Part 1


It was the Golden Age. The age of inventions and high society. A time of huge incomes, little taxation, and unlimited spending ability.

It was the age of luxurious travel on huge steamships. Where a First Class ticket could cost more than most people make in a lifetime. Of ships so sumptuous, so detailed, they rivaled European palaces in their appointments, and outdid most for service.

It was the age of class distinction. Where who you were, the family you belonged to, mattered more than anything. Where in Boston, it wad joked, the Lowell’s spoke only to the Cabot’s, and the Cabot’s spoke only to God.

The Timberlake’s, it was said, bypassed both the Lowell’s and the Cabot’s, and made their own deals with God. While they weren’t on the Mayflower, they came to Boston soon after, already rich but making even more money; first in the rum trade, then diversifying to own more mills than any other family in Massachusetts.

There seemed no end in sight for the Timberlake’s. Some were even saying the latest heir, Justin, was destined for the White House.

But no one checked with Justin’s father, Randal. At least, no one checked when Randal made bad investment after bad investment. First, a nonexistent gold mine in South America. Then, a plan to build a tunnel between England and France. More and more money left the mills; more and more money was lost by Randal until finally, with a final notice of foreclosure and bullet to the brain, it ended.

Young Justin was left with massive debt, a mother who refused to believe the worst, and three hundred employees who needed their jobs.

The clink of silver brought Justin’s attention to the table. He looked at his fiancée, smiling slightly. Catherine Hill was a pretty, vivacious woman most of the time. She was a bit rough around the edges, having gone to public, not private schools, and even working for a time in her father’s office. Then, her father struck gold. Black gold. So the Hill’s moved from Texas to Boston and tried to enter Polite Society.

Of course, every door was closed to them. Rich upstarts from the provinces just simply did not become a part of the closed world of Boston on a whim. They needed a connection. An entrance.

A marriage.

Justin had been at the bank, hoping to extend his loan when he’d met Mr. Hill. Seeing in the young man what he wanted for his daughter, Mr. Hill had invited Justin to his house for dinner. Over the next few weeks, Justin had become a fixture at the Hill house, and Mr. Hill had quietly bought up Justin’s loans. Justin had traveled to England to negotiate a wool shipment when he’d met up with the Hill’s. Mr. Hill had finally told Justin what he wanted, and Justin, knowing there wasn’t any way out, had agreed.

Mr. Hill had promptly bought passage back to the States for Justin, Catherine and Catherine’s mother on the Titanic, planning on returning himself later in the month.

But the deal that Justin had made was starting to suffocate him. The more time he spent with Catherine, the more he realized he didn’t, and couldn’t, love her. He was torn. Torn between his duty to his mother, his employees, his heritage—and his heart.

Catherine tapped Justin on the arm “Don’t you agree, Justin?” she asked.

Justin shook his head. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

Catherine frowned, turning back to the others at the table in the Veranda Dining Room. “Justin’s a bit of a daydreamer,” she scolded. “I must figure out a way to keep his attention on me more, and on his own thoughts less.”

A polite murmur of laughter was heard. Justin smiled tightly. “I do apologize. What did you say, Mrs. Brown?”

“I said, this is the biggest damn ship in the world, but your Catherine disagreed with me,” Mrs. Brown said. She was a large, loud woman. Also one of the new rich, but not, as Catherine and her parents, trying to hide her past by creating a new one. Molly Brown was who she was, and be dammed to everyone else.

Justin had liked her immediately.

“You’re correct, Mrs. Brown,” Justin said, to Catherine’s obvious displeasure. “I had a discussion with Mr. Andrews about it.” Justin indicated the ships’ designer, sitting a few tables away with Captain Smith. “He confirmed that Titanic is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man.”

“Well, I like the Mauritania,” Catherine said. “The food was better. But since the wedding is going to be in just a few months, we couldn’t wait for it’s next sailing.” She smiled broadly at Mrs. Brown, flashing her diamond engagement ring.

Justin’s stomach sank at the sight of it. Another debt owed to Mr. Hill.

“Well, that’s just grand!” Mrs. Brown said. “Happy days to you both!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” Justin said as Catherine admired her ring.

“Name’s Molly, son,” she scolded. “Don’t cotton to too much formality, especially since we won’t be together too long. How can you get to know a person in three days if you’re so damned formal with them, right, Bess?”

Catherine’s mother winced a bit. “That’s an interesting view of things, Mrs. Brown…”

“Molly.”

“But I, for one, really like the formality of a ships company. I wouldn’t think to call the captain by his first name.”

“Who, EJ?” Molly laughed. “Been calling him that for years!”

Justin hid a laugh, but not too successfully. Catherine glared at him. He sighed, picking up his fork and taking a bite of food. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth, but he forced himself to chew, then swallow. Chew, then swallow. Over and over until finally, coffee came and he saw a way to excuse himself.

Up on the deck, Justin reveled in the stingy, salty air, taking deep breaths, filling his lungs to clear his head. He gripped the rail tightly, looking over the horizon and wishing it led anywhere but to his future.

***

Far below the sumptuous First Class decks were the Third Class accommodations. Also called Steerage, this was where the bulk of the ships paying population lived during the voyage. Single men were housed in the bow, single women in the stern, and families in between. Also in between were the two large dining rooms, each with a food line, and filled with tables bolted to the floor. There was also a general room, and a smoking room, both for the use of the Third Class passengers.

Located on F Deck, the Third Class rooms were clean, comfortable, and well appointed. They were heated and lighted and, for the day, more luxurious than most Steerage accommodations. Those in Third Class who paid to make the crossing on Titanic considered themselves well off, indeed.

Those who didn’t pay made do with a closet.

JC walked into the dining room, hunkering down a bit and hiding behind a family from, he surmised by their clothes and their speech, Russia. He looked around, surveying the set up of the dining room, the smell of food teasing him. Sure, he’d successfully gotten on the ship, and had found a janitor’s closet to hide in—not the best place to sleep, but he’d slept in worst. However, the smell of food creeping into the closet had been too tempting. It had been a while since JC had eaten, and he figured that since the ship had been at sail for a few hours now, it was relatively safe to try and find some food.

He followed the Russian family, watching as they picked up a tray and stood in line, waiting to be served. JC did the same thing, hoping he’d be able to pull this off. His stomach rumbled, so loudly that the youngest member of the Russian family heard and laughed. It smelled really, really good. He gripped his tray hard and moved closer to the food.

“You might want to be lookin’ a bit less nervous,” a voice, tinged with an Irish accent, behind him said. JC turned toward the voice. A man, smaller than him, stood behind him. He looked older than JC, but not by much. He had an elfish face and twinkling brown eyes. “We’ll get ya fed, but ya have to act naturally, and not so much like a stowaway,” the man continued, smiling broadly.

JC panicked at his words. “Sorry, I have to go,” he said, putting down the tray and trying to leave.

The small man stopped JC with a hand on his arm. “Do ya know any forin’ language?” the Irishman asked.

JC nodded. “French,” he said.

“Good. Just answer the boyo at the end in French,” the Irishman nodded to a White Star attendant at the end of the line, "and let me handle the rest.”

JC nodded, not really sure what was going on. He took the offered food, sliding his tray down the line toward the attendant, finally understanding what the problem was going to be.

“Meal ticket?” the dining attendant asked JC, holding out a hand.

“Je n'ai pas un ticket-repas, comme je ne suis pas supposé pour être sur ce bateau.” I do not have a meal ticket, as I am not supposed to be on this ship.

“Your meal ticket,” the attendant said, a bit slower this time.

“Je vraiment suis content que vous ne pouvez pas parler français, ou vous sauriez que je n'a pas un ticket-repas.” I really am glad you cannot speak French, or you would know I don't have a meal ticket.

“What’s goin’ on?” the Irishman behind JC asked, looking around JC to the dining attendant.

“Bloody foreigners,” the attendant swore. “I NEED YOUR MEAL TICKET,” he said, even slower and louder, waving a used ticket at JC’s face. “Understand?”

JC smiled broadly. “Je comprends que vous êtes un imbicile.” I understand that you are an imbecile.

The attendant’s eyes narrowed at JC’s last words, but the Irishman took his attention. “Come on, guv’nor. Food’s getting cold!” the small man said, banging his tray a bit.

“Bloody foreigner,” the attendant swore again, pushing JC out of the line. “Go on! Just don’t forget it tomorrow!” He reached for the Irishman’s ticket.

JC walked through the dining room, choosing an empty table far away from the serving line. He tucking into his food, relishing the taste of the stew. His mouth was full when the Irishman sat down across from him. “Chris Kirkpatrick,” he said, holding out a hand. “Late of Dublin, headed to Pittsburgh."

“JC Chasez,” JC swallowed. “Late of Paris, heading for Baltimore.” He shook Chris’ hand. “My thanks for that. You could have turned me in.”

“What for?” Chris began eating his own food. “I figure if you’re smart enough to have gotten on this bucket, they at least owe ya a meal.” He slid a plate of bread toward JC. “But I don’t think that’ll work again.”

JC pocketed most of the bread, saving a few slices to sop up the gravy. “It’s only three days. I’ve gone longer.”

“Now ya sound like an Irishman!” Chris laughed.

***

“So, I decided it was time to go back to America,” JC said, flipping open his sketchbook, holding down the sheets as the wind blew them up a bit.

Chris nodded. “I can see ya bein’ homesick,” he said. “But I had no home anymore, what with me Mam and Pap both snuffing a few months back. I figure, why not start a new life?”

JC nodded, his pencil flying fast over the page before him. The light was perfect, he thought, illuminating the child and father next to him with a bright brilliance. “But why Pittsburgh?” JC asked.

“Got cousins there that can put me up,” Chris explained, coming over to stand next to JC. “Make any money with your drawins?” he asked.

“Not enough to buy a ticket home,” JC joked, looking up at Chris. His eyes moved up, his gaze drawn to the figure on the top deck. Speaking of a bright brilliance, JC thought.

Chris followed JC’s gaze, watching as a woman joined a man standing on the upper deck rail. “Forget that one, boyo,” he kidded. “Way out of our class. But aye, beautiful.”

“Yes, he is,” JC murmured, flipping a page in his sketchbook and quickly jotting down the man at the rail. The blonde hair shone in the light, the features both hard and soft. JC watched him turn toward the woman, the brief look of abject misery on his face quickly covered by a mask of indifference. He shrugged away from the girl, turning and gazing down at JC. Their eyes met, held.

“So, that’s the way of things,” Chris mused, watching them both.

The woman finally succeeded in getting the man away from the rail, dragging him back into the First Class area.

JC blinked a bit, blushing at Chris’ laughter. “Shut up,” he said softly, bending to finish his sketch of the beautiful stranger.



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