April [1/?]
Title: April[chapter 1/8?]
Author: kiki_fan187
Rating: general
Category: general
Characters: Helen Magnus and some historical figures.
Summary: Miss Helen Magnus travels in luxury on the R.M.S Titanic in April, 1912.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Just taking them out for a spin and leaving them exactly where I found them.
I've had this fic in the works for a while but didn't think much of it. It wasn't until I watched a small documentary on Titanic that I thought about resurrecting this chapter. Enjoy.
The splendid waters parted without resistance as the ship easily slipped silently onwards to New York, taking me onward to my new home, taking me unending and speedily. If I were to change my mind now, there would no possible way to go back. I’m actually trapped in a limbo as this gigantic ship takes me forward. I can't stop my heart from thumping in my chest as I remember that I'm leaving - I have left - England, my home, and heading to America. I'm leaving my friends and crossing the Atlantic Ocean. It seems surreal if I'm honest. A lot of the women travelling on this ship - in this class - are on the arms of rich, business moguls. When they ask me to whom I'm married, some even go so far as to speculate a potential husband. I unsurprisingly reply that I am not married and they reply with silence and an extraordinary look of abhorrence. As I traverse the ship on my own, I garner the strangest glances from every set of eyes that I walk in front of. 'There goes Miss Helen Magnus with no chaperone. Unmarried at her age? She has her own wealth. It's outrageous. It's a scandal.' It’s not my concern. They can think what they like, what they have been reared to think, spouting the same nonsense that their mother’s had whispered in the ears of other parrots. I can hold my head up high and know that my own thoughts are mine and not the mindless idiocy that ‘high’ society has thrust upon me. I will never simply parrot sentences or dance like a trained pony. I feel somewhat nauseated being amongst these women. As I think about these women I feel the uncontrollable need to scream, to explode, to berate them for being as vacuous as they are. I keep my mouth closed instead.
As I stand at the railings along the side of the ship, I look up at the night sky and stare admiringly at the stars. I don’t notice that my hands have turned white as I grip the cold metal.
I hear the soft thuds of heels on the deck as women walk the ship with their noses held aloft. Figuratively speaking of course. In the silence of the outside, I can hear every single word that they attempt to disguise is a half hearted mumble. I hear them criticize my choice of dress for the evening - they comment on the colour of it, the style of my hair, my decided lack of a hat and my shoes which they debate amongst themselves who designed them. Naturally those are the aspects that their vulture eyes narrow in on.
I return my gaze to the stars as I try to block out their persistent cackling foolishness. I've never been one for star-gazing. I allow myself for the first time in as many a decade to remember him. To remember John. We would sit for hours watching the stars play hide and seek with the night sky blanket until they were finally found. I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy the stars since his madness but to-night in the middle of nowhere, it seems right somehow. It feels right to be quixotically looking up at them in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The constellations are a little different than I’m used to but I pinpoint all of the ones that I recognise. The only sound I can hear is the dull whir of the ship's engine. At times I find myself oblivious to the sound but in this silence, it's oddly comforting. It seems to be the only thing that doesn't go deathly silent at my presence.
The stars easily keep my attention. A smile somehow nostalgically tugs at my lips as I remember the conversations we had. It seems so long ago but at times I think it was only yesterday. Then my heart feels that familiar stab of anguish and I have to catch my breath before the pain overwhelms me again.
I don't know how much time has passed, it could have been seconds or minutes, when I feel the presence of someone beside me.
"Cold night isn’t it?" their voice says out loud. There is an Irish lilt to the bodiless accent. It’s not quite as lyrical as I thought it would be for Irish. It's a male voice; that much I can easily deduce. I ask myself if he is speaking to me or if he has company to which he is addressing the question. My eyes were still skyward but I dared to look to him.
He was indeed speaking to me and he stood beside me alone.
"Sorry, I didn't know you were addressing that question to me," I apologise sincerely, "As to the cold, opinion seems to be divided."
"If you do decide that it is cold, I think the only thing that would allow you to forgive the low temperature would be that spectacular blanket of stars up there," he replied. Quite the poetic image. The Romanticist poets would be proud.
"Truthfully, I hadn't noticed the temperature until you mentioned it."
He smiles graciously to me, "My apologies."
"It's quite all right."
I return to looking at the stars but he continues with the conversation we are apparently in.
"Are the rest of your party inside, enjoying the warmth, or the brandy and cigars?"
"No, actually. I don’t have a party to speak of. I'm unlike anyone here and travelling alone. Haven't you heard about me?"
"So you're the Miss Helen Magnus that is the talk of First Class?"
"Disappointed?" I ask.
"Not at all," he said confidently, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Magnus."
Amazingly, he takes my hand gently from the railing and gives it a tender kiss. He undeniably has his manners. At sixty-one years old, yet looking thirty, it's nice to know that chivalry is still alive. Also, I notice that his hand is considerably warmer than mine and I’m somewhat surprised that he doesn’t make a point of it and offers to escort me inside.
"I would like to return the sentiment, Mister Andrews. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve read about you and admittedly, I have seen you pointed out by the women who walk the ship gossiping about everybody that walks past."
"As I have you. How else did I know your name?"
"True. Indeed, you are being quite brave speaking to me. The Thomas Andrews talking with Helen Magnus; the enigmatic woman, travelling by herself with no chaperone or family member in sight and no plans for marriage or a ring on her finger. Whatever will the gossipers say?"
All he does is smile at me. He really does like to smile. I'm not complaining. That is to say, it's refreshing to see a man smile and not scowl whenever a woman passes him by when in conversation with me and it is rejuvenating having someone talk about anything other than trivial matters that an amoeba would understand. However, it is very entertaining when I catch sight of the hostility in women’s eyes when they catch their fiancés or husbands gawking wide-eyed at me. It’s very enjoyable.
"What I wouldn't give to actually listen to the mindless prattle that these women say about me."
"Ironically, the ladies say the same ‘prattle’ as the gentlemen," Mister Andrews confides as he leans against the railing, “You’re quite the celebrity amongst in this part of the ship.”
"For a list of pejorative reasons the length of this ship, I’m sure. I'm the one entity that can cause the most stalwart women and men to repeat the same sentiments as the other. Who knew the two sexes would finally agree on something?"
"It was bound to happen sooner or later."
"And I just happen to have the perfect timing to be on this sailing to provoke it."
"It would appear so."
“Lucky me.”
I smile softly before a chill runs its scaly fingers across my exposed arms. My skin becomes a flurry of bumps as it instinctively bubbles to stop the chills from seeping to my bones. I can’t remember if my body shudders as before I know it, Mister Andrews is escorting me inside. In truth, I didn’t particularly want to go back indoors as the solitude of the outside deck was eagerly welcomed by me. It was the peaceful serenity of the silence more than anything that soothed me.
The porters courteously open the doors that we pass through as he leads me on. I extend my gratitude to the porters politely.
"My wife's name is Helen," Mister Andrews comments absentmindedly.
I smile my acknowledgement, "Does she take kindly to your roaming the ship and speaking to strange women?"
He smiles, stifling a laugh; "My wife isn't with me."
"Oh? Aren't you the enigma now?"
"She's caring for our daughter back home. And I'm here. Whenever I oversee the construction of a ship, I go on the maiden voyage to make sure that everything goes to plan and to see if there is any place where improvements can be made."
"Have you seen any so far?"
"Ah, that's between me, the ship and my design team."
He manages to pull another smile from me. It seems as if this is a skill for this man. This Irish man is easily oozing charm. He’s quite the charismatic, chivalrous and endearing man. It’s a welcome break.
"And forgive me for asking, what do you plan on doing once we dock in New York?" he asks pulling out a chair for me.
"I'm in a transitional phase," I answer ambiguously as I sit down.
"From what to what?"
"From what I was doing to what I'm going to do."
'I intend to set up a sanctuary for all the creatures that men revile and persecute because they fear and misunderstand them. Essentially, I intend to build a home for every manner of creature that goes bump in the night.' Somehow that answer doesn't have the same ring as my original response.
I notice the looks of passers-by as Mister Andrews take a seat opposite me. Perhaps they are sleuthing for whatever gossip they can get their talons into. I can imagine them circling us like vultures. They’ve now spotted their pray. We are the carcass which they will inevitably hover around, stalking our every move.
"Any other questions? I'm sure the gentlemen that have passed on the gossip to you have a lot of questions that they are simply dying to put to me. What is it that the people of this ship what to know? What issues are the most pressing to them? My waist size? My hair colour? My height? Why is there no ring on my finger? Do certain gentleman wish to endeavour to put one on it? Do the gentlemen ponder what age I am?"
Mister Andrews let out a hearty laugh as I ended my long-winded rampage of mocking idiocy. Any thought that came to my head came out of my mouth in a verbal river.
"That and so much more. In all honesty, most of the men that I overhear talking about you only ever talk about your beauty."
"They do not."
"Trust me, they do. Despite the scandal, they see you as a rare beauty. I think one called you a regular Helen of Troy."
"Oh charming. Being compared to a woman that launched the thousand ships of Agamemnon to besiege Troy sparking the war between Sparta and Troy. This also evidently saw the destruction of said Troy. How flattering."
"When you put it that way . . . they see you through societal eyes. Almost alien. If I'm honest, I'd said they're intimidated by you."
"Intimated? By me?"
He nods.
"Mister Andrews, I have more reason to be intimidated by them than they have by me. Although I don't let that stop me achieving what I want."
"I can imagine. But they are afraid that their wives will follow your example."
"Trust me when I say that in my time, there hasn't been a woman that has followed my example."
“Shame.”
I almost find myself looking at him confused and questioningly.
“If others had it would’ve made dinner discussions more challenging.”
“And they aren’t challenging enough, already?” I question, “I don’t know about you but I find it very difficult to keep up with the discussions about the latest fashions of Paris or the audacity of Lady A wearing the same dress as Lady B or the latest shoe or dress design by a name that I won’t care to remember two seconds after it is uttered. It’s quite the obstacle course and one which the end result sees my brain screaming out for intellectual inspiration and justification.”
“I can’t say I’ve had the privilege to be a fly on the wall to those intense discussions,” he replies stifling a chuckle and I can see a hint of gratefulness in his eyes and demeanour.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Hopefully with the time we have left on this crossing you’ll find someone to give your brain a run for its money.”
‘Who says I haven’t found it already,’ I find myself thinking.
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