Cold All the Way Through, But Warming

A New Launch

AN: This chapter is being posted on the 110th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, April 15, 2022. While we all have fun here writing our fanfictions and creating our own stories, we should remember that these people we write about were real. They lived, and a good many of them died on that cold April night in 1912. I feel that when writing about historical figures, especially those who lost their lives in a tragedy like this, one should take care and concern, understanding that these were real people, with read lives. I hope that I have managed to convey that respect that I have for those who lost their lives in this tragedy, and that I have portrayed them appropriately. Especially William Murdoch, the real man, whose reputation suffered greatly at the hands of Mr. Cameron to the point that many equate the movie with the actual historical events. In this I have tried to portray what his life would have been if he had survived, and I hope that is appreciated.

Taking the rail car back to New York early in the morning meant yet another round of poker, Mother and Will seemed to be obsessed with beating each other. Mother had even upended her coin purse to use for bets, and had ordered me to be the dealer. It proved to be a simple task, simply laying out the cards and ensuring that the two of them followed the standard procedures. By the last hand the few coins in front of Mother were dwarfed by Will's pile. He grinned at her over the coins, "Mrs. Dalian, you play like a card shark."

"And you play like a bored sailor." Mother snapped back, throwing her last coins in. "I have no doubt you've played many hands with your fellow officers, you're deliberately fleecing me."

Will chuckled, throwing a few more coins in before revealing his hand. "Ah, a flush. I believe that beats your two pair." I shook my head as I gathered the cards back in front of me, watching as Will began to sort out the coins by amount and stack them. "Would you like these back, Mrs. Dalian?"

"Keep them Mr. Murdoch, I'll win them back on our way up." Mother said as she got up from the table, settling herself on the bench with a magazine. We were getting close to the city, the train slowing somewhat as we entered the outer limits. It was less than an hour before we were in the auto, chugging along to the Fifth Avenue house. Mother looked to Will, sat across from us in the cab. "I hope you do not mind Mr. Murdoch, but I will be keeping Anastasia. She has her fitting this afternoon."

"Of course not," Will nodded, "I am sure I shall find something to occupy myself with until your return."

"I hope so, for it will probably be quite late." The stop at the house took only a moment, as did the trip to the designer Mother had chosen. I took in the massive windows that fronted the office, sketches and drawings of elaborate dresses displayed prominently. She gave a laugh at seeing my gaping expression, "Paul is quite extravagant, I have a feeling you two shall get along famously."

"Paul?" I asked as an attendant opened the door to usher us in. "How long have you been planning this that you're calling him by his first name?"

"Since you telegrammed that you were engaged." Mother sniffed, sweeping through a floor teeming with customers, salesmen and shop girls. I tried to take in everything as I followed her, the draped fabrics of dresses that brushed across the carpeted floors, the glittering jewelry displayed in glass topped cabinets. And hats, endless hats, on shelves, on stands, even placed on pillars as if they were an ancient sculpture.

Mother ignored all of it, giving our name to a manager, who quickly led us back into the workrooms behind the storefront. Seamstresses bustled by carrying bolts of fabric, rich silks and plain cottons. We passed a room of women doing nothing bust dressing hats, feathers and flowers quickly placed and sewn down. The manager finally stopped, opening a door and bowing as we passed through. It seemed the strangest combination of a fitting room and an office, high windows letting in light. A rather portly, older man was behind a cherry desk, his fingers flying over a sketch in front of him. I watched the plain figure suddenly be surmounted by a massive hat, drawing attention to the slim skirts that swirled around its feet.