Harold Lowe has managed to claw his way up the career ladder of the British merchant marines, rising from a ship's boy to a master mariner with one of the world's elite passenger lines. Along the way, he's learned to master not only his craft, but...
Wanna know why Harry is so infuriatingly complicated? Look no further than George Lowe...
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At the sound of crunching gravel, George Lowe flicked back the curtains surreptitiously. He saw the automobile come to a halt in the driveway and watched his son spring from the back. He held the door for the other passenger, who emerged slowly.
They were finally here, then. When his rebellious, impulsive, temperamental son first announced his betrothal, George had thought he was joking. Why, he hadn't even been courting anybody, to George's knowledge, and anyway, there hadn't exactly been time for him to meet a bride, what with the sinking and the aftermath and all. But Harold had firmly insisted that it was true, and that everything would be explained when he brought her to Penrallt to meet him. In his last communication, via telegram, he had tersely warned his father to be on his best behavior.
And now, here she was, alighting in his driveway to meet him for the first time. She was tiny, looked very young, and- dear God in heaven, is she expecting?
Indeed, as she stood to her full height, he could see the unmistakable roundness of her belly. Oh, Harold, he thought in consternation and disbelief. What have you done now?
George strode to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy, which he downed in one quick gulp. He knew Harold despised his drinking, but he had a feeling he would need some fortification in order to get through this day.
He sat rigidly on the settee, his mind purposely blank, facing the enormous fireplace, waiting as they made their way to the house and were greeted warmly by his manservant, Alfred, at the door. When he heard Harold clear his throat pointedly at the entrance to the sitting room, he rose and turned to face them.
They stood at the threshold of the room, a united front. Harold's arm was tucked protectively around her waist, as if attempting to shield her from the vitriol sure to come. He looked insolent, combative. George smirked to himself. No surprises there.
He spared a glance at the girl that had somehow trapped his son. She was not was he was expecting at all. He thought she would be sly, crafty, shrewd - triumphant at getting her hooks into Harold. Instead, she looked... sweet, open, almost innocent, despite her condition. Her appearance was captivating, if he were being quite honest. She smiled at him, a warm, genuine expression that caught him off-guard. Stone-faced, he stared back at her.
His son didn't miss the iciness emanating from George, and his shoulders tensed. "Father," said Harold stiffly, inclining his head.
"Harold," he replied with no trace of emotion.
"As promised, I have brought my bride-to-be to meet you before our wedding. Corrine, this is my father, George Lowe. Father, this is Corrine Donnelly."
She smiled at him again, and this time, her eyes held a little glint, as if to say, are you going to acknowledge me, or keep pretending that I don't exist?
