But you've got it down." she smiled at me in the mirror. "Now go run along. You look marvelous."
With a final thank-you, I was out the door.
I walked as Peckdash had instructed, but didn't so much keep one foot exactly in front of
the other. I felt rather uncomfortable, with the neck of my dress lower than I was used to, but a lot of the women I passed had an even lower swoop to their outfit, so I did my best not to complain. I smiled at anyone who would catch my eye, and actually received a lot of smiles in return.
When I reached the wooden and glass door to B Deck, the steward there pulled it open for me. "Good evening, miss." he said, his accent English and refined. No stranger had ever opened a door for me; this had to be first class for sure.
"Thanks." I said, passing through the door, giving him the best smile I was capable of. I headed for the stairs, holding my back straight, praying that I still looked alright.
And then I saw him.
Thomas was standing about a fourth of the way up the stairs, his small olive book out, a pen scribbling another message onto the paper. His back was half turned as he faced the banister; he didn't see me. I gulped, took in a steadying breath, and moved forward. When I was two steps behind him, I said, grinning, "Is the wood grain too coarse?"
At the sound of my voice Thomas turned, a large smile growing on his face, and then he froze mid-turn. His eyes stayed on mine for a split second, then searched the rest of my face, saw my elegant hair, traveled quickly over my gown, then finally returned to my own eyes. "Carrie." he said softly, his notebook frozen in his hands as the rest of him. It was as though he were staring at a holy relic-- he was in awe.
I felt extremely self-conscious, knowing I was blushing like crazy. "Well?" I said finally, tugging a little at my skirt. "Did Peckdash do alright?"
"Hey, Tommy boy!"
Speak of the devil; Mrs. Peckdash was gliding down the stairs, her arm though a tall, bearded man's, grinning as she looked at Thomas.
It obviously took Thomas effort to look away from me. "Good-- good evening, Mrs. Peckdash. And Mr. Peckdash."
Mrs. Peckdash grinned. "She look alright, Thomas?" she asked, beaming at me.
Thomas looked back to me, eyes still wide, but unbelievably warm and kind, a smile tugging at his lips. "She's beautiful." He spoke quietly, meaning each word.
I let out a relieved breath, unable to help the grin that spread on my face. He'd called me beautiful. No one had ever done that before. "Thank you." I said to Thomas. "I was worried you didn't like it."
"Didn't--" he shook his head, bewildered, as his eyes poured into mine. "-- didn't like it? You could dress in rags for all I care, and I'd still. . ." he halted that line real quick, but it still made my heart jump. ". . . but it's just a shock, seeing you like this. . ."
I grinned at him. "You don't look so bad yourself." He didn't. His coat and tails made him look so handsome. "Nice tux."
"Thank you." he, too, was blushing again.
Peckdash was still grinning. "See you around, Andrews."
"Good-- good-bye." Thomas said, still looking at me.
"Well, thanks." I told Thomas, still blushing tremendously. "I'd still rather be back in those work pants in the shipyard. You could cover them with engine oil and I'd still take them over this."
He grinned, offering his elbow. I took it, and we moved down the stairs. "How bad is the corset?" he murmured near my ear, so that none of the other couples would hear.
"It hurts like hell," I said back, just as quiet, tingling from the feel of his breath so close to my skin. "But it's sure worth it."
As he'd done this afternoon, he placed his free hand over mine on his elbow, and squeezed it. A little surprised at this display of affection, but deeply touched by it, I squeezed back, and we made our way toward the dining room. It was down another flight of stairs we went before emerging in the dining hall. My God, was it elegant.
He spoke then, as we picked our way through the crowd. "Don't worry about remembering any of the people I introduce you to on the way to our seats. All you need to feel concern about is the people we're going to be sitting with. And I don't mind saying that most of them are some of the meaner dogs I mentioned last night. . ."
I was happy just to listen to him speak. Each person he introduced me to had a refined and lovely accent; I was stuck with American slang. I didn't mind, however-- I was proud of my country, and I held my head up and smiled to prove it. "How'm I doing?" I murmured to Tom after he gestured to the table we were sitting at, twenty feet away.
"Excellent." he whispered back, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes twinkling. "They love you."
I looked back at him. "Thank you for doing this."
"Don't thank me yet," he said quietly. "The worst is yet to come. . ."
We'd reached the rather large table, with seating for about fifteen or so. Some of its occupants I had met before; Thomas finally drew my hand from his arm and pulled out a chair for me, which was right next to him, all the while murmuring which occupants were which. I was in between him and an overweight woman.
"Molly," Thomas said, sitting down beside me, leaning across to speak to the large woman. "I'd like to introduce you to Miss Carrie Stevenson. She'll be dining with us tonight. Carrie, this is Mrs. Molly Brown."
Molly grinned at me and held out her hand for me to shake it. "Welcome aboard, Carrie. Nice to eat with you."
I was a little shocked by her straightforwardness, but was glad to find someone who didn't really follow the strict rules of conduct of first class. "Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Same here."
"Oh, quit the 'Mrs. Brown' rubbish." she said, her rebellious grin still shining. "The name's Molly."
Suddenly I noticed the boy to her left. He was staring at me with his jaw slightly open, blonde-brown hair slicked back, blue eyes wide-- and then I realized: it was Jack.
"Jack!" I said, grinning. "We did get seated at the same table!"
"Nice eye," he said sarcastically, but was grinning himself. "Geez, you look good!"
His compliment didn't make me blush near as much as Thomas' had. "Thanks."
"Where'd you get that dress?"
"Where'd you get that tux?" I retorted, then noticed Thomas following this conversation. "Jack, this is T-- Mr. Thomas Andrews. I was telling you about him earlier, remember?"
"Nice to meet you." Thomas said, and he and Jack reached across the table to shake hands.
"Likewise." Jack said, grinning, and at that moment, the countess (no joke) turned to Jack and began speaking to him.
"You know this boy?" Thomas asked me quietly, so that no one else could hear.
"Yeah." I said, taking a swallow of the water in the heavy goblet before me. "That's Jack Dawson-- he and his friend, Fabrizio-- I'm traveling with them." I stopped myself just in time from saying that I was rooming with them.
"So you're-- you're good friends, yes?"
When I looked at Thomas, I realized that he thought Jack and I were romantically interested in one another, and I immediately told him otherwise. "Yes, we're friends. But that's it." I put a lot of emphasis on the last words, but noticed that Thomas seemed somewhat relieved.
So did that. . . did that mean. . .
Suddenly Molly tapped her empty wine glass with her spoon. "Hey, everybody!" she called, and the table fell silent fairly quickly. She grinned at Thomas and I. "We've got a couple of people to introduce to our number this evening."
Thomas stood up, and glanced down at me, smiling. I figured it would have been rude to reach up, yank his arm, and hiss, Sit down!!!. "This is Carrie Stevenson. Carrie?" he offered his hand to me, smiling gently; I took it and stood, feeling even more self-conscious.
"Hi." I gave a small wave at the rest of the table; they greeted me with quiet hello's and good evening's.
A pretty girl on Thomas's other side then introduced Jack; I assumed that this must be Rose, the girl with whom Jack was so taken. I noticed the man who'd Thomas had told me was Cal Hockley staring at Jack with extreme distaste.
I also noticed that Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, mother Rose, shared Cal's deep feeling of dislike for Jack. I felt ready to jump out of my seat when she said casually but scathingly, "Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Dawson. I hear they're quite good on this ship."
I was all ready to snap back, but two things happened: one, I realized that saying something while I was pissed off was not a good idea in front of these people, and I'd embarrass Tom; two, Jack came back with a sarcastic reply. "The best I've seen, ma'am." he said calmly. "Hardly any rats."
Cal muttered something about Jack joining us from the third class, and then the thin mustachioed man on the other end of the table, Mr. Ismay, began jabbering about how first, second, and third class had exceptional rooms. "The ship was designed for luxury, and no matter what the class, that is what the passenger will find."
"Your ship really is lovely," the countess said daintily, and suddenly I felt a burst of pride for Thomas. It was Thomas's work that had this thing floating, not Ismay's.
"Yes, well, tell that to Thomas." Ismay smiled falsely. "His blood and soul are on this ship. On paper, she's mine, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews."
Thomas dipped his head slightly, a gentle smile on his features, even though his knuckles were white on the armrests of his chair. "Thank you, Bruce."
I chose that moment to look down at my plate, and suddenly realized that there were at least a dozen utensils on either side of it. "Oh, shit." I whispered, so quiet that no one heard except for Mr. Andrews, who leaned slightly to the left, his smile broadened.
"Start on the outside." he murmured. "It's not that hard."
A white-haired waiter tried to spoon out caviar to me; I declined as politely as I could. Fish eggs didn't sound very appetizing at the moment. Not that they ever did. In the midst of this, Jack was delivering a kind of speech; I found myself being proud of him, as though he were a brother.
"And you, Miss Stevenson." Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, it seemed, was growing tired of taunting Jack. "Where is it that you are roomed?"
I thought of lying, but was tired of Jack taking all of the hit. "To tell you the truth, ma'am, I'm traveling with Mr. Dawson. I'm down in steerage as well." I could see that she was trying to hold back her shock and disgust, and somehow it made me sit up straighter, and hold my chin up. "Mr. Andrews was kind enough to offer his assistance to me yesterday, and invited me to dinner."
"Very kind of you, Mr. Andrews." J.J. Astor said, with a curt nod, and turned back to his caviar.
Mrs. DeWitt Bukater wasn't finished. "So you, as well, travel homeless?"
"Yes, ma'am." I said, meeting her somewhat cold stare with a kind one, trying to behave properly. "But I find work where I can, and hunker down around where I work. Mostly it's along the east coast, because a lot of my working has been with the boatyards." I noticed that Thomas was sitting very still, glaring at Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, and I realized he was trying to keep himself calm. On impulse I laid my hand across his on the armrest of his chair. It was out of sight, but I was trying to tell him that I was fine, don't do something stupid. "Then I met up with Jack, and we started traveling around."
"It's not proper for a woman to work." DeWitt Bukater continued. "I believe it's rather vulgar." At this I felt Thomas's hand tighten under mine. I squeezed it, but it was probably out of my own rage.
However, I refused to show my anger with her. It was exactly what she wanted. I set my teeth, but smiled. "Thank you for letting me know. I'll remember that next time I need work to keep myself from starving."
Ismay changed subjects, immediately bringing up the weather.
I relaxed my grip on Thomas' hand just as he relaxed his own hand. I could have sworn I felt it trembling. "Carrie," he whispered, shame in his eyes as they burned into the edge of his plate. "I'm so sorry. I didn't bring you down here to humiliate you. . . I didn't. . ." He looked up, features pleading.
"I know you didn't." I whispered back, trying to make it show in my face that I forgave what didn't need to be forgiven. "If anyone should feel stupid, it's DeWitt Bukater."
"I'm going to speak with her after dinner." he murmured, looking relieved, but still a little upset. "That was entirely inappropriate of her."
"Please," I whispered back. "Don't make a big deal of this. I don't want an enemy."
"And what's her average speed, Thomas?" Bruce Ismay was speaking again.
"We'll discuss this later," Thomas murmured to me, then turned to Bruce. "We're averaging a steady twenty knots. . ."
The meal was large and excellent; I actually managed not to slop anything down my front. Finally, I heard Rose whispering to Jack. "Next it'll be brandies in the smoking room. "
"It's true." Andrews murmured, just loud enough for me and me alone to hear. "They all go and smoke and drink and talk politics. I never go, though. Usually I just head back to my quarters."
Finally, a man stood up whose name I couldn't remember. "Gentlemen," he announced. "Would you care to join me for a brandy in the smoking room?"
Ismay thanked us ladies for "the pleasure of our company", then he and the rest of the men stood up to head for the billiards. Jack, passing me on his way to Rose, said quietly, "You coming down to that party?"
"You bet your ass I am." I said back, and was suddenly struck with an idea. "Can I take Andrews?"
"I'm taking Rose." he said in reply with a mischievous grin.
Andrews stood, and I with him, and he smiled at me. I smiled back. "Tom, thank you so much for this. I appreciate it. I enjoyed staying with you."
"And I with you." he said, raising my hand to his lips to kiss it.
A jolt of lightening seemed to shoot through my stomach as his lips met my bare knuckles, even though I knew it was just manners. Looking back up at me, his dark eyes were soft and friendly. "Tom," I said quietly. "Look, I don't. . . I don't know if you'd be interested, but you know the third-class general room?"
"Very well." he assured me, eyes twinkling.
"Well, we've been using it for parties of our own." I said. "I was just wondering if you'd like to come down and join us?" I caught myself. "I mean, I know it's not very proper for me to be asking you to a party, you know, but--"
He half laughed again, and his grin was dazzling. "Carrie," he said gently. "I'd love to."
We were heading past the band when I suddenly realized that I wanted to compliment on their performance. They played such pretty music, and I'd never before been serenaded during a meal. I tugged on Thomas' arm. "Can I thank them?
He smiled down at me. "I think they'd like that. I'll introduce you." We stood by their stand until they finished the current waltz they were playing, and then I was introduced to each of them by Thomas.
"You guys are really good," I told them. "It's nice to hear some good music."
"Thank you, Miss Stevenson." the lead violinist said, embarrassed, but rather pleased. "We didn't know anyone listened."
"I certainly do." I said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for them. "It's beautiful."
"God bless you." said the pianist, smiling. "You made our week."
"You've a good heart, Carrie." Thomas murmured as we headed for the general room, eyes kind and smiling.
It's all yours, I ached to tell him. But I didn't.