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the stars were always brighter around this time of year, you think.
they twinkle against the canopy of night and over the slated roofs of southampton, sparkling in tune to the flurried tinkle of your laughter. two pairs of leather soles clack loudly through the cobblestone streets—one swifter than the other, the other heavier than the first.
“quiet!” vincent hushes you loudly, though unable to hold back his own laughs.
“hurry, vinny!” you giggle, whipping your head to look back at the man you’re dragging by the hand behind you. “titanic waits for no one!”
he picks up his pace, eventually falling into step with you. vincent then shifts his fingers to lace into the spaces between your own. “we’ve got all night, baby,” he says breathlessly, endeared amusement stumbling through the middle of his words. “we’ve got time.”
canute road was surprisingly empty for an hour this early into the evening—though you suppose most people were either tucked in in preparation for the excitement of the next day, or putting on the ritz with the rich and glamorous back at the southwestern hotel.
you could almost see her—titanic, that is—barely peeking over the rooftops as you neared the white star docks. you feel your heart give a happy little flip and you briefly squeeze vincent’s hand in elation.
“oh, darling, just look at her!”
“where?” he squints, scrunching his nose. it barely lifts the thick-rimmed lenses of his glasses to his line of sight.
“there, you silly boy!” you exclaim, pointing up somewhere into the distance.
vincent chuckles sheepishly, “i still can’t see it, honey.”
you stubbornly continue to point at the sliver of pale buff steel that was her mighty funnels. “over yonder, just by the– oh, forget it, you blind rat.” you drop your hand to your side. “we're almost there, anyway.”
vincent laughs again, and the ring around his finger is cool against your skin. “you might have married a blind man, sweetheart, but at least i’m handsome enough to make up for it.” he preens under the yellow streetlights, and your indignant retort is lost to the succeeding guffaw that bursts from his chest.
“i thought you were the one telling me to be quiet!” you protest, though you can't fight the smile that worms its way onto your face.
he doesn't stop laughing.
“vincent!”
“okay, okay,” he relents, beginning to wind down his laughter. “i’ll be quiet now.”
your handheld sprint slows to a leisurely jog as you near the gates to the port—tall, red-bricked, imposing sentries that barred the path to the berths. heavy, wrought-iron pickets were speared adjacent to the massive pillars, and in front of the enormous latch stood a watchman in uniform.
his gaze rakes over the two of you with a severity that makes your breath catch in your throat, but vincent doesn’t flinch. before the guard could part his lips with an admonishment, vincent smoothly slinks his hand into his breast pocket and pulls out a thick, cream coloured card—one that was folded in such a way that made it fit neatly in his suit, yet strategic enough to flaunt the embellished White Star Line logo that adorned the margins.
“evening, officer,” vincent greets with a small, self-assured smile. “second-class passengers. my lady wanted to see the ship up close before we board tomorrow."
the watchman’s eyes flicker from the ticket to vincent’s tailored coat, gives your silk and pearls a fleeting glance, then immediately nods. “mind the railroad tracks in the dark, sir.” he pulls back the hefty latch with a metallic clink, and slightly bows his head toward you in acknowledgment. “and have a good evening, ma’am.”
you hesitantly return his gesture, then carefully move your hand to wrap around vincent’s arm.
as the gate carefully swings open, a flash of gold gleams beneath the postlight. vincent tosses a coin, flicking it from his pocket, and the watchman catches it almost effortlessly. his stern demeanour relaxes with a slight upturn of his lips.
“good man,” vincent winks. “we won’t be an hour.”
the watchman responds with a casual salute, pockets the coin, then turns back to his post.
you exhale the breath you were holding. “oh, my goodness!” you burst into another fit of giggles once the two of you reach a considerable distance away from the gate. “i was so nervous!”
vincent does a complete 180°, his earlier suaveness gone with a turn of his heel. “did you see how i handled that?” he asks proudly. “keen, huh?”
“positively dashing,” you agree, tiptoeing to press a delighted kiss to his cheek.
“all about the execution, sweetheart,” vincent says smugly. “shall we, my love?” he places his hand over where yours rests in the crook of his arm.
“where to, sir?” you grin, deciding to humor him. “the stars?”
it was around a quarter of a mile further down to the quay, but you were in no rush.
you had time.
briefly squeezing your hand thrice, vincent smiles, relishing in the way you glow with joy. he leans down slightly, lowering his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper.
“the ship of dreams.”
—
loose gravel crunches beneath your feet as you walk, together, past the row of cargo sheds that line the dock. quayside cranes loom over your heads like trees unshaken by the spring breeze; a zephyr that rolls in from the southwest and blows a shiver through your clothes.
vincent breathes out a chuckle that clouds in front of his lips. “didn’t bring a coat?”
“got too excited.” your teeth chatter, though it does nothing to chase away the smile that all but splits your face. “c-couldn’t wait to leave. dinner was stuffy.”
“silly girl,” he huffs, returning your earlier remark in kind. “come here.”
your walk is paused momentarily as vincent takes a second to unbutton and shrug off his dinner jacket, before he settles the coat around your shoulders. the warmth that follows is immediate and endlessly comforting—though you notice how the weight of the tickets settling upon the space above your heart was far heavier than the wool.
“vincent—” you start.
“i’ll be fine,” he hushes you. “i run hot anyway, remember?”
the fabric of his waistcoat fits neatly against his stomach and chest, and you can’t find it in yourself to complain. still, you roll your eyes.
“oh, praise,” you drawl sarcastically, settling back into his side. “my hero.”
“i know, i know.” vincent lets out a theatrical sigh, shaking his fist. “such sacrifice. the very image of chivalry.”
“you’re just pushing it now!” you say loudly, then try to stomp your right heel over his dress shoes. he narrowly dodges it with a tiny yelp.
“i- hey!” he protests. “is that any way you should be treating your hero?”
“no, but it's how i should be treating my husband.” you throw him a dirty look, before adding, “for being an idiot.”
the mock-offense on his face melts almost immediately. a newborn star gleams in his eyes, and he softens, tenderness bright in his mismatched gaze.
you blink at his change of demeanour. “what?”
“i don’t think i’ll ever get used to it,” he finally says. vincent turns to look ahead, resuming your walk. the most boyish, happiest smile you’ve ever seen him wear stays spread across his face.
“to?”
“you calling me your husband.”
the raw honesty in his voice was staggering—uncharacteristic, though not unwelcome. it steals the witty retort that had been brimming on the edge of your tongue, and in its place blooms a sudden, sweet ache that you try hard to swallow. that same ache swells in your chest and dances through your skin, warming your cheeks in a flush you can’t blame on the evening chill, and gravitates the blood in your fingertips toward the pulse in his. you trail your palm down his arm until you find his hand, and you slip into where you’ve always fit; where you’ve always belonged.
“better start getting used to it, then.” is all you can muster. a watery laugh unwillingly breaks out of you, and you press your cheek into the ironed cotton that dresses his shoulder. “i don’t plan on stopping any time soon.”
“not even for the next ten years?” he teases, nudging his chin down to rest upon your head.
“not even for the next seventy.” you scoff, smiling.
vincent lets out a thoughtful hum. “still sounds a bit too short. how about eighty?”
“you drive a hard bargain,” you remark playfully. “would a lifetime satisfy you?”
he beams. the sight of it warms your heart. “indubitably.”
eyes crinkling at the corners, you tighten your grip around his hand and say, “you’ve got yourself a deal, mr whittman.”
“pleasure doing business with you, mrs whittman,” he teases. as you round the corner of a shed, what greets you on the other side completely steals your breath away.
there she is.
titanic.
she emerges from the darkness, all one hundred and seventy-five feet of her standing tall and proud upon the waters of the river test. a hundred thousand rivets—millions, perhaps—adorn the sleek structure of her hull, jutting out from the steel in rows like aligned constellations dotting the sky. the pungent scent of fresh paint danced with the salty waft of sea spray, and she glowed against the port with lamps that lined her portholes and decks in an almost incandescent golden light.
the magnificent curve of her stern faced you, and above it fluttered a flag of the british blue ensign. she was vast, immense, utterly unprecedented in scale; a two hundred sixty-nine metre titan that stretched through the wide expanse of berth 44. across the lip of her rear was painted the word liverpool, etched in ochre and yellow, beneath the careful, precise inscription that grandly read titanic.
and truly, did the ship of dreams live up to her tremendous name.
“oh, vincent,” you breathe, entranced, taking a step away from him and toward the ship. your fingers touch the rouged flesh of your lip, utterly captivated by the enormity of the grandest moving object that had yet to grace the ocean by far.
you had never felt smaller. more miniscule. standing below the hull of a ship they had claimed to be unsinkable—it was impossible not to.
but, oh, you felt nothing but wonder as you marvelled at how humbling it felt to stand next to something of such sheer power and size.
“she’s beautiful.”
“...yeah,” vincent murmurs, though his eyes land elsewhere. “she is.”
he watches you turn around slowly, your gaze glued to the vessel, starry with rapt captivation. the joy on your face was so immense, it almost baffled him to think about how much a hunk of metal and steel could bring such bliss and happiness.
and he couldn’t help but love you for it.
nevertheless, being loved by vincent whittman didn’t come without a price.
“still, though,” vincent comments offhandedly, mischief tugging at the corner of his lips. “it doesn’t look any bigger than the mauretania.”
you whip your head toward him so fast you nearly throw out your neck, with a look so offended it was almost hilarious. “you can be blasé about most things, vinny, but not about titanic!”
vincent crosses his arms, entirely delighted that you took the bait. “oh, really?”
“yes, really!” you fire back, gesturing wildly at the hull. “mauretania was only seven hundred ninety feet long. titanic is almost a hundred feet longer, and far more luxurious!”
“the mauretania is faster, though,” he points out, trying hard to hide his amusement. you were too easy.
“oh, you and your obsession with speed!” you say hotly. “so what if cunard line ships are 5 knots faster than white star line’s? at least this one won’t rattle your eyeballs sideways from the vibration of steam turbines!”
“mmm, perhaps,” vincent acknowledges, pretending to tilt his head to the side in deep thought. “the mauretenia was built to break speed records, after all.”
“exactly,” you stress. “besides, this is the height and technological marvel of our era. luxury and advanced propulsion, yes, but— oh, don’t you even get me started on the watertight compartments!”
“yeah?” he comes up behind you, planting his hands on your waist and his chin on your shoulder. “and if i do?”
you subconsciously lean back into him out of habit. “it’s just state-of-the-art, vinny,” you immediately gush, pointing up at the hull and waving your fingers around as you gesture here and there. “groundbreaking. sixteen watertight compartments and fifteen bulkheads below her decks—she’s practically unsinkable!”
vincent hums. “how so?”
“she’s built to stay afloat even if any two compartments flood,” your words are rapid-fire as you explain excitedly, “and even up to four of the forward-most compartments, over there by the bow.”
your hands stretch out to the sky, flattening your palms against the stars. “mauretania’s got compartments too, yeah, but hers are longitudinal. they run parallel to the ship’s sides so they’re more inclined to listing if water flooded into her hull.” you exhale almost wistfully. “it’s just one of the many reasons why the titanic is so amazing.”
vincent laughs. “if i didn’t know any better, darling, i’d think you’d want to marry this ship.”
this time, you take the bait only to dangle it over his own head. “if anything,” you shoot back, “i’d want to have married her designer.”
“...what.”
the easy, smug indulgence that had been oozing off him in waves vanishes faster than a cunard line ship could cross the river clyde. vincent’s hands freeze over your waist, nearly stunned to paralysis, and you have a feeling he’s stopped breathing altogether.
you don’t even bother turning around, instead taking another step closer to the edge of the berth, keeping your eyes trained on the portholes. a wicked little grin threatens to split your lip as you tilt your head up toward the sky, wrapping your arms around yourself like a pining schoolgirl to polish off the act.
“thomas andrews,” you sigh dreamily, making it a point to sound as moony as possible. “an irishman, from belfast. he’s the one who designed olympic, too.”
“wait– hold on–” vincent splutters, frantically stepping around to force himself back into your line of sight. his eyebrows are pinched together so hard they almost coalesce into one over the rim of his glasses as both his hands clutch at your shoulders.
“i mean, he’s tall, intelligent, soft-spoken, kind, and gentle.” you blithely list off each trait on your fingers like they’re virtues, avoiding his eyes as you try hard not to laugh. “he plays cricket as well, so i hear he’s strong. and, goodness, what an architect–!”
“he’s a married man!” vincent shrieks, before immediately catching himself, his eyes darting toward the direction of the dock gate in fear that the watchman would have somehow heard his undignified outburst from half a mile away.
you finally collapse into laughter, feeling it bubble like champagne from your stomach and up past your lips. you take his face in your hands, gently cradling his cheeks between your palms as you press a chaste kiss to his downturned lips. “oh, baby, i was joking!”
“it’s not funny!” he insists, looking so crestfallen it almost makes you feel bad.
almost.
you pepper more kisses across the strong bridge of his nose and the corners of his quivering mouth in an attempt to pacify him, laughing all the while. “m’ sorry, i had to try and get back at you somehow.”
“not like that!” vincent’s adamant refusal to stop pouting almost perplexes you, but you could tell that even despite himself, he was thoroughly enjoying being the object of your affections. “unbelievable,” he continues heatedly. “not even a year into marriage and my wife’s already moony-eyed for another man. a married one, nonetheless!”
your laugh buzzes pleasantly against his neck when you throw your arms around him in an embrace that nearly knocks him off his feet. vincent steadies you, trying to keep you both from losing balance, and you give him a silly smile as you pull your head back to look at him. “i just admire him, vinny. no more, no less.” you punctuate the sentence with another peck, and your lips curve into a smile against his own. “i’ve got eyes for no one but you.”
tension deflates from his shoulders as he huffs. he’s convinced, you know this well—but of course, vincent being vincent, he was going to be petty about it long enough to drive you insane.
“as you should,” he grumbles, pulling you in tight and flush against him almost as if the head designer of harland and wolff actually were about to swan dive over the portside guardrails and steal you away. his hand settles over your head as he holds you close, and you feel his rapid heartbeat settle into an easier rhythm that beats in harmony with yours.
titanic stands to vincent’s back as you mindlessly start to sway to a tune that wasn’t there. chin hooked over his shoulder, you continue to look up at her tremendous form, committing every square inch your eyes could land upon to memory.
“come, josephine, in my flying machine,” you sing softly, moving your lips to brush against the skin just below his ear. it was a parlour song you had taken a liking to after you heard it in the first house-party you both had attended as husband and wife. vincent would be so incredibly vocal about his distaste for the ragtime tune every time he’d hear it in passing—though you knew he loved it almost as much as you did because it was a song that fell often from your lips. “going up, she goes, up, she goes…”
“wouldn’t it be a sailing machine in this situation?” vincent muses, and you feel the weight of his head settle gently over your own.
“oh, just go with it,” you chide, looping your arms around his neck as his hands find home over your hips once again. “balance yourself like a bird on a beam…?”
vincent lets out a low, stubborn hum, and you lightly smack his back in retaliation. “come on, vince, you know the words!”
“...in the air, she goes, there she goes,” he relents, his smooth baritone rumbling against the curve of your ribs. you almost feel the chuckle he ghosts between the lyric thrum into the veins of your heart.
happiness blossoms in the apples of your cheeks, and you both continue to sway slowly to a song that hung only between the two of you, dancing in secret beneath the ship that promised a future of dreams.
“up, up, a little bit higher…” you hum contentedly, feeling your eyes flutter shut as you lose yourself in the melody.
“i… forgot the next lyric,” vincent admits abashedly.
you laugh for what must have been the hundredth time that night, stepping back from the waltz and taking a good look at him, the novelty of belonging to each other still fresh on your finger and young in your souls.
a beat of silence passes, and so does another fluttering breeze. vincent smooths his thumb over your cheekbone, just below your eye, and his gaze grows impossibly softer than it was before.
another smile quirks up on the edge of his lips. “are you gonna tell me how it goes?”
“it’s definitely not up,” you joke. “we’ve established that pretty well.”
“what is it, then?” vincent asks quietly, tenderly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“oh, my, the moon is on fire.” your eyes twinkle as you croon the verse, tilting your head to gesture somewhere behind him. “and it is,” you grin. “look.”
he turns to glance at the sky, only to be greeted with the sight of half the moon glowing silver against the starry drape of evening. “huh. you’re right.”
you step closer to him again, smoothing your hands over the front of his vest. “i think it’s a good omen.”
vincent looks down at you, smiling lopsidedly in the way that always made only one of his eyes crinkle. “a good omen,” he repeats, just as he would raise a glass and echo a toast to prosperity and life. “i’ll hold you to that.”
and hold you he would.