The Titan Drowns: Time Travel Romance by Nhys Glover (highly recommended books .txt) 📕

xml:lang="en-AU">‘Nearly. Shall we go up on deck and wave farewell with all the others? It is an historic moment, after all.’

Jane scrambled out from the bottom bunk and made a half-hearted attempt to straighten the pompadour on top of her head. It was leaning hazardously to one side and a long tendril had escaped it completely and now hung down her back like a thread of fine, copper wire.

‘Let’s go, guys. The Titanic’s maiden voyage starts now. We don’t want to miss it.’ Jane grinned at them and opened the cabin door.

Collecting the other three on their way, they went up onto the Poop Deck. Unlike the other passengers, they had studied the ship's blue prints and knew exactly how to navigate the confusing labyrinth of passages. They simply followed what constituted the tail end of ‘Scotland Road,’ the main arterial passageway that ran the full length of the ship – almost a quarter of a mile in length – up the main staircase for third class until they reached C Deck. Here they stepped out onto the aft end of the open Well Deck. Then they took the ladder up onto the Poop Deck at the very stern of the ship.

The deck was thick with milling third class passengers, all trying to get a position on the rail from which to view the dock. In every hand there was a flower, and many passengers were throwing their blossoms overboard to the docks below, hoping those they left behind would catch them.

Rather than take up a space that belonged to the real passengers, the New Atlanteans stood back and looked around at the excited, tearful and joyful faces. There were no crying children now, and the level of noise was deafening, as people chattered elatedly to their companions on deck or yelled down to the dock below, trying to attract the attention of well-wishers.

Sea gulls arced, screeching, overhead as the ship’s horn blasted and the motion of the engines and spinning propellers vibrated through the decks and the railings. Eilish knew that there was now at least one of the three monstrous screw propellers churning up the silty water beneath them.

She wondered fleetingly how Jane felt about those propellers. She had been torn to pieces by a much smaller version of them. Some time she needed to ask Jane about that, if she didn’t find the memory too painful. To be sucked into one of those spinning blades must have been the worst kind of nightmare. At least when the Titanic sank there would be no knife edged propellers to catch victims unaware.

Eilish found her eyes turning up unconsciously to the higher decks. Here she could see the better class of passenger lining the rails, some in top hats and outrageous bonnets. Her eyes sought out a familiar figure on A Deck, and sure enough, there he was, searching the Well and Poop Decks with his keen eyes, rather than looking down at the crowds on the dock.

The minute Max caught sight of her, he grinned broadly and took off his bowler hat and waved it at her. More thrilled than she could have imagined at such an insignificant gesture, she grinned back and waved. Then, while they continued to stare at each other longingly, a man came up to Max’s side and spoke to him. He looked away for a second while he answered and then turned back to indicate in her direction.

It was Carter! Of course, Carter was with Hugo Vance, one of their other first class Targets. She should have recognised his tall, rangy physique and bright copper hair, even from this distance. He was one of the adult Retrievers and had therefore been allowed to stay with his Target, as had Finn who would be boarding with the art nouveau master craftsman, Jean Pierre Arceneau, at Cherbourg.

‘Look, its Carter,’ she said to Cara, who was standing next to her. With a smile and a wave, the blonde acknowledged the other Jumper.

‘So Carter is safely aboard. I wonder where Karl is.’ Cara said, searching the second class promenade on B Deck.

Sure enough, just coming around the corner and moving aft toward them was the very youthful-looking Karl Ontario, with a pretty, young woman on his arm. She was smiling up at him as if the sun shone out of him, and Karl was bending down toward her as if trying to catch every word she said.

‘Looks like Karl is angling for a shipboard romance. How very unlike him!’ Eilish said with a laugh.

‘What?’ Jac was now at her other side and scanning the B Deck. ‘Not another one. He has to keep his eye on the ball. He’s the only one of us in second.’

At that moment, Karl looked across at them and waved exuberantly. If you didn't know he was a 200-year-old man, you would take him for the youth he appeared to be in that moment. He seemed so vital and alive. Not like the quiet, sober and professional man she had known for so long. It was more than the youthful body he now inhabited. It was something else.

‘She looks rather plump around the middle, don’t ya think,’ Luke commented, following their line of vision. ‘Maybe she’s pregnant. That’d explain it. Can’t see the Doc lettin’ a pretty face side-track him.’

‘Wow, your eyes are good! How could you see that from here?’ Eilish asked.

‘I’m really keen on this clone. Everything runs like new. My hawk-like eyesight’s just the start.’ Luke looked like a cat that had just drunk the cream.

‘Not bad for a lump of dead meat, huh?’

Luke grinned down at her. ‘Nope, not bad at all.’

Eilish turned back to look at Max again. He was intently watching her and when he saw her turn to him, he smiled again. Oh, how she loved that man! She couldn’t credit the overwhelming feelings that coursed through her in that moment. Her man! That calm, intelligent and infinitely patient man was hers now, and she planned to never let him go.

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

Marco

 

The galley of the À la Carte restaurant was frenetic with activity as the whistles and horns for Titanic’s imminent departure from Southampton were sounded. But it was an organised and systematic activity, somewhat like a mechanised factory floor. Most of the staff knew each other from the two Ritz restaurants in London and worked well together, easily slipping into the roles they’d held on shore like well-oiled cogs in a machine.

When Marco had joined them an hour earlier, there had been a few disgruntled comments, but no one had questioned his presence. They all knew Gardi’s volatile temperament well enough not to show their displeasure overtly. The Manager of four Ritz restaurants, two in London and now one on each of the sister ships, Olympic and Titanic, was a talented businessman who had risen from nowhere to wealth and prominence by the time he was forty. He was a pragmatist first and foremost, and would discard inefficient or problematic staff dispassionately and without a qualm. And he never played favourites. This meant that no one felt secure enough in their position to voice their disapproval of his choice in Marco, in case they themselves were next to be let go at the end of the voyage.

The Head Waiter called his staff together in the dining room, allocating tables and assistants to each waiter on duty. There were thirteen waiters and eighteen assistant waiters employed to cover both the restaurant and the adjacent Café Parisien. With nine waiters and twelve assistants serving fifty tables and catering for up to 140 dinners in the restaurant at any one time, and four waiters and six assistants serving twenty-one tables catering for up to sixty-eight patrons in the Café from eight in the morning until eleven at night, their workload was immense. But so would be the payoff. Tips were expected to be substantial on this maiden voyage and would be divided among all the staff equally.

After allocating staff, the Head Waiter addressed the issue of working hours. He was a reed thin French man in his late thirties with a high-pitched nasal voice that Marco found irritating. He listened intently, nevertheless, as all instructions were essential to the smooth running of their domain.

‘From our experience on the Olympic, we know that patronage will be spread evenly across opening hours, with light periods expected until ten o’clock in the morning, and then again between three and five o’clock in the afternoon. It will finally drop away from ten o’clock in the evening. Those wait staff assigned to work from eight o’clock will work a split shift with a three-hour break from three. Those who start at ten o’clock will work through until ten.

‘During off hours staff will remain either in their cabins or in the third class recreational areas. Under no circumstances are staff permitted to enter passenger’s cabins. Any staff found doing so will be summarily dismissed and all earnings forfeited. Any questions?’

Marco looked at his assistant, Paulo, a seventeen year old from the second London restaurant. He looked very nervous and Marco had to wonder how much experience he’d had up to this point. Never mind, he was used to being stuck with the beginners. They said it was because he was a good teacher and very patient. He knew differently. It was because inexperienced staff meant more work. But the added work didn’t faze him. On this voyage, nothing would faze him.

As he and Paulo started laying out their tables in the restaurant, his mind turned back to that morning for the hundredth time. From the moment he awoke before dawn and hurriedly departed from his accommodation, he’d felt an uncontrollable excitement. At first, he thought it was because of the journey to America, his dream-come-true, but when he met the party of immigrants on the way to the docks, he knew differently. As soon as he’d noticed the tall, slim blonde he walked beside, he’d felt an undeniable need to speak to her. And when she had responded, stiffly and shyly at first, his heart had nearly jumped out of his chest.

Petra. Her name was Petra and she was Swedish, although you would never know that by listening to her. Her English was as unaccented and perfect as many of the ladies who frequented his restaurant in London. What was it about her that attracted him? It wasn’t her looks or her manner. Neither of these was exceptional, although he liked her tall, boyish figure and fair, lightly freckled complexion. And it certainly wasn’t because she was showing him any interest, because she had barely looked at him the entire time they walked together. Nor was it because he was desperate for female companionship; he had more of that than he needed. Given half the chance, he would have sworn off women completely.

So, there was no reason for his interest in her. And yet as soon as they’d met, the overwhelming drive towards some unknown goal had disappeared and he was left feeling oddly content, as if he had reached his destination. Left to his own devices, he would happily have followed her onto the ship. However, the only way he could board was via the crew’s gangway, and the chances of seeing her again were next to none, especially with this rule about non-fraternisation. Maybe he would seek her out in New York. But he didn’t even know her last name or where in the city she was heading.

From the sensation beneath him, Marco could tell that the liner was now on the move. He knew from experience that little tug boats would be guiding their way out of the harbour into deep water. Once they left shelter and headed out to sea, the engines would be engaged fully and they would be on their way across the Channel to France.

It was a beautiful day, and he wished he were outside on deck watching the waves break over the prow. Unfortunately, such pleasures were for the passengers alone. His job was to feed the very richest of those passengers and reap the rewards.

‘Did you see all those flowers the passengers had?’ Paulo said, in his Genovese accented Italian as they laid silverware in neat rows on white damask tablecloths.

‘