Author's Note: I'm sorry! I'm sorry for getting this out so late! We've had a hell of a lot going on in school, plus track meets galore. . . next chapter will be out faster, I promise. And by the way, I kind of screwed up the dates. Chapter 2 was technically supposed to be April 7th, but um. Oh well. Now it's the 9th, and so is this. And this does get better, I swear. Also, thank you to my reviewers! :-D You guys are the best.
THREE: WALLACE
April 9, 1912
15:20
I gritted my teeth and shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning against the doorframe. "That's the thing." I said, and Thomas' gaze was sympathetic as he sat down on the sofa. "I didn't expect to be accepted right away. I just. . ." I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated, and lightly kicked the other side of the doorframe. ". . . it's just that I didn't expect that the first officer would have such a hard time with it."
"Give them time." Thomas said gently. "They'll come 'round. And I'm sure once Will gets to know you, you'll get along fine."
I let out a long breath. "Yeah. . . well." I looked back at him. "He didn't have to insult me, though."
"He's upset, is all." Thomas propped his head on his hand. "From what I heard, he got the letter asking him to be chief officer roundabout last July, and so for almost a year he's believed he'll have the next best spot besides the captain on this floating miracle."
I couldn't stop a smile. "Your floating miracle."
"Aye, well." He grinned, too. "That she is."
I shook my head, looking around his stateroom. His well-furnished stateroom, I might add. "How old was I when you started work on this?"
He shrugged, eyes twinkling. "Old enough to care." There was a brief silence, and then, "I have an idea."
"God help us." I grinned. "What is it?"
"You're not going to like it." he warned, and his own smile faded slightly. "I think you should go apologize to Murdoch."
I stared at him. "Beg pardon."
"I think you should go to him and apologize for what happened. From the sound of it, you were just as insulting as he."
"But he started it!" I protested, suddenly feeling very small. "I was just. . . I was. . ."
One of his eyebrows lifted. "Yes?"
"Just defen. . . defending my. . . ah, hell." It made good sense—maybe by apologizing, I'd break the ice, and maybe Murdoch would apologize, too, and we could put the afternoon behind us. "I hate it when you're right."
"Mmm. Sometimes I regret it myself."
"But still. . ." I shifted uneasily. "I don't know. Lightoller came earlier and apologized for Murdoch."
"All the more reason for you to go to him, then." His look was pleased, almost teasing.
I let out a long breath. "All right, I'll go." I admitted defeat, and then said, smiling slightly, "But I won't have to like it."
He grinned. "It'll be fine, Ellen. And you know where to find me if something's wrong."
That I did. "Thanks, Thomas." I smiled back at him, and made sure to close the door quietly behind me when I went out.
*~*~*
Mr. Lightoller was standing in the wheelhouse, reading over a page of notes with one of the quartermasters. I took a deep breath, and stepped toward him. "Excuse me, sir." I managed, and my voice was way too hesitant; I tried not to wince as Lightoller looked up.
"Hello, Miss Wallace." he smiled fondly at me. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Murdoch," I said, wishing I could just call people by their first and/ or last names. "Any ideas?"
Lightoller nodded. "Yes, I believe I saw him heading for his quarters not five minutes ago."
"Thanks." I took a left, through the door that led to the corridor of the officer's quarters. My room was at the end of the hall, but from looking at some of Thomas's diagrams, I knew that the first officer's room was the second to my left. I hesitated before it, took in a deep breath, and then knocked three times.
There was no answer.
Frowning, I waited a moment, and then knocked again. I said (albeit somewhat quietly), "Mr. Murdoch, it's El—it's Miss Wallace." I half cringed; Lord, did that "Miss" sound funny. "Are you in there?"
Still no response, but I thought I heard the floor creak. I strained my ears, wondering why the hell Murdoch wasn't answering his door. I waited another few seconds, bit back a frustrated sigh, and decided to start talking.
"All right, well, I'll just say it straight out." I put my hands on my hips, bracing myself. "I'm sorry about this afternoon. I didn't mean to be a prick." I scratched the back of my neck, feeling incredibly stupid to be talking to the clean, whitewashed door before me. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, and—well, seeing as how we'll practically be stuck together this entire trip, I just. . ." Okay. Enough is enough. "Yeah. I'm sorry. Mr. Murdoch, please, won't you open the door just for a second?"
The door to my right clicked open; I nearly jumped out of my skin as Murdoch stepped into the hall, looking close to laughter. Wide-eyed, I glanced back at the closed door in front of me. Then, turning back to Murdoch, I managed something that sounded like, "Oshit."
He moved closer and shook his head slightly; I could see now that his smile was almost cynical. "That was very nice, Miss Wallace, and I thank you. But, as I'm sure you've discovered, I am roomed over here." he gestured to the cabin from which he'd just emerged.
I stuttered, "But—but isn't this is the first officer's—"
"Yes, and I'll be moved in by this time tomorrow. If you will recall, I held the position of chief officer until Mr. Wilde stepped in."
I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling even more stupid. "Forgot."
"Apparently." He started to walk past me; I turned to watch him, but he stopped and looked back at me. "Oh, yes, and in about an hour, I'll need you to come down to the storeroom with me."
I blinked. Storeroom—I knew what he was talking about; every officer had a duty to attend to before the ship left, but. . . wasn't checking out the storeroom the chief officer's job? I swallowed, and managed, "D'you mean the mail hold?"
He blinked, too. "Pardon?"
I didn't want to embarrass him further and widen the already Grand Canyon-esque gap between us, but I didn't want him to make a fool of himself in front of his fellow officers, either. Even though he probably deserved it. "You, um. Chief officer takes care of the storeroom. First officer does the mail hold."
He shifted; I could see it dawning on him in his eyes. He remembered, and I waited for some sarcastic quip to come hurtling out of his mouth—but none did. Instead he mumbled, "Oh. Of course." Murdoch turned away. "Mail hold, one hour."
"I'll be there," I promised, almost feeling sorry for him.
Not glancing back as he reached for the doorknob, he added, "And you'd better be rid of the overalls."
Slight anger flared; I said, "Don't think they'll take kindly to me walking around in just my shirt and skivvies."
He glanced back, anger flashing in his own eyes. "You were given a uniform. Wear it."
"Yes, sir."
The door whamed shut, and after a moment, I got my feet to work again and went to go change.
My blue dress was on a hanger over a post of my bed, brown dust still clinging to the lace trim, dirt smudged on the fabric. I closed the door quietly behind me, and made my way slowly to the dress. I scratched the back of my neck again, regarding it.
It was a far cry from some of the elegant wardrobes the first-class ladies sported, but it was still a nice gown. Thomas himself, with his boatload of money from Harland and Wolff, had gone out and had me fitted for the dress—and then he paid for it himself. I was no first-classer; second class, perhaps—but either way, I couldn't have afforded this dress on my own.
And then I'd gone and gotten mud all over it, because I some old guy hadn't changed his oil in five years. He certainly hadn't wanted to get underneath his car, and there was no towel or anything for us to put down. And he didn't even know how to change the oil. . . that's what you take it to the dealer for, sir! The only reason I knew was because my father had worked at a small Ford dealer in New York city; he used to bring home cars all the time to work on the engine.
But anyway. At least I could pay Thomas back, now that I was going to be earning some actual wages. And I could get the dress cleaned, and wear it again sometime soon. With a sigh, I turned away from it and pulled my newly pressed officer's uniform out of the small closet.
*~*~*
I found an open seat beside Lightoller at dinner; he smiled and gestured for me to sit, then promptly introduced me to the other officers at the table. Murdoch was not among them yet.
I could see it in their eyes—the officers weren't quite that comfortable with me yet. Not like I expected them to be, but the talk did die down slightly and no one really met my gaze.
Henry Wilde, however, seemed to have remembered our introduction from the other day. "Parlez-vous français?" he asked across from me, which translated to, "Do you speak French?"
I shrugged a bit. I knew some French, but just enough to keep me floating should I go there—or to semi-tell-off Wilde. My mother had been a staunch teacher, refusing to let me leave home until I knew some of it. "Un peu." I admitted. A little. "Why, do you speak French to everybody you meet?"
He smiled, although somewhat thinly. "I didn't think you'd understand."
"`Llo." A newcomer dropped into the open seat beside Wilde, putting a book down on the table—but when I looked at his face, I was surprised to see that itwas slightly pale, but blotched with red, and his bright green eyes were damp. He sniffled, and offered a trembling smile. "What's dor finner?"
Lightoller picked up the book, turning it over to the cover, grinning. "I don't see how you can read this as many times as you have, and still weep like a child at the end of it."
"It's beautiful, that's what it is. The whole book is just pure poetry." The guy sniffled again, and his smile was genuine as he looked at me. "I'm sorry—you must be Miss Wallace?"
"That's me." I reached across the table to shake hands with him.
"Nice to meet you." he took a deep breath. "I'm James Moody. . . goodness. I apologize." He took his book back from Lightoller. "I'm a mess every time I read this."
"Which one is it?" I asked, curious.
"A Tale of Two Cities." Moody answered, unfolding his napkin. "Have you read it?"
I smiled, recalling the tale. Everything else I'd read of Dickens had been dull as dishwater, but this story had gotten to me. "A few times." I told him. "It is good, though, you're right."
Murdoch sat down on Lightoller's other side, letting out a long sigh. "What did I miss?"
"James has gone and read Dickens again." Lightoller reported, and picked up his menu from his plate.
"Ah, yes." Murdoch said, nearly grinning. The smile was startling; most of the day I'd seen him in a rather sulky mood. He nearly looked handsome, for Pete's sake. "Did Carton escape this time?"
"I keep hoping he might." said Moody. "But it never happens."
A waiter came around to take our orders, but most of us had hardly glanced at our menus. Still getting used to the finery, I picked mine up and started reading.
Or tried. Consommé Olga? Roast Squab and Cress? What the hell kind of foods were those? "Um." I managed.
Lightoller glanced over. "Having trouble?" he asked quietly.
"Er. I don't know what any of this stuff is." I said back.
"Just order the potatoes and lamb." he muttered back, pointing them out on the menu.
I lifted an eyebrow; each was labeled with three or four completely foreign words. "Ah."
He chuckled slightly. "You get used to it."
We finished ordering, and suddenly there was silence. Joseph Boxhall (whom had been introduced to be as the fourth officer) cleared his throat, and looked at me. "So, Miss Wallace. . . tell us about yourself."
I nearly flinched, wishing he hadn't put me on the spot. I leaned forward anyway and rested my forearms on the table. "What do you want to know?"
He shrugged. "The usual—where you're from, how you got into the business."
I bit my lip. Every person at the table was watching me, Murdoch and Lightoller included. "Well, I was born in New York City and grew up around the harbor there. . . and Thomas—Mr. Andrews—is my cousin, so I came over here a lot. Here and Ireland. I was with him through a lot of the construction of the Titanic."
I paused in the tale to take a breath. "And I guess he saw that I was qualified for this job and wanted me to take it." I swallowed. "But I heard that the position is being opened up all around the shipping business, so it's not just us."
"Yes," Lightoller agreed. "I've heard that, too. Sounds agreeable, if you ask me."
"True, but why first officer?" Wilde asked, and I could practically feel Lightoller's defenses going up. "I mean," Wilde chuckled slightly. "You'd think the chief officer would have more duties than the first, and so would need more assistance."
"Technically not, Mr. Wilde." Chairs scraped and everyone jumped into a standing position as Captain Smith entered; I shot to my feet beside Lightoller, somehow feeling very nervous. The captain smiled at us all as he reached his seat at the head of the table, and motioned for us to sit again—we did. "When one reaches the position of chief officer, he has done a sound job in the positions below it, and so deserves a sort of break. I'll have the filet mignon lili," he added to the waiter, and gave up his small menu. "I would say that the first officer is the man with the most weight on his shoulders."
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Murdoch was holding himself very still, and that Wilde was looking somewhat disappointed. Lightoller was just plain smiling. The captain looked toward me, smiling; it took effort not to hide behind my water goblet. "Miss Wallace," he greeted. "How was your afternoon?"
"Very well, sir." I said, managing to meet his eyes. "Thank you."
Smith's twinkling eyes darted toward Murdoch for a moment. "Our first officer treating you well?"
Ha. No. "Yes, sir." I smiled, seeing if a guilt trip would work. "He's a fine man."
The captain nodded, satisfied, and sat back. "Tomorrow morning, we'll have a formal introduction for the officers and quartermasters." He glanced around the table. "I'd like us all to be gathered in the wheelhouse at six o'clock. The Titanic is scheduled to leave at noon, and there is still a great deal to be done in the morning." His smile was warm and kind. "And I'm certain that each of you are just as excited as I to see her off."
"Huzzah and amen." Lightoller grinned, and several hear, hear's picked up, but at this point dinner was delivered, and we dug in.
*~*~*
"'A fine man?'" Murdoch quoted, actually holding the door for me as I stepped through into the officer's quarter's corridor. "Well. I'm honored. I had no idea you held me in such high esteem."
"What was I supposed to tell him?" I mumbled, hearing no sincerity in Murdoch's voice, fishing around in my pocket for my key. "That you were uncouth all day toward me?"
"You were hardly any better." he retorted.
"You started it." I said, stopping before my door, struggling to fit the key in the lock hole.
"You continued it."
The door opened. "Good night."
"Six o'clock, remember."
I closed the door and fell backwards onto my bed, exhausted. Today, Murdoch hadn't been much more polite to me—but at least he was kind of ignoring me rather than insulting me. And he was mostly sending me off on errands. "What a moron." I told the ceiling; it just stared blankly at me. I stared back at it a bit longer, then sat up and started to get ready for bed. A glance at the clock told me I had a mere six hours or so before I'd have to wake up.
Huzzah, indeed.