Chapter One : Arrival
APRIL 6, 1912, 06:20 AM
It rained the day she arrived in Southampton, watching the cold, sodden port drawing nearer and knowing her life would never be the same. Amelia Marie Rostron sat in silence, mirroring the sleepy quiet of her driver as their motorcar bumped along a road long-gutted by tire tracks, the deeper ruts already swollen with rainwater. Beyond the fogged window, a swirl of waves foamed against the docks, dark and vaguely blue beneath the daybreak sky. Amelia shivered underneath her woolen coat. Not merely from the cold, but from the sheer excitement of what awaited her at port: the RMS Titanic. The luxury steamship all the papers, newsboys, and bustling folks across London were calling “The Ship of Dreams.” A true marvel of steel and manmade opulence bound for New York in five days’ time. And she would soon become one of its newest junior officers. The first female officer, in fact. Amelia tried to keep such a trivial detail from plaguing her thoughts. But it swirled through her mind like floodwaters, tearing away the wonder and anticipation she had thrived on these last few weeks. Female officers were unheard of, after all, and she needed to brace herself to expect the worst from her crewmates—whether it be indifference, disapproval, or outright prejudice.
This wouldn’t be easy, but Amelia was a qualified candidate for the role. With the help of her magnate uncle—being the practical businessman of the white Star line he was and her father Arthur Henry Rostron, Captain of the RMS Carpathia—had no tolerance for wasted talent. Rather than turn their nose up at her aspirations, they both had used their influence with White Star Line to secure two positions, one each for her and her brother, aboard the glittering new steamer. Amelia sighed, slipping the chain of her silver locket through shaky fingertips. Her Brother, Alexander Maxwell Rostron whom she referred to as Alex, would be just fine aboard Titanic. Her brother had studied shipbuilding and design at the Institute of Marine Engineering and Science in London. He would work under Thomas Andrews, Titanic’s shipwright, in a formal apprenticeship these next few weeks. But Alex was an accomplished male student of twenty-nine. Amelia was only a lady of twenty-five, and although she had studied with a small pool of female scholars at the very same institute, and knew her maritime laws like she knew the back of her hand, she was still a woman entering a world traditionally reserved for men. It was a first for the maritime business, a first for White Star Line, undoubtedly enough, and she wasn’t sure how her new shipmates would react to such a peculiarity.
They’ll be ecstatic, I’m sure, Amelia told herself, unable to keep the sarcasm from her nervous thoughts as she watched the raindrops glitter past the window. The motorcar shuddered to a halt before the rain-slick platform of the nearest loading dock, headlights blooming out across the dark shapes of berthed ships and cargo cranes. The driver swung around in his seat to look at her, cocking his head to one side. “Y’sure yer in the right place, Miss?” “If I wasn’t,” Amelia said lightly, “I would have told you by now, don’t you think?” She smiled at him before stepping out into the frigid air. A short walk brought her past a handful of sailors and seafarers tending to their ships in the early morn, many watching her pass with puzzled looks.
In the distance, a sliver of light strained its way through layers of fog and rainclouds; weak though it was, Amelia hoped the dreary weather might clear at last. Hands buried deep in her pockets, she continued onward through the maze of docks, winding her way to Berth 44. But it wasn’t until she rounded a row of Cunard ships that she saw it, and the breath caught in her throat. The RMS Titanic loomed out of the downpour, a giantess of gleaming steel and metalwork that put the berthed ships around her to shame. Never had Amelia seen a steamer so grand. Yellow light poured from portholes and promenades, seeping into the watery blue darkness. She gaped at the ship’s colossal size as it towered above her, nearly reminiscent of the skyscrapers she’d seen in New York, and she had to tilt her head back to take it all in, the golden colossal funnels soaring high above her, illuminated by lights at each base; the white paint sweeping across decks, davits, and roaming promenades, as smooth and pristine as if the coats had dried only yesterday; and finally, the enormous masts that speared the sky, linked by a sprawl of crisscrossed cables and wirework.
Titanic was every bit as stunning as the papers and newsboys in London claimed her to be, if not more. “Good Heavens,” Amelia murmured, standing rigid with her eyes flooded with awe. “She’s unbelievable.” Suddenly, everything she had fretted over during the journey to port, every concern regarding her gender, her purpose, her place vanished from her mind. Her eagerness returned, and Amelia found herself thinking only of the days ahead, when she would cross the North Atlantic on the grandest ship she had ever laid eyes on.
06:50 am
Sixth Officer James Moody had never liked the rain. He fought to ignore the sting of icy droplets as he crossed the sprawling docks, cursing himself for forgetting an umbrella this morning. Although he wore leather gloves and a thick, black greatcoat made of heavy wool, his attire did little to bar the freezing chill. He quickened his stride, vigorously rubbing his hands together for warmth and dreading how much colder the nights at sea would be. He had originally been assigned to the RMS Oceanic for a summer voyage this year, until White Star Line, for reasons unbeknownst to him, had transferred him to Titanic instead. Less than thrilled by his new assignment and not wanting to brave the harsh April weather, Moody had put in a request for leave, only to have it denied a day later. He tried to swallow his bitterness as he imagined his fellow Oceanic officers preparing for a far warmer, far more jovial transatlantic crossing.
On the one hand, Titanic was a gem of a ship, a steamer that outclassed any other vessel Moody had worked in his career. Aside from boasting luxury and lavishness, she had triumphed during her sea trials in Belfast, steaming through all manner of turns with unparalleled speed and precision. But despite Titanic’s excellence, Moody was still disappointed this trip would consist of chilled nights, cold watches, and frozen seas, rather than the calm summer voyage Oceanic had promised him. Well, he thought idly, doesn’t get much better than this. The downpour lightened, falling in a drizzle more mist than rain. Moody listened to the tides hissing and foaming against the slipway as he strolled toward Berth 44, heading straight for the port shell door where a gangway and a handful of seamen awaited him.
He was about to give the crew a cursory nod when he stopped in his tracks, taken aback by the odd sight before him. A short, slender woman donned in a heavy coat two sizes too big for her stood alone at the far end of the dock. She was gazing up at Titanic’s behemoth mass, the glow from the portholes glittering like starlight in her eyes. She seemed frozen, though whether she was in a daze or simply ridden by the cold, Moody could not say. But there was no reason for an unaccompanied lady to be on the docks, least of all at such an early hour. He made his way toward her at once, brow knitted into a frown. “Miss?” Moody said, hoping the crisp formality of his voice was enough to conceal his bewilderment. But the woman didn’t even look at him; she remained hopelessly transfixed on Titanic, studying her sleek hull and speckling of rivets with soft-eyed wonder.
Trying not to feel miffed, Moody pressed on, “Forgive my intrusion, miss, but may I ask what . . . you are . . . doing here at this time of the morning?” “Oh!” Her gasp vaulted across the berth, catching the air in a cloud of fog. She swung around to look at Moody, her cheeks rosy pink with cold and embarrassment, her gaze widening as she took in the officer beside her. The woman was young, perhaps his age, with Blonde, waist-length hair, that was tucked behind her head and binded with a slick black bow. She had fair, porcelain skin that reminded him of the greek goddess Aphrodite herself. Her eyes were long and almond-shaped, their color as blue as the Atlantic seawater, a small black bueaty mark on the left side of her cheek, And a admittedly pointed nose which he found endearing.
“I do apologize,” the woman said, speaking quick in a speedy American drawl. “It’s just, she paused gazing up at Titanic’s large hull before she spoke again "i’ve never seen such a large and majestic ship like this before. I couldn’t help but stop and stare, you know?” For a moment, Moody felt an unexpected twinge of pride and kinship toward Titanic. It was his first real optimism for the luxury liner since White Star Line had snatched him away from Oceanic, and it caught him by surprise. He smiled, lifting his chin in a dignified manner and hoping to impress the peculiar girl in her extremely long coat. “Ah, yes. She is rather impressive, isn’t she? Triple screws, forty-six thousand tons, more than eight-hundred feet in length, and so well-constructed, God himself could not sink her if he tried. I daresay she’s the finest steamer you’ll ever set foot on.” “Jesus, I believe it.” The woman tipped her head back, eyes tracing the crowns of the luminous funnels all the way down to the plated black hull. She gave a low whistle. “Never dreamed I’d be working on a ship like this.” “Oh?” Moody asked, curious. “You’re a stewardess?” Amelia laughed. “What, do I strike you as a stewardess type?” He studied her glossy Blonde hair and cashmere coat, noting she was more well-dressed than he’d realized.
Her ears were adorned with sparkling pearl earrings and a thin gold locket around her neck, while her shoes were a glittering midnight-blue. Moody observed her shoes, and suppressed a scoff once he noticed she was wearing heels. "Heels on the docks. In the rain. Good Lord, does she want to slip and fall into the sea." Moody though to himself But at least the woman looked quite comfortable in them, standing patiently on the dock as Moody struggled to comprehend what purpose she had here, and why she was all by her lonesome at a shipping port. Then he cleared his throat, deciding he’d rather not know. It was too early and too bloody cold to dwell on the odd behavior of some stranger, especially when he already expected a visitor of his own this morning. “Beg your pardon, miss,” Moody said. “but I actually must be off, I’m afraid I have matters to attend to elsewhere. A colleague of mine is coming aboard today, see, and I’m due to meet him at any moment now.” “Very well,” the woman said, and to his surprise, she was smirking. “I suppose it would be best not to keep him waiting.” A sly look crossed her face as she added, “Oh, and I didn’t catch your name, Officer . . . ?” She must have recognized the gold trim on his uniform.
He stood straighter and said tersely, “Moody. James Moody Miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me ” “Of course.” She still regarded him with amusement. “Good-bye, Mr. Moody.” “Good-bye.” He started for Titanic’s port side without another word, smoothing out his greatcoat and refusing to glance over his shoulder. Moody though she was a Kind woman But a very puzzling one indeed, very puzzling. And why on earth had she been smiling at him like that? Moody hadn’t the faintest clue, but he refused to let himself care. Nodding at the sailors lining the shell door, he pulled a heavy pocket watch from his coat to inspect the time. The new junior officer in training should have been here by now, but there was no sign of him along the rainy sprawl of Berth 44. Some chap by the name of Rostron, according to the report, and already he was late. Moody’s lip curled with disapproval. How very promising. Lightoller's not going to like this. He’ll skin that poor fellow alive.
Dipping his watch back into his pocket, Moody stood taller and folded his hands behind his back. As he surveyed the docks, cold and annoyed and still waiting for some tardy seventh officer to arrive, the woman with the oversized coat came strolling toward him. Now what? Moody raised an eyebrow as she neared, all the while considering whether to ask some dockhand or another to escort her from the premises. “You forgot to ask me what my name was, Mr. Moody,” she said. Her tone was bright and Facetious. "My apologies Miss, what might your name be?" Moody Asked kindly. The woman stood straight and tall as she spoke. “I'm the new Junior Officer, Amelia Marie Rostron, at your service, Requesting permission to come aboard, sir.” the woman boldly said with a quick salute.
Moody froze, completely speechless, with his eyes wide in shock, all his dignity was lost to the wind as he gawked at this young woman who had a mischievous smirk on her face. It felt like an eternity before he managed to compose himself, smoothing away his astonishment and slipping back into his mannerly poise. Still perplexed, he rummaged around his pocket for the small notebook carrying the seventh officer’s details. Moody had grown accustomed to disregarding an officer's first name, as in his profession, most officers were addressed by their last names. Officer Moody’s eyes quickly raced across the paper, and had to bite his inner cheek to suppress cursing at himself once his eyes skimmed over the black bold letters that read "Miss Amelia Marie Rostron" If only Moody had checked the Officer's first name, he would have discovered that the new Seventh Officer was indeed a woman.
"Wait...your full name is... Miss Amelia Marie Rostron...?" Moody asked his voice sounding as if the air was knocked out of his lungs as his eyes darted back in forth between her and the paper. "Correct! that's me. Your new Junior Officer ready for duty sir." Amelia said with pride in her voice as she stood at attention. Moody was completely lost for words. How could he have overlooked such a major detail, maybe it was because he’d been more interested in hot tea and a warm jacket above all else, And now here he was, staring dumbfounded into the eyes of Titanic’s newest female recruit, who stood with her chin held high, a clever little grin spreading across her face. “Right,” Moody said, warmth rising in his cheeks with embarrassment as he stood awkwardly beside the young woman for a moment, unsure what to do or say next. But then he remembered his manners, and he offered a tentative hand. She wrung it hard, beaming, her grip tight and painfully enthusiastic in a way that made him wince. When she released his hand, and Moody flexed his fingers to make sure none were crushed, he gestured toward the shell door with a hard swallow. “Welcome aboard Titanic, Miss Rostron.”
