This is what happens when you can't get a particular ship out of your head after visiting Cobh, rewatch a movie for possibly the millionth time, get stuck on a bit of fic of said movie, and then watch a miniseries with Maria Kennedy Doyle and Jenna Coleman.
xx
She was late.
It was a trait characteristic of her nature, one exhibited since birth that had initiated countless jokes about her need for a time zone entirely of her own.
For once, however, her tardiness could not be blamed on her.
"You're late," stated her assistant as he handed over the thermos of piping hot cappuccino.
She accepted the beverage with gratitude, as the crisp April morning had already begun to chomp through her dark denim that doubled as jeans and professional slacks.
"The bus from Dublin was late," she corrected, blowing into the tiny gap embedded in the cappuccino's lid.
"Could have taken the train."
"Relax," she said. "I made it here, didn't I?" She scoured the throng of people, some of whom were dressed in costume for the occasion. "Where is he?"
"Over there," the hand waved. "He's interviewing one of the tour guides. That one, there, your man in the overcoat that mocks the entire world of fashion. See the one?"
Her brother, twin brother of a mere four minutes who liked to act as if he was much older than her, had pen poised to paper, recorder in hand as he spoke with the individual nearly dwarfed by an overlarge overcoat.
It was her brother's usual stance, who had been assigned to cover the ninetieth anniversary of an infamous ship's departure from Cobh, the former Queenstown.
She had been close enough, filming a rom-com in Kildare, that she had agreed to be a presenter in the ceremony.
She had never been a presenter in any ceremony, let alone one covered by her Pulitzer Prize-nominated twin for the prestigious Boston Globe.
"What exactly am I supposed to be presenting?" she asked her assistant. He was a small man, hardly taller than her, who sported an anchor beard, an impeccable fashion sense, and the brogue of the Donegal foothills.
"They've not given me the details," said he.
"I can't properly prepare if I don't know what I'm presenting," said she.
"You'll just get on with it with a smile, as you do every day."
Her assistant knew her well; a little too well, at times.
"He's rang again."
"And?"
"He's asked to see you."
"Did you tell him I'd rather swim across the Atlantic in the dead of winter than see him?"
"Don't think those were quite the words I used, no."
"The last I heard anything from that side of the world, there was talk of an engagement."
"You said it was his, to a Miss Taylor. Have you considered that you may have been incorrect?"
"I prefer to think that Dylan is engaged to Kelly, actually, so I try to think of it hardly at all."
"Why would you prefer that?"
"Because the alternative means that he is single, and a single Dylan McKay can only mean Devastation with a capital D."
She caught the eye of her brother.
Brandon gave a small wave in her direction, which she returned.
"And a single Kelly Taylor is the last thing Brandon needs," she said. "So for our sakes, let's hope Dylan and Kelly are engaged."
"The man is a gorgeous sex machine," said Donal, her assistant since her career had begun jetting off two years prior, her friend before that. "Haven't you thought once of a reunion with him? People are not stagnant, Brenda. They can grow, mature. He might've."
Brenda had often imagined a reunion with her thrice-ex, and therein lay the problem.
"If he had not left, my dreams would not have been able to take flight," she said, knowing full well that what she said was untrue. He had supported her dreams more than anyone else, until those dreams became an obstruction to his own. "It's much better this way," she added as an afterthought.
"Bren." Brandon walked towards her to set a kiss upon her cheek. "There you are. Late as always."
"So I've been told," said Brenda with a cursory glance to Donal. "That man, the one you were interviewing; he looks familiar."
"Can't imagine why," said Brandon, whose dialect had, over the years, darted from Minnesotan to Californian to DC and Bostonian. Brenda could barely keep up, though Brandon said the same about her own voice, which had picked up a fair bit of Londoner from Brenda's extensive time in the western end of the populous city. "He's a survivor."
"A survivor?" Brenda almost dropped her cappuccino. "A real survivor?"
"Firsthand account and all," said Brandon. "Even attended the Senate hearings back in 1912. Has never spoken to the media before, and was related to one of the orchestral members employed by the White Star Line. My bosses are gonna love me."
"I'm under the impression your bosses already love you."
"Yes, but an exclusive with a survivor of the Titanic, in the heart of Cobh? The last land that ill-fated ship saw? I'm on my way to editor status, Bren; maybe even Managing Editor."
"I'm surprised you're not there already."
Whereas Brenda had struggled with securing employment in her chosen career until she had been cut a break with an advertisement for a tea company, Brandon had been given his pick of papers following his work on the campaign trail of former presidential candidate Al Gore.
It was their lot in life, Brenda supposed. Brandon's luck in everything but love had always held out better than hers, largely due to his ability to turn the highest of authorities into his greatest fans and her inability to abide by the rules she deemed ridiculous.
In the department of love, they were the same.
Heartache had taken the twins hostage, but neither twin had permitted the capture to overthrow their dreams.
That was what they had told each other, though Brenda was well aware of the photo Brandon had never brought himself to discard.
As he was aware of the necklace she had hurriedly retrieved from the rubbish the one time she had managed to toss it in.
"Only thing is," said Brandon, "he insisted on anonymity. Gave me only his initials: D. Mc. I guessed McMahon. He wouldn't tell me one way or the other whether that name was correct, but I can't very well give my bosses initials only, can I?"
Brenda was instantly thrust towards unwanted rumination on the D. Mc of their own lives.
"Seemed to think he knew me, too," Brandon added. "And those eyes; well, how bizarre."
"Bizarre in what way?"
"It was like staring into the eyes of an old friend," said Brandon. "Like talking to…" Brandon shook his head. "No. The man's one hundred and twelve years old. The thought alone is preposterous."
Like talking to Dylan? Brenda nearly asked, but refrained.
It was an unspoken agreement between the twins that they were never to utter amongst themselves the names of Dylan Michael McKay or of Kelly Marlene Taylor.
"One hundred and twelve? Good you got his story when you did, then," said Brenda. "I hope he didn't lose much on Titanic."
"He did," said Brandon, "just as -"
"As many do," said Brenda.
They were hopeless, the both of them; hopeless cases for two Californians born and raised, who excelled in obliterating the optimistic spirits of the Minnesotan-bred Walsh twins.
How Dylan had gotten her number and why he had repeatedly attempted to call was no business of Brenda's, who had sought to put him out of her mind completely.
He had been the one who chose to leave, after all; not that she had given him much of a choice when she had found the stash he had done a poor job of hiding away.
Dylan the aspiring poet, the one who took enjoyment in dance and evening strolls along the Seine, he could remain tucked away in a tiny pocket of Brenda's steel heart.
Dylan the alcoholic and drug addict who made it his mission in life to row with Brenda's male colleagues, Kelly could have.
Kelly, unlike Brenda, had always found a jealous man to be an alluring one.
It heightened the attraction, she had once told Brenda.
"May they long be happy together," said Brenda.
"May who be long happy together?" asked Brandon.
Rather than answer his question and erase the perplexed lines from his brow, Brenda inquired as to when they could dine.
"After the presentation, I expect," he answered. "Hungry, then?"
"Ravenous."
"How is it that you're less hungry than I when I had a twelve-hour flight and you had a three-hour bus ride?" Brandon asked imploringly.
"Don't look at me like that," said Brenda. "I did eat."
"Did you?"
"For your information, I had a jambon."
"One jambon?"
"And a packet of dark chocolate Digestives."
"Bren."
"Fine!" she cracked. "If you must know, I was running to catch the bus and didn't have time to grab a meal."
She had lost track of time in a shop, searching for green earrings that her mother had requested.
Green, but not shamrocks, Cindy had said.
The issue was, every pair of earrings Brenda found were earrings she knew Cindy would be disappointed with.
"And there it is," said Brandon. He exchanged a look with Donal that was both amused and exasperated. "Are we surprised?"
"Not in the least," said Donal.
"I was searching for earrings," said Brenda. "For Mom."
"Always an excuse," said Brandon, more humor in his voice than malice.
"Right," said Donal, "I'm off to find Bren here a decent bit of food."
"I'll get myself the food, if you both insist," said Brenda.
"They could call you at any minute," said Donal. "I'll get the food."
"They can't call me," said Brenda. "I still don't know what I'm supposed to present, or to whom."
"You could try going inside." Brandon indicated towards the building that held the offices of the former White Star Line. "I'm sure an employee could help you out."
"Do you have a moment to walk with me?" asked Brenda.
Checking his watch, Brandon halted to listen to the vibratory music of the bells from the cathedral that sat upon the hill, behind the colorful row of aligned houses known as the Deck of Cards.
Brenda had been many places, yet few of them had seeped into her soul the way Ireland's County Cork had.
She didn't know what she loved more: London, her home of five years; or Ireland, the country her grandfather had been forced to flee.
"I suppose I could spare a minute," said Brandon.
"Good," said Brenda, and took his arm. "I want to hear more about this one hundred and twelve year old survivor interviewed by my twenty-six year old brother."
"Miracle he survived, really," said Brandon. "Claims it was a bottle of brandy that did the trick, like that baker Charles Joughin. I think he was pulling my leg, though."
"You don't think he was saved by brandy?"
"He may have been saved by brandy, but I think there was a lot more to it than that."
"Did you not press him further, like a good journalist does?" Brenda teased.
"The editors will be satisfied with brandy. Brandy, saving a passenger in steerage."
"Steerage?" Brenda winced. "The poor man. He truly is lucky to be alive."
As she spoke, she noticed the elderly man of their discussion glance at her, then glance again.
He mouthed something she could barely make out, astonishment plaguing his features.
"Should I say hello?" asked Brenda somewhat uncomfortably.
"If you'd like," said Brandon.
They approached the man.
"Hello," said Brenda politely.
"Hello," said the man, who truly did appear to be strikingly familiar.
Brenda could not place it, perhaps due to the plethora of wrinkles around the man's eyes and the wisps of hair that sat upon his head. She imagined it had once been full and lush, perhaps with a bit of curl for a woman to run her fingers through.
Though why Brenda had imagined that, of a man older than her oldest grandparent, she hadn't a clue.
"I've heard you met my brother," she said.
"Brandon, yes," said the man. "Charming bloke."
"Why, thank you," said Brandon with a faux pompous grin. "This is my sister, Bre -"
"Brenda Walshford," said the man, reaching out to shake Brenda's hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Brenda Walsh, actually." Brenda found herself unable to remove her hand, as if their fingers had been woven in a handfasting by thick thread.
"Walsh. Yes, that's right. Your brother did say it was Walsh. You must forgive me." He placed his palm against his head. "I'm afraid my memory's gone rather south in my old age."
"A hundred and twelve," said Brenda. "You must have a trough of stories to tell."
"Many of them, I'd like to forget."
Brenda could certainly relate.
"Sorry," said Brandon, "but how do you know my sister?"
"You're filming, aren't you?" the man asked Brenda. "A mate of mine heard you were."
She couldn't tell if his explanation was sincere.
"Up in Kildare, yes," she replied. "I take it you've seen my work?"
"You could say that."
Donal returned then, bearing a bag of takeaway that he held up to catch Brenda's eye.
"I must have a bite to eat before the presentation," she apologized to the man. "It was lovely to meet you."
"Likewise," said the man.
"I suspect we'll meet again?" asked Brenda.
"Do count on it," said the man.
Brenda scarfed down the meal to allow herself and Brandon to visit with the employees whilst preparations continued.
"Can you believe it, Brandon?" She looked out over the water. "We're standing on the very deck that held the last passengers to embark on the Titanic."
"Do you ever wonder what they were thinking before they boarded?" asked Brandon. "Leaving a land as wonderful as this for a place like America?"
"It wasn't so wonderful then," Brenda reminded him. She clasped her hands together. "Grandpa would have liked to be here, I would think."
"We'll come back," said Brandon. "Bring Grandma next time. In honor of Grandpa's dream to see his homeland one more time before he died."
Their grandfather, an immigrant at eighteen during the height of the second World War, had never achieved his dream due to an unexpectedly shortened life.
His death had occurred long before the twins' birth, or before their father had made the acquaintance of their mother.
"It's a deal," said Brenda.
"We should be heading over," said Brandon. "They should be starting soon."
"Oh, let's sneak a bit more of the tour before we go," said Brenda. "It may give me inspiration."
"You're a bad influence on me," said Brandon.
"As if you're so innocent," Brenda played along.
Dylan would like this place, she decided, not daring to speak aloud.
"Val would like this place," said Brandon.
"How is Val?" asked Brenda, who had neglected to reconnect with their old friend the way Brandon had. "Where did you say she is again?"
"Philly," said Brandon. "Got a job working the front desk at the Rodin Museum."
"I can't see Val as a receptionist at an art museum."
"Neither could she, but it pays the bills."
"And the others?" Brenda chanced. "How are they?"
"Steve brought the Madster along to Boston around the Christmas holiday."
"I remember you saying that," said Brenda. "How are he and Janet doing?"
"Separated."
"Unfortunate."
"Steve thinks it's better that way. Said they've been fighting a lot."
"Poor Maddie."
"Heard from Donna lately?"
"A few months back. She and David didn't seem to be faring too well, either."
"Steve and Janet separated, Jesse and Andrea divorced, David and Donna unhappy. Maybe it's better we haven't married. Seems the only person we know around our age who is happily married is Bobby."
"Well, that's Bobby for you," said Brenda. "Always making the best out of everything." Brenda stood from her seat and dusted her hands across her jeans. "Alright. We should be heading back."
"You can head back. I'm gonna find a restroom."
"Toilet, you mean."
"Bren, your vocabulary may be significantly changed, but you're still an American."
"Yes, but do you ever wonder what it would have been like if we weren't born American? Or if we were born in another century?"
"No, but knowing you, you've probably wondered a time or two."
"Or three," said Brenda.
She continued on through the exhibits, stopping to examine an elaborate design on a tea cup that shone through its glass case.
"That was hers."
Brenda looked to her left and noticed the man she had spoken with previously.
"Pardon?" she asked.
"The cup," he said. "The paste comb beside it. They were hers." He turned to meet Brenda's gaze. "Yours."
"Mine?"
Brenda's throat had started to quickly dry out as she questioned whether it was safe for her to be alone with a man named D. McMahon who was evidently experiencing a case of onset dementia.
"Yours," he repeated. "Brenda." He reached out a trembling hand. "My Brenda. Just as beautiful as you were then, the day we found this overcoat."
He shrugged his shoulders for effect.
"See?" he said. "I kept it, all of these years, as I said I would. Though you may have noticed it has long ceased to fit."
Not safe, thought Brenda, not even remotely safe.
"I'm sorry," said Brenda. "You must be mistaken. Or," her mind darted about, searching for explanation, "or perhaps you knew my grandmother, Georgette. I've been told I look an awful lot like her."
"Mistaken," said the man distractedly. "Yes, mistaken. Indeed."
"I'll see you outside," said Brenda, and power walked through the remaining exhibits.
Whispers began around her, accusatory in nature, or perhaps it was nothing more than her mind playing tricks.
Particularly since no one was around.
She was rattled, that was all. The man had rattled her, as anyone would be rattled in a situation such as the one she had left.
The beat of Brenda's heart trembled ferociously as she focused on searching for Brandon.
She found him, peering into a display case in the last room of the exhibit.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"Passenger list," said Brandon. "See there? McKay. Canadian. Could be related."
"Survived," said Brenda, as she also read off the list. "McKays usually do."
"But did he survive with his spirit intact?" asked Brandon.
"What do you mean?"
"Two McKays, see?" Brandon hovered his finger over the names.
The surnames were clear. The forenames had been distorted, perhaps from years of tourists' grubby fingers rubbing over the list.
"Lovers?" asked Brenda.
"Or siblings."
"You could always ask him if he did have family on the ship."
"I don't need to know that badly. Why don't you ask him?"
"I'm not the one writing an article."
Straying from the topic of McKays, Brenda began scanning the list herself.
"Is there a Brenda on there?" she asked.
"None that I can read," said Brandon. "Why do you ask?"
"Common name," said Brenda. "Derived from an Irish name. Could have been amongst the Queenstown passengers."
"No Brenda here," said Brandon. "But then, there could have been one on the Southampton list, or on Cherbourg. Should I inquire further? They could have a full roster of passengers around here somewhere."
"No need," said Brenda.
She assumed the man had substituted her name for the name of one he once knew.
One he had loved, from the intense emotion in his crinkled eyes.
Brenda could only hope to someday be loved to the extent that the man had loved the one he had mistaken her for.
"We ought to be heading back," said Brandon. "I have more interviews to conduct, and you have a presentation to give." He turned the knob of the door that would lead them to the exit.
When they opened the door, they stepped out not into a gift shop full of magnets and keychains as they had expected, but rather into a room so devoid of light, they could not find the door again.
"Hello?" Brandon called out. "We seem to be in a locked storage closet. Can anyone let us out?"
"A storage closet with stars?" asked Brenda.
"Stars?" asked Brandon.
"Look!" said Brenda, and pointed up at the ceiling.
What she had assumed to be the ceiling, anyway, until she realized it stretched out farther than the eye could see.
"What a strange ceiling," said Brenda.
"That isn't a ceiling," said Brandon. "It's a sky."
"A sky?" asked Brenda. "But it's too early to get this dark. Where are the streetlights? The light pollution? There should at least be a lighthouse, if nothing else. It can't be a sky. Maybe it's an illusion."
"An illusion we should get the hell away from, pronto," said Brandon.
His words were drowned out by a piercing wail.
"What is that?" asked Brenda as the creases of her palms flew to her ears.
"I don't know," said Brandon, "but I think it's better if we leave now!"
Brenda spotted a figure in the distance, draped in an overcoat as he crossed over to an empty boat and lifted an oar.
"It's him!" she said. Her finger trembled. "Brandon, it's him!"
"Him who?" asked Brandon.
Brenda saw the overcoat slip, revealing younger shoulders than had been sheltered in the coat before.
A full head of dark brown hair had replaced the wisps.
"Brenda?" a voice called out. "Brandon?"
"That sounds like Dad," said Brenda, utterly befuddled.
"Dad's in Christchurch," said Brandon.
"Brenda! Brandon!" A treble of a higher pitch joined in, one that gave off an air of petrification.
"Mom?" asked Brandon. He reached out to touch an endless amount of air. "Bren, are we - are we on a beach?"
He swayed, and Brenda reached out to catch him.
Yet Brenda, too, felt her strength begin to evade her.
"What," she attempted to grind her feet into the sand below them to secure her faltering footing, "what's happening?"
"I think we're being woken up," said Brandon.
"Woken up?" asked Brenda. "Or have we been drugged?"
The man; he had shaken both of their hands and then fled faster than a bolt of lightning crashing to the Earth in the midst of a lightning storm.
Had there been more to his handshake than they had assumed?
No sooner had the thought come to Brenda than she had toppled into what seemed to be a gelid expanse of water.
Was it an ocean? A lake? A river?
Brenda felt the temperature, but she didn't feel the water.
And Brandon was nowhere to be found.
Brenda darted up in her bed. Goose pimples danced along her skin.
For starters, the bed she darted up in wasn't hers.
It was a bed so ornate that it couldn't possibly be hers, as neither herself nor her parents had ever possessed the sort of wealth that resulted in a bed frame such as the one she lay upon.
"Honestly, Brenda," said the exasperated voice that entered into Brenda's vision. "I have been calling you for over an hour now. Your father requires you to meet him and that lovely Mr. Worthington down at the museum."
"Museum?" asked Brenda, in a voice she did not recognize as her own.
"I do hope you weren't having those futuristic dreams again," said the woman. "You know how frazzled your mind becomes after them."
"I - I must find Brandon," said Brenda.
"Brandon?" asked the woman. "Oh, he's just over in the other room. Had a devil of a time trying to wake him, too."
"I think - I think we may be a tad lost," said Brenda. "Are you our mother?"
"Oh, heavens no!" the woman laughed. "Your nanny. Now hurry along. Your fiancé isn't a man who likes to be kept waiting. Nor is your father, for that matter. No one dares to keep the Earl waiting for long."
"Fiancé?" asked Brenda. "Earl?"
She glanced to the side of her bed, where a sparkling ruby embedded into a diamond-encrusted circle sat cushioned in a velvet case.
"Is - is that mine?" she asked.
"You best hope it is yours," said her nanny, "or your father will be awfully disappointed to learn Richard Worthington has changed his mind after all this time Jameson has spent securing you a proper match and all the time you have spent denying a plethora of potential suitors. All of whom would have made fine husbands for a woman of your status, might I add."
"Richard Worthington?"
"No more sugar before bed. That ought to keep the dreams away." The nanny began rustling through Brenda's gilded drawers and withdrew a handful of heavy fabrics in various shades of purple. "You are no longer a child, Brenda. You are a woman of nineteen. It is time for you to stop dreaming."
"I'm twenty-six," said Brenda.
"And I'm servant to King George himself," said her nanny as she plumped up the pillow behind Brenda's head. "Sometimes, you forget how long I have known you. You will be twenty-six someday, but you are, at present, very much nineteen. Up, now. I must dress you."
"I can dress myself, thanks," said Brenda.
"I am aware. We do argue about it daily. Now, lift your arms and permit me to do the job your parents have hired me to do. Without quarrel, please."
Brenda decided she neither despised, nor liked, corsets.
The Edith, her nanny had called it.
Brenda had attempted to ask about her nanny's name. The question had been to no avail as, evidently, the nanny had only ever been called Nanny and would elaborate no further.
"Brandon," said Brenda as she spotted her brother coming out of a room that appeared as elaborate as hers.
"Brenda," he said, buttoning the edge of his sleeve. "Do you have the faintest idea of what is happening?"
"I can only conclude we've entered into a reality show of some kind," said Brenda, instinctively buttoning Brandon's other sleeve. "I believe we can sue."
"Sue for what?"
"Why, being drugged and forced onto a TV show," said Brenda. "Some woman is attempting to tell me we are nineteen, as if I am not aware of my own age."
"We are nineteen," said Brandon. "And I do not believe it is a show. Did you take a glance at any photos in your bedroom?"
"I was far too distracted by being forced into a corset," said Brenda.
"Then you may want to look at that one," said Brandon.
"That's our mother." Brenda gaped at the photo. "And our father."
"Except our parents were not Jameson and Cindrina Walshford the last time I checked," said Brandon. "And they certainly were not an Earl, or a Countess."
"Walshford," said Brenda. "That man; didn't he call me Walshford?"
"To what man are you referring?"
"The man; the one you interviewed."
"Interviewed?" asked Brandon.
"Yes," said Brenda. "The survivor, in - in - oh dear, the name of the place escapes me."
"A survivor of what?"
"Life?" asked Brenda, unsure.
"Nanny said we were dreaming," said Brandon. "Do you believe we were dreaming?"
"Dreaming what?" asked Brenda.
"A whole 'nother life," said Brandon. "One where we are not faced with the prospect of marriage with notable members of society that have been pre-approved by our parents."
"Richard Worthington," said Brenda.
"Susanna Keating," said Brandon. "The papers say our marriage is to occur within the year; yours, as well."
"Richard," said Brenda. "Susanna. The names; they are familiar -"
"Yet, unknown," said Brandon. "I do not think this is our life, Brenda."
"It is the dreams," said Brenda. "They have confused us. Knocked about our sense of reality, until we begin to question every little thing."
"Such as this TV you mentioned," said Brandon. "What is a TV?"
"Did I mention a TV?"
"You did."
"How peculiar." Brenda straightened out the skirt of her dress, which she had been told was created in the newest fashion by her own personal seamstress. "I suppose I best meet Richard before Father has a conniption."
"I will see what I can find out about this TV," said Brandon. "Perhaps there will be information in the library."
"No need," said Brenda. "It is just letters, strewn together."
"As are all words," said Brandon.
Brenda scolded her brother for his impertinence, and then waited for her family driver to bring her transportation around.
She was helped into the golden Darracq, which gave her a perfect view of the city before her.
"I believe I may have taken a fall in the night," she told the driver. "Are we in London?"
"Cherbourg," said the driver through his heavy accent. "Oh dear, you did take a fall. Your family has not lived in London since you and Brandon were children. Should I turn around?"
"Best not to keep Father waiting," said Brenda.
She was helped out in front of a building she took to be a museum presently under construction.
"Will you be picking me up?" she asked the driver, whose name was Aurelio.
"I never pick you up when you are with Mr. Worthington," said Aurelio.
"Whyever not?" asked Brenda.
"His parents are none too fond of Italians."
"And Richard? Mr. Worthington? How does he feel about Italians?"
"The same as he feels about Canadians, I would wager."
Brenda opened her mouth to inquire of the view Richard Worthington had on Canadians, but Aurelio had hopped back atop the Darracq and blended into the other cars around him.
Mentally preparing herself to enter the museum, Brenda went flying before she could take another step forward.
"Oh! Oh, I'm terribly sorry."
A hand went out, one hidden by a clunky bracelet.
"I'm a terrible klutz," said a woman's brash voice as Brenda stood. "Oh. Oh, shit. You're - you're Brenda Walshford! God Almighty, I have knocked down Brenda Walshford."
"It's alright," said Brenda. "You have also helped me to stand again," she said.
"That is one way to consider it," said the woman.
"You are aware of my name, but I have yet to learn yours."
"Valerie!"
The name came not from the lips of the woman whose eyes were reminiscent of sunrays upon a clear sea, but rather from the man who sprinted towards her.
"Valerie, you can not go crashing into people. Terribly sorry for my sister's clumsiness, Miss -"
"Brenda," said Brenda.
"Dylan," said the man, his eyes peeled on Brenda's frame.
As hers were on his.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dylan," said Brenda. "Have you a surname?"
"McKay!" boomed a voice. "What are you doing speaking to my daughter?"
"Did not realize she was your daughter, sir," said Dylan. He quickly drew back as if Brenda herself had pushed him.
"My fiancée is easy to recognize," said the man beside the middle-aged man that Brenda understood to be Jameson Walsh. The man who had spoken was a handful of years Brenda's senior, with darkened eyes similar to Dylan's and a face that magazine editors undoubtedly competed against each other to include amongst their pages. "Hello, darling."
"Richard," said Brenda.
"Brenda Walshford?" asked Dylan. "The elusive Brenda Walshford?"
"Elusive to the commonfolk, perhaps," said Jameson. "Certainly not to the elite of society. Haven't you a display to be building?" he asked Dylan. "Rather than engage my daughter in conversation she would prefer to not engage in?"
"Wouldn't want Jameson here to dock your wages for an unapproved break," said Richard.
"Really, that is quite unnecessary," said Brenda.
"It's alright, Miss," said Dylan. "Yes, sir," he added, with a tone underlaid in a bit of cheek that Brenda immediately caught onto. "Understood, sir. Come along, Val." Dylan continued to look at Brenda. "Miss Walshford," he said. "Congratulations are to be had on your engagement, I hear."
"I thank you, Mr. McKay," she said.
They were still looking at each other as Dylan returned to the building.
"I do wish you were not so hard on the employees," said Brenda as she brushed dust off of Richard's suit jacket.
"It is not an isolated incident," said Richard.
"Dylan McKay is notorious for causing incidents," said Jameson. "Rapscallions such as he often do."
"What kind of incidents?" asked Brenda.
"The kind not to concern yourself with, dear," said Richard.
"Suffice it to say that should there be one more incident, McKay will be out of a job," Jameson told Richard. "I have had quite enough of his antics."
"You wanted to see me, Father?" asked Brenda in an effort to change the subject to something less likely to manufacture a row between them.
"Brenda, in two weeks' time, a ship grander than any the world has ever seen - grander than even the Olympic - will be docking in this very harbor," said Jameson. "You are familiar with the name of that ship?"
"Of course," said Brenda. "Everyone is."
"The Titanic," she and Richard said in unison.
The pit of Brenda's stomach began to bubble, though she could not pinpoint the reason for her ominous feeling.
"Indeed, the Titanic," said Jameson. "I have examined the list of expected passengers and decided it is unwise for our family to not be included amongst them; Richard and Susanna included. Wouldn't want people to get the wrong impression if the Walshfords do not show for an event of such importance."
"What are you saying, Father?" asked Brenda.
"He is saying that your Father has secured us passage on Titanic," said Richard. "In a fortnight, Brenda, we will be sailing upon what is said to be a state-of-the-art ocean liner. Grandeur the likes of which we have not seen on a ship, not even on the Olympic. Swimming baths, squash courts."
"Designed by Thomas Andrews," said Jameson.
"The Belfast-born designer of the Olympic," said Richard, as if Brenda did not already know.
Though how she knew escaped her.
"Sixteen compartments," said Jameson, "all of which can be shut off if required with merely a switch. Merely a switch!"
"It would be unnecessary," said Richard. "The safety features put in place by Andrews alone will keep the passengers protected."
"Protected from what?" asked Jameson. "The nip of the wind?"
"They say the northern Atlantic can become quite chilled," said Richard.
"For penguins," said Jameson. "Four compartments could flood and have little effect. The passengers will only feel the chill of the Atlantic if they choose to."
"Why would we sail on the Titanic?" asked Brenda, finally managing to get a word in edgewise.
"Why, for us to see America, of course," said Jameson. "It will be your new home when you and Richard are wed."
"It will?"
"Brenda, we have discussed this at length," said Richard. "My job makes it both impossible and improbable for me to relocate from Baltimore."
"But Baltimore; it's so far," said Brenda. "And Cherbourg; it is so lovely. Baltimore is an awfully long way from Brandon. Must I relocate?"
"Brenda," said Jameson, "as the woman who will be Richard's wife, you will go where he goes. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Father," said Brenda, a statement she got the sense she often said to her father.
The ship was to dock in New York, said Jameson. From there, the family would take a train to Baltimore, in Maryland, one of the forty-eight states of the country known as the United States.
It would be the Walshfords' first time in America, said Jameson.
Brenda did not think that correct, but decided it was better to not contradict her father.
As her father and fiancé discussed the plans for the voyage, Brenda saw the curtain move at a window of the museum.
He waved to her.
Dylan.
There was something about the way he waved to her that entrenched itself into her skin.
She gave him a smile, one discreet enough for Dylan to notice without Richard's observance.
She couldn't tell whether Dylan had reciprocated.
"Is it too late to cancel our tickets?" asked Brenda.
Both Jameson and Richard were startled at the interruption.
"Cancel?" Jameson scoffed. "Why would we cancel? Do you have any idea what connections I had to exploit to get us these tickets? The waiting list alone!"
"Perhaps another ship," said Brenda. "Titanic; there is something quite off about the name, isn't there?"
"Don't be absurd," said Jameson. "Cancel a voyage because my daughter thinks there is a peculiarity with its name? My child, these books you are reading have been going to your head. Titanic; think of the Titans. The strength of the Titans. A ship named for the Titans must be one of immeasurable strength."
"Perhaps," said Brenda. "Though if you recall, the Titans were overthrown by the Olympians."
"We must be going," said Richard as his car pulled around, just in the knick of time since Jameson's face had become empurpled. "We did tell Doctor Silverthorne we would meet him and his son for lunch."
"We did?" asked Brenda.
To Richard's concerned look, she hastily added, "We did, yes."
"Do convey my best regards to young David," said Jameson. "Perhaps you could have the doctor examine my daughter," he added. "She seems to be experiencing a frightful case of the vapors, along with disrespect towards her elders."
"I blame the McKays," said Richard.
"What quarrel do you have with the McKays?" asked Brenda.
"I do not take quarrel with Valerie," said Richard. "She may be clumsy, but she is a good worker. It is her brother I am not keen on; nor he on I."
"Anyone who is not keen on Richard Worthington is not an individual worth knowing," said Jameson. "Go on, then. Off to Silverthorne. Brenda, I expect you to return home remembering your place. Your place is not to argue about Titans. I will not have my only daughter be joining those dreadful suffragists. Comments of such disrespect will only lead you to be enticed by their claims, and that will lead to nothing but a cell. Is that what you want, Brenda? To be thrust into a cell where the vermin can feast upon you? Where your Mother and I will not be able to protect you?"
"No, Father," said Brenda.
"No need to terrify her, Jameson," said Richard.
"A bit of terror never harmed anyone," said Jameson.
As Richard's driver took them out into the streets, Brenda could not help but turn partially around to check the window.
Where Dylan continued to stand, peering at Brenda from behind the curtain until the car had turned the corner and Dylan had vanished from sight.
Richard chattered away, but all Brenda could think of was why Dylan McKay had been a person of such familiarity to her when Richard Worthington seemed a newly met stranger.
She was almost certain she had never encountered Dylan before, yet it seemed as if they had.
Perhaps she had seen him around.
Yes, that had to be it. She had seen him around the museum, an unknown man in her father's employ.
One whose eyes alone sent Brenda's heart aflutter and her knees to tremble.
Best if she set aside her thoughts and concentrated on Richard.
He seemed a sweet enough man, his attitude towards Dylan McKay aside.
His chosen conversation, however, was dreadfully dull.
Though as a lady of gentility, Brenda wasn't about to tell him such.
She just smiled and forced herself to bear it, as she suspected she would do many times throughout the course of their marriage.
If their marriage indeed occurred, when they were to sail a ship known as the Titanic.
-x
There may have been artistic license taken with this chapter, as I cannot find information on when the Titanic Experience opened in Cobh. We'll at least pretend it was open in time for the twins to explore it in 2002.
Sources: Google and the websites for Ancestry, Arkansas Secretary of State, Britannica, Lillicoco, the New York Herald Period Corsets, Titanic Belfast, Titanic Britannica, Titanic Cherbourg, Wiki.
I anticipate this will be another multi-POV fic, as those are delightful to explore. It may be a shorter fic, but knowing me, it might not be.