Title: The Astors: Cracks Beneath the Surface

Length: 80,000 words 

Preface 

Steam rises from the bustling Harland and Wolff shipyard in Belfast, where thousands of men  move like ants across a massive steel skeleton reaching toward the grey Irish sky. It's 1909,  and the most ambitious vessel ever conceived is taking shape. The rhythmic pounding of  riveting hammers creates a symphony of industrial progress, as workers secure each of the  three million iron and steel rivets that will hold together the mighty RMS Titanic. 

In the drafting rooms above the yard, Thomas Andrews and his team of designers pour over  blueprints, their pencils dancing across paper as they perfect every detail of the White Star  Line's crowning achievement. The ship's specifications are staggering: 882 feet and 9 inches  long, 92 feet wide, with a height of 175 feet from keel to bridge. She will weigh 46,328 tons  when complete—a floating city of steel and dreams. 

Down in the yard, the great steel plates arrive by rail, each one carefully shaped and fitted to  form the vessel's massive hull. Cranes groan overhead, swinging massive beams into place as  riveters, perched precariously on scaffolding, secure them forever into the growing  framework. The men work through Belfast's mercurial weather—rain, shine, and bitter  cold—knowing they are part of something unprecedented. 

The grand staircase arrives in pieces, its oak panels lovingly carved by craftsmen who treat  each scroll and flourish as a work of art. In workshops surrounding the yard, furniture makers  shape the finest woods into cabinets and beds, while seamstresses stitch thousands of yards of  fabric for curtains and bedding. Every detail, from the smallest door handle to the massive  anchors, is scrutinized for quality and elegance. 

The ship's heart—her massive reciprocating engines—takes shape in a separate workshop.  Standing three stories tall, these mechanical marvels will drive the largest moving objects  ever made by human hands. Alongside them, the vessel's quartet of towering funnels await  their installation, their presence a statement of power and engineering prowess. 

As 1911 draws to a close, the Titanic's hull nears completion. The launching ways are  prepared, massive timber slides greased with soap and tallow. On May 31, 1911, before a  crowd of thousands, the great ship tastes water for the first time, sliding gracefully into  Belfast Lough with a roar of displaced water and cheering voices. 

But launching is only the beginning. For nearly a year more, an army of workers swarms over  and through the vessel, installing engines, piping, electrical systems, and the thousands of  luxurious fittings that will make Titanic the most opulent liner ever built. Every cabin, from  the humblest third-class berth to the palatial first-class suites, receives meticulous attention.

In the spring of 1912, Titanic stands complete. Her black and white hull gleams in the fresh  Irish sun, her four buff-coloured funnels reaching proudly skyward. She is more than a ship— she is the culmination of human achievement, a floating palace of Edwardian grandeur and  technological marvel. None who helped build her could imagine that in mere weeks, she  would become something else entirely: a legend, a cautionary tale, and an enduring object of  fascination for generations to come. 

The workers step back, their tools finally silent, and gaze upon their creation. They have built  not just a ship, but a dream made manifest in steel and steam. As Titanic prepares for her sea  trials, the men of Harland and Wolff know they have created something unprecedented—a  vessel that will surely secure their shipyard's place in history, though not in the way any of  them could have predicted. 

The Titanic has captivated hearts and minds for over a century—a story of grandeur, tragedy,  and enduring mystery. But beyond the well-known narratives of icebergs and lifeboats, there  were people—lovers, dreamers, the hopeful and the heartbroken—whose stories remain  largely untold. 

Titanic Tales of Love and Loss is my attempt to breathe life into those forgotten romances,  to weave historical truths with imagined emotions, and to honor the people who lived, loved,  and lost on that fateful voyage. Each book in this series brings a different story to light— some based on real passengers, others inspired by the whispers of history. The first  installment, Newly Wed Love Lost, follows the iconic John Jacob Astor IV and his young  wife, Madeleine, as they embark on a journey that would change their lives forever. 

My fascination with the Titanic is not merely about the ship itself but about the people  aboard—those who were caught in the tides of fate, their lives forever altered in a single cold  April night. Through meticulous research and creative storytelling, I strive to balance  historical accuracy with deep human emotion, offering readers a glimpse into the past  through the lens of love, loss, and hope. 

I invite you to step aboard and immerse yourself in these tales. Some are tragic, others  bittersweet, but all are rooted in the undeniable truth of the Titanic: that even in the darkest  moments, love endures. 

Chapter 1: Boarding the Titanic 

DAY 1: April 10, 1912 – Departure & Introductions 

The Titanic’s Grandeur 

The RMS Titanic loomed over Southampton Harbor, a behemoth of steel and dreams. It  wasn’t just a ship; it was a statement, a floating palace promising the pinnacle of human  ingenuity and ambition. The press had hailed it as “unsinkable,” a word whispered with pride  and reverence. As passengers milled about on the dock—some clutching tickets with 

trembling hands, others standing confidently in tailored suits—it was clear this wasn’t just a  voyage. This was history in the making. 

First-class passengers boarded first, of course. Their luggage, embossed with gilded initials,  carried by porters who’d learned long ago not to make eye contact unless spoken to. For  them, the Titanic offered an unparalleled luxury—a gymnasium with state-of-the-art  equipment, Turkish baths adorned with intricate tiling, and a Grand Staircase so resplendent it  seemed to belong in a royal palace. You could almost hear the echoes of ballroom music,  even in the silence of anticipation. 

Madeleine Force Astor walked alongside her husband, John Jacob Astor IV, as they ascended  the gangway. She was draped in an elegant traveling cloak, her gloves buttoned snugly at the  wrist. She smiled politely, but her gaze lingered on the ship’s towering hull. To everyone  watching, she appeared the epitome of composure. But inside? Oh, inside was another story.  The grandeur of it all—it was overwhelming. Not the ship itself, though that was a marvel— but the eyes. The endless, judgmental eyes of first-class society. On the one hand Maddy felt  a sense of pride, her transformation from a young debutante to a married woman, her life  forever intertwined with a man of John’s stature, his love and care for her knowing no bounds  - She felt safe, cherished. But on the other hand she longed to return to the freedom they had  been afforded in Europe. For Maddy and her husband this was the inevitable step back to  New York society in the hope that they would be, by now, old news. Colonel John Jacob  Astor IV stood apart from his gilded contemporaries as a rare anomaly among America's  aristocracy. While most of his peers were content to merely preserve their inherited fortunes,  Astor possessed an innate drive to innovate and create. His wealth could have afforded him a  life of passive luxury, yet he chose instead to channel his privileges into technological  advancement and entrepreneurial ventures. This pioneering spirit – unusual among those born  to such enormous privilege – marked him as distinctly different from the typical Manhattan  millionaire of his era. Where others saw their fortunes as a means to social status, Astor  viewed his inheritance as a platform for progress, pursuing everything from hotel innovation  to mechanical invention with genuine enthusiasm rather than mere obligation.  

John and Maddy were the first to board the Titanic in Cherbourg, France. There was some  drama around the ship in France but it wasn’t a patch on the scenes earlier that day. 

The scenes at Southampton were of extraordinary excitement as the RMS Titanic prepared  for her maiden voyage. The world's largest and most luxurious ocean liner dominated the  harbour, her immense hull towering above the docks. Journalists and photographers  documented the historic departure, with flashbulbs popping as celebrities of the day boarded. 

Reporters interviewed passengers, crew members, and White Star Line officials, gathering  quotes for their stories about the magnificent vessel. 

Thousands of spectators lined the docks, waving handkerchiefs and cheering as the massive  ship prepared to depart. The crowd including distraught family members bidding farewell  alongside locals who had come simply to witness this historic event. 

The embarkation of passengers had begun early that morning, First-class passengers arrived  in chauffeur-driven automobiles, accompanied by valets and maids carrying jewel cases and  hat boxes. Among them were some of the world's wealthiest individuals; Benjamin  Guggenheim, the mining magnate, and Isidor and Ida Straus, owners of Macy's department  store. Amongst these elite travellers was the exceedingly rich widow Margot Kingsley. Like 

all the other first class passengers Margot was escorted directly to her luxurious  accommodations by White Star Line officials.  

Second-class passengers, mostly upper-middle-class professionals and tourists, arrived by  more modest transportation but were still treated with considerable courtesy. Clara, felt like  royalty as she boarded the colossal vessel. She felt far above her station, being called  “Ma’am” and having her bags carried was an alien experience to her. However, her hefty  ticket price did serve as a constant reminder that she had paid for this privilege. 

Entering through an entrance at the hull came the third-class or steerage passengers. Many of  them were emigrants seeking new lives in America. Their experience leading up to  embarkation had been a stark contrast to the other passengers. Their ticket price included  overnight boarding in The White Star lodgings and the comprehensive health checks that  were mandatory before boarding. Doctors were employed to check for signs of infectious  diseases, before signing off each passenger with boarding documents. Many of these  passengers were carrying their entire worldly possessions in simple suitcases or cloth  bundles. As they were released to board their faces showed a mixture of excitement and  anxiety about the journey and their new life ahead. 

Inside, the ship buzzed with activity as the crew prepared for departure. Under the command  of Captain Edward John Smith, the 62-year-old veteran, all the staff went about their duties  with the precision expected of such a high profile event. Chief Officer Henry Wilde, First  Officer William Murdoch, and Second Officer Charles Lightoller supervised the first class  passengers. Below decks, Chief Engineer Joseph Bell and his team of engineers monitored  the massive engines. The ship's purser, Hugh McElroy, and chief steward, Andrew Latimer,  directed an army of stewards, stewardesses, and other service personnel as they prepared  staterooms and public areas. 

In the galleys, head chef Charles Proctor and his staff of nearly 70 were beginning food  preparations for the first meals aboard ship. The culinary smells already drifting out to  titillate the tastebuds, roasted meats, fresh breads and the most delicious sauces, menus fit for  royalty. 

Thomas Andrews, the ship's designer from Harland and Wolff shipyard, moved throughout  the vessel with immense pride. Renowned for his meticulous attention to detail he was still  making final inspections of his creation, his notebook in hand poised to make notes of  anything that caught his eye. The Titanic truly was the pinnacle of his career, a miracle of  engineering and design. 

There was a slight delay to the intended departure of 11.30 when an incident that some may  later claim to be an omen of doom occurred. As the massive hunk of Titanic began to move  off from her moorings, the SS New York broke away from hers from the sheer force of  suction generated by the massive hull of power from the Titanic. Both ships were just a few  feet from collision when Captain White ordered the ship be put in to reverse just in time.  Cheers erupted from all the witnesses, the ship whistles blew and the orchestra played as her  maiden voyage began.  

As Titanic steamed toward Cherbourg, France, its first port of call, few among the 2,224  people aboard or those watching from shore could have imagined the tragic fate that awaited  the magnificent ship just four days later in the frigid North Atlantic waters. 

Most of the Astor’s fellow travellers in First Class had boarded that morning and had been  part of the drama, making history as The Titanic made her maiden voyage from Southampton.  Whilst John had been excited to book them on to this magnificent ship, he was also mindful  of minimizing the overwhelm for Madeleine. Despite John’s best intentions, Maddy could 

almost feel the weight of dozens of unseen eyes upon her. Knowing most of the first-class  elite had been aboard for hours, had afforded them ample time to exchange pleasantries,  assess their fellow passengers, and, inevitably, let the whispers about the Astors take flight. 

By now, speculation about her “hurried” marriage and delicate condition would be rippling  through the dining saloon and smoking lounges, passing from gloved hand to gloved hand  like an invitation to scandal. She could already feel their stares burrowing through her,  dissecting her every move. A young wife, barely eighteen, married to a man in his late forties.  

As John and Madeleine Astor stepped into their luxurious suite on B Deck, the soft glow of  electric sconces illuminated the rich mahogany panelling and the elegant furnishings that  rivaled any grand hotel. The scent of fresh linens and polished wood filled the air. Awaiting  them, standing with quiet deference, were Rosalie Bidois, Victor Robbins, and Caroline  Endres, their hands neatly clasped, their expressions poised yet attentive. Rosalie had already  arranged Madeleine’s belongings, ensuring her traveling gowns were carefully hung, while  Victor stood ready to assist Colonel Astor with anything he required. Caroline, ever watchful,  offered a reassuring nod to Madeleine, mindful of her delicate condition. For a moment, there  was a hushed stillness, a quiet acknowledgment that they were all part of something  extraordinary—aboard the world’s most magnificent ship 

Second-class passengers followed the Astors, navigating narrow corridors that felt modest but  clean. For them, the Titanic was a dream realized. The second-class cabins, with their sturdy  furnishings and clean linens, were more luxurious than many had ever experienced.  

Clara Hamilton had boarded in Southampton clutching a small, worn suitcase, she had  glanced around with wide eyes. She wasn’t accustomed to such comforts. The ship seemed a  world away from her cramped boarding house in Manchester. “Imagine this,” she whispered  to herself, running her hand along the polished wood panelling. “If this is second class, what  must first class be like?” 

And then there was steerage, the final passengers would embark the following morning at  Queenstown in southern Ireland. “Third-class,” as the Titanic’s brochures diplomatically  phrased it was far from the basic lodging they were used to. Here, the air was thick with a  different kind of excitement. Families huddled close, clutching bundles of belongings tied  

with twine. Children clung to mothers’ skirts while fathers checked and rechecked their  tickets. This wasn’t a voyage of leisure for them—it was a lifeline, a one-way ticket to a  better future. The quarters were tight, with bunk beds stacked like crates in a warehouse. But  no one seemed to mind. For many, it was the first time they’d ever slept on a real mattress. 

Above deck, as first-class passengers settled into private promenades lined with teak wood  and ivory-painted railings, the atmosphere brimmed with anticipation. Stewards in crisp  uniforms hurried to assist with unpacking, their steps brisk but quiet. The dining saloon  awaited with its glittering crystal chandeliers and bone China place settings, each seat  arranged with military precision. Every detail whispered, You belong here… if you can afford  it. 

Down below, the contrast couldn’t have been starker. Steerage passengers shared communal  spaces that felt more functional than inviting—For dining long wooden tables bolted to the  floor and benches polished smooth by countless hands. But there was a different kind of  energy there: camaraderie. Laughter bubbled up as children played games on the worn  planks, and voices sang in a dozen different accents and languages. They might not have  chandeliers, but they had hope, and wasn’t that its own kind of luxury?

Rosalie, a poised and efficient French lady’s maid, had tended to Madeleine long before the  Titanic voyage, even from before the unconventional marriage. Slender and refined, with a  sharp intuition that made her indispensable, she understood her mistress’s needs without  words. Her primary duty aboard would be to ensure Mrs. Astor’s wardrobe remained  immaculate, her dresses pressed, her hair styled to perfection before each social engagement.  Each morning, Rosalie carefully laid out Madeleine’s attire, from her elegant day gowns to  the more intricate evening ensembles required for dinners in the lavish first-class dining  saloon. A new wardrobe awaited Madeleine in New York to accommodate her confinement,  but for now, Maddy’s slender figure showed only the slightest hint of her pregnancy. Careful  adjustment of her bodice ensured her comfort accommodated her blooming waistline.  

Rosalie’s quarters on the Titanic reflected her status—a modest but private cabin on E Deck,  separate from the grandeur of the Astors’ opulent suite on B Deck. Though far smaller, the  space was a luxury compared to the cramped quarters of lower-class stewards. From there,  she moved with quiet efficiency, attending to her mistress with grace and discretion. 

Caroline Endres, a German-American trained maternity nurse, had been hired to care for  Madeleine during her pregnancy. A woman of warm but no-nonsense demeanour, she carried  herself with quiet authority, her very presence a source of calm amid the social whirlwind  surrounding the young Mrs. Astor. Her main duties were to monitor Madeleine’s health,  ensure she followed her prescribed diet, and prevent any undue stress that might affect her  delicate condition. 

Unlike Rosalie, Caroline did not wait in the shadows—she was, when required, a constant  companion to Mrs. Astor, accompanying her on gentle strolls and subtly intervening when  the endless social expectations of first class became overwhelming. Though she was, in  effect, a member of staff, Caroline's role gave her a unique standing—she was treated with a  certain deference, even by other first-class passengers. Her accommodation was near  Rosalie’s on E Deck, but as a nurse, she was allowed more frequent access to the Astors’  private suite. As soon as Madeleine entered their suite, Caroline swiftly and discreetly  assessed her condition, her trained eyes noting the slightest signs of fatigue or discomfort.  She observed the flush on her cheeks, the way she pressed a hand to her lower back, and the  subtle shift in her breathing after the climb up the grand staircase. Without hesitation, she  guided her young charge toward the nearest chaise, adjusting a cushion behind her back  before offering a cool glass of lemonade. As Rosalie busied herself with unpacking, Caroline  ensured the room’s air was fresh and the lighting soft, ever mindful that Madeleine’s  comfort—and that of the child she carried—was her foremost duty. Maddy was glad of the  refreshing lemonade the cool citrus tang soothing her parched throat, a stark contrast to the  dry tightness in her mouth—the lingering effect of nerves that had settled deep in her chest  since she anticipated their boarding. Each sip eased the tension ever so slightly, being with  their trusted staff bringing her comfort. 

Meanwhile, Victor Robbins, Colonel Astor’s butler of many years, took the hint of a nod  from the colonel and swiftly poured him a large Brandy. Victor’s role of Butler: trusted valet  and personal assistant. handled Mr. Astor’s personal effects, ensured his tailored suits were  properly pressed, and saw to the more delicate matters of correspondence and personal  arrangements. Victor knew when to speak and when to remain invisible, when to be at his  master’s side and when to step back into the periphery. 

His duties aboard the Titanic were straightforward: assist the Colonel in dressing for dinners,  fetch his morning communications, ensure that his business letters were in order, and  maintain his cufflinks, pocket watches, and cravats in perfect condition. More than a valet, 

Victor was a keeper of secrets, privy to the private affairs of one of the wealthiest men  aboard. 

Victor’s accommodations, while comfortable, were functional rather than luxurious, located  below first-class quarters, were again on E Deck. He was not expected to fraternize with the  rest of the crew or staff—his role placed him somewhere in between, not quite a gentleman,  but not quite a servant in the traditional sense. He observed the first-class elite from just  

beyond their gilded world, an invisible but essential presence in their lives. 

For Rosalie, Caroline, and Victor, the Titanic was a workplace, a world where they moved  seamlessly among the privileged, yet never truly belonged. Each knew their place, their  duties, their limits. They performed their roles with precision and loyalty, ensuring the  Astors’ every need was met.  

Just in time for departure from port, John and Maddy made their way to The First-Class  Promenade Deck. This exclusive, partially enclosed deck was one of the best spots for  first-class passengers to stand and observe the ship’s departure. It ran along the length of the  ship and provided shelter from the wind while offering stunning views over the dock and  surrounding waters.  

As the ship’s horn bellowed, signalling its departure from Cherbourg, a hush fell over the  crowd on the dock. Hats were raised in farewell, tears were wiped away, and a collective  breath seemed to hang in the air. This wasn’t just a voyage to America—it was a voyage into  legend. The Titanic was moving, and with it, the hopes, dreams, and fears of everyone  aboard. 

After departure Maddy followed her husband through the opulent first-class corridors. John  Jacob Astor IV, one of the richest men in America, walked with the confident stride of  someone who knew the world bent to his will. He paused occasionally to greet fellow  passengers, his polished charm radiating in every handshake and nod. John was far more  interested in taking in all the intricacies of the ships design than meaningless, superficial  chats with his peers. Though he had sailed on countless luxury liners throughout his life, John  had booked passage on the Titanic not merely to travel among fellow elites, but rather to  indulge his lifelong fascination with technological innovation. As an inventor and engineer at  heart, he viewed the ship not as a floating palace but as humanity's greatest maritime  achievement—a masterpiece of modern engineering whose turbine engines, wireless  communications, and revolutionary safety designs represented exactly the kind of progress  that stirred his intellectual curiosity. While others marvelled at the first-class amenities and  social prestige of the vessel, Astor was looking forward to learning more of her technical  specifications and if possible exploring less glamorous areas of the ship. For Maddy, whilst  the ship was everything John had said it would be: majestic, elegant, an undeniable marvel, in  her mind the hum of the engines didn’t mask the hum of judgment that followed her like a  shadow. She didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were saying. She’d heard it  all before. She’s barely a woman! Just a girl with stars in her eyes. What could she possibly  have in common with him? 

The scrutiny wasn’t new; it had begun the moment their engagement was announced in New  York. At first, Maddy had been swept up in the whirlwind of romance—the grand gestures,  the sense of being chosen by someone so powerful. But it hadn’t taken long for reality to set  in. John’s wealth didn’t protect her from the sharp claws of high society. If anything, it made  the whispers louder. 

Madeleines mother, Katherine Talmage Force, an ambitious matriarch of a wealthy but  socially climbing family, saw in her daughter's romance with John Jacob Astor IV an  unparalleled opportunity for dynastic advancement. She had been quick to notice John’s eye  had been turned by her beautiful, youngest daughter. She proceeded to quietly orchestrate  opportunities for the young Madeleine to captivate the recently divorced millionaire. Whilst  her socially ambitious mother constantly encouraged the union, Maddy’s older sister  Katherine regarded her younger sister's whirlwind romance with Colonel Astor with  measured caution, privately expressing concern about the nearly three-decade age gap and the  harsh scrutiny of New York society that would inevitably follow. For John and Maddy,  despite the whispers of opportunism that swirled around them, they shared quiet moments of  genuine tenderness that transcended their 29-year age difference—her youthful vitality  awakening a long-dormant romantic spirit in him, while his worldly wisdom and gentle  attentiveness offered her a depth of connection she hadn't found among suitors her own age.  In the privacy of their travels abroad, away from society's judging eyes, they developed a  relationship built on more than convenience or status, exchanging glances and private jokes  that suggested their unlikely pairing had blossomed into something neither family nor critics  truly understood—a love that was authentic in its own right. 

“Look alive, dear,” John murmured under his breath as a couple approached them—a stout  man with a booming laugh and a woman draped in a fur stole so heavy it seemed to anchor  her to the ground. 

“Mr. Astor! What a pleasure to see you,” the man said, his voice echoing off the marble walls. John clasped the man’s hand warmly. “Charles! It’s been far too long.” 

The two men exchanged pleasantries, their conversation flowing effortlessly. Meanwhile,  Maddy stood beside John, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She tried to focus on the  conversation, but her thoughts drifted. She glanced at the woman, who was eyeing her with  polite curiosity. Maddy recognized the look, her smile tightened. She was used to it by now,  but it didn’t sting any less. She missed Europe already. There, no one had cared about who  she was or who she’d married. She’d been free to explore, to laugh without worrying about  how it sounded, to walk through the streets without feeling like she was on display. Even to  loosen her bodice without fear of judgement.  

“I trust the honeymoon was splendid,” the woman said, breaking into Maddy’s thoughts. Her  voice was syrupy, her words tinged with an undercurrent of something sharper. 

“It was lovely, thank you,” Maddy replied, her tone measured. 

“Ah, Europe is so freeing, isn’t it?” the woman said, her smile sweet but her eyes cutting.  “But it’s good to be back, wouldn’t you agree? Back where things are… proper.” 

Maddy’s jaw tightened, but she maintained her smile. “Of course. There’s nothing quite like  New York society.” 

John, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the exchange, turned back to Maddy. “Shall we,  dear?” 

She nodded, grateful for the excuse to leave. 

As they walked away, John leaned in. “You handled that well.” 

“Handled what?” Maddy asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“Don’t play coy, Maddy. You know they’re all watching you, waiting for you to slip. Just  smile and let them think what they want. Their opinions mean nothing to us.” 

Maddy didn’t reply. Let them think what they want. It was easy for John to say. He wasn’t the  one they whispered about at parties, the one they dissected with their judgmental gazes. She  took some comfort from his – it’s us against them stance, his words wrapping around her like  a comforting blanket of protection.  

They returned to their stateroom, a suite so lavish it could have rivaled a small palace. Gold  accents gleamed under the electric lights, and plush carpets muffled their footsteps. Maddy  stepped inside and immediately felt the tension in her shoulders ease—just slightly. At least  here, behind closed doors, she could breathe. 

John began unpacking his papers, his movements efficient and precise. He seemed at ease,  completely at home in this world of excess and elegance. 

“You should rest before dinner dear, Rosalie will be along shortly to help you dress for the  evening. Take your time, my dear—there’s no rush." His voice was gentle, reassuring, as  he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. He knew the day had been long, the excitement of boarding  

mixed with the weight of curious glances and whispered gossip. Stepping closer, he brushed a  stray curl from Madeleine’s cheek, offering her a small, knowing smile. "You’ll be the most  radiant lady in the dining saloon," he added, before pressing a light kiss to her forehead. ”  

he said without looking up. “It’s going to be a long evening.” And promptly returned to his  papers. 

Maddy nodded, sitting on the edge of the velvet chaise. She glanced around the room, taking  in its splendor. Everything about the Titanic was designed to impress, to dazzle. But as she sat  there, surrounded by luxury, she felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite place, loneliness,  perhaps. Or maybe something deeper.  

The Titanic was alive with activity. The first evening for all the passengers to experience this  floating palace. For the staff their first true test of their newly acquired skills. After weeks  of preparation and training, they moved seamlessly through their duties, ensuring that every  detail met the exacting standards of first-class service. From the graceful presentation of  dishes in the dining saloon to the discreet yet efficient assistance provided in the lavish  staterooms, this was their moment to prove themselves aboard the most magnificent ship ever  built. 

The first-class dining saloon sparkled under the glow of crystal chandeliers, their light  dancing across gleaming silverware and pristine white linens. The hum of conversation filled  the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses. This wasn’t just dinner— it was a performance, an arena where the wealthy and powerful displayed their grandeur with  every word and gesture. 

Madeleine sat beside John at the captain’s table, a coveted spot that signified their position  among the elite. She smoothed the fabric of her gown—ivory silk trimmed with lace—and  kept her posture as perfect as the place settings before her. She’d learned quickly that first class dinners weren’t about eating. They were about being seen, about delivering the right  smiles and the right words at the right moments. 

The conversation swirled around her, a symphony of politics and business ventures. It  wasn’t long before John had the chance to steer the conversation to the detail of the ship, he 

was more interested in making the most of this rare opportunity to engage Captain Smith on  technical matters that genuinely fascinated him. He had a particular interest in the ship's  innovative propulsion systems, particularly the combination of reciprocating engines and the  new Parsons turbine. He pressed for specific details about the vessel's maximum sustained  speed capabilities, coal consumption rates, and the engineering challenges that had been  overcome during construction. The others gathered around the table listened intently to the  conversation, more out of politeness then interest as the conversation deepened. Maddy  listened to her husbands baritone voice carrying across the table as he recounted a recent  project of his own in New York. She admired his confidence, his ability to command a room.  

“Maddy, dear,” John said, his voice pulling her back to the table. “Have you met Mrs.  Kingsley?” 

Madeleine turned to the woman seated across from her. Margot Kingsley. The name sounded  familiar, and as she met Margot’s gaze, she realized why. Margot was a widow, well-known  for her beauty and sharp wit. She was the kind of woman who could silence a room with a  single glance, and right now, that glance was fixed squarely on Madeleine. Remembering her  allegiance with the first Mrs Astor, Maddy felt instantly uncomfortable. 

“Mrs. Astor,” Margot said, her voice smooth and measured. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “And I, about you, Mrs. Kingsley.” 

“Oh, please,” Margot said with a wave of her hand. “Call me Margot. We’re among friends,  aren’t we?” 

Madeleine nodded, though the words felt slightly forced. There was something about  Margot’s tone, her easy familiarity with John, that unsettled her. 

As the evening progressed, Margot’s presence became increasingly difficult to ignore. She  laughed at John’s jokes a little too warmly, leaned in a little too closely. And John, for his  part, seemed to revel in the attention. He wasn’t doing anything inappropriate—not really— but there was very obviously a familiarity between them that Madeleine couldn’t quite place. 

“You must find all this very overwhelming,” Margot said at one point, turning her attention  back to Madeleine. “Joining a world like this at such a young age.” 

Madeleine felt her smile tighten. “I’m quite accustomed to it, thank you.” Margot’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Of course you are.” 

Madeleine excused herself shortly after, retreating to the powder room under the pretense of  freshening up. She needed a moment to breathe, away from the noise and the unspoken  tensions. The powder room was empty, save for a steward tidying up near the sinks. 

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was pinned perfectly, her gown flawless.  She looked every inch the part of Mrs. John Jacob Astor. And yet, she felt like a stranger in  her own skin. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the steward said, breaking her thoughts. “Would you like me to fetch  anything for you?” 

Madeleine shook her head. “No, thank you.”

She returned to the table to find the mood unchanged. John was still deep in conversation, his  voice commanding the attention of everyone around him. Margot smiled at something he  said, her eyes sparkling under the chandelier light. 

Madeleine took her seat and folded her hands in her lap. She felt she was being watched—not  just by Margot, but by everyone at the table. Every movement, every expression would be  dissected, analysed, and likely whispered about before the night was over. 

The meal dragged on, each course more elaborate than the last. By the time dessert arrived— a decadent chocolate mousse served in crystal goblets—Madeleine felt as though she might  scream. The air felt heavy, thick with tension that no one else seemed to notice. 

As they finally rose to leave, Margot placed a hand lightly on John’s arm. “We must continue  our conversation tomorrow, Mr. Astor. There’s so much more to discuss.” 

John smiled. “I’d be delighted.” 

Madeleine said nothing as they left the dining saloon. The night air on the promenade deck  was cool, a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the dining room. She walked beside  John in silence, her thoughts swirling. 

“Are you all right?” John asked, glancing at her 

“Of course,” she said quickly. 

But she wasn’t. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was beginning to shift.  Something subtle, but undeniable. 

“I think I would like to walk a little longer, would you mind very much John? I will just be a  few minutes behind you?” 

“I will send Rosalie to bring you back, I really would prefer you were not alone.”  As soon as John was out of sight she turned and retraced their steps.  

The Grand Staircase was a masterpiece—polished oak paneling, wrought-iron balustrades,  and an elegant dome skylight that flooded the space with soft, golden light during the day.  Even now, under the glow of electric lamps, it exuded a sense of grandeur that left most  passengers awestruck. First-class passengers passed through with the practiced ease of people  accustomed to such splendor, while the occasional second-class guest who entered by  necessity hesitated, awed by their surroundings. 

Madeleine descended the staircase with deliberate steps, one hand gliding along the polished  railing. The events of the evening still sat uncomfortably with her, and she welcomed the  quietness of the space. The dining saloon’s suffocating formality seemed a world away here,  where the occasional echo of footsteps created a far more soothing rhythm. 

It was here she noticed her. A young woman, clutching a small leather-bound book to her  chest, paused at the base of the stairs. She wore a practical skirt and jacket, clearly second class attire, and her hat sat slightly askew, as though hastily adjusted. Her expression was a  mix of nervousness and determination, her gaze darting toward a passing steward before  returning to the staircase. 

Maddy hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

The woman turned quickly, startled by the voice. Her cheeks flushed as she met Maddy’s  gaze. “Oh, yes, miss. I mean, ma’am. I was just—” She gestured vaguely toward a corridor to  her left. “I think I may have taken a wrong turn.” 

Madeleine smiled gently, her tone warm. “The ship is a bit of a maze, isn’t it? Where are you  trying to go?” 

“To the second-class promenade,” the woman said, glancing nervously over her shoulder as  though she expected someone to reprimand her at any moment. “I must have missed the  sign.” 

“You’re not far,” Maddy said, gesturing to a nearby corridor. “It’s just through there. I can  show you, if you’d like.” 

The woman hesitated, clearly torn between accepting help and maintaining her pride. Finally,  she nodded. “That would be kind of you. Thank you.” 

They walked together in silence for a moment, the soft hum of the ship’s engines vibrating  faintly beneath their feet. Maddy glanced at the woman from the corner of her eye. She  seemed not much older than her, her demeanor was guarded. 

“I’m Madeleine Astor,” Maddy said, breaking the silence. 

The woman looked surprised, then quickly composed herself. “Clara Hamilton,” she replied.  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Astor.” 

“You can call me Maddy,” she offered. 

Clara hesitated before nodding. “Thank you, Maddy.” But her discomfort at using her first  name was apparent. 

As they reached the entrance to the second-class promenade, Clara paused, looking toward  the open deck where a few passengers stood gazing out at the dark sea. “It’s strange,” she  said softly. “Being on a ship this grand, I feel so small, Like the ocean could swallow it  whole if it wanted to.” 

Maddy followed her gaze. “Yes,” she said quietly. “But there’s something beautiful about it  too, don’t you think? To feel so insignificant and yet be part of something so grand.” 

Clara glanced at her, surprised by her honest response, expecting just a polite  acknowledgement, and certainly not a Kindred response. A small smile playing at her lips 

Suddenly aware that Rosalie would be searching for her, Maddy took her leave “I should let  you get back to your evening,” Maddy said after a moment. “But it was lovely to meet you,  Clara.” 

“And you, Maddy,” Clara said. 

As Maddy turned to leave, Clara called after her. “Thank you for saving me, I hope we meet  again.” 

Maddy glanced back, her smile genuine this time. “I’m sure we will.” 

By the time Madeleine returned to their suite, with a dishevelled Rosalie, John was seated at  the mahogany writing desk, engrossed in a set of documents. His pen moved steadily over the 

paper, the rhythmic scratching filling the quiet room. He didn’t glance up when she entered,  but his voice greeted her nonetheless. 

“Did you enjoy your stroll, dear?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Maddy replied, removing her gloves and placing them carefully on the vanity. She  studied him for a moment, noting how at ease he seemed in this space, as though the grandeur  of the Titanic was simply an extension of his own world. 

John finally looked up, his expression softening when his eyes met hers. “You seemed quiet  at dinner. Was everything all right?” 

Maddy hesitated. There had been something comforting about the walk with Clara, the  simplicity of their conversation. It felt worlds away from the carefully curated interactions of  first-class society. “It was fine,” she said, sitting on the edge of the chaise. “Just... a lot of  people. A lot of conversation.” 

John smiled faintly, setting his pen down. “I know it can be overwhelming at times, but you  handled yourself beautifully, as always. Everyone was impressed.” 

She gave him a small smile in return, but his words didn’t soothe her. Was it her imagination,  or had there been a touch of condescension in his tone? 

“Mrs. Kingsley seemed quite taken with you,” Maddy said lightly, testing the waters. 

John leaned back in his chair. “Margot is... bold, I’ll give her that. But you needn’t concern  yourself with her. She enjoys playing games, that’s all.” 

Maddy nodded, though the memory of Margot’s sly remarks still lingered in her mind. “She’s  certainly confident.” 

“That’s one way to put it,” John said with a wry smile. He stood, crossing the room to sit  beside her on the chaise. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear.” 

He reached for her hand, his touch warm and familiar. For a moment, the tension in her chest  eased. John had a way of reassuring her. When he looked at her like this—softly, earnestly— it was easy to forget the whispers, the stares, the doubts that gnawed at the edges of her mind. 

“You know,” John began, his voice taking on a lighter tone, “this voyage is as much for you  as it is for me. I want you to enjoy yourself, Madeleine. Explore the ship, meet new people. I  think you’ll find it’s not so bad, being back in this world.” 

Maddy tilted her head, studying him. “Do you think I don’t belong in it?” 

John’s brow furrowed slightly, as though her question caught him off guard. “Of course not.  You’re my wife, Maddy. That alone ensures you belong.” 

The words were meant to reassure, but they landed differently than he’d likely intended. They  weren’t about her, not really. They were about him—his name, his status, his world. 

“I’ll do my best,” she said softly, slipping her hand out of his and standing. She moved to the  window, looking out at the vast, dark ocean. 

Behind her, John rose as well, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll do wonderfully,”  he murmured.

For a moment, she leaned into his touch, letting herself believe the words. But deep down,  she couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how well she played the part, there would  always be cracks beneath the surface. She turned from the window and returned to the  armchair as John took his leave to return to the card tables and the company of his peers and  one last brandy. 

As Madeleine settled into the armchair, the quiet knock on the suite door pulled her from her  thoughts. Rosalie entered, her movements quick and precise as she balanced a tray holding a  teapot and two delicate porcelain cups. 

“Your evening tea, Mrs. Astor,” Rosalie said in her soft French accent, setting the tray on a  small table near Madeleine. 

“Thank you, Rosalie,” Maddy said, offering a small smile. 

Rosalie began to pour the tea with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless  times. Her hands were steady, her expression serene, but Maddy had learned to notice the  subtleties—the slight tightening of Rosalie’s jaw, the way her eyes flicked toward the floor. 

“You can sit, if you would like,” Maddy said gently. “You must be tired after today.” 

Rosalie hesitated, her gaze darting toward the door as though expecting someone to burst in  and reprimand her for such impropriety. “I’m fine, ma’am,” she replied, her tone polite but  firm. 

Maddy didn’t press. She knew better than to push Rosalie too far, even if she wanted to.  Rosalie was fiercely loyal, but she carried herself with a kind of quiet pride that wouldn’t  allow for anything that might blur the lines between servant and employer. 

“Is there anything else you’ll need before bed?” Rosalie asked, straightening. 

“You can leave me for half an hour Rosalie and then I will be ready for bed” Maddy said,  lifting the cup of tea to her lips. “Thank you, Rosalie.” 

As Rosalie left, Caroline entered the room, her footsteps lighter but her demeanour no less  efficient. Caroline Endres had been Maddy’s nurse since the early days of her pregnancy, and  her presence was a constant comfort. Where Rosalie was quiet and reserved, Caroline was  warm and talkative, often filling the silences with anecdotes or light-hearted observations. 

“Mrs. Astor,” Caroline said, her tone soft but purposeful, “I trust you’re settling in well? How  are you feeling tonight?” 

Maddy set her teacup down, offering Caroline a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m  fine, thank you. Just a bit... tired.” 

Caroline’s brow furrowed slightly as she took a seat across from Maddy. “Tired is one thing.  Worrying yourself into exhaustion is another.” 

Maddy let out a soft laugh. “Am I so transparent?” 

Caroline leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “You’ve had a long day, Mrs. Astor. A  long few months, I imagine. It’s all right to admit it’s been difficult.” 

Maddy looked down at her hands, the weight of the evening settling heavier on her shoulders.  “Sometimes it feels like I’m playing a role, you know? Like I’m not really... me anymore.  Just Mrs. Astor.”

Caroline nodded slowly. “That’s understandable, even in our structured society, you may still  chart your own course, my dear." 

For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the faint hum of the ship’s engines. Maddy  found comfort in Caroline’s presence.  

“You’re very wise, Caroline,” Maddy said softly. 

“I try,” Caroline replied with a small smile. “Now, please get some rest. I will send Rosalie  back. Tomorrow is a new day.” 

Maddy nodded, standing and moving toward the dressing table, she found herself thinking  about the people who surrounded her—Rosalie with her quiet dignity, Caroline with her  steady wisdom, Clara, her new acquaintance with her refreshing honesty. But how she  missed her sister Katherine, her guidance, reassurance, and advice. She vowed to write her  letter tomorrow, or even to ask john to send a message on the Marconi telegram system she  had heard so much about that evening.

Chapter 2

Day Two 11th of April 1912 

In the frigid waters of the North Atlantic, a silent force drifted. Born from the Greenland  glaciers thousands of years earlier, the iceberg’s journey had been slow but relentless. It  moved southward on the Labrador Current, its immense bulk hidden beneath the waves,  unyielding and indifferent. While the Titanic’s passengers revelled in their floating palace, the  

iceberg loomed in the distance, invisible to them all. 

Clara Hamilton stepped onto the second-class promenade, the brisk morning air tugging at  the hem of her skirt. She tightened her coat around her, her eyes scanning the horizon where  the deep blue sea met the pale sky. This was her favourite part of the day—when the ship felt  calm, almost meditative, before the energy of the passengers swelled into its usual hum. 

The second-class promenade was quieter than first class, but there was still a sense of order  and dignity. A few passengers walked briskly for exercise, their faces bright with the thrill of  being aboard the Titanic. Clara, however, lingered near the railing, letting the chill bite her  cheeks as she stared out at the waves.

Her thoughts drifted back those few short days to the day she’d boarded the Titanic. She’d  left Manchester behind with only a modest suitcase and a notebook filled with ideas she’d  been meaning to write down for years. The Titanic was supposed to be a fresh start, a clean  slate. But as she stood there now, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her past pressing  against her chest. 

“Good morning, Miss Hamilton.” 

Clara turned to see a fellow passenger—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a warm  smile. It was Mrs. Barrett, one of the few people Clara had spoken to since boarding. 

“Good morning,” Clara replied, returning the smile. 

Mrs. Barrett leaned on the railing beside her. “It’s a fine day, isn’t it?” 

Clara nodded. “It is. Almost makes you forget how vast the ocean is.” 

Mrs. Barrett chuckled softly. “A blessing and a curse, I suppose. Vastness can be freeing, but  it can also make you feel awfully small.” 

Clara smiled faintly, her thoughts turning inward. Small. Yes, she often felt that way. It wasn’t  the vastness of the ocean that overwhelmed her, though—it was the enormity of the  expectations she’d placed on herself. 

“Are you traveling alone?” Mrs. Barrett asked, her tone light but curious. “Yes,” Clara replied. “It seemed the right time for a new adventure.” 

Mrs. Barrett nodded knowingly. “A bold choice. I admire that.” 

The two women stood in companionable silence for a moment, the sound of the waves filling  the space between them. Clara felt a flicker of warmth at the interaction—a reminder that  even in the midst of uncertainty, there was kindness to be found. 

Margot Kingsley knew how to command attention, even in the most subtle of ways. It was in  the tilt of her head, the way her words dripped with calculated charm, and the glint in her  eyes that suggested she was always three steps ahead. 

She was seated in the first-class lounge, a delicate porcelain teacup balanced effortlessly in  her hand. Around her, a group of well-dressed women leaned in, hanging on her every word. 

“Did you see Mrs. Astor at dinner last night?” Margot asked, her tone casual but laced with  implication. 

There was a ripple of murmured agreement. 

“She’s quite young, isn’t she?” Margot continued, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I  suppose Mr. Astor has always had a taste for youthful exuberance.” 

The women exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from amusement to disapproval. “She carries herself well,” one of them offered cautiously. 

“Oh, certainly,” Margot replied, her tone magnanimous. “But one does wonder how she  manages the... complexities of their relationship. It can’t be easy, can it?” 

The group tittered softly, the conversation taking on a life of its own. Margot sat back,  satisfied.

Madeleine had awoken that morning to sunlight streaming through the curtained windows of  her suite. She dressed quickly, Rosalie lacing her corset with the efficiency of someone who  had done it a thousand times. After a light breakfast brought to her in their suite she stepped  out onto the promenade deck. Maddy took a deep breath of crisp sea air. Here, on this  luxurious vessel, everything was arranged to uphold the illusion of perfection—at least for  those in first class.  

She and Caroline strolled along the deck, passing other first-class passengers enjoying the  morning. Gentlemen in tailored suits smoked cigars, their laughter mingling with the sea  breeze. Women in immaculate gowns strolled arm-in-arm, their parasols spinning lazily  against the sun. Every detail, from their polished shoes to their jewelled hairpins, spoke of  privilege and prosperity.  

It wasn’t long before Caroline steered them to the First Class lounge for morning tea. Across  the room, as Madeleine entered, her eyes scanning the lounge. She spotted Margot almost  immediately, the woman’s poised figure impossible to miss. Maddy hesitated at the doorway,  a flicker of doubt crossing her face. 

Margot noticed her, of course. She always noticed. With a practiced smile, she beckoned  Maddy over. 

“Mrs. Astor, do join us,” Margot called out, her voice warm and welcoming. 

Maddy approached, her steps measured. As she reached the group, Margot gestured to the  empty seat beside her. 

“We were just discussing the marvels of this ship,” Margot said smoothly. “Isn’t it  extraordinary?” 

“Yes, it is,” Maddy replied, her voice steady but reserved. 

Margot tilted her head, studying Maddy for a moment. “And how are you finding the voyage  so far? Adjusting well, I hope?” 

Maddy hesitated. “It’s been... an experience.” 

Margot’s smile widened, and though her tone remained pleasant, her words carried a subtle  edge. “I’m sure it has. It must be quite a change, stepping into a world like this.” 

Maddy met Margot’s gaze, refusing to flinch. “"Change may be unsettling, yet it presents a  rare chance for one to grow and better oneself." 

The other women exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Margot’s smile didn’t  waver, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or irritation. 

“Well said,” Margot replied smoothly. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Mrs. Astor.” 

The conversation shifted, but Maddy remained keenly aware of Margot’s presence, of the  undercurrent of tension that seemed to follow her wherever she went. 

“I hear they’re organizing a tour of the ship for the first-class passengers,” Margot said, her  tone casual but her expression pointed. “They’re even allowing second-class passengers to  visit certain areas.” 

“Really?” one of the women replied, her voice tinged with disbelief. “And what do they think  they’ll gain from that? This is hardly their world.”

Madeleine glanced up from her teacup, her brow furrowing. “I think it’s wonderful,” she said  softly. “It must be fascinating to see the ship from every perspective.” 

Margot’s lips curved into a faint smile. “That’s very... charitable of you, Mrs. Astor.” 

Madeleine met her gaze evenly. “It’s simply the truth. A ship like this belongs to everyone on  board, in their own way.” 

Margot’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes held a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps,  or subtle disdain. 

After this uncomfortable conversation, Maddy signalled to Caroline and they both rose and  took their leave of the group. 

It was the ships final stop in Ireland before its voyage across the Atlantic began. Caroline and  Maddy joined the crowds congregated on the viewing decks to watch the embarkation.  Below, on the dockside relatives and friends bade farewell, tears flowed and long hugs  ensued before some of the new passengers could wrench themselves from their loved ones.  Promises of money to be sent home and re-unions in the near future were exchanged.  

Maddy watched a young girl clinging to the jacket of her male companion, she could almost  see her white knuckles, even from her high vantage point. The girls eyes were swollen from  days of tears, the man took her hands from his jacket and took them in his hands as he  stepped back from her. His back was facing the dock side but he knew that he had to break  free of her clutches and turn towards the ship. He kissed the girls cheek then dropped her  hands and turned to take his place in the line of passengers. As he left her, she broke down,  her body visibly shuddering as the tears coursed down her cheeks once more. He kept his  stare toward the ship, forcing himself not to turn and witness her final disintegration. As she  watched feeling moved by the scene, Maddy wondered about their relationship, were they  lovers forced to part? The girl looked far too young—perhaps they were siblings rather than  lovers. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with unspoken fears and silent goodbyes.  The weight of the moment pressed on Maddy’s chest, and before she could stop it, a swell of  emotion rose within her, mirroring the charged atmosphere around her.  

Caroline, ever watchful, sensing Maddy’s emotions, took her arm and gently negotiated their  way through the crowds. She used the proximity to lunch time for her reasoning, declaring  that by all reports Madeleine had had an insufficient breakfast. 

Whilst Maddy sat in the first class dining room to take lunch, in steerage, otherwise known  as Third Class, families crowded into shared spaces. The new passengers mingled and  familiarized themselves with their new surroundings. The air was thick with warmth and  noise. Children played games on the crisp wooden floors while mothers tended to infants.  Men gathered in groups, speaking in a mix of languages that echoed off the metal walls. The  furnishings were plain—sturdy wooden benches and metal bunks—but for many, it was a  step up from what they’d left behind. 

The stark contrasts between the classes were most evident during meals. In first class, the  dining saloon was a symphony of elegance. White-jacketed stewards glided between tables,  delivering plates of consommé, lobster, and quail with practiced precision. Conversations  flowed as easily as the wine, and the clinking of crystal glasses punctuated bursts of laughter. 

In steerage, the dining arrangements were far simpler. Meals were served family-style, with  large platters of hearty fare—stew, bread, and potatoes—shared among tables. Ellen sat  beside a family she had befriended during boarding, her hands clasped in her lap as she 

waited for the meal to be served. The food was plain but plentiful, a welcome change from  the meagre rations many had endured before boarding the Titanic. 

The second-class dining experience fell somewhere in between. Clara sat at a modestly set  table, her meal carefully plated but far simpler than the elaborate dishes served above. She  glanced around the room, taking in the faces of her fellow passengers. There was a sense of  camaraderie here, a shared understanding of what it meant to belong neither to the world of  opulence nor to the world of struggle. 

As the afternoon wore on and passengers became more settled, the ship seemed to breathe  with life. Music drifted from the first-class saloon, where a string quartet played a waltz for  those enjoying an afternoon cocktail. In steerage, the energy was livelier, with passengers  clapping and stamping their feet to the rhythm of a fiddle. Ellen smiled as she watched the  children dance, their laughter filling the space with warmth. 

Madeleine had managed to break rank and to avoid prying eyes and in the hope of bumping  in to Clara, she went to the Aft deck. She stood at the railing, gazing out at the vast expanse  of water. The ship seemed invincible, a testament to human ambition and ingenuity. And yet,  

as she stared into the endless sky, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was also fragile—a  world unto itself, floating precariously on the sea. She was wrapped in a heavy shawl as the  breeze nipped at her cheeks. The sun glinted off the waves, the horizon stretching endlessly  before her. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe deeply, letting the vastness of the  ocean soothe her. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice said, startling her slightly. 

"Why, it's absolutely divine," Madeleine replied, a small smile forming on her lips. "One  practically forgets how terribly insignificant we are out here in such vastness." 

"Small, yes, but not without meaning," Clara said, stepping closer. "Every step forward feels  like a victory, doesn't it? For all of us, in our own way." 

"I do believe you're right," Madeleine considered, the weight of the words settling in her  chest. "For some, it's a dream realized. For others..." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish  the thought. 

"For others, it's an escape," Clara said softly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. 

Madeleine didn’t respond, but she found herself thinking about the young girl standing on the  dockside this morning, devastated by the departure of her loved one. She told Clara that she  had watched the embarkation that morning and was struck by how impoverished the people  boarding looked. 

"I must confess," Maddy said, offering a warm smile, "I know so little about Ireland beyond  its rolling green hills and poetry. But I imagine there’s far more to it than just romantic  landscapes." 

Clara smiled widely. "Ah, you’d be right about that. Ireland is older than its stories, but not  always as peaceful as its hills. It’s had its fair share of struggle—centuries of it, really." She  glanced toward the window, where the coastline had long since disappeared from view. 

Maddy leaned in, intrigued. "Tell me, what do you mean?" 

Clara sighed, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. "Well, the English have ruled  over Ireland for centuries, but not without resistance. In 1801, Ireland was officially joined to  Britain under the Act of Union, though few wanted it. Then there was the Great Famine in  the 1840s—it wasn’t just hunger that took their people, but neglect. A million souls lost, and 

another million forced to sail away, much like those who boarded today." She paused, a  flicker of sadness in her eyes. "That’s why so many leave, you see. The land is rich, but life is  hard. And for those who stay, well… there’s always talk of change. Some dream of home  rule, others whisper of rebellion." 

Maddy absorbed Clara’s words, feeling a pang of guilt at how little she had known. To her,  Ireland had been a beautiful country with charming traditions. 

"And do you believe Ireland will be free one day?" Maddy asked softly. 

Clara tilted her head, considering. "I believe Ireland will always be Ireland—whether ruled  or free, her people will endure. And maybe, just maybe, one day she’ll stand on her own  again." 

"I marvel at your extensive knowledge of Irish affairs."  

“My mother grew up in Ireland, but she left as a young woman.”  

Clara looked visibly uncomfortable after blustering out her link to Ireland, Maddy smiled and  promptly steered the conversation back to lighter topics of conversation before realizing that  she was yet to get ready for the impending evening and no doubt Caroline will be concerned  by her absence and Rosalie will be waiting to draw her bath. 

On her returned to their suite Maddy wondered about the countless lives aboard this ship,  each carrying their own hopes and fears. She thought of Clara, wondering what secrets this  woman carried, what dreams had brought her here. She returned to their suite, where victor  was tidying John’s desk. He informed her that her husband had already left to join other  gentlemen for aperitifs before dinner and that Rosalie had her bath ready. Maddy wondered  if she had sensed a disproval! She obediently went to their bathing room, the most luxurious  private en-suite complete with the bathtub. It featured marble surrounds and porcelain  fixtures, brass fittings, and plush monogrammed towels provided by the White Star Line were  being warmed in readiness. She remarked to Rosalie that Victor seemed displeased with her  with a warm smile and lightness to her voice. As normal, Rosalie barely reacted, keeping her  professional poise. Caroline entered as Madeleine stepped in to the rosemary and lavender  scented bath “Mrs. Astor” she said gaily “Are you upsetting Victor’s sense of proprietary?”  they both started giggling at their shared joke. Rosalie’s demeanour remained stoic and true  to form. 

Caroline Endres, ever attentive, had discreetly laid out a fluffy, embroidered robe, to match  the towels ensuring everything was at hand should Madeleine need assistance. The warm  glow of the electric sconces cast soft shadows across the marble walls, their polished surfaces  gleaming under the golden light. 

The ship hummed softly beneath her, a distant, reassuring sound, reminding her of the  grandeur of the vessel carrying them toward New York. Reclining for a moment, she let the  warm water envelop her, relishing a rare moment of solitude and luxury before dressing for  the evening’s grand dinner in the first-class saloon. 

Unseen to the passengers, the ship’s officers were less at ease. Throughout the day, the  Titanic had received multiple warnings about ice in their path. Wireless operators relayed  messages from nearby ships—icebergs spotted ahead, pack ice stretching for miles. The  warnings were noted, acknowledged, and largely set aside. After all, this was the Titanic. It  was unsinkable.

On the bridge, First Officer William Murdoch studied the chart, his brow furrowed. “There’s  no need to worry,” Captain Smith said, his voice calm but firm. “The weather is clear, and the  ship is capable of handling any situation.” 

Murdoch nodded, though the unease lingered in his expression. The calm seas and the  waning crescent phase of the moon that was just below the horizon meant spotting an  iceberg would be difficult, even with the best lookouts in the crow’s nest. 

Later that evening, Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee took their posts in the crow’s nest, the  chill of the night air biting at their faces. They scanned the horizon, their eyes sharp and  focused, but without binoculars. There had been an unfortunate oversight involving the  changeover of personnel just before the ships departure which left the crew with no key to the  cupboard where the binoculars were stored, hence they relied solely on their instincts. 

“Do you think we’ll see anything tonight?” Lee asked, his voice muffled by the wind. Fleet shrugged. “If it’s out there, we’ll spot it. We always do.” 

But the sea was eerily calm, the stillness making it harder to detect the tell tale signs of  icebergs. There were no waves breaking against the ice, no foam to mark its presence. The  vast darkness stretched out before them, quiet and unyielding. 

Below deck, the mood was far more lively. In steerage, passengers gathered in communal  spaces, their voices and laughter echoing against the metal walls. Ellen O’Shannon sat near a  group of children, her smile soft as she watched them play. She felt a strange mixture of hope  and homesickness, the weight of her journey pressing on her shoulders. 

“Are you all right, Ellen?” asked one of the older women, her voice gentle. Ellen nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Just tired, I suppose. It’s been a long few days.” The woman patted her hand. “Rest when you can, love. We’ll be in America soon enough.” 

Ellen nodded again, but her thoughts drifted to the life she’d left behind. She clutched the  letter from her cousin in her pocket, a small reminder of the future she was working toward. 

Above, in first class, Madeleine found herself once again at the captain’s table, surrounded by  familiar faces. Margot Kingsley’s laughter rang out, drawing the attention of the group. John  joined in with a polite chortle, his charm as polished as ever. 

“Captain,” Margot said, turning to Edward Smith, “what’s the worst thing you’ve ever faced  at sea?” 

The captain smiled, his expression calm. “Every voyage presents its challenges, Mrs.  Kingsley. But I trust the Titanic is more than capable of handling anything that comes our  way.” 

Smith the most confident of seamen had had a long career, this was to be his final captaincy,  his wife had long awaited the end of his final voyage. He was the most likeable of  gentlemen, well-liked by his staff and passengers alike. He was renowned for his calm  authority that was mixed with just the right amount of paternal presence. He always  displayed the highest regards for his officers and was happy to promote their autonomy and  trust in their capabilities. He prided himself on mentoring his officers, finding deep  satisfaction in seeing them rise through the ranks, knowing that his guidance had helped  shape the next generation of seafarers. On this voyage First office William Murdoch was  elated to finally have the honour of serving with Captain Smith.

Whilst the rest of the guests smiled reassured by the captains reply, Madeleine noticed the  faint lines of tension around the captain’s eyes. She thought back to the tittle tattle that  morning whilst the ladies that took tea discussed the Captains domestic situation. Despite his  age he had a wife twenty years his junior and two children who were waiting with open arms  for his forthcoming retirement. She studied his face and body language, fully understanding  the man was biding his time and his heart now lay back on dry land with his young family. It  wasn’t long before he politely took his leave of the table and returned to the bridge.  

Madeleine too announced her departure feigning fatigue even though a huge part of her  didn’t want to demonstrate any weakness to her adversaries. She assured John she was going  directly to their cabin and that she would send a valet to bring Caroline to her. But of course  she had no intention of following his wishes. 

Indeed, instead she slipped off to the second class dining room to see if she could get the  attention of Clara. 

Clara had never eaten so well in her life. The second-class dining experience was far  beyond anything she had ever known—polished silverware, crisp white tablecloths, and  waiters who served with an ease she had only ever seen in fancy hotels, not places meant  for people like her. 

The meal itself was a revelation. A steaming bowl of pea soup arrived first, thick and  hearty, warming her from the inside. Then came the roast turkey with savoury stuffing,  creamy turnips, and buttered peas, a meal fit for a holiday back home, yet served on an  ordinary evening aboard the Titanic. She marvelled at the flaky, perfectly baked bread  rolls, their rich scent making her stomach growl despite herself. 

By the time dessert arrived—a sweet plum pudding drizzled with a silky vanilla sauce— Clara found herself laughing at the sheer indulgence of it all. Back in Manchester, supper  was usually a simple stew or a slice of bread with cheese, meant to fill the stomach, not  tantalize the senses. But here, on this magnificent ship, she was eating meals she had only  ever imagined. 

She slowed, savouring each bite, as if somehow the taste of it all could carry her forward  into the future she dreamed of." 

She was just scraping the last spoonful from her bowl when she thought she could hear her  name being called over the hum of conversation, sensing a presence she turned just in time to  see Madeleine Astor loitering suspiciously in the door way, bobbing back and forward in an  hysterical attempt to not be noticed. She had to stifle her laugh so as not to alert her fellow  diners to her unexpected visitor. As she reached Maddy, neither of them could control their  laughter any longer and they clasped each other’s hands as they delighted in the comedy. 

"Come on," said Maddy. "Would you be so kind as to accompany me for a while?" 

"I should be most delighted," Clara replied with a little bow, causing Maddy to laugh once  more. Maddy linked arms and they both ventured down the corridor like a pair of  mischievous schoolgirls. Any social distinction vanished completely; they were simply two  young women enjoying themselves. 

Maddy calculated she had perhaps two hours at most before her absence would be remarked  upon. 

"Where might we be headed?" said Clara. 

"Oh, I haven't the faintest idea. Shall we explore? I should so love to observe how everyone  else aboard this vessel lives."

"I would be pleased to show you my cabin, which by your standards is exceedingly modest." 

"Yes, please!" Maddy said with enthusiasm. "But oughtn't we visit our suite while I am  certain our staff are still at dinner? Let’s make haste!" 

With that they ascended the back staircase that brought them to The Astor suite of rooms.  Maddy verified the suite was unoccupied before beckoning Clara inside. Maddy then kept  watch, standing just outside while listening to Clara's exclamations of astonishment as she  fully absorbed the lavishness. 

"You shall be in my debt for this," Maddy laughed nervously, glancing over her shoulder. 

Clara scarcely heard her. The moment she stepped inside, her breath caught. "Good heavens...  this isn't a cabin, it's a veritable palace." 

The suite was a masterpiece of excess, walls adorned in silk damask, a marble fireplace  gleaming beneath the electric sconces, and a Persian rug so thick her boots hardly made a  sound. She ran her fingers over the back of a velvet chair, suppressing a laugh. "I daresay  your dog rests upon finer sheets than I have ever known." 

Maddy, suddenly aware of the nervous sensation coursing through her body, snorted from the  doorway. "Do make haste, Clara, my courage is waning!" 

Clara, enchanted, stepped toward the polished mahogany writing desk. A silver tea service sat  untouched, alongside a crystal dish filled with sugared almonds. She resisted the temptation  to place one in her mouth. 

"Clara!" Maddy's voice rose to a sharp whisper. "We must depart at once, I can hear  footsteps." 

They silently eluded the newcomers by retreating the way they had come, stifling their  laughter until they were safely beyond earshot. 

Sneaking into a first-class suite on the world's most luxurious ship? For Clara, that was a  memory worth preserving. 

"Now it's my turn," Clara said with a mischievous grin, guiding Maddy through the second class corridor. 

Maddy followed, her silk skirts brushing against the plain wooden floors, in stark contrast to  the plush carpets of first class. The hallway was narrower, the ceiling lower, but rather than  appearing disagreeable, it felt cozy and inhabited. There was a warmth here, a quiet murmur  of voices behind cabin doors, the distant sound of merriment from the common areas. 

"Here we are." Clara pushed open the door to her modest second-class cabin with a theatrical  flourish. "Not quite a palace, but it serves its purpose admirably." 

Maddy stepped inside, her eyes sweeping over the small but tidy space. A simple wooden  bunk, a tiny writing desk, and a narrow wardrobe took up most of the room. A washbasin sat neatly in the corner, and a worn leather trunk—Clara’s only real possession of value— rested at the foot of the bed. 

Maddy let out a soft breath, a strange sense of nostalgia washing over her. 

"Oh, I love this," she murmured, running a gloved hand over the edge of the desk as though  it held some long-forgotten memory. 

Clara arched an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. "You love this?" She gestured at  the small bunk, the plain furnishings, the lack of luxury. "You, the lady of silk sheets  and silver tea sets?"

Maddy laughed, shaking her head. "No, you don’t understand. This feels… familiar." She turned, a wistful look softening her features. "When I was little, before my father…  well, before everything changed, we traveled in a cabin just like this." She smiled, tracing  the edge of the bunk. "It was small, and simple, and I adored it. I remember curling up  in a bed just like this while my mother read to me." 

Clara tilted her head, intrigued. "Before your father climbed the social ladder, you  mean?" 

Maddy nodded, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression, fondness, maybe  even longing. "Back then, we weren’t grand. We weren’t Astors or Vanderbilts. My  father was ambitious, but we were still just… a family. I believe those were some of the  happiest times of my life." 

Clara studied her for a moment before giving a slow, knowing smile. "You mean before the  fancy gowns and dinner parties? “ 

"Indeed... Before society folk exchanged their little whispers whenever I passed." 

Maddy laughed again, but there was truth in her eyes. "Before all of it." She sighed and  perched lightly on the edge of Clara's bunk. "There's something quite marvellous about this,  Clara. No expectations, no tiresome social obligations. Simply... life." 

Clara folded her arms, smirking. "Well, do mind yourself. I should hate for you to develop a  taste for life among the ordinary folk." 

Maddy swatted at her playfully, a genuine, easy laugh bubbling up. "Don't be absurd. I adore  it here." 

For the first time since boarding the Titanic, Maddy didn't feel like a society wife. She felt  like herself. It was so refreshing to be able to be herself, to be her age, to find such  camaraderie within a genuine friendship. The two young women had that ease where you  feel as though you have known each other for a life time, or even from past lives  

"Very well, if you found my second-class cabin an adventure, wait until you glimpse third  class," Clara said, leading Maddy down a dimly lit corridor that seemed worlds apart from the  polished grandeur of first class. 

Maddy hesitated for only a moment before following. The air here was warmer, filled with  the aroma of stew and bread, and the hum of voices—Irish, Scandinavian, Italian, English— created a lively, almost musical atmosphere. Children's laughter echoed from somewhere  nearby, and a baby let out a wail before being quickly hushed by a mother's soft lullaby. 

"Clara, are we even permitted down here?" Maddy whispered, feeling a thrill of mischief at  venturing into an area so distant from her own world. 

"If anyone inquires, simply say you lost your way to the ballroom. I wish to introduce you to  my cousin," Clara quipped, tugging Maddy forward. Maddy looked astounded by this news,  a cousin in Steerage, she had not mentioned she had family on board, 

They rounded a corner and entered a common area, where third-class passengers sat on  simple wooden benches, eating, talking, and playing cards. A few heads turned at the sight of  two well-dressed women standing in the midst of their space, but most simply carried on as  they were. 

At a small table near the wall, a young Irish woman was peeling an apple with practiced  efficiency. She had reddish-brown hair pinned back in a loose bun, sleeves rolled up as  though perpetually ready for work, and sharp eyes that missed nothing. 

Clara wrapped her arms around Ellen.

"Ellen, I've brought my new friend to meet you, this is Maddy." She gestured to Maddy, who  hovered uncertainly before finally taking a seat. 

Ellen glanced up, taking in Maddy's impeccably tailored dress, gloved hands, and the delicate  scent of perfume that had no place in third class. Her lips twitched in amusement. 

"A lady of high society, is it?" Ellen's Irish lilt was pronounced and playfully sceptical. "And  what brings ye down here, then? Lost your way? Fancied a wee bit of adventure among the  common folk?" 

Maddy, to Clara's delight, didn't flinch. She met Ellen's gaze with a warm smile. "I suppose one might say I was curious," she admitted 

“But I am more curious about your story” 

April 5, 1914 - Two weeks before the Titanic's departure 

Clara Thompson sat at the small desk in her Manchester Room, re-reading the letter that had  arrived that morning. The paper was cheap but the handwriting was unmistakable—the same  careful script she had been receiving for nearly five years now. She smiled as her eyes traced  over the familiar loops and curves of her cousin's penmanship. 

Dearest Clara, 

I can scarcely believe I am writing these words, but it seems God has finally smiled upon us. I  have secured passage on the RMS Titanic, departing from Queenstown on the 11th. By some  miracle (and no small amount of scraping and saving), I shall be crossing the ocean at last.  America awaits, and with it, the promise of a new beginning. 

I remember how you wrote of your own plans to travel this April. Is it too much to hope our  paths might cross upon the great ship? You in your second-class cabin, and I in third—but  crossing the same vast ocean nonetheless. What a remarkable reunion it would be, after all  these years of nothing but ink and paper between us. 

With affection, Your cousin Ellen 

Clara pressed the letter to her chest for a moment, then quickly reached for her pen. It had  been several years since she had last seen Ellen—a skinny, freckle-faced girl of around eight  when Clara and her mother had visited their Irish roots in Ireland It had been Clara’s first trip  to the homeland, her mother returning for the funeral of her estranged grandmother. The two  cousins had promised to write, as children often do, but unlike most childhood promises, this  one they had kept. 

Through letters, they had shared everything: Clara and her mother’s lonely existence in  England, Ellen's families hardships after the potato blight had returned to their small corner  of County Cork. And now, they would both be aboard the same ship, heading toward the  same horizon. 

Clara stood on the second-class deck of the RMS Titanic, watching as the English coastline  slowly receded. The enormous ship would make two more stops—Cherbourg in France, and  then Queenstown in Ireland—before beginning its true journey across the Atlantic. 

Queenstown. The thought made Clara's heart beat faster. Tomorrow, Ellen would board this  very ship, and their reunion, long confined to the pages of their letters, would finally become  real. 

Clara had meant to keep to herself to herself on that first evening, taking a light supper in the  second-class dining room and retiring early. Had she not been exploring the lay out of the  ship, she would certainly not have met and formed an immediate bond with Madeleine. That 

first evening, warmed by their encounter She had fallen asleep to the gentle rocking of the  ship, dreaming of the cousin she had not seen in nearly a decade. 

The next day, as the Titanic docked at Queenstown harbour, Clara positioned herself at the  railing of the second-class promenade deck, which offered a clear view of the third-class  gangway. She scanned the crowd of Irish passengers making their way up the steep ramp,  searching for a face she knew only from a faded photograph sent three Christmases ago. 

Would she even recognize Ellen? The girl in the photograph had been solemn-faced, her hair  pulled back severely, but with a hint of mischief in her eyes that reminded Clara of the child  she had once known. 

The minutes ticked by, and Clara began to worry. Perhaps Ellen had missed the ship. Perhaps  something had happened to delay her. Or worse, perhaps— 

"Ye look like ye've seen a ghost." 

The voice came from behind her, the Irish lilt so familiar yet strange after years of English  propriety. Clara whirled around, and there stood a young woman with reddish-brown hair and  eyes that sparkled with the same mischief Clara remembered. 

"Ellen!" Clara gasped. "But how—you're supposed to be boarding with the third-class  passengers!" 

Ellen grinned, a quick flash of teeth that transformed her serious face. "I did. Came aboard  proper like, but then thought I'd see if I could find ye. Amazing what a confident stride and  avoiding eye contact can get ye." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Walked right up  the service stairs like I belonged here." 

Clara laughed despite herself, quickly embracing her cousin. "You haven't changed a bit! Still  getting yourself into places you shouldn't be!" 

"And you," Ellen said, stepping back to look at Clara properly, "still as proper as can be.  Look at ye, all English now." 

Clara felt a flush of pride and embarrassment. Her carefully cultivated accent, her tailored  traveling suit, her gloves—all markers of the distance she had put between herself and her  humble beginnings. 

"Not so English that I'd forget my own blood," Clara said softly. "It's wonderful to see you,  Ellen. Truly." 

Ellen's expression softened. "And you. Your letters kept me going through some dark times,  Clara. Sometimes I'd read them and think, 'If Clara can make her way in England, I can make  mine in America.'" 

A ship's officer walked past, giving the two women a curious glance. Ellen straightened,  adopting the demure posture of a lady's maid. 

"I should return below," she said quietly. "Can't risk getting caught where I don't belong  before we've even properly set sail." 

Clara nodded, but quickly caught Ellen's hand. "Meet me tomorrow. There's a small deck at  the stern of the ship on the C Deck. Third-class passengers are allowed there for air, and  second-class passengers sometimes stroll there too. No one will think it odd if we chat." 

Ellen squeezed Clara's hand. "Tomorrow then, cousin. We've an ocean to cross and years to  catch up on." 

As Ellen slipped away, disappearing down a stairwell before anyone could question her  presence, Clara turned back to the railing. The Irish coastline was growing distant, the last 

glimpse of the Old World fading away. Ahead lay the open Atlantic, and beyond that, a new  life for both of them. 

“And here we are now, re-united.” Clara concluded to a transfixed Maddy. “How wonderful.” Exclaimed Maddy, thinking of her own connection with her sister. 

Maddy had to get back to her suite before she was missed and although John would no doubt  be in the Smoking room or playing cards she knew that Caroline would be arriving to do her  bed-time check of her charge - It was suffocating her, she had never been so coveted. 

Meanwhile, the iceberg drifted steadily southward, unseen and unmoved. Its vast bulk was  hidden beneath the surface, a silent giant carrying the weight of centuries. Its course was set,  its purpose indifferent to the lives that lay in its path. 

John Jacob Astor IV leaned against the polished railing of the first-class promenade deck, his  gaze fixed on the endless expanse of ocean. The wind ruffled his perfectly combed hair, but  he paid it no mind. To the casual observer, he looked every bit the confident and  accomplished businessman, a titan of industry surveying his domain. But John’s mind was far  from the steel and stone of his New York empire. 

He thought of Madeleine. She had handled herself well at dinner tonight—poised, charming,  exactly as he’d coached her to be. But there had been moments when her youth showed,  moments when her laughter had been just a little too bright, her questions a little too naïve.  The other guests had noticed. He could feel their subtle shifts in conversation, their faintly  patronizing smiles. A small part of him had been glad when she had excused herself and  returned to their suite. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Madeleine. He did. In his way, he even loved her. But there  were times, like now, when he wondered if he’d been too impulsive. A man in his position  couldn’t afford impulsiveness. He was nearly fifty, a seasoned veteran of high society, and  she... well, she was barely out of the schoolroom. 

“Mr. Astor,” a voice interrupted his thoughts. 

He turned to see Margot Kingsley approaching, her fur-lined coat sweeping elegantly behind  her. She smiled, the kind of smile that carried both charm and calculation. 

“Mrs. Kingsley,” he said, inclining his head politely. “Enjoying the evening air?” 

“Immensely,” she replied, coming to stand beside him. “Though I must say, it’s much better  with company.” 

John chuckled lightly. “Is that so?” 

Margot leaned on the railing, her eyes scanning the horizon. “It must be exhausting, being  who you are. All those expectations, all those eyes watching your every move.” 

“It has its moments,” John admitted, his tone guarded. 

Margot glanced at him, her expression thoughtful. “And your wife? Does she enjoy it?” 

John hesitated, the question catching him off guard. “Madeleine is... adjusting,” he said  carefully.

“Adjusting,” Margot echoed, a hint of amusement in her voice. “What a diplomatic answer.” 

John didn’t reply, and for a moment, they stood in silence, the wind carrying the faint strains  of music from the first-class lounge. 

“You know,” Margot said finally, her voice softer now, “you don’t have to carry it all on your  own.” 

John turned to her, his brow furrowing slightly. “And what exactly are you suggesting, Mrs.  Kingsley?” 

Margot smiled again, that same knowing smile that had unsettled Madeleine the night before.  “Only that I understand what it means to wear a mask, Mr. Astor. And if you ever tire of it,  well... you know where to find me.” 

With that, she walked away, leaving John to his thoughts.  

Knowing that he should return to their suite and to his wife, Madeleine but at the same time  resisting his duty.  

Madeleine sat in front of her mirror whilst Rosalie unpinned her hair and Caroline asked her  question after question about her heart rate and enquiring about her discarded clothes that felt  slightly damp! Enquiring if she was well, how is she feeling? has she felt baby move today?  

taking her pulse and monitoring her temperature. Constantly clucking over her like a mother  duck. Maddy was keeping her secrets of the evening firmly behind pursed lips. Her hands  clasped loosely in front of her. The opulence of her surroundings was almost  overwhelming—the polished wood panelling, the gold accents, the faint scent of flowers  carried on the air. It was all so beautiful, so carefully curated, and yet it left her feeling  hollow in comparison to this evenings escapades. 

Chapter 3

Day 3 12th of April 1914 

Madeleine walked through the first-class promenade, her gloved hands clasped neatly in front  of her. Around her, the air hummed with quiet conversation and soft laughter, the soundtrack  of a world steeped in privilege. Gentlemen smoked cigars in small clusters, their voices low  and confident. Women strolled in pairs, their parasols spinning idly in the pale sunlight. To an  outsider, it might have seemed like the pinnacle of elegance. 

But for Maddy, it felt like a gilded cage. 

She kept her smile in place as she passed an older woman who nodded politely in her  direction. It was the same tight-lipped expression she’d seen a dozen times since boarding— the kind that said, You’re tolerated because of who your husband is, not because of who you  are. 

It wasn’t new. From the moment she’d married John, Maddy had become accustomed to the  weight of expectations. As Mrs. John Jacob Astor IV, she was expected to embody grace,  charm, and sophistication. She was expected to glide through this world of luxury as 

effortlessly as the Titanic cut through the waves. And she was expected to do it all without  showing a hint of strain. 

What no one seemed to expect was for her to be human. 

She stopped near the railing, letting the cool sea breeze brush against her face. It helped, a  little, to feel the sharp bite of the air. It reminded her that she was still real, still alive, even if  she often felt like little more than an ornament. Maddy’s footsteps carried her to the first class library, a quiet sanctuary filled with mahogany shelves and leather-bound books. She  selected a volume at random and settled into one of the plush armchairs by the window. But  as she turned the pages, her mind wandered. 

Marriage wasn’t supposed to feel like this, was it? John was attentive, yes, but there was a  distance between them, a gulf she didn’t know how to bridge. She thought of the way he’d  smiled at Margot during dinner, the easy rapport between them. It wasn’t jealousy she felt— at least, she didn’t think it was. It was more a sense of inadequacy, of being out of her depth. 

“Excuse me, Mrs. Astor,” a steward interrupted, his voice low. “May I fetch you anything?” Madeleine shook her head, forcing a smile. “No, thank you.” 

The steward nodded and disappeared, leaving her alone with her thoughts once more. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” 

Maddy turned to see a woman in her mid-forties approaching, her gown a shade of emerald  that shimmered in the sunlight. Her hat, adorned with a plume of white feathers, tilted just so. 

“Yes, it is,” Maddy replied, her smile automatic. 

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” the woman said, extending a hand. “Mrs. Helen  Whitmore.” 

“Madeleine Astor,” Maddy replied, shaking her hand lightly. 

“Ah, Mrs. Astor,” Helen said, her tone thick with polite condescension. “What a pleasure.  I’ve heard so much about you.” 

Maddy’s smile didn’t falter, though she felt her chest tighten. "I trust only pleasant things  have reached your ears." She said in a voice that really didn’t sound like her own. 

Helen’s laughter was light but insincere. "But of course. You are quite the subject of  conversation, you know. A young bride, wed to such a distinguished gentleman—naturally,  you have left quite an impression."  

Maddy nodded, knowing better than to engage further. Conversations like this were common  in first-class society—carefully veiled barbs disguised as pleasantries. 

As Helen drifted away, Maddy turned back to her view of the horizon, her thoughts swirling.  She didn’t resent John for the life he’d brought her into. How could she? He’d given her the  world—beautiful gowns, a home that could rival a palace, and now, the promise of a family.  But none of it came without a cost. 

When she’d first met John, it had been like stepping into a fairytale. He was charming,  intelligent, and endlessly attentive. She’d been swept up in the romance of it all, barely  pausing to consider the implications of their age difference or the world they came from. But  now, months into their marriage, the fairytale was beginning to fray at the edges.

She thought of the women at dinner last night—the way they’d studied her every move,  dissected her every word. She thought of Margot Kingsley’s subtle digs, the way her smile  never quite reached her eyes. 

Most of all, she thought of John, sitting holding court at the table, his laughter ringing out as  he bantered with Margot. He hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. But he hadn’t noticed  her, either. 

Maddy sighed, brushing a stray hair from her face. What she longed for wasn’t more wealth  or status. It wasn’t another diamond necklace or a larger suite. What she longed for was  connection. Real connection. The kind she’d felt with her sister before she married, with  Clara whom she had only just met. 

The kind she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel with John again. 

She had a role to play, and if there was one thing she’d learned in her brief time as Mrs.  Astor, it was that appearances mattered more than anything else. 

Clara Hamilton stood on the second-class promenade, her gloved fingers trailing along the  cool metal railing. The morning air carried the sharp scent of salt, the endless expanse of  ocean stretching out before her like a promise—and a warning. She hadn’t expected to feel so  conflicted aboard the Titanic. This ship was supposed to be the bridge to her new life, a  chance to redefine herself. But standing there now, she felt a pang of doubt she couldn’t quite  shake. 

Second-class passengers moved around her in quiet clusters, their voices a soft murmur  against the steady hum of the ship. Clara liked the understated elegance of second class—it  wasn’t as ostentatious as first class, nor as chaotic as steerage. It was comfortable,  respectable, and for now, it suited her. 

Yet, she couldn’t help but feel as though she were straddling two worlds. Second class was a  liminal space—close enough to glimpse the luxuries of first class but far removed from the  struggles of steerage. Clara often found herself watching people from a distance, wondering  which direction her own life would take. 

“Good morning, Miss Hamilton,” came a warm voice from behind her. 

Clara turned to see Mrs. Barrett. The older woman was stout and cheerful, her face lined  with the kind of wisdom that came from years of navigating life’s challenges. 

“Good morning,” Clara replied, offering a smile, pleased for the chance of more human  interaction with this comforting older woman. 

Mrs. Barrett stepped up beside her, adjusting the cape draped over her shoulders. “Isn’t it  something? All this luxury, all this... possibility.” 

Clara nodded, her gaze returning to the horizon. “It’s certainly something,” she said softly. 

Mrs. Barrett tilted her head, studying Clara for a moment. “I haven’t seen you very often, I  hope you haven’t been staying in your cabin, you’re not homesick, are you?” 

Clara hesitated, her hands tightening on the railing. The guilt spread through her, Homesick!  on this occasion nothing could be further from the truth. Clara’s life felt full of far more  options than ever. She felt a peculiar sense of power that she'd never experienced before.  Here, suspended between continents on this floating marvel of engineering, she had become a  traveller between worlds—at home in the modest warmth of Ellen's third-class community, 

comfortable in her own second-class accommodations, and now, thanks to Maddy, a  welcomed, if perhaps secret, visitor to the gilded splendour of first class. The rigid  boundaries that had always divided society seemed wonderfully permeable aboard the  Titanic, as if the normal rules were temporarily suspended over these vast waters. She'd  discovered something profound in this journey, that she could move between these realms  with a newfound confidence, observing and absorbing the best of each. While others  remained confined to their assigned stations, Clara had found, perhaps through her own  boldness, freedom in this grand vessel's hierarchy. With each deck she traversed, each new  face she met, the world seemed to expand before her, rich with possibility. America wouldn't  just be a new country, she realized; it would be the place where she could finally become  whoever she chose to be. 

“No, not homesick,” Clara said finally. “Just... thinking.” 

“About what, dear?” 

Clara hesitated again, then decided she could still answer honestly. “About what comes next.”  

Mrs. Barrett’s expression softened. "I daresay we all experience such contemplations from  time to time. Those moments when one questions if one's chosen course is proper. But permit  me to impart something to you, Clara—every course is the proper one, provided one  continues to press onward."  

Clara smiled faintly, her chest tightening with gratitude for the woman’s care, tinged with a  small serving of guilt. “Thank you,” she said quietly. 

“You truly are a smart young woman. You’ll do just fine.” 

Once Mrs. Barrett was out of sight, Clara made her way to C Deck for her rendezvous with  Ellen her cousin.  

The third-class section of the Titanic buzzed with life. Laughter and conversation echoed  through the narrow corridors, and the faint strains of a fiddle drifted from a small group  gathered near the dining hall. Amid the commotion, Daniel Callahan sat on the edge of his  bunk, his hands working methodically to mend a tear in his shirt. 

At nineteen, Daniel carried himself with a mix of youthful optimism and the quiet  determination of someone who had already seen too much. His dark hair curled slightly at the  edges, and his green eyes held a spark that seemed at odds with the exhaustion etched into his  features. 

He glanced across the room at his bunkmate, a middle-aged man named Seamus, who was  nursing a tin cup of tea. Seamus had taken an almost paternal interest in Daniel since they’d  boarded, offering advice and the occasional joke to lighten the mood. 

“You’ll wear that needle down to a nub, lad,” Seamus said, his voice gruff  “If it means saving a few pennies when we reach New York, it’s worth it.” 

“Pennies won’t get you far in a city like that,” Seamus said, shaking his head. “But a good  work ethic might. You’ve got that in spades, I’ll give you that.” 

Daniel’s smile faded slightly as he leaned back against the wall. “Work ethic is all I’ve got,  Seamus. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

Seamus studied him for a moment, his expression softening. “You’ve had a rough go of it,  haven’t you?” 

Daniel shrugged, his gaze dropping to the floor. “We all have, haven’t we? That’s why we’re  here.” 

But Daniel’s story wasn’t just one of hardship—it was one of escape. He’d grown up in  County Kerry, Ireland, in a small village where opportunities were scarce and poverty was a  constant shadow. His father had been a fisherman, a quiet man whose strength had been  whittled away by years of hard labour and bad luck. His mother had passed when Daniel was  a boy, leaving him and his younger sister, Maeve, to fend for themselves as best they could. 

When the potato blight returned to their region, threatening the meagre crops they relied on,  Daniel had made the decision to leave. It wasn’t an easy choice—leaving Maeve behind with  their aunt was a weight he would always carry. But there was no future for him in Ireland.  America, with its promise of opportunity and endless possibilities, was his only hope. 

“I’ll send for you,” he’d told Maeve the morning he left. “As soon as I’ve got enough saved,  I’ll bring you over. We’ll start fresh, Maeve. I promise.” 

The memory of her tear-streaked face would haunt him until they were united, the way she’d  clung to him as though her life depended on it. 

Now, aboard the Titanic, Daniel tried to focus on the future. He’d managed to scrape together  the fare for a third-class ticket, selling what little he owned and taking small contributions  from family members and working odd jobs to make up the rest. The voyage itself was a  marvel—a far cry from the hardships he’d endured. 

The food, simple as it was, felt like a luxury compared to the sparse meals he’d grown up on.  The bunks were clean, the air was fresh, and there was a sense of camaraderie among the  passengers. But Daniel knew it was only temporary. The real challenge would begin once  they reached New York. 

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get there?” Seamus asked, breaking the silence. 

Daniel thought for a moment, his fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “Find work.  Something steady. Anything, really, as long as it pays.” 

“That’s a good start. But don’t forget to live a little, lad. A place like New York, it’s easy to  get swallowed up if you’re not careful.” Seamus said 

Daniel nodded, though his thoughts remained practical. Living was a luxury he couldn’t  afford just yet. Every penny he earned would go toward his promise to Maeve—to bring her  to America and give her the life she too deserved. 

Once his shirt was respectable, Daniel wandered onto the third-class deck, the air getting  colder, biting at his face. The ocean stretched out before him, vast and unknowable, its  surface rippling. 

He wandered along the deck. The ship felt like a world unto itself, carrying so many lives, so  many stories. He wondered about the people in first class, with their fine clothes and  glittering jewels. Did they ever think about people like him? Did they even know he existed? 

“Bit cold isn’t it?” a voice said behind him.

Daniel turned to see Ellen O’Shannon. her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her hair  tucked beneath a worn cap. 

“Cold doesn’t bother me much,” Daniel said with a small smile. 

Ellen stepped closer, wanting to continue the conversation now she had had the courage to  speak. 

“I’ve Just been thinking,” Daniel replied, his voice thoughtful. “About what comes next.” 

Ellen nodded, her expression soft. “We’re all thinking about that, aren’t we? It’s a big leap,  leaving everything behind. ” 

“It is,” Daniel agreed. “But sometimes it’s the only choice.” 

Ellen studied him for a moment, her voice lowering. “I’m guessing you found it hard too?”  Ellen ventured, bravely “leaving our families behind? And all that”  

Daniel’s chest tightened at the mention of families, the weight of his promise pressing against  him. Ellen studied him sensing his emotions and holding back with any questions that he  may find hard to answer. Instead she spoke quietly of life on board and the stark contrast to  their usual living conditions. It wasn’t long before the pair were finding common ground,  laughing and enjoying each other’s company. It was too soon for Ellen when she  remembered her rendezvous with Clara and had to leave his company. 

Clara was waiting for her as she approached, her excitement unmistakable after her meeting  with the dashing Daniel. Amused by the effervescent joy of youth, Clara couldn’t help but  giggle as Ellen recounted every detail of his appearance, her words tumbling over one  another in breathless delight. 

"I swear his sewing skills are nearly as fine as my mam’s was," Ellen hooted, eyes alight with  mischief. She had noticed, though Daniel clearly hadn’t, that he had forgotten to cut the  needle from his freshly mended shirt, the thread and needle dangling boldly against the  worn white cotton of his Sunday best. 

Despite their joint amusement, Clara sensibly advised that she must bite back the urge to  tease him when their paths next cross. That she should keep the secret to herself. Daniel  sounded like a man of pride, and some things were better left unsaid.  

Their conversation drifted back to the previous evening, to Ellen’s unabashed excitement at  having met a woman of such distinction as Madeleine Astor. To Ellen, the world of the  social elite was as distant as the moon, something glimpsed from afar, but never truly  understood. She knew nothing of fine society, glittering ballrooms, or women who  dressed for dinner in silks and jewels, yet here she was, having shared words and warmth  with one of its most revered young wives on board this great ship. 

Both she and Clara delighted in the unlikely friendship they had found. Clara, sensing  Ellen’s eager curiosity, described the lavish furnishings of Maddy’s first-class suite, the  elegant sitting room, the rich panelling, the soft carpets underfoot. But as she spoke, she  caught herself, an unfamiliar restraint settling in. For all the light-hearted gossip she might  once have indulged in, something had shifted. Her respect for Maddy overruled the  temptation to share anything too personal, and she found herself choosing her words  carefully, protecting the private truths of a woman who had, against all odds, become a  friend.

Margot Kingsley leaned back in her chair, the lace trim of her emerald gown catching the  sunlight streaming through the first-class lounge windows. In one hand, she held a porcelain  teacup, and in the other, a cigarette encased in an elegant holder. Around her, a small circle of  first-class women hung on her every word, their laughter rising in delicate bursts. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Margot said with a sly smile. “I’m only saying what  everyone else is thinking.” 

“And what’s that, Mrs. Kingsley?” one of the women asked, her curiosity tinged with  mischief. 

Margot took a slow sip of her tea, savouring the moment before responding. “That our dear  Mr. Astor has impeccable taste,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “But taste  doesn’t always equate to practicality, does it?” 

The women tittered behind their gloved hands. 

“It must be exhausting,” Margot continued, setting her cup down. “Having to teach a girl to  move with decorum in our world. And at her age? The poor thing must feel like a fish out of  water.” 

The group exchanged knowing glances, their smiles thinly veiled as politeness. 

Margot leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering just enough to draw them in. “I mean,  really. Can you imagine? Sitting at the captain’s table, surrounded by the most powerful  people in the world, and having to pretend you belong?” 

“Mrs. Astor does seem... young,” one of the women ventured cautiously. 

Margot’s smile widened. “Young, yes. But youth only carries you so far, doesn’t it? It’s poise,  experience, and confidence that truly matter. Don’t you agree?” 

Another ripple of laughter followed, and Margot leaned back, triumphant. She didn’t dislike  Madeleine Astor, not exactly. But there was something undeniably satisfying about planting  seeds of doubt in the minds of others. It was a game Margot had perfected over the years, a  subtle art of influence and manipulation. 

Across the lounge, Madeleine entered with Caroline, her posture as poised as ever. She  scanned the room, her gaze landing on Margot and her entourage. For a brief moment, their  eyes met. Margot’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in her expression,  something sharp and knowing. 

“Mrs. Astor,” Margot called out, her tone warm and welcoming. “Do join us. We were just  talking about you.” 

Maddy hesitated for the briefest of moments before crossing the room. She approached the  group with measured steps, her smile polite but guarded. 

“Mrs. Kingsley,” Maddy said, inclining her head. “Ladies.” 

“Please, sit,” Margot said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. 

As Maddy took her seat, Margot turned her full attention to her, her smile radiant. “We were  just marvelling at how well you’ve handled yourself on this voyage, Mrs. Astor. You must  find it overwhelming at times, though, don’t you?” 

Maddy met Margot’s gaze evenly. “Not at all. I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

Margot’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly. “How  refreshing,” she said smoothly. “It’s rare to find someone so young with such...  determination.” 

“Determination is an important quality, wouldn’t you agree?” Maddy replied, her tone steady.  The other women exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued. 

Margot tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Indeed. But determination alone can  only take you so far. Experience, I’ve found, is what truly sets one apart.” 

“Experience is valuable,” Maddy said, her smile unwavering. “But so is adaptability. I  imagine even you would agree with that, Mrs. Kingsley.” 

Margot’s laughter was light, but there was an edge to it. “Touché, Mrs. Astor.” 

The conversation shifted, but the tension lingered. Maddy felt the weight of Margot’s  scrutiny, the subtle barbs hidden beneath her compliments. But she held her ground, refusing  to let Margot see even a hint of discomfort. Caroline watched on brimming with pride as  Maddy held her own and seemed to actually be enjoying the “Challenge” 

As the group dispersed, Margot remained seated, watching Maddy leave the lounge. For the  first time in a long while, she felt something unfamiliar, respect. 

Ellen O’Shannon couldn’t help but pick out Daniel, among the lively and diverse passengers  in third class. Daniel stood out, not for his looks, though his striking green eyes and quiet  confidence didn’t go unnoticed, but for his steadfast determination. There was something  about the way he carried himself, shoulders squared as though bracing against a storm, that  drew her in. 

Daniel sat off to the side of the communal hall, sharpening a small pocket knife with slow,  methodical strokes. The firelight reflected off his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his  jaw and the intense focus in his eyes. He seemed oblivious to the noise around him, lost in his  own thoughts. 

Ellen hesitated, clutching the edge of her shawl. Approaching him felt bold, too bold. Despite  the time they had spent together earlier. Instead, she took a seat a few yards away, close  enough to strike up a new conversation should the opportunity arise but also not to close to  look too keen. Luck would have it that Brigid, a woman whom she had already made  acquaintance with sat there watching her children playing and only seemed natural to join her  for some light hearted chat.  

“You’ve got a look in your eye, Ellen,” said Brigid Her tone was teasing, but her smile was  kind. 

Ellen flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Brigid laughed softly, adjusting the baby on her hip. “He’s a fine young man, that one. Quiet,  but not cold. You could do worse.” 

Ellen shook her head, her voice low. “He’s got no time for me, Brigid. He’s focused on other  things.” 

“Ah, but you’ve noticed him,” Brigid replied, her grin widening. “That’s a start, isn’t it?”

Ellen didn’t respond, but her cheeks burned as Brigid walked away, leaving her alone with  her thoughts. Not wanting to be noticed, so obviously sitting alone, Ellen also made a prompt  exit. 

Later that evening, Ellen found herself on the third-class deck, the cold air wrapping around  her like a cloak. The stars above were impossibly bright, their light reflecting off the dark  waves. She leaned against the railing, letting the sharp wind clear her mind. 

A familiar figure appeared at the edge of her vision. Daniel had stepped out onto the deck, his  hands tucked into his pockets. He walked to the railing a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the  horizon. 

Ellen debated whether to say something, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn’t sure  what she wanted, maybe just a few words, a chance to understand him better. Before she  could decide, Daniel turned and noticed her. 

“Ellen,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “What are you doing out here?” She shrugged, hoping her nervousness didn’t show. “Needed some air. What about you?” “Same,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It gets loud down there sometimes.” 

Ellen nodded, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing moment. Finally,  she gathered her courage. “You’re always working, I saw you sharpening your knife in the  hall. Don’t you ever let yourself rest?” 

“Rest doesn’t come easy to me. Not when there’s so much to do.” 

“What is it you’re working for? Or is it a who” Ellen asked emboldened, her voice tinged  with curiosity, part of her not wanting to hear that he had a betrothed or a wife waiting. 

Daniel hesitated, his gaze drifting to the water. “For my sister,” he said finally. “To bring her  to America. To give her the life she deserves.” 

Ellen’s chest instantly loosened “That’s a noble thing, Daniel. Your sister is very lucky to  have you.” 

“She’s the only family I have left,” he said quietly. “I can’t let her down.” 

Ellen wanted to say something, to offer comfort or encouragement, but the intensity in his  expression made her pause. Instead, she shifted closer, her presence a quiet reminder that he  wasn’t alone. 

As they stood there, Ellen’s admiration for Daniel deepened. She saw in him a resilience she  aspired to, a strength forged by hardship but tempered with kindness. Yet, she also sensed the  walls he’d built around himself, the distance he kept to protect both himself and his mission. 

In contrast, Ellen thought of the stories she’d heard from her cousin, how the first-class  passengers lived. Their stories of wealth and privilege, of men like Maddy’s husband John  Astor who lived in worlds far removed from hers.  

She thought of Maddy, What must it be like, she wondered, to live in such a gilded cage? To  be surrounded by riches but starved of warmth? 

Daniel, with all his struggles, seemed richer to her than any man in first class. His  determination, his selflessness, his quiet dignity, they were qualities that couldn’t be bought.

As the evening wore on, the two of them lingered on the deck, their conversation ebbing and  flowing like the waves below. Their conversation deepening as they shared stories of their  childhoods back home in Ireland. They talked about how they came to be on this magnificent  ship, the sacrifices they had made for dreams for the future. 

“I want to work in a shop,” she said, her eyes bright with excitement. “A proper shop, with  glass windows and a counter. I want to see the world pass by and feel like I’m part of  something bigger.” 

“You’ll get there,” Daniel said, his voice steady. “You’ve got the spirit, sure enough.” 

Ellen smiled, her heart lifting at his words. “And you? What will you do once Maeve is with  you?” 

Daniel thought for a moment, his expression softening. “I don’t know. Maybe find a piece of  land, start something of my own. Something that feels... permanent.” 

The simplicity of his dream struck Ellen, her admiration growing with every word he spoke.  As they said goodnight, Daniel had reached for her hand and given it a light squeeze before  returning to their separate quarters. Ellen couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope, a small,  fragile thing that lit up the corners of her heart. She didn’t know what the future held, but for  the first time in a long while, she felt like it could be possible she wasn’t facing it alone. 

And for Daniel, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, Ellen’s presence was a quiet comfort, a  reminder that even in the midst of uncertainty, connection was possible. 

The second-class promenade was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the Titanic’s engines  and the soft rustle of the sea breeze. Madeleine had asked Rosalie to help her find her way  there, a decision that had raised the maid’s eyebrows but garnered no argument. Maddy  craved a moment of simplicity, a reprieve from the gilded cages of first class and the sharp edged smiles of women like Margot Kingsley. 

She found Clara near the railing, a small notebook in her hands. Her head was bowed, a  pencil poised between her fingers as though she were caught in a moment of inspiration. 

“Miss Hamilton?” Maddy called softly. 

Clara looked up, her expression shifting from surprise to warmth. “Mrs. Astor,” she said,  closing the notebook and tucking it under her arm. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Maddy smiled, stepping closer. “How many times, call me Maddy. And I suppose I’m not  expected anywhere, am I? That’s part of the charm of this ship.” 

Clara’s smile widened, her posture relaxing. “What brings you to our corner of the Titanic?” 

“I was in need of a change of scenery,” Maddy admitted. “First class can be... stifling at  times.” 

Clara gestured to the railing beside her. “You’re welcome to share my view, if you like. It’s  not quite as grand as the first-class decks, but it’s peaceful.” 

Maddy joined her, leaning against the railing and letting the cool metal press against her  palms. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, its surface rippling like silk. 

“You were writing something,” Maddy said after a moment. “May I ask what?”

Clara hesitated, glancing down at her notebook. “Just... thoughts, really. Observations. I’ve  always found writing helps me make sense of things.” 

“Do you write often?” 

“Not as often as I’d like,” Clara said with a faint smile. “But I’m trying to change that. This  voyage feels like the right time to start again.” 

Maddy nodded, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. “I envy that. Having something that’s  yours, something that gives you clarity.” 

Clara studied her for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “You must have things like that  too, don’t you?” 

Maddy’s laugh was soft, almost wistful. “Not really. Everything in my life feels... borrowed,  in a way. My name, my role, even my place on this ship. It all feels like it belongs to someone  else.” 

Clara’s brow furrowed. “That’s a heavy thing to carry.” 

“It is,” Maddy said quietly. “But I suppose we all carry something, don’t we?” 

They stood in silence for a while, the wind tugging gently at their hair and clothes. Maddy  found herself relaxing in Clara’s presence, her guard lowering in a way it rarely did. There  was no judgment here, no pretence. Just two women sharing a moment of quiet  understanding. 

“Do you ever feel out of place?” Maddy asked suddenly, the question slipping out before she  could stop it. 

“All the time,” Clara admitted. “But I’ve learned to embrace it. Being out of place means  you’re growing, doesn’t it? It means you’re stepping into something new.” 

Maddy turned to her, a small smile curving her lips. “That’s a beautiful way to look at it.” 

Clara shrugged, her own smile soft. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just something I tell myself to get  through the hard days.” 

Maddy laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Either way, it helps.” 

They stayed on the deck until the sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting the sea in hues  of gold and amber. For the first time in days, Maddy felt a sense of peace, not because she’d  found answers, but because she’d found someone who understood the questions. This  meeting had been a sharp contrast with the fun they had shared when exploring this floating  palace. 

The first-class lounge was buzzing with subdued chatter, the kind that floated beneath the  high ceilings and polished chandeliers like a low hum. Madeleine sat in one of the velvet  armchairs, her teacup poised delicately in her hands. Across from her, Margot Kingsley  lounged with an air of practiced ease, her cigarette holder balanced between her fingers. 

“Such a shame about the weather,” Margot said idly, exhaling a curl of smoke. “I was hoping  for clearer skies tonight. A starry night over the Atlantic, what could be more romantic?” 

Maddy nodded politely, her thoughts elsewhere. Margot’s constant commentary had become  white noise, a backdrop to Maddy’s growing unease.

“I imagine Mr. Astor will be spending the evening in the smoking room?” Margot continued,  her tone casual but pointed. 

Maddy looked up, her expression carefully neutral. “I believe so.” 

Margot smiled, her lips curving just enough to hint at something unspoken. “Men do seem to  find solace in their little rituals, don’t they? Business, cigars, cards... and the occasional  confidante.” 

Maddy’s grip tightened slightly on her teacup. “John values his routines,” she said evenly. 

“Of course he does,” Margot said, her smile widening. “It’s what makes him so dependable.  Why, I imagine even his affairs are conducted with precision.” 

The words hung in the air for a moment, their weight settling like a stone in Maddy’s chest.  She forced herself to take a sip of tea, masking the tremor in her hand. “I wouldn’t know,”  she said lightly, though her voice felt like it belonged to someone else. 

Margot leaned forward slightly, her eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something  sharper. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply... I was merely speaking hypothetically, of course. A  man like John Astor has so many responsibilities. One must wonder how he manages to  balance them all.” 

Maddy met Margot’s gaze, her heart pounding. There was something about Margot’s tone, the  deliberate choice of words, that set her mind racing. 

“Responsibilities come with their own rewards,” Maddy said carefully. “John understands  that better than most.” 

“Indeed,” Margot replied, settling back into her chair. She took another puff from her  cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Though I suppose it helps when one has a well-structured estate.  Isn’t that what they say? Failing to plan is planning to fail?” 

The comment was delivered so casually, so offhandedly, that it took Maddy a moment to  process it. Estate. Structure. She’d never given much thought to John’s affairs—not beyond  the surface, anyway. But now, the words echoed in her mind, stirring questions she hadn’t  dared to ask before. 

Margot’s smile lingered as she extinguished her cigarette. “Forgive me. I’ve gone and gotten  philosophical. Must be the sea air. It does strange things to one’s mind, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Maddy murmured, her voice distant. “It does.” 

Margot rose gracefully, smoothing the fabric of her gown. “Well, I mustn’t keep you. Do  enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Mrs. Astor.” 

Maddy barely registered her departure. Her mind was too busy unravelling the thread Margot  had so deftly pulled. 

Later that evening, after the dinner bell had rung and the dining saloon was filled with the  soft clatter of silverware, Maddy found herself seated beside John at the captain’s table. The  conversation flowed around her animated and effortless, but she felt like an outsider looking  in, her thoughts elsewhere.

She glanced at John as he spoke, his tone confident and commanding. He was discussing one  of his recent architectural projects, gesturing with the subtle authority of a man who knew his  words carried weight. 

Maddy had always admired that about him—his ability to take charge, to direct any situation  with ease. But tonight, as she watched him, she found herself wondering about the things he  didn’t say. The pieces of his life he kept carefully compartmentalized, just out of reach. 

When the meal ended and the men retreated to the smoking room, Maddy excused herself  early, claiming fatigue. She returned to their suite, her thoughts swirling. 

She sat at the writing desk, her fingers tracing the edge of the blotter. The room was filled  with the soft hum of the ship, a sound she’d come to associate with a strange mix of comfort  and unease. 

The word “estate” echoed in her mind, along with Margot’s thinly veiled insinuations. It  wasn’t unusual for men of John’s status to be meticulous about their finances and legacies.  But why had Margot brought it up? Was it idle gossip, or was there something more  deliberate at play? 

Her gaze drifted to a locked drawer in the desk. She’d seen John place documents there  before—papers he considered important enough to keep secure. She’d never thought to ask  about them, but now, curiosity gnawed at her. 

Maddy stood and crossed the room, her heart pounding as she retrieved the small brass key  from John’s travel case. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers trembling as they hovered  over the lock. 

What are you doing, Maddy? 

The thought gave her pause, but only for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she turned the key  and opened the drawer. 

Inside, she found a neat stack of papers—contracts, letters, and financial records. Among  them was a document titled Last Will and Testament of John Jacob Astor IV. 

Her hands shook as she unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the lines of text. It was filled  with the usual legal jargon, detailing the distribution of assets and responsibilities. But one  section stood out, its implications hitting her like a cold wave: 

“In the event of my death, a trust shall be established for my wife, Madeleine Talmage Force  Astor, contingent upon the birth of our child...” 

The words blurred as Maddy stared at them, her breath catching in her throat. Contingent  upon the birth of our child. 

A realization struck her then, sharp and undeniable. She wasn’t the centre of John’s world, his  legacy had already been secured long before her. She and their unborn child were carefully  accounted for, but only within limits, bound by conditions, restrictions, and legal formalities.  A trust fund, nothing more. Not the rightful heirs to his empire, only beneficiaries for as long  as she remained the grieving widow. 

She sank into the chair, the document slipping from her hands. Margot’s words replayed in  her mind, their meaning now painfully clear. Maddy wasn’t just young. She wasn’t just  inexperienced. She was expendable—at least in the eyes of society.

Her marriage, her place on this ship, even her identity—it all felt like a carefully constructed façade. A role she’d been cast in without fully understanding the script. 

And now, as the Titanic sailed steadily into the night, Maddy felt the weight of that role  pressing down on her like never before. 

The Titanic sailed on, an unstoppable force cutting through the frigid waters of the North  Atlantic. Beneath the surface, however, the ocean churned with hidden dangers. Far to the  north, the massive iceberg drifted steadily southward, its icy bulk gliding silently on the  Labrador Current. It was an ancient titan, born from a glacier that had crumbled thousands  of years before, now carrying centuries of frozen history in its unyielding path. 

Chapter 4 

DAY 4 13th of April 

The next morning, the air on the promenade deck carried a sharp chill, but the sky was  painted in soft hues of gold and lavender. Madeleine Astor wrapped her shawl tightly around  her shoulders as she stepped onto the second-class deck, the quiet hum of the ship’s engines  vibrating beneath her feet. She scanned the sparsely populated space, her eyes landing on a  familiar figure leaning against the railing. 

“Clara,” Maddy called, her voice carrying just enough to reach her without disturbing the  serene morning. 

Clara Hamilton turned, her face breaking into a smile when she saw Maddy approaching.  “Mrs. Astor,” she replied with a playful lilt. “You’re becoming quite the regular on our deck.” 

Maddy chuckled as she reached Clara. “You keep calling me that, and I might start believing  I belong here.” 

Clara raised an eyebrow. “And what’s wrong with that? It’s not a bad place to belong.” 

The two women stood side by side at the railing, the wind tugging at their skirts and the vast  expanse of ocean stretching endlessly before them. For a moment, they said nothing, letting  the rhythm of the waves fill the space between them. 

“I needed to get away,” Maddy said finally, her voice quieter now. “The walls of first class  feel... closer every day.”

Clara glanced at her, sensing the weight behind the words. “I suppose being surrounded by  luxury doesn’t make it any less suffocating.” 

Maddy nodded, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s not the luxury. It’s the expectations. The  constant pressure to be perfect, to play a role I’m not sure I even understand.” 

Clara studied her for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t have to play the role  all the time, you know with me you can always be yourself.” 

Clara suggested they spend some time together in the library, a quiet space where they can  warm up. The fine fur trimmed coat would perhaps make Maddy look out of place, so they  arranged to meet there after she had discarded her lavish full length coat for one less  conspicuous. It wasn’t long before Maddy was making her way to the library in her most  “undercover” basic coat. “Good morning Mrs Astor” she patently had fooled no-one as she  passed 1st officer Murdoch on her short journey.  

The Library was one of the most elegant spaces available to second-class passengers. Though  not as lavish as first-class areas, it was beautifully furnished and exuded a sense of quiet  refinement, making it a perfect place for reading, writing, and polite conversation. It was  designed to be a calm and cultured retreat especially for both intellectual engagement and  social interaction. It had a bright and open feel, the tall windows allowing the natural light to  flood into the space. A few passengers were seated around the round oak tables, some in  quiet conversation, others reading. The only sounds beyond the gentle continuous hum of the  ships engine were the quiet murmuring of conversations, the turning of pages and the  scratchy sounds of fountain pens, where some sat at the writing desks. This was the most  perfect meeting venue for Maddy and Clara. The only inhibiting factor was they had to curb  their laughter as they recounted their shenanigans of the other evening when they had  explored the ship. Their shoulders shuddered as they tried desperately hard to maintain their  dignity and not draw attention to themselves.  

The two young women relaxed fully in this warm environment and were able to share much  deeper conversations that served to enhance the fact that they were more alike than they had  imagined. The constraints of women in this era being similar. Seated across from each other  in the warm glow of the second-class library, Clara and Maddy soon realized how little the  thin walls of class division truly mattered. Both young women, barely out of girlhood, shared  the same dreams, of love that was more than an arrangement, of freedom beyond the  expectations set by social constraints, of a world where their opinions carried weight. They  both longed to shape their own futures rather than be shaped by them, to chase adventure  rather than be handed security. It was not fine silk nor worn wool that defined them, but the  restless hearts beneath. 

Clara feeling more than secure in the knowledge of their deep friendship, told her story. She  told of her and her mothers meagre existence in Manchester. Being a single parent and  scratching a living was no mean feat. But her mother’s sheer determination had won out and  as each year passed their conditions had get better and better. It wasn’t hard to see where  Clara’s own bravery had come from. Her mother had left Ireland, when Clara was just a babe  in arms, she left in search of her fiancé who she knew had been re-stationed back on the  mainland of England. It had been becoming increasingly difficult for her family to deal with,  not only the shame of their daughter being and unmarried mother but also the fact that the  father was an English military man. The only choice for her had been to cross the water and  follow her betrothed back to England. At this stage Maddy was wrapped up in the romance  of the situation, only to come down with a thump when the story unfolded and the deceit that the small family had suffered became apparent. Maddy’s father was already married, he  already had a family close to his barracks.  

The cold Irish wind whipped through Shona O’Connell’s thin shawl as she stepped aboard  the steamer to Liverpool, her infant daughter cradled in her arms. She held her close,  pressing a kiss to his downy head, whispering a promise she hoped she could keep. They were  going to England, to be with Tom, her betrothed. 

Tom had been her world—a dashing soldier with a laugh like rolling thunder, his brown eyes  full of devotion when he swore he would send for her once his regiment was settled. But  months had passed, and the letters that came at first with tender words had grown fewer until  they stopped altogether. When Brigid finally received a letter, it was not from Tom but from a  fellow soldier, urging her to come quickly. Tom was ill, he said. This was her chance, the  time was right for Shona to escape her bitter surroundings the continual baiting of her  disgraced parents and the community beyond. 

So she sold what little she had, gathered the last of her courage, and crossed the sea with  their child, determined to find him. 

Liverpool’s dockside was a bustling chaos of smoke and shouting men, but Brigid pushed  forward, hiring a cart to take her to Aldershot, where the regiment was stationed. Her heart  pounded as she approached the barracks, her fingers tightening around the scrap of paper  with Tom’s address. 

When she reached the small, grey-bricked house just beyond the military quarters, she  hesitated. This was not a barracks—it was a home. A warm light flickered from inside,  casting shadows against the lace-curtained windows. The scent of bread baking wafted from  within. 

She knocked. 

A woman, dark-haired, strong-jawed, and wearing an apron dusted with flour, opened the  door. A toddler clutched at her skirts, and from inside, the high laughter of children echoed  through the house. 

"Yes?" the woman asked, her brow furrowing at Shona’s dishevelled appearance, the baby on  her hip, and the desperation in her eyes. 

Shona licked her dry lips. "I—I’m looking for Tom Richardson." 

The woman’s face hardened instantly, her grip on the door tightening. 

"My husband?" she said, her voice dangerously low. 

The world tilted. The baby in Shona’s arms stirred, sensing her mother’s silent devastation. 

"No," Shona whispered, stepping back as though she had been struck. "No, that can’t be.  He…he promised me. He said he’d send for me…he said…" 

Tom’s wife stepped onto the threshold, her eyes full of fury. "You’re not the first girl to come  knocking," she hissed. "And you won’t be the last, getta away from here you Irish trash." 

Shona staggered away, the words slicing through her like a bayonet. She felt sick, hollow,  and foolish. She had crossed the sea for a man who had already given his vows to another— who had left her in disgrace while he returned to the comfort of his family. 

She had been nothing more than a secret. 

Tears blinded her as she fled back to the streets, clutching her child. She had nowhere to go,  only a few pennies left and no future in England.

But as the wind howled around her, she knew one thing: she would not break. She had a child  to raise. 

So she wiped her eyes, straightened her spine, and turned away from Tom Richardson’s  house. 

She had left Ireland as a girl chasing love, but now she was a woman who had to learn how  to survive 

Maddy hung on Clara’s every last word as the story of her meagre beginnings unfolded. Her  eyes had filled with tears as Clara had described her mothers complete devastation, her heart  in pieces as she struggled to find a solution to this fateful predicament. How did a mother  and child survive alone in the world in the late 1800’s? She waited with baited breath as  Clara continued her story. 

The first time Shona O’Connell told the lie, it nearly choked her. 

"I’m Mrs. O’Connell," she murmured, her voice thick with the weight of her own deception.  "A widow." 

The woman at the Catholic orphanage peered down at her, sharp-eyed, sceptical. English.  She was not the first Irish girl to darken their doorstep, and she wouldn’t be the last. 

Shona tightened her grip on her baby, Clara, barely six months old, wrapped snug against  her chest. A widow had dignity. A widow was respectable. A fallen woman was not. 

The nun exhaled through her nose, eyeing Clara. "Have you any skills?" 

Shona hesitated—she had been a farmer’s daughter, relatively quick with a needle, but no  one would trust an Irish girl with their shopwork or bookkeeping. Her mother’s voice  whispered in her mind: Find what they need, and be it. 

"I’ve milk enough for another child," she said. "If there's a babe needing feeding." The nun's lips pressed together. Then, with a nod, she led Shona through the corridors. Thus, Mrs. O’Connell, the wet nurse, was born. 

She spent a year there, nursing the infants of wealthy, unwed women who had been forced to  give them up. The irony burned, but it was honest work. And when she had saved enough  pennies to leave, she took Clara and moved on. 

The second time, it came easier. 

In Manchester, Shona became a widow again. This time, her husband had been a sailor, lost  at sea. The landlady barely glanced at her as she handed over the first month’s rent. 

She took in mending, stitching delicate lace and hemming skirts for working women. She  sewed late into the night, rocking Clara with her foot while her fingers bled from the needle. 

One day, the Englishwoman she worked for tried to underpay her. 

"It’s fair wages or no more work," Shona said, standing tall despite the ache in her bones. The woman sneered. "You Irish should be grateful for what you get." 

Shona left that day, found another shop, and never bowed her head again. 

But when the neighbours began to whisper about the "widow with no mourning clothes," she  packed up, took Clara, and moved on. 

By the time Clara was three, Shona had learned how to tell the right story.

"My husband was a railway man," she told the housekeeper at a boarding house for  respectable young men. "God rest him. He died in an accident, left me and the girl to fend for  ourselves." 

The housekeeper, an older woman with kind eyes, offered her a job scrubbing floors. 

It was hard work, but it came with lodging and meals, and she and Clara were safe. She kept  her head down, worked harder than the English women, and made herself indispensable. 

One of the boarders, a young Irish clerk, was sweet on her. He had dreams of America, spoke  of a fresh start. 

"Come with me, Shona," he whispered one evening. 

She nearly said yes. But men, she had learned, made promises they didn’t keep. The next morning, she took Clara and her small savings and boarded a train south. London was full of new beginnings and dangers. 

The city was unkind to Irish girls, and the laundries were even worse. But the convent-run  workhouses took in widows before unwed mothers, so again she played the part. 

"The fever took my husband," she told the sisters, crossing herself for good measure. They believed her, and she was set to work scrubbing linen until her hands cracked and bled. 

But she was not the same girl who had stepped off the boat five years ago. She listened,  watched, learned. She saved every extra penny, and when the time came, she left before she  could be trapped there forever. 

By the turn of the century, Shona had become a woman no one questioned. 

She had Clara enrolled in a small parish school, and rented a house with just enough rooms  to let out. The sailor’s widow, they called her now. An Irishwoman, yes, but one with business  sense, one with no man to answer to. 

She still had the same copper-red hair, the same sharp eyes, the same accent that marked her  as an outsider, but now, she wore her past like armour. 

One evening, a lodger—another Irishman, this one older, gentler—spoke of marriage. 

"You’re too lovely to be alone," he said. "A woman shouldn’t have to carry the weight of the  world alone." 

Shona smiled. "I’ve carried it this far, haven’t I?" 

She saw the admiration in his eyes, but she also saw something else—pity. And she would not  be pitied. 

So that night, when the house was quiet and Clara was asleep in the next room, Shona took  out her small box of savings, counted every shilling, and knew: 

She had made it this far, and she would go further. 

She had been a wet nurse, a seamstress, a housekeeper, a laundress, and a landlady. She had  been a widow a hundred times over. 

But one day, she would be something greater still—her own woman, no lies needed. Their  Bags were soon packed, this time Shona knew she had enough to buy her own small home to  take in lodgers, so they returned to Manchester. 

“And your mother now?” Maddy enquired

Maddy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Clara’s words settle between them like an  invisible presence. The hum of the Titanic beneath their feet felt distant, insignificant in the  face of the quiet devastation Clara carried. 

“I’m so sorry,” Maddy whispered, her voice barely above the hum of nearby voices. 

Clara nodded, blinking quickly. “She hid it well, you see. Always said she was just tired, just  catching her breath. And she worked, God, she worked, right up until she couldn’t.” 

Maddy tried to picture her, this Irish “widow” who had moved from town to town, who  had fought for every penny, every scrap of dignity, all while sickness gnawed at her from  the inside. A woman who had never had the luxury of slowing down, not even for death. 

“She must have been a remarkable woman,” Maddy said. 

Clara exhaled shakily, a ghost of a smile at her lips. “Yes. Canny to the end. I only found  out in her final weeks. She didn’t want me burdened with it.” Her fingers curled into the  fabric of her skirt. “She just… slipped away. One morning, she was there, and then…” Clara  cut herself off, pressing her lips together. 

Maddy reached across the space between them, placing her hand over Clara’s. A lady of  first class, a girl of second. But here, in this moment and many others that they had shared,  grief made them equals. 

“She carried so much,” Maddy murmured. “But she raised you. She must have been so  proud” 

Clara looked up then, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “Yes,” she said softly. “And I’ll  carry her with me.” 

Maddy had thought she might seek some words of wisdom from her new friend about her  revelations and the devastating documents she had found in John’s bureau. Not to mention  the veiled tip off from Margot Kingsley that had led to her prying in John’s affairs. The  affairs that would have a lasting effect on how Maddy now viewed her marriage to John  Astor. After Clara’s story, it didn’t seem the right time, how could she follow Clara’s story  with hers. How could she berate John and the millions of dollars that would come to her and  her child or children should she be left widowed.  

The ship rocked gently beneath them, the library’s gas lamps flickering against the polished  mahogany. Outside, the sea stretched forever, but inside, in this quiet space between past  and future, two young women sat, one mourning, one listening, one staying silent for the  time being. Maddy’s time was up, she felt the call of her nurse Caroline, She really didn’t  want to risk losing this escape time and the best way to protect it was to not draw attention to  it. John would not approve.  

Helen Whitmore sat in the first-class lounge, her posture impossibly straight as she adjusted  her hat, a grand affair adorned with plum-coloured feathers. She sipped her tea slowly, her  sharp eyes scanning the room like a hawk surveying its domain. Across from her, Margot  Kingsley leaned back with practiced elegance, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. 

“You’ve noticed her, haven’t you?” Helen said, her voice low but laced with a conspiratorial  edge. 

“Noticed who?” Margot replied, though her tone betrayed her amusement. 

“Madeleine Astor, of course,” Helen said, leaning in slightly. “Our resident ingénue. Barely  out of the schoolroom and already playing the part of Mrs. John Jacob Astor. It’s almost too  much, isn’t it?”

Margot raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. “She is quite young. Though I must admit,  she carries herself better than I expected.” 

“Better, perhaps, but not well enough,” Helen said with a sniff. “These things have a way of  unravelling, don’t they? Especially when the thread isn’t tied properly to begin with.” 

Margot took a slow sip from her teacup, savouring the moment. “And what thread would you  be referring to, Helen?” 

Helen’s lips curved into a sharp smile. “Oh, come now, Margot. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?  The way she stumbles through conversations, the way she clings to her husband’s arm like a  lifeline. It’s clear she’s in over her head.” 

Margot tilted her head, considering this. “Perhaps. But she’s a fast learner. I’ll give her that  much.” 

“Fast learners can still falter,” Helen said smoothly. She set her teacup down, her fingers  lightly tracing the edge of the saucer. “And when they do, it’s the ones closest to them who  notice first.” 

Margot leaned forward slightly, her interest piqued. “Go on.” 

Helen’s eyes glinted with satisfaction. “I overheard something interesting yesterday. It seems  Mrs. Astor has taken to wandering the second-class decks. Alone.” 

Margot’s eyebrows lifted, her smile turning sly. “How bold of her.” 

“Bold, or desperate?” Helen countered. “What could she possibly be doing down there?  Seeking attention, perhaps? Or maybe something more... scandalous.” 

Margot chuckled softly. “Careful, Helen. You wouldn’t want to tarnish her reputation without  sufficient evidence.” 

“Evidence is overrated,” Helen said with a wave of her hand. “The court of public opinion  doesn’t need proof, it needs a good story.” 

Margot studied Helen for a moment, her expression thoughtful. She had little patience for  Helen’s penchant for drama, but there was an opportunity here—one she couldn’t ignore. 

“And what story are you planning to tell?” Margot asked. 

Helen leaned back, her smile triumphant. “Oh, nothing too damaging, of course. Just enough  to plant a seed of doubt. Something about her... unconventional behaviour. Perhaps a  suggestion that she’s unhappy in her marriage, seeking solace elsewhere.” 

Margot’s smile tightened, though her eyes gleamed with interest. “And what would that  achieve, exactly?” 

“Everything,” Helen said simply. “The higher they climb, the farther they fall. And Mrs.  Astor has climbed quite high, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Margot considered this, her mind already working through the possibilities. A well-timed  rumour could shift the balance of power, create cracks in the perfect facade. And if those  cracks aligned with her own interests, all the better. 

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to keep an ear out,” Margot said finally, her tone casual. “Purely  out of curiosity, of course.”

Helen’s laughter was soft and sharp. “Of course. Curiosity is such a harmless thing, isn’t it?” 

As the two women shared a knowing glance, the seeds of their alliance were firmly planted.  They were different in many ways, Helen with her sharp tongue and penchant for gossip,  Margot with her calculated charm and subtle manipulations, but they shared a common goal. 

To ensure that Madeleine Astor’s perfect world was anything but. 

Maddy’s escapes had already been noted in the most cunning ways, the women’s mis-placed  theories would soon spread through the channels of tittle tattle that was afforded to those with  too much time on their hands. Whilst that current would be gaining momentum so too were  the currents that would bring devastation to their path, 

Each day of the voyage had seen the weather get colder as the ship travelled the North  Atlantic. The Titanic featured one of the most advanced heating systems of its time, designed  to provide warmth and comfort to passengers and crew throughout the ship. The steam powered heating system had been installed to ensure that the accommodations, dining areas,  and public rooms remained comfortable. The radiators were powered by the same boilers as  the ships engines. The first class suites had electric radiators and what looked like open fires  in the communal lounges were actually electric designed to mimic open fires. This evening,  this fourth night since the ship left on its maiden voyage, was bitterly cold.  

As the ladies made their way to this evenings tables of culinary delights, they could be sure  that the chefs had taken in to account the dropping temperature. The decks now empty with  the exception of just a few brave men. The parasols of the first day or two had been packed  

away and the light silk coats were banished in favour of dresses trimmed with furs and  padded satin evening coats.  

Captain Smith sat with his usual entourage of first class passengers. Indeed, the captain had  quite a following, there were many frequent travellers that would only travel under his  captaincy. Tonight, Ismay, White Star Line’s chairman and managing director. The man who  had championed Titanic’s very existence, boasted that perhaps the dignitaries around them  should be warning their chauffeurs that they could arrive in New York earlier than expected.  John questioned him, how so? why would Ismay push for this? It became apparent that the  chairman had his very own agenda, that of topping the current speed records held by  Cunard’s Lusitania and Mauretania. Even if they couldn’t beat them, wouldn’t it make great  press stories if the Titanic arrived earlier than expected. Captain Smith continued to eat his  meal he met Ismay’s gaze. He had been at sea too long to be easily swayed. He did not  answer to men in suits. But the weight of expectation sat between them now, unspoken. 

“She’s already running near full speed, Mr. Ismay,” he said finally, setting his glass down  with a quiet “We’ll arrive on schedule.” Excusing himself Smith rose and returned to the  bridge. John, his mind always inquisitive, continued the conversation with Ismay. Most of  the table conceded that they were enjoying their time on the Titanic too much to want it to  end sooner. 

As the meal finally ended the men excused themselves and went to the cocktail bar, leaving  the ladies. Maddy was quick to make her exit. Returning to their suite, she dismissed both  Caroline and Rosalie. Once she was alone she searched her wardrobes for her drabbest attire.  She took the pins from her hair, brushing her long golden locks and then finding a spare  stocking she tied it atop of her head, along strands to tumble to her shoulders. Once her  jewels were safely put in her case she grabbed her plain woollen shawl and left the warmth of  their suite.

“This is incredible,” Maddy said, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. Families danced  together, their movements uncoordinated but joyous, while others clapped along, their faces  lit with pure happiness.  

Ellen and Daniel danced together. Their joy at being in each other’s company shone from  their smiling faces. Clara nudged Maddy and pointed them out to Maddy. 

“It’s a different world down here,” Clara said, her voice filled with admiration.  

Maddy couldn’t help but smile. “I envy them. They look so natural together, not caring what  anyone thinks.” 

“They don’t have time to care,” Clara said. “They’re too busy living.” 

For a moment, Maddy let herself be swept up in the energy of the room, her usual composure  giving way to something freer, more spontaneous. 

“You know,” she said, turning to Clara, “this... this is what I’ve been missing. Not the  dancing, necessarily, but the freedom. The ability to just be myself.” 

Clara nodded, her smile soft. “And you deserve that, Maddy. You deserve to find yourself, to  figure out who you are beyond the expectations.” 

Maddy looked at her, the gratitude in her eyes unmistakable. “Thank you, Clara. I don’t think  I realized how much I needed this, needed someone like you.” 

Clara placed a hand on Maddy’s arm, her grip firm but gentle. “We all need someone, Maddy.  Even the strongest among us.” 

As the evening wore on, the two women lingered on the third-class deck, their bond growing  stronger with every shared laugh, every quiet moment of understanding. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Maddy felt something she hadn’t dared to hope  for. 

She felt free. 

Onboard, life continued, blissfully unaware of the looming peril. The energy of the ship  pulsed like a heartbeat, each class moving within its designated world, tethered to unspoken  rules and expectations. Yet cracks were forming, small but significant fractures in the  carefully maintained facades of opulence and order.