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Missing

It had taken some probing, but eventually, Charlie had agreed to join Jonathan for some fresh air outside on one of the boat’s many promenades. However, a compromise had been negotiated; rather than sauntering about amidst the over-dressed, overly formal members of First Class, Charlie had insisted on traveling down to one of the lower decks where the pressures of sophistication would be replaced with an air of excitement at the journey. Happy to be leaving the cabin, Jonathan agreed, and they made their way to C Deck where mostly Third Class passengers could leave the cramped quarters of Steerage for some fresh air and a view of the ocean.

As they ambled about, discussing the various features of the vessel, Charlie was reminded of how fortunate he was to have such a scholarly valet. Jonathan had done quite a bit of research about the boat before they boarded. Likewise, he soaked up information from overheard conversations and discussions with other gentlemen of his position. The result was a virtual encyclopedia of facts on almost every subject, the present topic of the esteemed RMS Titanic notwithstanding.

“The top speed is about twenty-six knots, or so they say,” he was explaining as they walked along near the railing, dodging overly-jubilant children who occasionally darted by, “though I would be surprised if we ever got it quite up to that speed.”

“That is rather fast,” Charlie agreed, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. “And how much faster is that than the Majestic?”

“Oh, much faster. The Majestic only travels about twenty knots, though the Lusitania is just as fast as Titanic. Of course, Ismay was building a ship for luxury, not just speed. I think he got it,” Jonathan continued.

Charlie nodded, his thoughts elsewhere, though he was listening. Not only was he preoccupied with haunting thoughts of Mary Margaret Westmoreland, the vision of the blonde woman he had seen on the decks below at their initial launch yesterday also began to play across his mind. He pushed all of those thoughts aside, not wanting to waste what small level of concentration he currently had available on unnecessary musings as he refocused on what Jonathan was saying. “Yes, that’s true. Luxury was certainly Mr. Bruce Ismay’s focus. And he and Thomas Andrews did a top-notch job of reaching a new standard, that’s for certain,” he agreed, considering his personal accommodations and the aesthetics of the promenade they were visiting. “By the looks of it, even Third Class passengers are quite comfortable.”

“Yes, indeed,” Jonathan agreed, smoothing back his dark hair behind his ear. “They even have individual cabins.” Glancing down over the railing at the decks below momentarily, Jonathan looked up, and then back down again. “However,” he muttered, still surveying the area, “I don’t believe there are enough lifeboats for all of these people, and the passages below D Deck are rather confusing. Since most of the Steerage accommodations are below D Deck that could be problematic in an emergency.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows, considering Jonathan’s words carefully. Despite the assurances of the White Star Line, he was, by nature, a cautious person. Nevertheless, he had other things on his mind. Laughing he patted Jonathan on the arm and said, “Don’t worry. This boat is unsinkable, right?”

Jonathan returned the chuckle. “Right,” he agreed. “Why bother with lifeboats at all?”

As they continued, however, Charlie eyed the frigid water below, and it wasn’t just thoughts of freezing temperatures that sent a slight chill up his spine. Something about Jonathan’s words seemed too familiar to him, almost like de ja vu, and he began to realize every time someone mentioned the implausible idea that the Titanic might sink, he couldn’t help but wonder if they were tempting their fate.


She was gone! She had been here one moment, giggling at her mother’s scarf as it floated above her in the breeze, the next she had vanished. Frantic, Meg looked up and down the promenade, attempting to catch a glimpse of that flame of hair somewhere one direction or the other; she did not see Ruth anywhere.

Daniel and Kelly had decided to return to the cabin to lay Lizzy down for a nap and take a little break themselves, and Meg had insisted she could keep an eye on Ruth, who wasn’t done playing just yet, while they did so. Even though Daniel and Kelly had been married for almost five years now, they seldom spent any time alone. He worked long hours as a carpenter, and she was on call twenty-four hours a day, six days a week, taking care of Meg’s needs and anything else her mother assigned her. Once the girls were born, Mrs. Westmoreland had agreed to let Daniel move into Kelly’s quarters, but before that time, she only lived with her husband on her day off, which made it very difficult to start a family. Now that Meg was in a situation where she could make some of that up to her friend, she was inclined to do so. However, now that their daughter was missing, and Meg was certain she had somehow managed to tumble into the Atlantic Ocean, she had no idea how she could ever face her friends again.

In desperation, she picked a direction, and shot off, hoping she chose correctly and that she would find the missing four-year-old safe and sound. In a rush, with a panicked expression on her face, she parted strolling families and couples, who leapt out of her way as if she had the plague. “Ruth!” she shouted, peering between knees and behind benches. “RUTH! Where are you?” she shouted.

It wasn’t until she rounded a corner that she saw the child, and it was hardly at knee level either. Meg gasped in horror when she realized precisely whom the small child had befriended. There, across the promenade, leaning against the railing, having quite the animated discussion with her little charge, was none other than Charles J. Ashton, his strong arms holding the tot up where she could see out across the sea.

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