FF : Hymn to the Sea, Chapter 2: Take Her to Sea, Mister Murdoch ... (Titanic Uber 2/8)
Hymn to the Sea …
Rating : Adult material. Contains intimate scenes of love, loss and suffering.
Status : Complete.
Disclaimer : This story is based on a historical event and consequently features characters who existed in the real world. Any changes to historical events as they occured is intended as a story-telling device, with no intention meant to offend or disgrace.
Notes : All figures, dimensions, dates and historical events referred to in this story are correct to my knowledge and research carried out.
Chapter 2 : Take Her to Sea, Mister Murdoch ...
“Good evening, Ma'am,” The pursuer greeted warmly, pushing the cream-coloured screen door open as he dipped his head, respectfully. The portly woman ignored him as she passed, not even bothering to make eye contact as she stepped onto the Promenade Deck and into the sunlight. Unhooking a delicate fabric parasol from her wrist, she pointed it towards the sky and blocked out the brightness that threatened to turn her skin a little darker than pasty-white.
The Pursuer took the slight in his stride, tugging at his cuffs to straighten the starched sleeves of his white shirt and picking a single hair from the soft red fabric of his waistcoat. Leaning over the threshold the Promenade Deck, his nostrils flared with the saltiness of the North Atlantic as he pulled the door closed again. The muffled thud of shoe leather against carpet brought another stranger up the staircase, this time garbed in a fine three-piece suit, sporting a top hat.
“Good evening, sir,” The purser greeted just as warmly as before. This time he received an almost imperceptible nod from the gentleman, as he opened the screen door and watched the stranger step onto the deck and disappear from sight. The smile remained on his face until a third passenger turned the sharp corner leading down into the starboard-side First Class cabins, a concerned frown creasing his features.
“Pardon me for saying, Ma'am,” He ventured with a bow of his head. “There's a frightful breeze this 'eve, perfect hat-weather if ever there was one. I'd be happy to run down to your cabin and fetch one, if it pleases you?”
The woman cocked her head to the side, the scar running above her raised brow creasing and flexing as it hugged the curve of her eye socket. “My name is Anastacia ...” She replied in a thick accent, as far removed from Belfast or Southampton as the Titanic now found herself from either of those two shores. “ … And I do not have a hat.”
The Purser's frown deepened, as if he he were unused to getting a spoken response to his presence, let alone as much conversation as a name. He placed his hands on his hips; “No hat, Miss Anastacia?” He scowled. “Well that's simply no good, isn't it? Whoever packed your luggage without a hat of all things, on a crossing by sea! I have half a mind to teach your house servants a thing or two about packing for the Lady of the House, I'll tell you!”
“I packed my own things,” The blonde replied evenly. The Purser flashed a nervous smile, wringing his hands together as he struggled to find a suitably non-offensive, reassuring explanation. “First time to sea!” He settled on, almost triumphantly. “It's difficult to know what to bring, Miss Anastacia - I understand.”
The tall woman said nothing for several moments, her lithe fingers locked together and held on the front of the dress she wore. Cobalt-blue eyes watched the Purser intently, to the point the large man began to fiddle with the shining gold buttons of his waistcoat. “I served in the Imperial Russian Navy.
“ … I did not serve in the Mediterranean,” She added, as if to put to bed any hope of the man opposite extracting himself from the knots he'd tied himself in. The Purser opened his mouth to say something - anything - to lessen the embarrassment, but settled on honour in silence. Stepping up to the top of the flight of stairs and leaning across, he opened the screen door wide.
“Enjoy your time on the Promenande, Ma'am,” He managed sincerely enough. His eyes never ventured from the patch of wood panelling opposite, however, even as Anastacia pulled up the hem of her long, billowing dress and carefully negotiated the steps upwards. “Thank you,” She offered stiffly as the Purser nodded his head. Feeling the breeze of the North Altantic flop and tug at his fringe, the portly man leaned over to pull the screen door closed.
His eyes wandered across the varnished, smoothed planks of the decking and up to focus on the blonde woman, as she walked away with a very noticeable limp in her step. “What a strange lady ...” He mumbled with a shake of his head, his musings interrupted by a polite cough from behind his back.
“Good evening Sir, Ma'am,” The Purser enthused warmly, effortlessly slipping back into the job at hand. Steadying the screen door open against the strong breeze from the ocean beyond, he stepped back against the wall, watching the newest gentleman and his Lady climb the final few steps and onto the Promenade Deck without so much as a glance in his direction.
~*~*~*~
Anastacia's gaze didn't last long against the raw power of the Atlantic ocean, forced to first blink and then bring a palm up to shield her eyes, as the salty sting whipped up from the crashing, white-tipped waves so far below was carried up on a bitter wind. Couples clutching their top hats and bonnets, hurrying across the deck and flashes of blonde from hair pulled out of her own severe twist flashed across her vision.
Dark green, leather-gloved fingers wrapped around the handrail separating her from the drop of almost sixty feet to a tumulus ocean below. Cautiously at first, pushing against the metal as if she somehow expected the rail to come away like paper in the rain, Anastacia peaked her head over the side of the great ship and glanced down.
The sea was not easily parted and she fought savagely, furiously against the sharp bow of the White Star Line's greatest steamship. The waves - each five times the height of a man - rolled even higher and crashed and banged against the steel hull, desperately seeking a way in to fill the tremendous void passing well below the waterline. It was doubtful that the entire Atlantic Ocean, pooling its fury from Ireland to America; from Belfast to New York and back, held enough rage to slow Titanic with waves alone.
It would take much more to give this magnificent ship pause for thought.
Anastacia's fingers tightened around the handrail as she sucked in a lungful of salty, impossibly fresh air. Blowing her cheeks out and contributing what little she could to the winds as they howled across the promenade deck, her eyes were drawn left and she tipped her head to watch a young man - no more than eighteen years old - stride purposely onto the decking.
With one hand clamped firmly on top of a furiously flapping White Star Line bonnet, a length of rag held in his free hand he proceeded to hook an arm around the ship's railings. Securing himself awkwardly, he began to buff the metal furiously; a look of utter concentration written across his youthful face.
She watched this young man, his shoulders hunched with the cold, dutifully set about his work as if he intended to make his way around the entire Olympic-class liner single-handedly. Anastacia drew a strange comfort of sorts from watching him work, watching him following his orders and obeying instructions. Like the handrails she held which bolted securely to the decking, itself resting on the great steel sides of the ship's enormous hull, the sailor was a component of a greater whole.
With a rag in his hand, one man would accomplish nothing except to waste his time but as an army of men; stokers, pursers, officers, engineers, cooks and quartermasters they could keep a vessel as mighty as Titanic driving on through the great swells of the sea - a cog in the greater, wonderful ocean-going machine.
Anastacia's eyes fell away from the young man, onto the cloud of breath that escaped her pale lips with every lungful of air; billowing out and over the side of the ship. The cold permeated her dress and the petticoat worn over the top, chilling the flesh and freezing the muscle underneath until she could not help but surrender to a shiver.
She flexed the toes of her right foot inside her shoe, the unpleasantness of the shooting pains from stiff digits reminding her, at least, that the foot was still there. Her left leg gave no such pain - indeed it gave her no indication of being there below the knee, at all. Anastacia took a moment to glance to either side, making sure there was no-one to gawk at the show. The deck virtually cleared by the wintry Atlantic weather, she hitched up the hem of her dress above one leg.
Subconsciously Anastacia rubbed a gloved hand down beyond the knee, pressing against the tough, varnished wood where soft and pliant flesh should goose-bump under her touch. She twisted her waist, grimacing in discomfort as she felt the end of her body-proper grind against the cup supporting its replacement. Blue eyes found the young man still polishing a distance away, but her new-found comfort at the way he set about his job evaporated.
Anastacia pulled a glove from her hand, ignoring the icy touch of the wind as it stabbed against her palm. Running her fingers against the leg - or what replaced it - she frowned deeply. This performed a function, like the rag in the sailor's hand, opposite. This was better than a mere rag; crafted by the greatest workers of wood west of the Ural Mountains, designed by the greatest medical minds of the Russian Empire.
It was as perfect as any mere cog in a greater machine could be … But it didn't feel right. It had supported her, appearing for all intents and purposes save a small limp, normal for almost five years and yet … It felt no more a part of Anastacia than the four great funnels, arranged like enormous fins above her and towering over the ocean liner's superstructure, were.
She dropped the hem gathered up in her hands, hiding the leg beneath the ruffles of the dress. She pressed the entirety of her slight weight on it, desperately longing to feel something more than the tremendous pressure of scarred flesh pushing against a smooth, rubber cup. It didn't feel right; it didn't feel like part of her …
“'Scuse me Ma'am,” The young man said awkwardly, still with a tight grip on his bonnet as the wind fought hard to prise it from his head. “Everythin' okay?”
Anastacia whipped her head around, a scowl passing over her alabaster features for the briefest moment before self-control smoothed her frown to impassiveness. “I am fine,” She said simply. The young sailor hardly looked convinced, rummaging around in his pocket and producing a crushed handkerchief. “Please, use mine Ma'am,” He suggest helpfully as he held it out in an open palm.
Anastacia winced as the she felt the cold of the wind bite on her cheek again, the breeze almost freezing a drop of seawater splashed up against her skin from the deck. Her finger came up to brush it away, pulling a second clear as it spilled over the edge of her eye - not from the sea below. She stared at the glistening tip of her forefinger, realisation dawning. Taking a step back her lips flexed, without the words to accompany them.
Snatching the proffered handkerchief from the young man's outstretched palm and turning on her heels, she made short work of the distance to the screen door leading back down below decks. The junior sailor, for his part, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head thoughtfully.
“What a strange Lady ...” He mumbled, drawing a rag from the folds of his coat pocket and returning his attention to the ship's handrails with a shrug of his shoulders.
~*~*~*~
Isabelle wiped the foam from the top of her lip as she brought the empty tankard down against the tabletop with a loud thud, a wide grin splitting her lips. The burly man opposite grimaced; his face blackened with coal dust, such that the only hint of the true colour of his flesh came from the fingers wrapped around the still half-full tankard, held limply in his tanned hands.
Setting it down on the table and giving Isabelle a hard stare for a few seconds, he reluctantly dug into the depths of his overalls, crashing a heavy hand's worth of coins onto the tabletop. “Pity you don't shovel coal near as quick as you shovel ale down your gullet!” He grumbled, crossing his sooty arms across a broad chest.
“Victory!” Isabelle shouted, clenching her fists and throwing her arms up into the air. “Anyone else feel up to the challenge? A fool and their money are soon parted by the fastest drinker in the White Star Line!”
The Stokers gathered around the table exchanged grumbles, mumbles, grins, gentle elbows and not-so-subtle digs to each others' guts. “C'mon!” Isabelle teased, gesturing to the small pile of treasure piled up in front of her and cradling her arms around it. “I'll put it all on the line! Who's going to be man enough?”
A few of the older hands - skin wrinkled with experience and more than few boiler scars - shook their heads and used an arm to hold back the youngsters from blowing every penny they'd taken with them and, with Isabelle's infamous “Double-or-nothing bonus try”, probably every penny they'd make on the Titanic's maiden voyage too. Shrugging and gathering the pile of coins and other sundries, she rose from her chair, a little unsteadily for all the ale drunk in defence of her dubious crown.
“For all you newbies!” She called out gleefully, “If I'm sitting at this table, I'm defending my crown and you're always welcome to step up!”
Isabelle snapped off a mock salute at the various amused and annoyed faces filtering out through the doorway, throwing her arm back with enough force afterwards to upend the chair she'd sat on and send it crashing to the deck. “Whoops!” She giggled, shrugging her shoulders towards the bartender who rolled his eyes.
“Barkeep!” Isabelle shouted cheerfully, banging her tankard down in front of the middle-aged man. “Another drink to celebrate my genius!”
Lifting the tankard up and wiping underneath it with a scowl, the Barman wrung out the cloth over a small sink in the corner. Tipping the rim of the thirsty jug up to meet the tap, he quickly poured out a pint's worth of foaming, nut-brown ale. Although Isabelle could not have been without the tankard for more than a minute, she still found the time to puff her cheeks out, sigh and prop her head up with an arm leaning against the bar as she waited for her “celebratory” drink.
“Don't try to break any records with this,” The Barkeep warned with a yet another roll of his eyes as he set the tankard down beside Isabelle, “It's your last one tonight.”
Offering the older man a lopsided grin, Isabelle shrugged her shoulders and brought the ale to her lips. Taking a long gulp and setting it back down onto the bar with enough force to splash foam over the rim, she turned her attentions back to the winnings still piled atop her table. Ignoring the irritated sigh of the Barkeep as he wiped underneath the tankard again, Isabelle filled the pockets of her coat with a veritable trove of treasure
Pockets soon filled to bursting with the table not yet cleared, the buzz from more than a few pints beginning to make her arms and legs feel impossibly light and airy, Isabelle squeezed her eyes closed - blinking away the giddiness and trying to focus on her prizes. Settling for the bottle of rum sitting proudly in the centre of a dozen coins and tucking it underneath her arm, she spun around and deftly rescued her tankard from the bar.
“I'll take my leave, kind sir!” She giggled bowing deeply, if unsteadily and managing to slosh yet more ale out of the tankard and onto the decking. “Your tip is on the table!”
Peering around Isabelle, the Barkeep's forehead creased in a frown. “Awful big tip,” He shrugged, flipping a cloth over his shoulder. “Sure you can afford it?”
“It's not about the money!” Isabelle chastised with a wag of her finger, taking another long sip from the tankard in her hand as she made her way - heavily loaded with plunder - towards the doorway. “It's about the taking part!”
Shrugging his shoulders and making short work of the distance from behind the bar to the table, the middle-aged man pulled the cloth from his shoulder, brushing the coins over the table's edge and into his palm with a free hand. “The hell it is ...” He grumbled loudly, shaking his head as he watched his last customer for the night stagger out into the corridor. “ … Bloody Stokers.”
~*~*~*~
Smiling as brightly as any of the hungry boilers she'd spent hours feeding down in the bowels of the Titanic, Isabelle extended her arms and span on the spot, filling her lungs with the dozen mingling smells of a ship under way at sea. Metal polish applied to the ship's myriad shining pieces; the waft of expensive perfume still lingering from the ship's wealthiest guests; the acrid tang of burnt coal and soot from her own scorched, blackened overalls and of course the salt on the air - oblivious to those wrapped in fine furs and overcoats so far below decks, but easy to sniff on the wind to an old hand.
Enthusiasm and alcohol getting the better of her sense of balance, Isabelle took an awkward step back; pressing her shoulders against the bulkhead and resting her head against the varnished wooden panelling. For all the stiffness in her joints born from hours of back-breaking shovelling, all the frustration bred from a job that never came close to being fulfilling or easy enough to lose herself in the monotony, a belly full of ale seemed to paint the world a brighter colour. Bringing the dented tankard up to her lips, she pushed herself off the wall and around the corner.
Isabelle's eyes were far too slow and far too focused on her drink to see the obstacle in her way, while her conscious mind was still too busy considering the smells of the ship to provide any warning. Her subconscious duly registered the terrific thud of a body against hers and she back-pedalled furiously, instinctually, but succeeded only in stumbling and falling backwards down to the deck and landing on her rear unceremoniously. The bottle of rum, won so honestly earlier, slipped from Isabelle's grasp as her elbow banged against the decking, spinning away across the carpet behind.
Tipped forwards, squeezed between two bosoms and then flung away in surprise the tankard clattered to the carpeted steel below, rolling in a lazy circle away from its owner. Groaning as she cradled her gut, Isabelle pushed herself up with an elbow and coughed a few dregs of ale back onto the decking. “Sorry ...” She mumbled, shaking her head to clear the fog. Her eyes drifted across the decking to a pale woman sprawled on the floor opposite; propped up against the wall, eyes squeezed shut in pain.
Scrambling up to her knees, Isabelle crawled across the deck until her gaze fell across the stranger's shoes and forced her to a stop. The stranger wore a pair of heels coloured a dark green but they were not together in a pair, as they should be. One peeked out from underneath the hem of her long dress as it should, but the other was entirely separated - lying uselessly on the end of a disconnected, wooden replacement.
Hesitantly, Isabelle reached out for the prosthetic when a thick accent pierced the silence of the corridor, drowning out the thrum of the Titanic's mighty steam engines many decks below. “Do not touch it!” The stranger practically bellowed, pushing herself off the wall despite the obvious pain it caused. She scrambled across the decking, throwing a slender arm out and desperately hauling the heavy wooden limb with her as she back-tracked, putting even more distance between the two women.
“Sorry ...” Isabelle mumbled again, feeling her throat grow dry and scratchy as her fogged mind struggled to come up with any other words. Perhaps it was the ale, or curiosity or a mixture of both - the former liberating the latter - but she could not help herself in examining the other woman. Her flesh was alabaster, pale without being translucent as if spent under a weak sun too high in the sky or hidden behind too many clouds on too many days.
The stranger's pale skin was twisted in places, however - raised scar tissue coloured a darker orange, running underneath one side of her jawbone and snaking around the outline of the orbital socket on the opposite side of her face. Realising several moments of absolute silence had passed, Isabelle blinked away the stare, curiosity giving way to nerves as she became acutely aware of the awkwardness and the stranger's obvious discomfort.
“Please leave ...” The woman asked evenly, leaving little room to interpret it as a request. Isabelle hesitated, feeling there was more to apologise for if only the ale could be flushed from her mind as easily as it had entered. “Sorry ...” She repeated mindlessly for the third time. Climbing to her feet, she extended a hand to help the woman up before realising the absurdity, pulling it back to her side and instead stooping over to retrieve her tankard still rolling around the deck.
The stranger made no effort to do much of anything, let alone leave her impromptu seat on the decking. “Get out of here!” She hissed suddenly, eyes narrowed and face twisting to form a snarl. “I do not need your help, or your pity!”
Temper being quicker to rise than sympathy or indeed, pity, Isabelle's face soon darkened to match the woman opposite. Clenching her fists, she opened her mouth to spit back a return volley but held fast at the last second; not quite drunk enough to turn an accident outside the mess into a night in the Brig at the pleasure of the Master-At-Arms.
Turning on the spot and stepping forward, her boot tapped against the bottle of rum still lying intact and no worse-for-wear on the decking. Scooping it up into the crook of her elbow Isabelle marched back around the corner, teeth grinding together in irritation as she squeezed the bottle against her side.
She needed a drink anyway.
~*~*~*~