Southampton, England The ship loomed large and menacing. A behemoth of iron and paint and noise and activity. People scurried over it, machines banged noisily, and tugboats whistled loudly. Justin looked at the ship with trepidation. Though he’d never had trouble traveling before—in fact, it was usually the only time he was happy—he nonetheless dreaded boarding this vessel. It was sailing to where he least wanted to go. It was sailing home. To a home that Justin hated. To a new life Justin wanted to avoid. He felt a hand on his arm. He turned, smiling down at his fiancée despite the raging turmoil in his soul. He was good, so good, at hiding his emotions. He gazed at Catherine’s face, noting the excitement in her eyes as she surveyed the ship. But perhaps it was because his emotions, his feelings were so foreign to hers. To his family. To everyone in their set. He felt and dreamed things none of them would ever feel or dream. For Justin dreamed to be free. But freedom was the one thing not allowed. “Maggie, watch and make sure they get all the luggage on board,” Catherine instructed her maid. Justin’s eyes flicked to the harried girl, struggling to count the bags and supervise their loading. “Let me help,” he said, moving to aid her. Catherine grasped his arm tightly. “Don’t be silly.” She dismissed Justin’s help and started walking to the ship. Justin had no choice but to follow her and her mother up the gangplank, stopping at the steward who was checking in the First Class passengers. “Miss Hill’s party,” the steward said, checking his manifest. “Ah, yes. The Parlour Suite. Rooms 106, 107, and 108.” He smiled. “The best rooms on the ship, ma’am.” Catherine nodded, as if she expected nothing less. “Please see that our bags are brought up immediately,” she said, nodding toward Maggie and the luggage. She grasped Justin’s arm again, boarding the ship. He gave her another tight smile and wondered, for the thousandth time, how he was going to survive the crossing, much less the rest of his life with her. “Yes, ma’am.” The steward tipped his cap as they passed. “And welcome aboard Titanic.” *** Cherbourg, France JC’s eyes brightened when he saw the ship. It was huge and overpowering and bright and shiny. The paint was so fresh he swore he could almost smell it; the buzzing activity on the docks seeming to penetrate into JC’s soul. He only knew one thing. He had to get on that ship. The only question was…how. There was no way he’d get on through the 2nd Class embarkation. There were too many stewards gathering tickets and directing passengers. Nor would he get on at the Steerage gangplank. The stewards and immigrations officials were checking everyone’s tickets and papers—not to mention everyone’s hair for lice, too, JC saw, wrinkling his nose a bit. The supply gangplanks were only for those wearing uniforms of the White Star line. JC thought about trying to find one, but it was too close to sailing. No way he’d get one in time. That left the First Class entry. JC watched as finely dressed passengers simply walked on, with just a quick check-in with the steward at the top of the gangplank. His eyes were drawn to one passenger in particular, a rather large and loud woman, surrounded by a huge amount of luggage. She was bellowing orders at the porters, her voice rough and full of curses. Seeing his chance, JC pulled his cap lower over his eyes and moved closer to the ship. The loud woman was just climbing the gangplank as a half dozen dogs, suddenly let free, started barking and running and fleeing the dock area. The dockworkers, porters, and stewards scrambled to catch these dogs, seeing as they belonged to First Class passengers and to lose them would be unimaginable. The First Class steward joined the hunt for the dogs, almost knocking down the large woman on the gangplank. JC jumped up from his hiding place next to the now empty kennels and steadied her. “Well, thanks, son,” she said, her voice tinged with the American West. “Damn blighter nearly ran me over.” She shifted her considerable bosom and climbed up onto the ship. JC ducked behind her as the First Class steward reappeared. “You!” she yelled. “Get over here and check me in. I want a drink before we sail.” The steward blinked and picked up his dropped manifest. “Yes, ma’am. Your name?” “Margaret Brown.” She turned. “Thanks for the help, son—well, how’d ya like that? He’s gone.”