Note: My apologies for its tardiness and my apologies because I know I'll get the next one out late, too. If something looks weird in this chapter, ignore it. I'll find it later and be like, Oh, no, why did I post that without triple-checking. . . But I promise. . . someday this will be done. Stay with me. You guys are the best, you know. School work is sucking big time. Please review if you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

SEVEN: WALLACE

April 11, 1912

0714

I flew out of bed as four loudknocks rattled my door; still waking up, standing in the middle of the floor and swaying from dizziness, I forced out, "I'm up! Who is it?"

"Are you decent?" Murdoch's voice.

I glanced over at the mirror as stars faded. Disheveled hair, shirt, and sleep pants, but fully covered. Sitting back down, I said, "Decent as it gets this bloody early," and the door opened.

Murdoch was tucking his tie into his vest. "Hurry and get dressed. We've slept in, I'm afraid."

I glanced at the clock tiredly, and ran a hand through my sleep-tied hair. "It's only seven fourteen, sir—I just fell asleep twenty minutes ago."

"We'll be in Cherbourg in little more than an hour." he said, glancing back into the corridor. "And we should be down at the docking bridge again."

I struggled to my feet and went to the dresser to grab for a hairbrush. "Wonderful."

"Will you need a hand with your tie?"

I looked up, surprised that he actually offered help, and then for a second was speechless—the bright light from the window had hit his face, and his eyes sparkled handsomely. I hadn't noticed how blue-gray his eyes were, or how his hair (with the absence of his hat) fell just so to make him look quite attractive.

He frowned, however, and shifted uncomfortably, moving out of the light. "Something the matter?"

I shook my head, looking back down again. Idiot, I thought to myself. "Yes. I mean, no! Nothing's the matter. I meant yes that I'll need help with my tie."

Murdoch was looking at me rather oddly, but said, "Right, then I'll wait outside. And because we're both late as lawyers, I trust it won't take you very long." And the door snapped shut loudly behind him.

All fondness for his eyes vanished; I scowled at the closed door and for a minute considered picking up a discarded shoe and throwing it that way. But I kept my calm, pulled the tying cord out of my mangled hair, and quickly dragged the brush through it. When I finally had it secured into a knot at the back of my neck, I changed fast as I could into the day's uniform and opened the door. Murdoch was still in the hallway; I took hold of my tie and arranged it under my collar as I stepped closer. "Okay." I said.

He looked over, and said, "Tie help?"

"Please." I held up the ends of it; he reached out and took them. This time, he wasn't wearing gloves; I noticed them poking out of his jacket pocket. His hands were strong; I could tell just by looking at them, and there were calluses on his palms and fingers. This was a man who worked for a living, not some upper-class businessman who sorted bills and filed letters.

Murdoch was standing a foot away from me. I tried to look anywhere else but at him, and his eyes, but it was very hard not to. For God's sake, we were standing so close that I could smell him—aftershave and soap—which was not an unpleasant mix at all. The whole tie-tying took him about thirty seconds, but it seemed to me much longer, watching the tendons flex under his skin. At last he let go, and the tie wasn't as choking as it had been yesterday.

"Thanks." I said, and felt like I was moving through molasses as I turned back to my room to grab my hat from the desk by the door. I then headed past Murdoch, down the corridor. "You coming?" I asked, glancing back and still walking; he followed. "So are we going to get breakfast, or did you already eat?"

"I haven't." he said. "But I've heard that it's waiting for us in the crew's mess."

"Saints be praised." I said, stomach running on empty. "I'm hungry."

The door to the officer's quarters closed behind us, and then it was through the wheelhouse, onto the bridge, and then out on the open boat deck. The air was fresh and breezy, the morning slightly cool, but with enough heat in the air to tell that it would be warmer later in the day.

Murdoch walked at a pretty quick pace, but I matched his strides as we headed for the crew's mess, the land miles to our left moving past slowly. A steward was waiting for us inside; he hurried off to the kitchen when he saw us. The only other person in the room was Wilde, looking sleepier than ever.

"Morning," Murdoch said, moving to sit at his friend's table; I followed somewhat awkwardly.

"Good morning." Wilde said, smiling, leaning his head on his hand and his elbow on the table. My mother would have smacked him, but it made me grin. "Did you two sleep well?"

"I did." Murdoch said, and pulled out a chair for me. I was surprised, but sat anyway, with Murdoch to my left and Wilde across from Murdoch. "I'll be back at it after our rounds today though."

"Yes," Wilde said, stirring his tea. "Same here." He looked at me. "In this business, you'll come to learn that 'sleep' becomes a foreign word."

"Trust me, I'm a fast learner." I said, and Wilde chuckled.

"How was dinner last night?" Murdoch asked, just as a bunch of stewards appeared from the kitchen and placed two identical plates before the two of us. Each dish had a pile of scrambled eggs, and two hotcakes. A boat of maple syrup was also put down, as well as small bowls of oatmeal.

"It was just about as good as that looks." Wilde said, gesturing to our plates.

"Want some of mine?" I asked, marveling at all the food. "Don't think I can eat all this this early in the morning."

"Actually. . ." Wilde was fighting a smile. "What don't you want?"

I held up the bowl of oatmeal. "All yours."

"Thank you!" he took it, grinning now, and added syrup to it from the boat. "So, about dinner," he continued, stealing one of Murdoch's extra spoons. "It was delicious. I have to admit, the food here is infinitely more appealing than the selections on the Olympic, and that is saying something indeed."

"What of the company?" Murdoch asked, adding syrup to his hotcakes. "Were they. . . agreeable?"

"Very, in fact." Wilde reported around a mouthful of oatmeal. My mother would have exploded by now. "And I had the pleasure of sitting with your cousin, Miss Wallace." he smiled warmly at me. "Fine man. Knows his boats, he does."

"Indeed he does, sir." I smiled back, heart lifting. If I had to go to the dinner, and we sat with Thomas tonight, then everything might turn out all right.

"Yes, he was friendly, and so were the rest of the people. Nice group. Somewhat chatty, but harmless." He chewed his oatmeal. "Damn, but this is good. You don't know what you're missing here, Miss Wallace."

"I'm sure I'll get around to the oatmeal eventually." I said, once more digging into my breakfast. "But for now, I'm content with all this."

"Ah, good morning!"

Murdoch dropped his fork, Wilde nearly choked on his oatmeal, and I practically sent the syrup boat flying as we scrambled to our feet in time for Captain Smith to reach the table. "Morning, sir." the three of us chimed in unison, and we all traded glances.

Smith grinned. "Mr. Wilde, you're needed on the bridge."

"Yes, sir." Wilde gave a long look to his beloved oatmeal, put on his hat, tipped it to us with a smile, and headed out.

"And the two of you know your duties for this morning?" Smith asked Murdoch and me.

"Yes, sir." we said again, and once more glanced at one another, but Murdoch wasn't finished. "Sir," he said. "I believe Miss Wallace had a question for you about the dinner tonight."

My face burned with embarrassment. This wasn't how I wanted to ask this! Smith looked at me. "Of course. Fire away."

Pushing back thoughts of bloody vengeance on Murdoch, I forced out. "Sir, I. . . I'd like to request permission not to attend the dinner tonight."

To my surprise, the captain smiled empathetically. "I know why you would ask, Miss Wallace, but let me assure you that the company I dine with is infinitely more respectful than some of the characters you encountered yesterday at boarding. I wouldn't subject you to ridicule."

I gulped. "Sir, I. . ."

"Oh, and of course, because you'll be wearing your uniform, I've arranged for a hairdresser to. . . to attend to your hair, if you wish it."

I stared at him; his eyes were twinkling and friendly. "That's. . ." I looked at my hands, grateful and humbled. With my hair done, I wouldn't look quite as. . . quite as officer-y, and maybe a little more ladylike. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course." When I dared to glance up, his smile was warm. "Well, I'll leave you two to finish your breakfast. Report to the bridge as soon as you're able."

"Yes, sir." Murdoch this time; I could only nod weakly. The captain offered a final smile, and was gone.

I sat back down, hard. "Well." I said, staring down at my half-eaten breakfast.

"At least we won't have to stay at the dinner very long," Murdoch said idly, picking up his fork again. "We've got to go back and prepare for our watch."

"Thank you, God." I said, appetite returning. "Even if they are friendly, there's still other people around that aren't. . . the sooner we get out of there, the better."

"Amen." Murdoch said, and once again, I was baffled that we weren't arguing over something.

I stifled a yawn, but was unable to keep my eyes from watering because of it. Luckily, however, nobody seemed to notice. Hitchens was at the helm, Murdoch was standing out on the right wing bridge. Fifth Officer Lowe had run off to do something or other, and Sixth Officer Moody stood several yards to my left.

I was busy staring straight ahead—at the point where the dark blue of the ocean stopped, and the clear, bright blue of the sky began. No longer was there any brown or green in front of us—it was just water, as far as the eye could see. And behind us, Queenstown was shrinking fast.

It had been a fairly uneventful board, and nobody had insulted me—not even Murdoch. Most of us were too tired, I suspected, but now didn't really care—we were really and truly on our way to New York.

A door snapped open behind Moody and me; I didn't turn, and neither did he, but from the corner of my eye I could tell that the Captain had entered the bridge, and now (as he moved into my line of vision) was heading for the stand right next to Murdoch. His voice was distant when he spoke, and I didn't understand the words, but suddenly Murdoch was stepping down from the ledge and heading for the bridge.

He was fighting a smile (which didn't fade even as he glanced at me), and looked toward Moody. "All ahead full, Mr. Moody." he said, reaching for the engine-telegraph lever.

"Very good, sir." Moody grinned moved forward, as well, and both levers rang out as the dials were turned toward "full ahead".

Knowing Thomas and his workers, if there was one thing men loved, it was the affect of speed on machine and man. Knowing my father and his auto industry, men were obsessed with speed and motorcars. Even I had to admit, there was something inexplicably thrilling about charging down a country lane with the wind forcing itself cold through one's hair while the landscape blew by. Here, it was amazing to feel the slight but steady pickup of the engines far below us, to feel the ship move forward a bit.

The largest moving object in the history of creation, and it was speeding eastward at top speed. Doesn't get much better, I thought, grinning in spite of myself as I looked at the other officers. Moody was beaming; even Murdoch looked giddy as he went to rejoin the captain. Quartermaster Hitchens, at the helm, was sporting a comfortable half-grin.

At this point, Lowe emerged from the crew's quarters area, holding a saucer with a cup of tea on it. I watched from the corner of my eye as he walked toward Murdoch and Captain Smith, and as he passed the ensemble to the latter. Lowe returned to the deck; muttered to Moody and I, "I didn't sign on to this to be some bloody tea-boy."

A silent pause, and seconds later, he said—"Are we moving faster?"

Moody chuckled. "Twenty-one knots, Mr. Lowe."

While Lowe goggled over this prospect, I glanced over at the captain and Murdoch. What hair he had that was poking out from under his cap was wavering in the strong breeze, and in his eyes, even from this distance, was the clearest expression of the most calm delight.

Somehow it made me smile. I don't know why, but. . . just seeing him so pleased after these few days of disappointment was a welcome sight. Not so bad being first officer, is it now? I thought. Look at Wilde; he's not even here for this. He didn't get to crank the lever to full-ahead.

At that moment, Murdoch glanced back at me.

Until a few moments ago, I would have quickly looked away—but he was smiling, and so was I, and suddenly my smile just broadened and I was grinning unashamedly at him.

His smile, however, faded slightly, and he looked back ahead.

So much for that good mood—for both of us.

"There we are."

I looked into the mirror and was suddenly tremendously relieved. Elise the hairdresser beamed behind me. "Like it?"

"Yes." I reached up to touch the do; my hair had been piled at the back of my head very fashionably, and a navy blue, somewhat sparkling strand of fabric had been wound about it. The color matched the blue of my uniform. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"Thank you." She was proud of her work, grinning broadly in the mirror behind me. Technically, she was a stewardess—but a hairdresser on the side, all of twenty-four years old.

My fingers found one of the dozens of pins she'd applied to my hair; I said, "Where can I find you later to return the pins?"

"Oh, don't bother—you keep them. They're rather cheap when you buy them in bulk." She went about gathering her brush, comb, and other accessories.

"About ready?" Murdoch poked his head around the other side of my door.

"Yeah," I said, standing up, reaching for my jacket, and couldn't help but to touch my hair again. It was so rarely done like this. "How's it look?" I asked him.

"Nice." he said distractedly, in a voice that suggested he wouldn't have cared if I'd turned into Helen of Troy. "Listen, we've got to get down there."

I was a bit disappointed that he was so dismissive, but wondered what I'd expected anyway. "Right." I agreed, now putting my jacket on. Already I could hear the classical strains of music coming from the open door. I took in a deep breath. "Let's go."

Smith was waiting for us; we "good-evening"ed each other and headed down.

I immediately felt awkward and embarrassed. The ladies were all wearing elbow-length gloves, moody-colored gowns that hugged their frames like second skins, and elaborate hair and makeup jobs. I gulped, feeling extremely. . . beneath them. Many people called out to the captain, and even a few to Murdoch, and most sent confused and / or troubled expressions my way. Or they smiled so that the expression looked pasted on. All the while, cheerful notes from the band filled the air, and the buzz of chatter was loud and constant.

"Oh, dear." Smith said suddenly, stopping, and Murdoch and I nearly ran into him. My stomach had twisted in fear when he'd uttered that "oh, dear", but my fears worsened when he said, "I do believe our usual companions have filled their table. . ."

"Captain Smith!" a lovely woman in a deep blue evening dress rose from her seat at said table, looking quite embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry; we've had more guests than I thought we might—we're full already." She smiled sympathetically but warmly at the three of us.

"Oh, that's fine, countess." Smith said, smiling back, and I felt my stomach do another somersault. Had he just said countess? "I'm sure we'll find another—"

"E. J.!" someone called, and I nearly jumped, recognizing the voice; the four of us turned toward another table some distance away, where a somewhat tall, brunette, and mustachioed man was waving for us. "We've saved you some seats!" It was James Bruce Ismay, and I could have cried from relief. From my dealings with Thomas, I knew Ismay well, and he was a close family friend. He recognized me and his eyes grew round; he grinned, waving more enthusiastically.

"You see?" Smith told the countess. "There will be plenty more opportunities to sit with you and your companions."

"Of course." she dipped her head slightly, still smiling genuinely. "Have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you, countess." Smith kissed her gloved hand, and moved off toward Ismay; Murdoch and I followed, lambs behind the shepherd. "Evening, Bruce!" he called, while the owner of the clump of iron around us grinned broadly.

"Bloody good to see the whole lot of you," Ismay said, beaming at us all. "I was beginning to become bored, what with only this heckler to be amused with." Chuckling at his colleague, Thomas was approaching, also sporting a broad smile at Ismay's pleasant sarcasm.

"And I do become boring," Thomas joked, and he shook hands with each of us, sending a barely concealed half-wink my way. "You all look fit to dine before the queen."

"As do you both." Smith said, smiling broadly at the two men. "You don't happen to have a few seats available, do you?"

"In fact, we were saving some for you." Thomas gestured to the three empty ones; almost all the others were taken.

It wasn't until we'd seated ourselves (Murdoch on my right, Thomas on my left, and Smith on Murdoch's right) that I really got a good look at who all was seated at the table. One lady and her husband, I didn't know, but there was something very familiar about the mother and her daughter. . . I realized it as soon as the man with them sat down. The man with the dark hair, slightly tanned skin—and by the way he looked at me, I knew—it was some of the same people who'd taunted me yesterday at boarding.

Thomas introduced us all to them. The lady and her husband were Mr. and Mrs. Worsting, and the mother and daughter were Mrs. and Miss DeWitt Bukater. The man was Mr. Hockley. Feeling slightly sick to my stomach, I remembered checking their names off. The man was. . . Calvin? No, Caledon. And the mother and daughter. . . Ruth and Rose. All of them stared at me with extreme distaste, but I gritted my teeth and tried to smile.

"And what is your position?" Mrs. Worsting asked me during the first course.

I prayed for the waiters to come around. "Junior officer." I said, reaching for my water. "Technically assistant to the first officer, but other things, when they need me."

"What kind of things?" prompted Mr. Worsting. "Patching up uniforms? Brewing tea?"

I could feel my face burning. The men on either side of me were silent, rigid in their seats. I hadn't had that mother of mine for nothing, though. I folded my hands and placed my elbows on the armrests of my chair. "To tell you the truth, sir, I started making coffee for the men quite by accident. One of them sampled it, and the word spread that I could make a decent cup. But besides that, I do general duties—staying on watch, running errands, and collecting reports from various departments around the ship."

"And they allow you to do that?" Mr. Worstings chuckled, and so did Mrs. DeWitt Bukater.

I gritted my teeth. So much for eating with nice dinner partners. "Yes, sir." I said.

"So," Thomas said, rather loudly, leaning forward, a worried look barely concealed in his eye. "What do all of you think of the voyage so far?"

I glanced at Murdoch; he was looking down. I followed his gaze to see that he was staring at my knuckles—which were white as they now gripped the armrests. I released the chair, half trembling.

But by the time the first course rolled around, they were back on the subject of me again.

"So, Miss Wallace," Mrs. Worstings this time. "Are you married?"

Thomas's hand slowed slightly as he reached for his water glass. I ignored him, and looked the woman squarely in the eye. "I was." I said, and her gaze was surprised. I looked away. "Stephen died seven years ago this June." For a moment, Thomas's eyes locked with mine—he looked both sorry and encouraging.

"How did he die?" Hockley asked.

Did I have to answer all this? I glanced at Murdoch; he was very interested in the edge of his plate. Ismay had asked Thomas a question, and they'd started talking. I said, not wanting to relive this at all, "Car accident."

"Do you have children?" Mrs. DeWitt Bukater prompted, and this time Murdoch looked up at me, eyes stunned.

"No," I said to her, deadpanning. "I didn't want them to grow into rich millionaires that interrogate their dinner guests."

"I do believe that's enough," Smith said firmly, looking mortified as he stared between Mrs. Worstings and me.

The silence at our table throbbed in my ears. I looked down at my plate, too. "I'm sorry." I said softly, but DeWitt Bukater didn't say anything. I realized that I didn't have any appetite anymore, nor did I want to stay, but was worried that it would be an insult to leave. Not like they didn't deserve it.

The waiters came and took our plates, and suddenly DeWitt Bukater was in the process of announcing her daughter's engagement to the Worstings. My throat felt tight; I gritted my teeth and took a long swallow from my wine glass. It tingled down my throat and burned in my chest, and I welcomed the feeling. It was smoother than the hard beer I was used to, and I could breathe a little bit after I drank it.

The second course was presented in all its extravagance. Mrs. Worstings opened her mouth with her beady eyes looking right at me, but Thomas saw her and immediately turned to me to speak to me in a side conversation about the new Renault his uncle had bought before the trip. "What do you think of them?" he asked me. "I've heard it's a good car, but that performance falls off after awhile."

I took in a breath of relief and started talking to him; his eyes were understanding, yet at the same time he really did want to know about that Renault. By the time we got into gas mileage, I was smiling, and the rest of the table was involved in other conversations. The topic of automobiles took Thomas and I through this course, at which point we started comparing the engine of the Titanic to that of a car, and even Ismay got in on the discussion. And then we ran out of parts to compare, and listened instead to the other topics.

"How lovely!" Mrs. Worstings was saying. "Soft pink and white—what a marvelous picture they'll make."

"Of course, Rose still isn't taking to the colors," Mrs. DeWitt Bukater said, glancing at her daughter, who was staring determinedly at her water glass, but she glanced up.

"Lavender would have matched the flowers you ordered." Rose said quietly, glancing at her mother.

"You know I can't stand lavender." DeWitt Bukater said, somewhat airily.

"It's her wedding, isn't it?" I said, and everyone looked at me, including Rose—except she looked less shocked than the rest. In fact, she gave a half smile—it almost looked like a thankful one. I shrugged, and looked down at my food stupidly. "If it were me, I'd figure I should be able to pick out what I was going to remember for the rest of my life."

"Is that the way it happened at your wedding?" DeWitt Bukater asked coldly.

"Yes," I said, looking up at her. "And it was the happiest day of my life."

"Yet it seems that that husband of yours didn't manage to knock any sense into you," Mr. Worstings muttered.

"I beg your pardon," I said loudly and furiously, dropping my fork.

"I beg everyone's pardon." To my surprise, it was Murdoch who cut the dead silence, and he rose to his feet. "Miss Wallace and I must be getting back to the bridge to prepare for our watch." He dropped his napkin onto his seat and looked down at me, offering his hand to help me stand up.

I stared at him incredulously, but took the offered hand. His plate was still half-full, and we hadn't even gone through the last course. His warm grip tight, he helped me to my feet and released my hand; he offered a short nod to everyone at the table and then headed toward the grand staircase. For a second I could only stare at him—this was no brush-off like him saving me the other night had been. But then I got my legs to work, and caught up to him. "What the hell was that?"

He glanced over, and there was something like rebellion in his eyes. "That, Miss Wallace, was a rescue."

I bit back a smile. "My name's Ellen."

"They were being rude and uncivilized." he continued, probably not even hearing my correction. "We don't have to stay and listen to that." He drew his pocket watch from his vest. "We've got another. . . I'd say another hour before we'll have to start even getting ready for our watch, but I'll be damned if I had to stay for their drivel a moment longer."

I licked dry lips. "Yeah." We trekked up the grand staircase. I took in a shaky breath, recalling what they'd all said about Stephen. For seven years I'd been pushing him and the accident to the back of my mind, and it was only within the last few that I'd been able to really get over him. I hated to talk about him—hated to remember. And not only had these people tonight made me remember, they insulted the man I'd loved. Then Murdoch had gone and rescued me from them. "Thanks," I said softly, not daring to speak louder.

He nodded, formal and distance again, and we were silent for the rest of the walk to our quarters.