Chapter Text
It was, Lord John Benjamin Solo admitted to himself most begrudgingly as the motorcar came to a halt at the busy dock, a beautiful April day. The sky was blue, there was hardly a cloud in the Southampton sky, and the day—indeed, his future—was full of promise.
His valet opened the door and bowed smartly. "Milord," he said, tipping his cap. Solo slipped out, grateful for the chance to stretch his long legs, and nodded at young Hux, turning to assist the occupants of the motorcar on the no doubt precarious journey from the step to the cobblestones.
First, his mother, of course. Swathed in a dove-gray walking suit, her hair pinned firmly into place under a sensible matronly hat, Lady Elizabeth Lelia Organa Solo cut as striking a figure as she ever had in her youth. Sharp eyes might have faded in color to a light whiskey instead of the deep brown they had once been—the deep brown that her son's were—but they still missed nothing whatsoever. She righted herself on the cobbles, nodded at her son with a curt little "thank you, Ben", and went off at once to busy herself with politely educating the porters of the White Star Line regarding all the particulars of their luggage: which was intended to go where, and when, and how, all the while gesturing with her walking-stick at the trunks marked with Lord J. Benjamin Solo and Lady Elizabeth Solo and Miss Mary Harkness.
This, of course, left Lord Solo alone with his fiancée, who was the next to emerge from the motorcar's interior. Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness made for quite a picture as she stepped out, dressed head to toe in a beautiful walking-suit, white with delicate black embroidery about the lapels, the hem, and the collar. It had been made in France specially for her, the embroidery had taken an entire house of fashion two months to complete, and the material was the finest wool that money could buy. Lord Solo knew all this, for Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness had spoken of nothing else whatsoever for the entire drive from the South Western Hotel to the quay. Thank God, he thought rather bitterly, that we only had a ten-minute drive. Her hat, festooned with feathers, swung about as she looked from side to side, taking in the view with her round dark eyes.
"I say," she said, with a little sniff, "this one isn't nearly as large as the Mauritania."
He knew better by now to correct her. "Whatever the size, Titanic is the finest ship the White Star Line has."
Mary Clarisse preened a little, her nose turned up. "Won't the society ladies in New York be green when I tell them how fine it was?"
"I'm sure they will." Lord Solo checked his pocket watch. "We have thirty minutes to departure; it's half-past eleven."
Lady Solo came striding back up, looking pleased. "Ah, there you are, my dear," she said to Mary, and patted her hand. "Well, our trunks are being sent up, so I suppose we ought to board. I have the tickets in my reticule—come along."
Lord Solo offered his arm and Mary Clarisse clung to it quickly, her enormous hat threatening to jab him in the eye. "You might tilt your hat to the left," he suggested, dodging a certain blinding.
"Of course I shan't." Mary looked up at him coldly. "That would ruin the style." He felt a jab in the back, and knew immediately that his mother had given him a warning yet again: no quarreling.
"Of course," he said placidly. "You're quite right." Mary Clarisse, quite satisfied, settled on his arm with a little hmph and they ascended the gangplank, arm in arm.
Lord John Benjamin Solo was fully aware this marriage was for money. He had never been under any illusions otherwise. If his father had not died—his useless, useless, gambling fool of a father—but no! that did no one any good: to dwell on the secrets—the what ifs or the whys or the if onlys. Such was the case: John Solo, "Han" to his friends and his long-suffering lady wife (and that was another great mystery: the fact that an American sea captain had wed a duke's daughter—they had been the scandal of the whole county, and precisely seven months post-wedding their first and only son and heir had been born at Skywalker House, christened John after his father and Benjamin after some old friend of his mother's) had died at the age of seventy-one in a hunting accident, and after his death it had been discovered that Lady Organa Solo's money, nearly all of her money, was gone.
Fortunately, his mother was a shrewd woman and his uncle—her brother, the current Duke—had had a great deal of foresight, and society was another form of currency in the English and American circles she had ingrained herself in. Young John Benjamin stood to inherit a tidy sum from the Duke of Skywalker as soon as he wed, and that alone made him quite desirable to most marriageable young ladies in his society circles—along with his forthcoming dukedom, which he would take after Uncle Luke had passed beyond this mortal coil. The English girls had been less eager: there were other young lords with more money and more cheerful demeanors to win. The American girls had nearly eaten him alive on his first visit to New York and on the subsequent tour through Newport: the two of them entertained by every heiress and socialite of the Gilded Age, and on their London tour salvation had seemingly come at last for the Solo family, in the form of one Miss Mary Clarisse Sindian Harkness.
She was, at the age of eighteen, the only daughter of a late American railroad magnate. She was cultured, refined, ladylike, and worth millions. She had just been presented at Court, and had valuable social connections on both sides of the Atlantic. Lady Organa Solo had made the match as quickly as possible, barely consulting her son whatsoever about his new bride, and tally-ho! they were engaged: a sapphire and diamond ring on her slender third finger, her mother's blessing, and they were off to New York to be married as quickly as possible, for Lady Organa Solo did not believe in procrastinating.
Unfortunately for Lord Solo, Miss Mary Clarisse was, in addition to being wealthy, lovely, and refined—spoiled to within an inch of her life, prone to private temper tantrums, and bitingly nasty when she felt like it, which was often. She saw her fiancé as a sort of prize to flaunt: a Duke-to-be, which meant she should be a Duchess; it made her made her the envy of all her friends—and who wouldn't envy her? Lord Solo was taller than almost every man she'd known, broad in the shoulder with powerful legs and arms from summers riding and hunting: ink-dark hair waving back from a high, fine brow and a large Roman nose, a fine jawline and a full, wide mouth more suited to a woman than a man, with deep set eyes. He wore his hair slightly longer than was perhaps strictly appropriate, but it could be forgiven on account of his very large ears. Mary Clarisse spent many an hour looking at herself in the mirror, preening over her fine dark hair and round, large eyes, small mouth and arched brows, and thinking of how lovely a picture they would make in the newspapers in New York.
That was how Lady Organa Solo found her in their first class stateroom, surrounded by her open trunks as the maid helpfully put her things away. "Gracious," she said mildly. "My dear, won't you join me on the deck? We are about to depart, and the shoreline is quite lovely."
"Oh, I couldn't, my lady," said Mary Clarisse breezily, without turning around. "The sun is ever so bad for your complexion, you know."
"Of course," said Lady Solo, whose own complexion was as soft and white as it had been when she was nineteen, a few moments of sunshine notwithstanding. "Tea shall be served in an hour, or so the steward says."
"Oh, I must wear that gown from Paris," exclaimed Mary Clarisse. "It's ever so haute couture." She stood up quickly. "Violet, where is my white lace? The one with the blue sash, not the green, it must match my ring—"
Lady Solo silently sighed to herself and exited politely into the sitting room, where Ben stood, directing the steward with his trunks. "Miss Harkness is preparing for tea," she informed him.
"Excellent," Solo said, distractedly. "Yes, Hawkes, put that trunk in my room. Hux will take care of it. My folio can stay here on the table." The steward obediently set down a large leather folder, thick with paper, on the sitting-room table, and took his trunk into the bedroom.
Mary Clarisse emerged from her bedroom, still in her walking-skirt, but divested of her coat and hat. "My," she said, looking at the trunks. "You'd think there were three women in the stateroom!"
"Oh, those are wedding gifts for you," said Lady Solo with a smile. "If you object, of course we might stow them away elsewhere. The folio, however: that is only Ben's work."
"What, these?" Mary Clarisse strode to the table and opened his folio with a careless hand, scattering papers across the fine carpet.
"Leave my designs be," Lord Solo said coldly, bending down to pick up his things.
"Designs! What, are you to hold a patent? Be an inventor?" Mary Clarisse laughed, not very nicely. "Your little drawings won't amount to a thing."
The presence of two spots of color high on his pale cheeks was the only symbol of Lord Solo's embarrassment and hurt. "I'll thank you," he snapped, ignoring his mother's stern-looking face, "to keep your opinions about engineering to yourself, madam: you should stay in your known realm of embroidered walking-suits and oversized hats."
Mary Clarisse gaped, her face gone quite white with shock and fury at being spoken to so. "How could you offend me like that, and me your fiancée, you cruel brute—" She burst into tears, and the steward chose that moment to reappear and make much of a fuss over her, offering her his handkerchief and helping Lady Solo lower her onto the couch by the other wall as she sobbed and gasped most pitifully—and watched her fiancé from the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction.
He ignored her stoically, and was grateful that she had not managed to fling every single one of his sketches on the floor—a fair few tucked in the back were of a sort that he should not have liked anyone to see, not even his mother.
Lady Solo, whose sharp eyes missed nothing, pretended not to see Mary Clarisse's sideways looks. "Ben, you shall apologize to Mary at once. That is no way to speak to your bride-to-be."
Lord Solo choked down his anger and curtly bowed. "Apologies, madam."
Mary Clarisse fanned herself and made a great to-do of sitting up and straightening her back. "I have a headache," she announced. "I will not go to tea, after all."
Of course, she would say such a thing just to be contrary. Lord Solo bristled, but Lady Solo merely unfolded a paper from her reticule and pretended to read it very hard.
Mary Clarisse blinked and looked at her, glancing back and forth from her to Lord Solo. Finally, curiosity won out. "What have you there, Lady Solo?" she ventured.
"Oh, only a telegram from your mother," said Lady Solo. "But I am sure you shan't be able to read it, as you have such a headache."
"From Mama!" Mary Clarisse sprung from her couch, her tears and headache forgotten. "Please, what does she say?"
Lady Solo gave her son a quick look, as if to say, watch and learn, before she shook her head. "Oh, dear, no. I shouldn't want to excite you in your state."
"I—I'm feeling all right now," Mary said, flushed.
"Ah, well, in that case." Lady Solo cleared her throat. "She says that she will not be joining us at Cherbourg, but has taken the Olympic to New York and shall meet us there when we disembark."
"Oh," said Mary Clarisse, disappointed. She perked up again after a moment. "Won't it be lovely to see her as we come into port!"
Lady Solo smiled genially. "Indeed. Now, I think you had better get ready for tea, don't you think?"
Deep below, in the bowels of Deck E, a very different sort of conversation was happening at precisely the same time. A young woman was trying to communicate with the large family of five she had found herself sharing a third-class bunk with, but was finding the process rather difficult, as they spoke no English, nor Italian, nor French, and she did not speak…well, she wasn't sure if it was Russian, or perhaps Polish, but whatever it was, she did not speak it, even though it did seem quite similar to English, but kept slipping away from her like a carp on a line.
"I just want the bunk near the door, please," she repeated, pointing at the bunk in question, upon which sat a tow-headed toddler, blinking at her in mystification.
The mother, a hearty-looking blond woman with a colorful shawl about her shoulders, shook her head, grinning. "Jag förstår dig inte alls, kära."*
"Oh, dear," said the young lady, shaking her head. "Right. Let's try this." She squared up and pointed at herself. "Rachel…Maria…Nowak."
"Rrrey-chel!" said the woman, rolling her r's in delight and speaking very slowly. "Ja! Hej, Rey-chel. Jag är Ebba Nilsson," here she indicated herself, "och det här är min man Olaf Nilsson," she pointed to her husband, a meaty-looking man with a red face and huge hands, "och det här är våra barn," here, she indicated each of the children: a girl of about ten, a boy of eight, another boy of six or seven who had apparently gotten Olaf's red hair, a girl of four, and the toddler, "Anna, Oskar, Josef, Alva, och Erik." Turning to the children, she rattled off, "Du måste tala mycket långsamt till damen. Hon kan inte prata svenska."
"Hello," said Rachel Maria Nowak awkwardly.
"Hej, Rey-chel!" said Anna, beaming.
"Hej, Anna," said Rachel, and the family burst into peals of cheerful laughter. "Oh, goodness. I suppose I am in for a time."
"Du är engelsk?" asked tiny Oskar, very slowly.
"Engel—oh, English!" Rachel smiled. "Erm, yes. I mean, ja. Ja, engelsk."
After a few more minutes of miming and speaking as if the other were a very small child, Rachel finally got her point across, and was conceded the second bottom bunk closest to the door. She managed to apologize her way to the one mirror and washbasin, and quickly wiped a smudge off her face.
"I suppose America will just have to take me, dirt and all," she said to herself, eyeing her reflection critically.
"Amerika!" said Josef excitedly, catching on to the familiar word.
"Ja, Amerika!" cried Ebba, beaming, and patted her husband on the hand. "Rey-chel, vad ska du göra i Amerika?"
Rachel assumed she was being asked what her business was in America, and replied so. "Dance!" she said, and struck a dramatic pose with her foot out, making the children giggle.
"Dansa?" asked Ebba.
"Ja," replied Rachel, and hoisted up her long, brown skirt to the ankle. "Watch this—" She unlaced her shabby shoes and stood in her stocking feet. Ebba and the children and Olaf watched in astonishment as she concentrated quite hard, and lifted herself directly onto the points of her big toes, holding it for a moment, then shuffling to the left and the right on her toes before coming back down and bowing. The children erupted into applause.
"Dansa!" shrieked Anna, delighted. "Mamma, hon stod på tårna!"
Ebba clapped, smiling. "Jag såg!"
Rachel modestly smiled and put her shoes back on. She wanted to tell them all about her dreams: to be perhaps like Isadora Duncan, breaking the mold of simple ballet and creating something entirely new—though what it would be, she did not know quite yet. After all, she was only nineteen, and all her possessions were in her single suitcase, but oh, she had enough dreams to make up for it, no one could deny.
Miss Nowak took her leave of the Nilsson family and quickly stepped out into the narrow, white-painted corridor to find a water closet, inhaling the smell of fresh paint and smiling at her fellow third-class passengers as she went along. She had sold nearly all her belongings for her ticket: forty pounds was the price of her dreams, and she quickly took her mental inventory of the thing she did have. Three clean shirtwaists, a proper long gray coat, two serviceable brown skirts, a belt, and a fine blue day dress with a silk organza collar that she kept for Sundays. Her only shoes were on her feet, of course: two extra pairs of stockings, a round straw hat with a black ribbon, her extra lace camisole and her nightgown. A comb, a tiny bottle of lilac scent, her dancing shoes (she was in dire need of a new pair, but there was no help for that) and most precious of all, a letter from her old instructor recommending her to whoever it might concern once they disembarked in New York.
She hoped that she would not be subject again to a lice inspection. She had been asked quite politely on the docks to remove her hat, and then a health inspector had poked and prodded through her carefully pinned hair, all about her scalp and ears while she stood, cheeks flaming. Of course she had no lice: why, she carefully washed her hair every Saturday, like a proper young lady, didn't she? They had cleared her, and she had marched into the bowels of the ship, one or two glances upward at the first-class passengers embarking far above.
Like snobbish, floating angels, she thought of them. Entirely unconcerned with her world, swathed in great lace gowns and enormous hats, going about their business, whatever it might be—oil tycoons and gold mine owners, like as not.
Rachel made it to the washrooms and got into line behind a small Syrian lady, whose black headscarf was adorned in a myriad of embroidered flowers. She wanted to ask who had done the needlework, but spoke no Arabic at all, and so resigned herself to waiting her turn to use the facilities.