Author's Note: It is I, Katherine, with Chapter Eight. Hang with me, now. In one review I saw-- yeah, Jack was invited but the dinner in the movie was Saturday night. What I have here is Thursday night. Just clearin' that up :) Anyway. . . can anyone else tell this is going to be a longer story? Yeah. Er, reviews are like heated blankets to the guys in the lifeboats. Thanks for sticking with me, everyone.

EIGHT: MURDOCH

April 11, 1912

2057

She was sitting with her arms hooked over the railing, legs dangling into the oblivion below. Some of the sections of her hair were around her shoulders, and some parts of it were still pinned up. Murdoch frowned at the curious style, but understood when she reached up, fingers searching for another pin. She found one; another lock of hair fell, and she threw the pin over the railing, watching its long, arcing fall into the water. He was certain that he heard her sniffle.

His frown evaporated and his heart softened, as it had during dinner; he approached her, slowly. "Miss Wal—Ellen," he said, feeling very odd.

She'd jumped slightly at the first sound of his voice, but still didn't turn around. "Yeah." her voice was dead, and she no longer sought for another pin.

He took a deep breath, and pushed his hands into his pockets. "I just wanted to know if—well, there's tea and coffee brewing in the crew's mess, and I wondered if maybe you'd join me for a cup." He didn't know why he bothered asking. She wouldn't want to go with him; he'd been nothing but horrible to her since the trip started. But perhaps. . . she did seem grateful that he'd gotten her out of dinner. . . although who wouldn't be—

She turned around, and her nose was red, eyes bleary from recent tears—yet one eyebrow was lifted. Her expression was cynical. "Like I'm going to submit myself to more ridicule."

He was taken aback. "Beg pardon?"

"I don't need any more insults from you. Or any crew members that might be there." She closed her eyes, and turned back around.

He licked dry lips, eyes narrowed—but with concern. "I assure you, I only wondered if you might join me in a cup of coffee. I don't know of any crewmen that are there, but if they are, they'll certainly be kinder than the dunces we were forced to sit with at dinner.

She didn't turn around, but turned her head slightly toward him, eyes on the cold white bar.

Murdoch tried again, more gently this time. "Unless you think the coffee itself will be insulting, I promise you that downing a beverage and maybe sharing a few non-insulting words were the only activities I had in mind."

She glanced back all the way now. "You serious?"

He nodded, expression softening. "Quite."

She bit her lower lip (his heart fluttered; he kicked himself mentally), then said quietly, "Yeah, sure I will." She climbed to her feet with ease, and ran the heel of her hand over her eye. Her half smile was apologetic as the two of them started to walk, and as she tied the blue strand in her hair around the pinless hair. "Thanks."

"Certainly." They didn't say anything else on the way to the crew's mess, nor did they speak as they prepared their coffee and tea, but the silence wasn't an uneasy one.

They took seats at the table where they'd breakfasted that morning, only this time they sat across from one another in the bright light. The windows were bright, deck lights weak but close. Ellen took a long pull of her tea, but Murdoch continued to stir his coffee. At last he said, "I didn't know you were married once."

She shrugged, setting her tea down, watching steam curl out of it. "You never asked."

"I just assumed you weren't." he said. "I didn't see a ring."

That half-smile was back, her eyes almost challenging. "You were looking?"

He smiled, too, and looked down at his drink. "Not really." Another silence, and finally Murdoch said, "Tell me about him, if it doesn't bother you."

She shook her head. "It doesn't." A sip of her tea. "Well. . . he was twenty-four when I married him—I was twenty. My dad wanted to have grandchildren, but Stephen wouldn't hear of it, yet. And then one day Stephen went out to test a new Model T for my father, and collided with another one." He watched her shoulders fall as she let out a long but silent breath. "He died the next day, and I've been back and forth to Europe since then."

He'd leaned back in his seat, fingers lightly tracing the gold trim on his saucer. "Did you love him?" his voice was soft.

She looked up, startled at the question, and then back down again. "Yeah." she said, eyes distant. "Only thing I had against him was that he never. . ." she shook her head, smiling sadly. "He didn't like that I was into ships, like Thomas. Or automobiles. He thought it wasn't a woman's place to be involved with them—which it isn't, really. Plus I was in a women's right-to-vote organization in New York. . ." she grinned. ". . . he hated that." She swallowed more tea, and met his steady and surprisingly understanding gaze. "What about you? You married?"

It was his turn for his eyes to grow distant as he looked unseeingly at his coffee. "Almost." he said at last.

"Almost?"

He shifted in his seat, smiling. "Her name was Ada—beautiful woman. But she cared nothing for the sea, or shipping—and I was hardly there because of my officer duties. And finally she said, 'Will, it's either me, or the ocean—you can't have both.'" He shook his head, and took a drink of his coffee.

"You chose the ocean." said Ellen.

"I did." he nodded, setting his cup down. "And I've never regretted the decision."

After a pause, she said, not looking at him, "Was she pretty?"

Murdoch tuh'ed. "Beautiful." She'd been envied by every woman across three districts for her looks. For a blissful year, her smile belonged to Murdoch alone—until the fact began to sink in to her that sea voyages were a part of his life, a way of living burned deeply into his blood. The voyages saved him from her in the end, too—when he was away he could step back and look at the situation clearly, saw that she was ready to turn to the next suitor at any moment. She did.

"However," he continued, "she wasn't for me anyway. . . the week after we parted, I heard that another man was already courting her—and quite successfully."

Ellen winced. "That had to hurt."

He shrugged easily. "I should have known. And it shouldn't have bothered me."

Quiet once more, and still, an easy one. Ellen finished off her tea, and hadn't even put the cup down again when suddenly, from outside, came the sounds of hurried footsteps on the deck. The door of the crew's mess banged open: Ellen jumped a mile into the air and turned in her seat; Murdoch jumped as well and turned his eyes toward the door.

Harry Lowe whipped inside, spun, and closed the door with much more consideration than when he'd first opened it. Then he hastened over a fell into the chair beside Ellen.

"Hide me." he said, Welsh accent buried in his arms, along with his face.

"What's the problem?" Murdoch was astonished. "Are you in—"

"There's a passenger." Lowe lifted his head, voice quick, eyes half wild. "She won't leave me alone—she keeps demanding that I bring her more bath towels, and she's complaining that her window won't open. I kept trying to tell her that I wasn't in charge of those things, and needed to get someone who is, and I think she followed me—good Lord." He shook his head. "If this is what a fifth officer does, then count me out."

"Did you tell her you'd get a steward?" Ellen asked, her eyes as concerned and worried as Murdoch's as their gazes met across the table.

"Tried to; she wouldn't listen. Kept harping on and now she's followed me."

"But I don't see—" Murdoch began, then changed his mind as the door burst open once more and an old woman in a thick blue bathrobe over a frilly nightgown stormed in.

"I would like," she snarled, inching slowly but surely toward Lowe, who paled, jumped up, and faced her, trying to back away. "some extra towels. And my window will not budge!"

"But it's thirty degrees out." Lowe protested, eyes wide, even as Murdoch and Ellen stood up. "It shouldn't be open any. . ."

"Ma'am." Ellen stepped forward and hesitantly placed a hand on the old woman's shoulder. The woman jumped and turned and squinted up at her; Ellen removed her hand. "I can get you help if you need it. Officer Lowe doesn't deal directly with passenger affairs—in fact, I think he was on his way to get a steward for you—" she started intently at Lowe, who nodded fervently as the old woman glanced back at him. "—but I'll gladly give you a hand."

"'Bout damn time." she muttered, looking between the officers. "Need some better service on this ship, I'll tell you. And windows that'll open after ten tries!"

"Would you show me your cabin?" Ellen asked quickly, and the woman led the way out with a final glare at Lowe. Ellen followed her outside, face worried but set.

Lowe said quietly, still slightly breathless, "Were you two sharing tea?"

Ellen stuck her head back in before Murdoch could reply; looking at him almost hopefully, she said, "Will you be here in ten minutes?"

Murdoch found himself smiling easily—amused by the old woman and warmed by the fact that Ellen wished him to stay. "Of course."

She smiled, too, quiet and relieved. "Good." And she disappeared again.

Lowe, recovering, said, "What was that?"

Murdoch lowered himself into his seat again, looking up at the younger officer. "How can you ask me that after that episode?"

Lowe sat down hard into Ellen's seat, leaning his shoulder against the nearby wall. ". . . well, I. . . I snapped at the woman, then she wouldn't let me go."

Murdoch shook his head, slightly surprised. "You know better than to bark at passengers."

"I know. But she was so. . . bothersome. She wouldn't let me go fetch a steward."

"Then you're to handle it personally."

Lowe picked at the edge of the countertop. "Yes, well. . ." he trailed off. "Alright." he said finally.

There was a long pause; Murdoch sipped his tea, then spoke. "There's a large pot of tea or coffee in the kitchen, if you're interested."

"I'll grab a coffee on the way out." Lowe shook his head, and was able to smile back at his senior officer. "So." he said. "What's happened between you and Wallace?"

For some reason, Murdoch felt a shot of adrenaline to his insides, as though he realized that he was ten minutes late for his watch. Woosh. He shook his head, however, and fought a smile. "Oh, the people at dinner were being barbaric toward her. I got her away and she was. . ." he recalled finding her at the stern, teary-eyed, pulling hairpins out. ". . . upset. I invited her for tea."

Lowe looked sideways at him, fighting a grin of his own. "Thought you hated her."

"Really, Harry." Murdoch said, eyes shining as he traced the edge of his saucer. "Hate is such a strong word."

"Is 'completely disliked' better?"

"Not slightly."

"So are you two friends now?"

"I believe we're well on our way."

"On your way?" Lowe stared at him, grinning now. "Good God, man. She was sitting with you for tea."

"Everybody drinks tea." Murdoch protested, feeling slightly defensive now. "I thought it would be a nice gesture."

"It is." Lowe shrugged, highly amused. "Just. . . very nice."

"That was an adventure." The door opened and Ellen stepped inside, shaking her head. "What an old bat." She sat down and looked at her empty tea, then at Lowe. "You gotta learn to stick up for yourself more, Mr. Lowe."

"Don't call me mister if we're not before the captain." They were the same age; it made him uncomfortable.

"See? There you go." Ellen grinned. "Lowe."

Murdoch stared at her and told himself that he was doing no such thing. Ellen glanced over, held his gaze and kept smiling; he smiled too, and looked away, down at his saucer.

"But on the other hand." She idly twirled a packet of sugar in her fingers, turning back toward Lowe. "You know the passenger is always right."

"I'm just. . ." he sighed, picked at the tablecloth. "I don't know. I've. . . I've always been shy, and if people press me while I am, I get irritated."

Murdoch leaned back in his seat. "Aren't you still on your rounds, Harry?"

Lowe's eyes widened. "Damn," he murmured, sliding out of his seat and making for the kitchen. Murdoch and Ellen traded confused glances, but moments later Lowe returned from the kitchen, steaming mug of coffee in his hands. As he headed for the door, he said, "Thanks for your help, Ellen—and keep it up, Mr. Murdoch." And click-click went the door behind him.

Ellen shook her head. "He's not a bad guy. Just needs to take authority, sometimes."

"Mm." he said listlessly, gaze intent on the tablecloth. He'd kill Lowe later for that last comment. . . but luckily Ellen seemed not to have noticed. Or cared.

Ellen's eyes searched his, though he did not see. "Well." she smiled again, prompting him to look up and actually return the smile. More softly, she said, "Thanks for rescuing me back at dinner."

He nodded, fuzzy contentment inside him. "You're welcome."

She shifted, as though to stand up. "And thanks for inviting me to tea."

"Certainly." He nodded once more. Lord, he thought. She has brown eyes. No, green eyes. . . no, br—

"I'm going to get ready for our watch." Ellen said, and really did stand up. "See you on deck."

"Right." he watched her go; she only glanced back once, as she was disappearing around the door, to smile slightly at him. He returned it, waited until her shadow had passed the windows, then sat back and marveled at himself.

Twenty-four hours ago, he'd—hell, forget twenty-four hours! This morning he'd been furious at her! And then he'd gone and invited her to tea. "Next thing you know," he muttered to himself, gathering his coffee cup and saucer, standing up. "You'll be inviting her to sit next to you at dinner."