Chapter 1: "Never an Absolution"

The sea had always been appealing to Adam, in the years leading up to the present day. He had fond memories of visiting the Bay of Biscay with his mother as a boy – they would ride horses and build sand castles and splash about in the surf from mid-morning well into the evening, when the chauffer would insist upon them getting back to the estate, lest his father should have a fit.

Of course, those were terribly distant memories of a world the young aristocrat found himself struggling more and more to reach with every year that passed. His mother – kind, generous, and beautiful as she was – had died when he was seven years old, leaving only his father and a string of servants to raise him. The servants were lovely – his father was not. The Earl of Avignon was a greedy, pompous, cruel man who raised his son with a harsh hand, and never failed to use him to his advantage should an opportunity arise.

Such an opportunity came knocking at their door about six months prior, when Monsieur Dockery and his daughter, Marie, showed up at the estate. To Adam, it had been a bizarre and unprompted visit; why on earth would an American businessman travel all the way to France with his daughter just to see the Earl? Marie, sweet as she was, had insisted it was merely a social call while they were touring the country – their fathers were old friends, apparently.

Neither she, nor Adam, had realized that, within the Earl's study, an arranged marriage of "mutual benefit" was being drawn up. And so, less than a month later, the engagement announcement appeared in papers all over the French countryside and in society magazines in New York:

"L'Earl d'Avignon c'est heureux d'annoncer l'engagement de son fils, Lord Adam DeLeroy Tolbert, à Mademoiselle Marie Monique Dockery. Le mariage aura lieu le 15 mai 1912, dans la cathédrale d'Avignon."

"Mr. Robert Dockery, of Dockery & Associates: New York, is proud to announce the engagement of his eldest daughter, Miss Marie Monique Dockery, to the charming Lord Adam DeLeroy Tolbert, son of the Earl of Avignon. The two will be wed on the 15th of May in France, at the Avignon Cathedral, surrounded by Europe's aristocracy and several of Dockery's closest acquaintances, who will make the journey to Europe on the return trip of the RMS Titanic. We at the New Yorker wish the young couple well.

The only pleasure Adam took from reading the announcements was a small sense of amusement at the variances between European news and its American counterpart. The announcements that Marie's father had submitted were as flashy as his own father's were simplistic. But reading them had made this entire situation feel all too real, and today was arguably the biggest reality check of them all. For he was currently sat in a motorcar, across from Marie, watching Southampton rush by and the port, along with the largest ocean liner known to man, appear.

The date was April 10th, 1912, and the young couple, accompanied by Adam's father and several servants, were to sail across to New York to retrieve Marie's father and his associates for the wedding, so they could all thoroughly enjoy Europe and take part in all of the pre-wedding festivities that were in order. While Adam loved a good party as much as the next young man, the prospect of celebrating a marriage that he wanted no part in for an entire month had him feeling slightly ill.

"…darling? Did you hear what I said?"

Glancing away from the window, Adam shook himself slightly, meeting his fiancée's blue gaze.

"I'm sorry?"

"I was just commenting on how marvellous the ship looks. Have you ever seen something so enormous?" Marie asked, grinning broadly, and Adam cast another glance out the window, finding himself rather underwhelmed by the sight of the Titanic looming before them, growing closer as they approached the port. For Marie, it symbolized returning home and collecting her family for her marriage to a wealthy lord. For Adam, the hulking piece of iron symbolized the iron bars trapping him in a life he never asked for.

"It doesn't look any bigger than the Adriatic," he commented, earning a snort from his father, who lowered his newspaper to frown pointedly at his son.

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous. Titanic is twice the size of the Adriatic, easily. Did Professeur Andrés teach you nothing about size assessment? Or are you being foolish for your own crude amusement?"

"It was merely an observation, Father. You needn't lose your head over it," Adam quipped in response, frowning pointedly out the window, and he found himself slightly grateful for Marie's presence when she remarked, "Not an entirely unfounded one, either. Adriatic was quite big."

It was moments like these where guilt gnawed at Adam's insides. Marie was trying, very hard, to be a good fiancée. To make him happy. By all rights and logic, he should have come to love her by now. Six months was a perfectly long courtship. But he just… didn't. It wasn't that he didn't like Marie; on the contrary, he was quite fond of her. She was a lovely friend, always considerate and with the exceptional wit of a modern American girl, but she had been presented to him in a dreadful way. For his father hadn't insisted upon the marriage hoping for his son to be happy; no, no, no. It had been insisted upon because Marie Dockery was an incredibly rich young woman, with a massive dowry, and the Avignon estate was, for lack of a better phrase, broke. The Earl had spent all of their money on lavish accessories and décor, and made numerous bad investments in businesses that went under, and now there was barely a penny left to their good name. Should Adam's marriage fall through, the estate would have to be sold, their possessions would be auctioned off, and they would be reduced to commonwealth within the year.

To Adam, that hadn't sounded all too dreadful. His heirship to become Earl of Avignon had never appealed to him, even less so after his mother's death, and the very last thing he had wanted was to be forced to spend his life sorting out the mess that his father had made. He'd debated running away multiple times, and evidently his father knew of this, which is why he set up an ensnaring, wealth-ensuring marriage at the very first opportunity.

Marie Dockery was a lovely individual, but she was the very last person that Adam wanted for a wife. Starting a marriage out of greed and based upon false promises of further wealth was a shameful plot that he was disgusted to be a part of.

"Do cheer up, darling. They've been calling Titanic the 'ship of dreams' in all of the papers. Doesn't that promise adventure?" Marie prompted as the motorcar came to a stop among hundreds of people and carriages and vehicles, and Adam offered her a half-hearted smile for her benefit as his valet opened the door.

"Quite," he offered as a response, watching as Monsieur Lumiere helped Marie out of the motorcar, and Adam nodded for his father to step out next, taking a deep breath of the wafting sea air before following in suit. He used to love the scent. Now, it was merely making him seasick.

If there was one thing that Englishmen and Frenchmen hated more than each other, it was a hustler. A devious person who would join them at cards pretending to be a novice, easy pickings, only to take them for everything they had. They always kept an eye out for hustlers, and never let themselves fall for their tricks – and, if they did, the bloke would never again see the light of day.

Of course, that hardly counted when a woman turned out to be the hustler – because, surely, women hustlers didn't exist. Ladies played bridge and solitaire; dainty, harmless games that wouldn't make them swoon with anxiety. Poker was for the harsher sex.

So, when a pretty young woman approached a group of gruff young men in a pub in Southampton, requesting to join their game, they had laughed and let her in without protest or a second thought. After all – she was a woman. A girl, even; what could she possibly know about poker?

When she put every penny to her name into the betting pool, they knew they had struck it lucky. A foolhardy girl, playing for kicks, who likely thought they would give her money back when she lost. She had another thing coming to her.

Or, as it turned out, they had another thing coming to them.

Eyeing the gentleman surrounding her at the table, expressions all relatively unreadable, the young woman placed a card on the table and drew another, leaving her own expression blank as she eyed the cards in her hand. For all they knew, she had nothing, and even if she had something she wouldn't know it and would likely fold out of naivety. Easy pickings, she was.

"What are you going to do, Monsieur?" she prompted the man across the table from her, and he eyed her for a long moment before fishing in his pocket and dropping two pieces of paper into the pot that didn't resemble the rest of the money there. It only took the young woman a moment to realize that they were tickets to the ocean liner currently in port, headed for New York – and she could make a pretty penny in New York. Far more than she had in Paris.

"All in," he stated, tapping his cigarette so ash fell onto the table, and the man to his left looked absolutely flabbergasted.

"Gaston, that's insane! Those tickets cost a fortune! And one of them is mine!"

With a withering look from his companion the other man shut up, clearly not possessing Monsieur Gaston's confidence as he laid his cards down on the table, stating, "I fold."

Turning to her right, the young woman entreated the next man, who proceeded to fold, and the man to her left did the same. It was down to her and the boorish, brainless man looking her over like a piece of meat.

"Care to throw anything else into the pot before you bet? Or will you fold, as well?" he questioned, and the young woman arched an eyebrow.

"If you're implying I bet myself, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed," she quipped, before adding, "But I'm all in, as well. Go on, then; let's see what you've got that has you so smug."

Smirking devilishly, the broad-shouldered man laid his cards on the table; a two-pair. The young woman cringed theatrically, exhaling a soft sigh.

"That's a good hand," she agreed, clearing her throat before laying her own cards down, adding, "But not quite good as a full house, I do believe?"

The smug man's expression morphed to one of disbelief as he looked down at her cards, and he stood up so quickly that his chair flew backward and his beer toppled over into his companion's lap, who gave a startled cry.

"That's impossible! You're… You're a…!"

The young woman half expected him to accuse her of being a cheat, but she wasn't exactly surprised when his complete statement was, "You're a woman!"

"Indeed I am," she agreed, getting to her feet and adjusting her tattered bag on her shoulder, using her arm to swipe everything on the table into it, including the tickets for the RMS Titanic. The tall, broad man was turning red in the face with rage. "Now, if you fine gentleman will excuse me, I believe I have a ship to catch."

Turning on her heel, she raced from the tavern, hearing the man shout, "You just had to let her play, LeFou! This is your fault! You idiot!" before the door swung shut on its hinges behind her.

Racing down the street, she quickly grabbed the hand of a young woman who had been waiting outside of the tavern, earning a surprised squeak as she was forced to run just to keep up with her brisk pace.

"Mademoiselle Belle! Ralentissez! Slow down!"

"I can't! We've got a ship to catch! Quickly, now; it's set to leave port in less than five minutes!"

"A ship? What, sur terre, are you talking about?"

"That!" Belle exclaimed, pointing to the enormous ocean liner sitting in port, so large that no other ships had any room to dock, and the young woman she was pulling along squeaked with surprise as they shoved their way through the massive crowd of people.

"Mon Dieu! Surely you must be joking!"

"Oh, I'm very serious, Plumette; this is our ticket out of here. Literally!"

Fishing through her bag, Belle thrust one of the tickets into her friend's hand, grabbing the other as she continued to kick, push and shove their way through the throng in an attempt to reach the loading dock before they ran out of time. It wasn't very ladylike, but Belle wasn't your average lady.

"I struck it lucky in the tavern; a presumptuous fool bet his tickets aboard thinking I had never played poker before. You should have seen the look on his face!"

"Did… Did you cheat?" Plumette asked as they neared the ship, and Belle smirked at the question, giving her head a shake.

"Where's the fun in that?"

Clearly flabbergasted, Plumette merely allowed Belle to tug her along until they reached their destination, only to have Belle pull her even harder when she realized the loading planks were being pulled back by crewmen.

"No, no, no! Stop! Wait! We've got tickets!"

The gentleman supervising the boarding frowned as the two women rushed onto the plank, which had already been pulled several feet away from the door, glancing at the tickets being thrust toward him.

"Miss, you're really cutting it very close-"

"I know, I know. But we've got tickets!"

Narrowing his eyes, he examined the two women before him. Belle, in a well-warn dress and a blue sweater, her hair wild, and Plumette, in a maid's dress, tattered at the hem. They were a bizarre pair to take in. Belle had met Plumette while she had been leading a vagabond existence in Paris, floating from place to place, sketching this and that for miniscule payment. Plumette had been a housemaid at a Parisian estate, but had been dreadfully unhappy – a sentiment that was clear in the sketch Belle had done of her from across a tavern on the night the two young women met. After giving her a franc for her efforts, Plumette had listened intently as Belle regaled her aspirations to find passage to America and become a real artiste. The housemaid had heard stories of le grande America; there, she could be more than a common servant. She could be a singer, or a dancer, or an actrice. The next morning, the two hopped a train to England and had been tramping about in search of a way to New York ever since.

Now, their opportunity was finally here, and Belle wasn't about to let it slip away all because some overly sensitive White Star Line employee was miffed at their impromptu appearance.

"Please, monsieur; our husbands have already gotten onboard, and we simply can't have them leave without us," Belle lied, "What would we do? Where would we go?" Resting a hand over her heart, she gasped, "How will we live?"

Frowning, the gentleman gave them another onceover, clearly debating before he finally asked, "Have you been through inspection yet?"

Belle, who hadn't the slightest idea what he was referring to, nodded emphatically. "Of course, monsieur."

Entreating them, he finally sighed and reopened the door, motioning them through. Eagerly pulling Plumette inside, Belle beamed, tearing through the halls in the direction of their bunk. It was really happening. Finally, all of her dreams were going to come true.

"…and where shall I hang the Picasso, mon seigneur?"

Glancing away from his inspection of the suite they had been allotted for the journey, Adam met Lumiere's gaze, seeking out a good spot on the wall before making his decision.

"Over there will do. But take care that it not be in direct sunlight; it will bleach the paint."

"As you wish, mon seigneur," Lumiere agreed, and Adam sighed with distaste. My lord, my lord, my lord, mon seigneur, mon seigneur, mon seigneur.

"Must you call me that, Lumiere? You know I prefer to just be called by my name," he stated, rolling his eyes when his father chose that exact moment to emerge from the drawing room, a scowl on his face.

"He will do no such thing! You are a lord, and you are to be referred to as such – especially by the servants. Lumiere, fetch me my cigar box; it seems to have been misplaced by the servant who packed my belongings."

"Right away, mon seigneur," Lumiere agreed, retreating, and Adam resisted the urge to roll his eyes yet again. His father knew perfectly well that Lumiere himself was said 'servant'.

"Must you be so rude? It would hardly kill you to speak to him kindly. He's our valet, for god's sake," Adam snapped, and his father scowled, if possible, even more pointedly.

"You dare use the Lord's name in vain? When he has given you all that you have?" he snapped, and, with his back to his father, Adam did roll his eyes. What had the Lord given him? A dead mother, a cruel father, and a crumbling fortune that he was responsible for rebuilding by marrying a woman who he didn't love. Pardon him for not being overtly respectful.

"I'm merely suggesting that you manage the servants kindlier, considering we barely have enough money left to our name to pay their wages," Adam remarked coldly, and his father exhaled a scoff.

"Nowhere does it say that I must be kind to my servants. Either I can be kind, or I can pay them. By all means, if they offer to work for free, I may be moved to kindness."

"Did you want something, Father? Or have you come only to patronize me?" Adam questioned, finally turning away from his painting to meet his father's steely gaze. The Earl sneered at Adam's impertinence, but whatever retort he'd been about to fire back was interrupted by Lumiere re-entering the room.

"My sincerest apologies, mon seigneur. I mistakenly packed your cigars with the brandy, and not in the trunk in which you had been searching."

Not dignifying him with a response, the Earl took a cigar from the proffered box and waited for Lumiere to light it before taking a long drag, blowing smoke in his son's direction before finally speaking.

"We are to dine with the Captain, and Monsieurs Andrews and Ismay this evening," he stated, and Adam arched an eyebrow.

"Forgive me, but I'm not familiar with the latter two."

"For the love of – do you not read, boy? Thomas Andrews and J. Bruce Ismay. The men responsible for the construction of the very ship that we're standing upon! I suggest you brush up on your facts, lest you should make a fool of me tonight. Marie is more well-versed than you are. A woman!"

"You don't give Marie the credit her intelligence deserves," Adam remarked blandly, shaking his head when Lumiere offered him a cigar, instead pulling a cigarette from his pocket. "And her father is head of Dockery & Associates – New York's prime ship drafting company. I should hope she knows who these gentlemen are; she's probably dined with them before."

Thanking Lumiere for lighting his cigarette, Adam ignored his father's obvious glare of distaste.

"You know I hate those foul things," he snapped as he looked at the cigarette. "No respectable man would ever touch them."

Giving his head a shake, Adam brushed past his father and headed for the sitting room. If he had to be here, on a ship transporting him to his prison cell of a future, he would damn well smoke cigarettes if he wanted to.

"Mademoiselle Belle, I do not know if we should be up here-"

"Oh, do relax, Plumette. You worry far too much," Belle countered as she and her friend lounged close to the ship's bow. They had left port a few hours ago, and Belle had insisted on heading up top to people-watch; she'd been convinced that the Monsieurs et Madames in New York would pay a fair price for sketches drawn upon the great Titanic on her maiden voyage. Plumette, on the other hand, would have been content to stay down below, where their tickets permitted them to be. "The open air is for the riches!" she had exclaimed.

But her fretting far from dissuaded Belle's eagerness. So now, here they were, out in the open with the sea air billowing around them. They still weren't on the top deck – Belle wasn't nearly that bold – but they had a good enough vantage point to see the riches, as Plumette called them, all decked out in their finery for their first dinner aboard Titanic. So far, Belle had sketched who appeared to be a Colonel, from the medals adorning his jacket; a primly dressed woman and her equally dressed little son; and her gaze was currently locked on a young man staring out at the sea, looking terribly troubled. Belle didn't realize that anyone of wealth and stature could look so… unhappy. But he did.

"Mon Dieu," Plumette giggled, her gaze flitting from the rough sketch on Belle's sheet of paper to the subject up above, "He is a handsome one."

"Mmm," Belle hummed thoughtfully, lifting her gaze up to look at him once again, letting it linger a bit longer this time. "Handsome, but sad."

"C'est triste?" Plumette questioned, furrowing her brow before looking down at the sketch again. "Can les riches be sad?"

"It would appear so," Belle responded, pausing her pencil when the subject in question shifted his gaze from the water only to have it land on her. She hadn't expected to be caught gazing; no one else had bothered to look down here. No one else cared.

Their intense staring contest was interrupted when a woman approached him up above, resting a hand on his shoulder and stealing his attention. She was every inch riches; her dark hair was pinned elegantly, and both her neck and dress were smattered with jewels which sparkled in the setting sunlight. Belle had to blink and look away or risk being blinded by one of them. After a moment, the pair of them retreated from the railing, likely to return to the grand dining room, leaving Belle with only her sketch – and one adjustment to make to it.

His gaze was piercing.

"Look who I found, wandering about," Marie remarked as she and Adam rejoined their table; the Earl had sent her out to search for him, rather irritated that his son had shown little to no interest in talking shop and then, out of nowhere, had excused himself. For a lengthy period of time.

"I hope you'll pardon me," Adam requested, even though he didn't really care all that much what these gentlemen thought of him, "I only meant to take in a bit of air, but the sunset distracted me."

"Ah," the Captain remarked with a knowing grin. "Captivating, isn't it? There's nothing quite like a sunset on the open water."

"It was rather breathtaking," Marie agreed, offering her fiancé a smile, and he nodded in agreement, lifting his glass of champagne to his lips so he wouldn't have to return the expression. He would much rather still be staring at the sunset than be in a stuffy dining room, surrounded by stuffy, mindless people.

"You'll have to excuse my son's thoughtlessness," the Earl remarked, his own champagne glass in hand. "The Professeur spent far too much time on the Arts than I would have liked. A request made by his late mother."

"Well, I don't think there's anything wrong with the Arts," remarked a woman at the far end of the table, seated next to her young son. They hadn't met prior to this voyage, but Adam had been informed that Madame Potts was what the nobles like to call "new money"; as a result, she wasn't nearly as stuck up as the others seated at the table. For that alone, Adam admired her.

"I couldn't agree more," Adam concurred, lifting his soup spoon. "Professeur Andrés had the finest taste in literature; Shakespeare, Dante, Homer and the like. He had a soft spot for modern painters, as well."

"All mindless, useless drivel and a waste of my money," the Earl remarked, but Madame Potts paid him no mind, instead ruffling her young son's already unruly hair.

"Nonsense. I've been searching for a good tutor for Chip, here, for months now, and this Professeur of yours sounds just perfect. Would you like to learn about Shakespeare and modern art, dear?" she asked the boy, who grinned widely and nodded.

"Yeah! Can I, Mama? Please?"

While the Earl turned up his nose at everything about the boy, from his hair to his overly eager demeanor, Adam couldn't help but smile. Watching the pair of them reminded him of how things used to be, before his mother died. She'd been a great deal like Madame Potts, despite coming from a long line of aristocrats.

"Don't be a fool, Madame. Hiring that man will be a waste of time and money," the Earl stated, frowning pointedly across the table. "You'd be far better off to hire one of the men down at Oxford. Far better versed in their fields. World renowned."

Frowning, Adam set his spoon down, narrowing his eyes at his father.

"You can't be serious," he disagreed, his tone passing the point of politeness and verging on frank disdain. "The men at that school are said to be horribly harsh. They're meant to teach gentlemen, not young boys. They'd be liable to beat a child for not knowing the works of Plato by heart within a week."

"And so they should," the Earl rebutted, cutting his steak while he spoke. "Any scholar worth having aught to have a firm hand. Otherwise, they child will grow to be flighty and unreliable."

"Just the same, I think I'll pass on an Oxford man," Madame Potts interjected, clearly sensing things were going amiss between father and son. "But I'll keep it in mind."

Adam was disgusted. The longer he sat with these people, listening to his father dictate how a child aught to be raised to a perfect stranger, the sicker he felt. Was this to be his life after his marriage? His children, doomed to be terrorized by his father just as he had been? Was nothing ever to change? Glancing over at Marie, who was working her way through her crème brûlée, he felt his anxiety worsen. The poor girl had no idea what she was signing up for. A life as his wife also entailed a life as the Earl d'Avignon's daughter-in-law, which would undoubtedly entail watching her children be treated with a cruel disposition and a harsh hand. It was making Adam feel claustrophobic.

To make matters worse, he was expected to present Marie with a priceless heirloom before they docked in New York, to keep up the pretenses of the DeLeroy Tolbert dynasty still being wealthy and everlasting. Marie already had an engagement ring upon her gloved hand; a heavy diamond that, to Adam's dismay, had belonged to his mother. It aught to be given to the woman he loved, not to a woman he merely tolerated.

But the gift his father expected him to bestow upon Marie was simply too much. It was a royal jewel worth a fortune, rumored to have belonged to Queen Marie Antoinette before she lost her head. An expensive diamond set in a gold band, with a base shaped to mirror an elegant golden rose - the diamond, intricately cut and worth a small fortune, sparkled in the centre of the petals. According to his father, it had been nicknamed "the Prince's Rose" – but whether that was an endearing nickname derived from its original owner or a pompous exaggeration of the ring's worth, Adam was unsure. All he knew was that it was heavy, and expensive, and one of the things that his father had bought at auction that he had no need of, just to flaunt his money, which was the root of all of their problems. At the moment, the ring was hidden in the safe in their room, and Adam intended for it to stay there for as long as possible.

Yet, no matter how long he waited, all of this was still going to happen. He had a few days at best to come to terms with it all before he would be photographed with Marie among her family and acquaintances, and in a month they would be married. He could kiss any semblance of independence and freedom goodbye the second he gave Marie that ring. Then there was the possibility that, even with her fortune, there wouldn't be enough money to keep up the estate. His father had thrust crippling debt and an unloving marriage upon him, and it was too heavy a load for anyone to bear. The worst part was that, should he fail, all of the blame would be placed upon him. His father managed to hide their debt incredibly well thus far – cruelly, so that his son's name would be tarnished should the truth ever get out, but he would forever be revered as the good Earl d'Avignon.

"Ladies, it has been a pleasure. Would the gentleman like to join me in the smoking room for a brandy?" the Captain asked as he stood, time having passed quickly while the young lord fretted, and there was a general murmur of agreeance but Adam found himself making excuses.

"I actually feel I may be getting a bit seasick," he lied, gripping the edge of the table and resisting the urge to flinch away when Marie laid a gloved hand upon his arm. "You'll have to excuse me."

"Darling-" Marie tried to interject, but Adam quickly made his way out of the dining room, nodding curtly at the footmen before pushing the side door open to retreat out onto the deck – but he made no move to head toward their suite, as his father and Marie would undoubtedly have expected him to do. Rather, he turned and started briskly walking in the direction of the ship's stern – and then he found himself walking a bit faster, and a bit faster, until he was all but running, shoving past aristocrats on his way, earning a disgruntled shout from a colonel and a gasp from a duchess, but he didn't care. His head was swimming, and it wasn't at all from seasickness. It was a crushing, unbearable sense of claustrophobia. Shoving the gate open, he darted down a set of stairs to a lower deck, shoving past more people and repeating the action a second time until he found himself in the furthest area of the ship from the dining room, the only sound now being the crashing of waves below and his heart hammering in his chest. He skidded to a stop and slammed into the railing, gripping it with white knuckles as he stared down into the black, sloshing abyss.

Adam was breathing heavily with panic, unsure exactly what had motivated him to come all the way back here. It was more than a need to escape the aristocracy for a moment; he could have gone back to his room to do that. No, this felt far more… dire. He felt like a caged animal, desperate for a way out. Any way out.

Without thinking twice, he clamored up onto the ship's railing, one rung at a time, and then lowered himself down onto the other side, clinging for dear life as he stared down at the ocean, his breath still coming in cold, wheezing pants. He could do it. He could let go, and fall into the water below, and welcome death with open arms. Perhaps he'd get to see his dear mother again. He'd certainly never have to face his father again. The only thing keeping him from letting go immediately was the thought of poor Marie. He was no fool; she was kind to him, and called him "darling", but she undoubtedly wanted this marriage just a little as he did. She, like him, likely wanted to marry someone for love. The only reason he had agreed to this mess for so long was because he truly was fond of her; she was a kind girl, with a good heart, and he could, at the very least, be an equally kind husband. That was more than some girls wound up with. But marrying someone out of courtesy seemed almost worse than marrying her for her money.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Adam steeled himself to let go.

It was late. Well into the evening, by any standards. Belle didn't own a watch, so she wasn't sure of the exact time. Her only possessions were the clothes on her back, the boots on her feet, and the few blank sheets of paper and pencils tucked into her bag. Which was more than fine with her. The less materialistic you are, the easier it is to up and leave and go where the wind takes you. It had gotten her this far; a ticket aboard the Titanic and enough money to last a few weeks in New York while she found her footing.

Plumette had taken her leave an hour or so ago, claiming to be tired. Belle had opted to stay up top, lounging on a bench and staring up at the night sky. It was even clearer out on the water than it had been in Paris or Southampton; the stars seemed to go on for miles and miles, endlessly, like the universe's very own masterpiece. Staring like this, she could see where Vincent van Gogh had taken inspiration for Starry Night.

Inhaling the dregs of a cigarette she had bummed, Belle's artistic reverie was rudely interrupted by the rather loud sound of someone thundering past her, breathing like a panicked dog. That seemed bizarre, on the 'ship of dreams'; especially this part of the ship of dreams. Sitting up, she rose to her feet and walked over to flick her cigarette butt over the edge of the ship's railing, freezing with wide eyes when she realized someone else had the same idea – only they weren't planning on pitching a cigarette over the edge. They were planning on doing something far, far worse.

Approaching as quickly, but also as quietly, as possible, Belle took a slow breath before daring to speak. She was terrified of spooking this figure of desperation and accidentally sending him falling, but she couldn't just let him do it of his own freewill, could she?

"Sir?" she prompted, relieved when he didn't flail and fall to his death. "Sir, I really don't think that's such a good idea. I'm quite sure the railing was designed to keep you on the ship."

"Don't come any closer," he rasped in response, his voice a few octaves higher than it likely would be under normal circumstances, and Belle knew she had to act quickly. Even if he chose to come back over, he would only be able to hold onto that railing for so long. Eventually, the cold air and damp ocean spray would make him slip.

"Monsieur, please-"

"I said not to come any closer!" he cried, turning his head to look at her, his eyes wild. "I'll jump!"

"With all due respect," Belle countered, cautiously stepping forward, "You look as though you plan to jump no matter what I do. I'd like to persuade you not to do so."

The closer she got, the more she recognized him; he was the sad man from up above. The sad man with the piercing gaze. It almost troubled her, how spot on she had been about him.

"Just go away, damn it! I don't care what you have to say! I'm going to let go!"

Leaning against the railing, Belle quietly cleared her throat, glancing down at the ocean below. She'd been in this part of the world long enough to know that the water would be freezing cold; if he didn't die on impact from such a high fall, he would freeze to death or drown, both of which would be awful ways to go. Freezing would be slow and torturous, and drowning would feel like a thousand icy knives piercing his lungs. No one deserved to go that way. Not even les riches.

"I'd really rather you not let go," she prompted, turning her head to look at him, watching as he continued to breathe heavily, "because, if you do, I'll have to jump in after you."

"What?" the rich, desperate man exclaimed, finally turning to look at her properly. "Are you mad? You'd die!"

"Possibly," she agreed, lifting her cool fingers to begin unbuttoning her sweater, shrugging it off and setting it aside, adjusting her dress before bending to start unlacing her boots. "But I'm far more concerned about that water than the fall itself."

Frowning, the young man paused in his ravings, turning his gaze back to the sloshing waves below, his voice quieter when he asked, "…why?"

"Because it's freezing cold, of course," Belle explained, tugging her boots off one by one, setting them with her sweater before looking over the edge again. "If I jump in there after you, there will be no way for me to pull you out, and we'll both freeze to death. Or drown. Or, if you want to be poetic, we could be ripped to shreds by the ship's propellers and then devoured by sharks."

"…sharks?" he wheezed, seeming to go a few shades paler.

"Oh, yes. I saw porpoises this morning – and where there's one large marine animal, there are bound to be others. Sharks included."

"Oh, good god…" he croaked, clinging even tighter to the railing, turning to look over at Belle once more. "Why in God's name would you jump in after me to face all of that? You must be out of your mind!"

"On the contrary. I'm quite sane; I just happen to also be quite noble. Now that I've tried to talk you out of it, should I fail it only seems right to die alongside you."

"Good god…" he whispered again, both baffled and horrified by her honesty, and Belle shrugged.

"I'd really rather not die; I'm quite looking forward to exploring New York. So, if you could step back over the edge, I'd be very appreciative." Her gaze softening, she added, "I don't think you want to die, either. Come back over. It can't be as bad as that."

"Oh, I don't know," he snapped with a sardonic sort of humor, "My father could put sharks to shame." But he seemed far less eager to hurl himself over the edge at this point. Trembling slightly, both from the cold ocean spray and his own terror, the gentleman turned back around to face Belle, his eyes still wide with fear. Eyes, she noted, as blue as the ocean below them had been this morning. "Who are you?" he finally made himself ask, unable to figure out why a perfect stranger would ever care so much.

"Belle," she responded, resting her hands over his icy ones, "Belle Delacour."

"Ah," he breathed, searching her brown eyes, willing himself to stop trembling. Loosely, her name could translate to beautiful heart. Suddenly, her concern for him, a perfect stranger, made more sense. "I… I'm Adam," he informed her, "Adam DeLeroy Tolbert d'Avignon."

"A bit of a mouthful, that is," she remarked, letting him take one of her hands rather than clutching at the railing, their fingers tangling together. Both of their hands were icy, but somehow her touch was the warmest thing he had felt since his mother died. "Come on; carefully. Just climb over to me. I won't let go."

Carefully, as she had instructed, he stepped up the rungs and, with her help, lowered himself back down onto the proper side of the railing. However, his trembling made his footing clumsy and his shoe caught the bottommost rung, sending him falling forward, effectively pinning his savior down to the deck below. A startled cry escaped her, resonating loud and clear across the ship's deserted deck. His eyes wide, Adam felt his face turn red.

"Oh, madame! I haven't hurt you, have I? Did you hit your head?" he was frantically fussing over her, feeling terribly guilty, when a bright light fell upon the pair of them, and when Adam looked up he found himself face to face with one of the ship's guards.

It was only then that Adam realized how this must have looked. He, a renowned aristocrat, was sprawled over a young woman undoubtedly of a lower class than he, his hands resting on her hips and his knee between her legs. The cry she had exhaled involuntarily must have drawn help. But god, it wasn't what it looked like.

"Oh, god, no," he gasped, quickly pushing himself up and off of her, but his legs were still too wobbly from his near-death-experience to stand. "It's not how it looks. I would never-!"

"I'm afraid it looks rather bad, my lord," one of the guards stated, his eyes narrowed with clear distaste. A reformer, no doubt. Just his luck. They wouldn't throw him down below, would they? Not when he hadn't truly done anything wrong? O', non, non, non, mon dieu, non…

"He's done nothing," he finally heard Belle gasp out, prompting him to turn his head and watch her blink against the bright light of the flashlight. "I was careless, and nearly fell over the edge. His… lordship… saved my life."

Adam opened his mouth to say something, but nothing would come to mind. She had no reason to lie for him, just as she'd had no reason to save him. Why was she doing all of this?

"Was that truly the way of it?" the guard asked, turning the light's beam back on Adam, and he blinked against it as his mouth went dry, nodding.

"Yes," he rasped, "That was the way of it."

At that precise moment in time, further footsteps echoed across the deck, followed by an exclamation of, "Darling! What are you doing lying on the ground?"

Turning his head, Adam caught sight of Marie, accompanied by Lumiere and a deck hand, hurrying down the stairs. Marie was quick to shove the flashlight aside and out of Adam's face, scowling at the guard.

"What on earth do you think you're doing? Do you realize who this is?" she snapped, and Adam thanked Lumiere as the valet helped him to his feet, taking a deep, steadying breath. But now Marie was fussing over him, just as he had been fussing over Belle mere moments ago. "Darling, what happened? I went back to the room, and Lumiere said you hadn't returned, and then this one," she gestured vaguely to the deck hand, "said he saw you run past like a bat out of hell!"

The deck hand cleared his throat, explaining that "bat out of hell" wasn't his exact word choice, but Adam shook his head dismissively, not troubled by it.

"Seasick," he quickly prompted himself to lie, honing in on his previous excuse. "I was seasick. Quite unwell. I came back here for… some air," he explained, glancing over at the ship's railing once more before seeking out Belle. He had yet to thank her for talking him down. He wanted to do something in return. But she wasn't lying on the deck, where she had been a moment ago.

In the fuss of his fiancée and Lumiere, along with the ship staff, hurrying to his aid, she'd made her escape – likely because she wasn't supposed to be up here in the first place.

His savior, la fille with the beautiful heart, was gone.