#Suddenly it was 1912 and I was doing something scandalous

[my-darling-boy]

I was at a bookstore looking through the art section and I saw a spine that said The Camden Town Nudes which was interesting because this didn’t seem like the bookstore where I would ever find something like that and I wanted to have a casual look but like. This also wasn’t exactly the bookstore where you felt like you could look at naked pictures let alone just suggestive paintings of them, it’s a really small shop as well, so I was like right I’ll just take a quick peek, I’m an art student, I love history, maybe I’ll buy it. I looked both ways and saw the shopkeep had left momentarily and no one was about, so I opened it and found it was an entire book featuring nude Edwardian women all painted by Walter Sickert between 1905-1912 and it was actually quite a revolutionary set of paintings for its time given that it featured very raw depictions of working class nude women in dark London instead of the elegant, white bedsheet clad, Demure middle and upper class women usually depicted.

And of course RIGHT as I flip to this lady’s boobs practically taking up an entire double page spread, every customer in a 5 mile radius appeared from around the corners of the shelf including the shopkeep and immediately regressing to a wet, pathetic Edwardian man from 1908, startled, I dropped the large book which caused a giant SLAP on the floor in this already silent store thus causing all patrons to look down at me scrambling on my knees to close a giant book of Edwardian boobs and let me tell you it would not have been nearly as funny had I not immediately felt like some Edwardian local pervert who just tried to sneak a cheeky peek at the erotic book in the bookstore only to drop it dramatically causing a scene, red up to his ears trying to shove it back on the shelf. Like such a casual and normal thing in modern day but looking at Edwardian women suddenly turned it into this egregious act as I apparently became possessed by the spirit of a moustached man in a bowler hat and morning coat going Good Heavens I mustn’t gaze upon these images in public lest the constable haul me away!

[brooklyn-1918]

Down With the Ship

OK, I have done something along these lines before, but I personally thought it was horrible. So I re worked it and got a little carried away, as it has just over 10k words. Way longer than I normally write. Any-who... I saw @jtargaryen18​ ‘s 30 days of Chris challenge, and I wanted to hop on the train, participate in my first writing challenge.

SO! Without further ado.. 

Characters: Steve Rogers, OFC Sarah Russell, Tony Stark, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, and a few other real and fictional characters scattered into the mix.

Pairings: Steve RogersxOFC

Words: 10,025

Summary: April 12, 1912, was the night when everything for Sarah Russell would change. But as the cold water loomed nearer, she only had one thought on her mind. Steve.

Warnings: Brief mentions of Smut, but nothing is actually written. Angsty-fluff. Character deaths, as with anything about the Titanic can be expected. 

A/N: Honestly, I had no idea where I was going with this. I tried not to have it be too similar to the 1993 movie, Titanic, but there are some things that are undoubtedly similar. I have major problems with that movie anyway. 

The bow rose high above the crowd, her black paint reflecting sunlight from the choppy waters. Resting on top of the black paint, was a layer of white, concealing the deck just below the railing. Sarah watched as two crew members scrambled up the foremast, climbing into the crows nest, tugging their White Star line caps lower over their eyes. 

She clasped her hands together, giving the bustling port a once over. Passengers of every class waited to board the massive ship, from first class, to the third class passengers in steerage. Small children clutched their mothers’ hands, while fathers and brothers, husbands, hoisted luggage over their shoulders. 

“Sarah.” She flinched as her mother called her name. She turned with a polite smile on her face, taking a small breath to steady herself.

“Yes, mother?”

“Come here, we wouldn’t want you to be anywhere near these--” Her mother wiggled her fingers, then drew her hand in close to her chest with a disgusted look on her face. She quickly waved out to the lower class passengers, like it was too much of a burden to give them any more attention than she already had. She took a breath before she continued.

“Regardless, we must board soon.” She held out the ticket for Sarah to take. With a small smile, she gripped the slip of paper, then turned back outward.

Sarah tilted her nose up, letting the sun light up her face, enjoying the feeling of land under her feet while it lasted. A commotion a few yards away startled her out of her thoughts.

She glanced over to where a trio of young men, men who appeared to be third class, were arguing with the medical attendants. Well, where two of them were trying to hold back the third. 

The one who was arguing, a tall man with dirty blonde hair and a thin shirt, finally gave up with a throw up of his hands. He shrugged the hands of his two traveling companions off his shoulders and moved along the line. He held his hand over the handle of his bag, slung around his shoulder, and glared intently at the floor. 

Sarah watched him curiously, and nearly lept out of her skin when he looked up and made eye contact with her. He narrowed his eyes, the color of the sky, daring her to say something, do something. She sucked in her bottom lip to chew briefly, then looked away quickly. The passenger smirked as he continued on with the line. 

“Sarah!” She jumped as she turned back around, this time to her brother’s call. He faced her, placing both hands on her shoulders and squeezing tightly. His brow was knitted together with a disdainful expression resting on his face. 

“Mother said to stay close.” Sarah looked at her brother with a frown, sighing with relief as their gate was called to board. She let out a huff of air as she rounded to walk to the entrance. 

_____

Walking along the halls of B deck, it felt cold, unwelcoming. Yes, the lush red carpet and beautiful white walls were warm to anyone else’s standards, but not to Sarah. She was ushered into her suite quickly, her brother trying to defend her from the world. It was annoying, really. 

The room was… Nice. 

Oak paneling was accented with gold, leafs carved into the mantle looked strangely realistic. Rich maroon carpet lightened the floor, pussing up to the walls. A velvet sofa sat angled in the corner, an end table next to it. 

Sarah trailed her fingers over the marble of the mantle as her mother and brother bustled around the room, in and out of the bedchambers and the washroom. She opened the door after a knock startled her. One of the stewards stood in the doorway, loaded down with boxes and luggage. Sarah laughed and pulled two off the top of his pile, to which he sighed his thanks. 

“Sarah, what on earth are you doing?” Her mother sounded scandalized as she rushed over, trying to knock the luggage out of her daughter’s hands. 

“Do you want to end up a maid?” Sarah placed the luggage on the sofa and threw an apologetic look at the family server walking behind her, a scowl on her face. Sarah took a breath and looked back to her mother. 

“No. But if I hadn't--” “No, not another word out of you.” Her brother rounded the sofa to clamp a hand on her upper arm. Sarah frowned and nodded, looking away from her mother and overprotective brother. 

_____

Dinner was a bore. They had the pleasure of dining in the company of Mr. Stark, Mr. Andrews, and Captain Smith. Mr. Stark was alright, full of interesting stories and recounts of the adventures he had in Europe, explaining new ideas he had in mind. Mr. Andrews and Captain Smith were only interested in the ship. Explaining how she worked, what it was like building her, gloating over her. 

Sarah tried not to slouch over in boredom, refrain from pushing her food around her plate with one of her many forks. Instead, she placed her utensils back and ate nothing, concentrating on the electric voice of Tony Stark. 

“Are you alright, my dear?” Sarah nodded politely at Tony’s question, folding her hands neatly in her lap. 

“Yes, thank you. Only a little light headed.” Tony frowned, and placed a gentile hand over her own. 

“Perhaps you should excuse yourself and lie down?” He dropped his voice down into a whisper, his brown eyes connecting with her pale blue ones. In all honesty, Sarah knew why she was light headed. It was her god awful corset that had been cinched one too many times. 

“Perhaps.” She smiled and pushed her seat back, turning to speak to her mother and brother.

“If you will excuse me, I am feeling suddenly ill. Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure dining with you.” She stood and smiled at the three guests, mouthing Tony a small thanks. Before she could get any retaliation out of her family, she pushed her chair in and left the first class dining area. 

On her way out, she momentarily stopped where she would be seen by no one. She slipped her fingers between her dress and popped her corset open a little, reveling in the flood of fresh air into her lungs. She fixed her dress and carried on to the deck.

_____

Sarah walked around the deck, unwilling to return to her stuffy room. She wanted to explore it all, find hiding places if ever she needed. Eventually, her wander brought her to the very back of the ship, the stern high above the black water. She ran her fingers lightly over the rail, pressing her front firmly to the cold metal bars.

She leaned forward, not enough that she was in any real danger, but just enough to see the Atlantic water where it churned by the propellers. She laughed lightly, pushing up to her toes.

“Careful, don’t want to fall over the edge, do you?” Sarah dropped back to her feet and whipped around, swallowing as she looked up into his eyes. The man had an oily sneer, his eyes were bloodshot and his breath smelled foully of alcohol. The third class passenger was too close for comfort, Sarah let her eyes widen and pressed back further into the railing.

“Please back up, sir.” She tried to keep her voice even, her nose held high. The black haired man grinned wickedly, taking another step closer. He reached one finger up to caress her jaw, Sarah shivered at the tough, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. 

“Why should I do that?” Sarah let her eyes go wider still, and she tried to duck under his arm, shove past him, do anything to try to get away. 

“Stop!” She tried to sound commanding, but her voice came out as barely more than a quivering cry. She placed her hand on the man’s shoulder, trying to push him away, but he locked his fingers around her wrist.

She yelped as he brought his head down and started kissing her throat, tears springing to her eyes. The man’s head snapped up and he let go, Sarah struggling for breath, confused as to what was happening.

“She said to stop. Maybe you should listen.” A rumbling voice came from behind the man in front of her. Only then did Sarah notice the fingers clamped around her attacker's shoulder. Clamped so tight that his knuckles were turning white, causing the black haired man to buckle under the pressure. 

The man was pulled away, stumbling until he hit the floor, letting out a grunt. Her savior, a tall blonde, had his back facing her with his shoulders squared to try to ward off the man on the floor. It worked. He scrambled up and away from the two of them, headed for the stairwell. 

Her savior finally turned to her, his entire physique softening. Sarah instantly recognized him as the same man that she had seen on the pier earlier that day.

“Are you OK? Did he hurt you?” The man sounded soft, and sincere, so unlike what she had seen earlier on. She managed to nod, placing one hand on her chest to steady her breathing. 

He smiled reassuringly, pointing to one of the benches, hovering his hand near her arm, asking without speaking if she would let him lead her to sit. 

She gave him another small nod, his hand resting lightly on the back of her arm, guiding her to sit down. She sat and crossed her ankles, stiff backed. The stranger sat down next to her, leaning back and pressing himself more to the corner of the bench, casting worried looks to her. 

“Thank you, Sir.” She pushed herself to look at him, an unsure smile forming on her lips. He chuckled softly and sat up, elbows propped on his knees.

“Steve. Steve Rogers.” He held out his hand, and she took it gently. He had strong, warm hands, rough from years of physical work that showed in the muscles in his forearms, and Sarah could only imagine, flowing up under his shirt to his chest. 

“Sarah Russel.”

_____

The next night, she wandered the deck after dinner. She had her gaze fixed over the railing, watching the waves roll against the hull of Titanic, not to where she was going. She yelped as her foot slipped out from under her, the stairs missed. She shut her eyes, waiting to hit the hard deck, but instead fell into something soft and warm. 

She opened her eyes and looked up to the chuckleing Steve Rogers. She pulled herself out of his arms and straightened her dress, then fixed her hair.

“Mr. Rogers, what a pleasant surprise to see you here.” Steve chuckled harder, the hand rolled cigarette clamped between his teeth nearly falling to the deck. 

“I told you, call me Steve. Please.” She nodded and her face softened, a smile crawling up. She leaned her back against the railing as Steve crossed his arms over it, looking out to the cold black ocean. 

He dug in his pocket for a few seconds, then extracted a small tin case to which he popped open and offered to her. She hesitantly took one of the cigarettes, then the matchbook he offered her. 

Although she had never had a hand rolled cigarette before, she found it strangely more appealing than the ones that had been factory rolled. They remained in silence for some time, much like the night before. Steve extracted a little silver pocket watch, clicking it open, the small tic tic tic resonating through the air before he snapped it closed. 

“Do you first class folk go to parties?” Steve angled his head to her, his eyebrows raised in question. Sarah opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and stood up straight.

“How do you mean?” She questioned back. She pulled the smoking paper stick away from her lips, blowing the cloud away from them. Steve turned to face her, one arm still on the rail. 

“You know, music, dancing, drinks?” “Ah, right. Horrible slow dancing to equally horrible music. Disgusting glasses of champagne. Food too small for even a mouse.” Steve laughed louder, his joyous sound making her feel happy inside. He shook his head with a wide grin, waving her off. 

“No, no-- I mean a real party. With loud music, good dancing, and good drinks.” Sarah quirked her brow, then shook her head at him. He had to have a point? Didn’t he? He held out his hand, palm to the dark sky, moving his fingers in a gesture to ask if she would take his hand. 

“Come with me then. I will show you a better time.” Steve promised, patiently waiting with his pal still open. She slowly reached out, hovering over his palm. With a confident intake of breath, she placed her hand down, Steve’s fingers almost automatically curling over the back of her hand. 

He smiled and began walking backwards, pulling her along with him. He only looked back long enough to find and place his foot on the first step down to the lower decks. His cigarette still hung from his lips, sending a wreath of grey smoke curling around his head. 

She giggled lightly as he descended the stairwell backwards, deeper and deeper into the massive ship. 

_____

Once they reached E deck, she could hear the thumping music wafting down the halls. They were halls that looked barely different than her own. Red floors, white walls, dull electric lighting. The only difference was, it was all made of iron, not soft carpeting and plaster and wood. She liked this so much better. 

Steve guided her into the third class dining area, where most of the tables had been pushed to the side, making way to a large space where 50 people danced to the loud, joyful music. Smoke from cigarettes had accumulated in the rafters, making its way to the one popped open window. The entire room smelled like spilled beer, smoke, and warm bodies.

She laughed as she looked around, her mouth broken into a huge grin. Steve stopped them just inside the doorway, dropping her hand so he could grab a couple drinks. A he handed one to her, he spoke, loud so he could be heard  over the music. “I’m going to take it that you are enjoying this?” He handed one of the drinks, as he took a sip of his own, the froth on top bumping against his lip. She accepted the amber liquid with a nod, taking a test drink. She giggled and took another drink, the cool beer tasting so good as it rushed over her tongue and down her throat. 

Steve shook his head and led her over to a table populated by three others. They gave her odd looks as they sat, her dress standing out in the crowd. She recognized two of them as the people that Steve had been traveling with, the other she had no idea. 

“Sarah, this is Bucky and Sam,” He pointed to the two he had been traveling with.

“And this is Clint.” He motioned to the last man at the table. She reached to shake each of their hands, each feeling much like Steve’s. 

“It's very nice to meet you all. I’m Sarah.” Bucky raised his eyebrows and turned to Steve.

“Sarah? As in the gal you rescued on the deck?” Steve nodded and the table erupted into laughter and shouts, babbling on and trading stories. Sarah didn’t once feel unincluded. 

After a little while, Sarah noticed Bucky staring at someone. She followed his gaze to where a red headed woman was dancing with two small children, a girl with reddish orange locks, and a boy with silvery white locks. 

“Are they yours?” Sarah raised her voice over teh roar of the music and people. The table looked to where the two of them were watching the woman. Bucky flushed a scarlet color, Clint effectively lost his arm wrestle with Sam, and Steve nearly choked on his beer as he snickered. 

“You’re funny, but no. That's Natallia Romanova, Russian immigrant. She rescued the two kids on her way to America.” Sarah nodded, then smiled and lightly socked him on the arm. 

“Go ask her to dance.” Bucky looked at her with a mortified expression, and the table erupted back into laughter. Bucky turned to glare at all of them, then back to Sarah who shrugged at him. He squared his shoulders and stood.

“You know what? I will ask her to dance. And pray she doesn't kill me.” He set a determined expression on his face. Sarah laughed as Steve spoke up behind her.

“You laugh, but he isn’t kidding.” Sarah looked back to where he was walking up to her, shock and concern riddled her face. She held her breath as she watched Bucky speak, letting it out as the red headed woman smiled and accepted his hand. 

“He’s right. Just last night I saw her flip someone over her shoulder and put him in a headlock when he touched her without her permission.” Sam took a sip of his drink, brow raised over the rim. Sarah laughed nervously as she turned away from the now dancing Bucky and Natalia. 

“Speaking of dancing, care for a dance?” She looked to Steve, a hopeful look on his face, outstretched hand. She slipped her own in without hesitation, letting him lead her to the dance floor. 

_____

Sarah was laughing so hard, she could barely breathe. Steve held her close as they moved around the dance floor, trying to avoid bumping into anyone else. She was pressed into his chest as they swung around to move to the left.

Steve had a permanent cheeky grin as he gave his partner a twirl, her skirts flowing out to the side as she spun. Their feet moved wildly as they moved right, left, then back again only to repeat it but slightly more to the left. 

When the song stopped, they swung back into their seats. Sarah took a few small sips of her drink, then placed it down. Steve tilted his head back a bit as he chugged his beer down, when he nearly slammed the glass back down with triumph, it had only about an inch left in the bottom of the glass. 

“What? You didn’t think the Irish could drink?” He laughed, and Sarah took it as a challange. She picked up her own glass, and with a small breath through her nose, raised it to her lips and drank, long and hard until she had about an inch and a half left. She slammed it down with a mocking laugh, grinning at Steve’s shocked expression.

“And I can’t?”

Sam laughed and lightly clapped her on the shoulder as she swept sweat slicked hair out of her face. 

_____

The music was dieing down, people were returning to their bunks, glasses were being put away and tables were being shoved back into place. Sarah said her goodbyes to her newfound friends, arguably better friends after just one night than any friends she had in the past. 

She walked up to B deck with her arm twisted through Steve’s, head resting on his shoulder. The cold night air was so refreshing after the stuffy room below deck, and it was hard to believe that only a few hours ago, she had been standing so awkwardly next to Steve, just a few feet away. 

“I’m going to be in so much trouble with my mother.” She groaned, but snapped her head up to look at Steve, a mischievous grin on her face.

“It was worth it though.” He chuckled as they walked on in silence. Steve stopped when they reached the stairs up to the first class deck, Sarah already one step up.

“You’re not coming?” She asked, a small frown on her face. He sighed, and shook his head, untwisting his arm from her, letting his hand slip down so their fingers intertwined. 

“I can’t. I’m only a steerage passenger, remember?” He added the last bit with a dramatic flare, and Sarah chuckled softly. She smiled in contemplation.

“OK.” She whispered softly. She reached out with her free hand, laying it gently on his cheek, her thumb brushing away a bit of imaginary dirt. She leaned forward and placed a kiss to his other cheek, his light stubble scratching her lips softly. 

As she drew back, she felt her belly drop at his shocked expression, anxiety taking root and flushing through her body, making her heart pound. He shook his head quickly and smiled, his eyes bright and reflecting the stars above.

He reached up to her shoulder, bringing her back down to him, pressing his lips to her own, soft and sweet. He could feel her smile into the kiss, gently sucking at his bottom lip as she pulled away. 

“Tomorrow, eight o’clock. Meet me at the very front of the ship.” She smiled sweetly at his proposition, nodding and backing up the stairs. 

“Goodnight, Steve.” 

“Goodnight dalrin’.” 

_____

Sarah tried to sneak into the suite, but failed miserably. The second she opened the door, her mother and brother were on her like a starving dog to a scrap of meat. Gripping her arm as if she would run away again.

“Where have you been?!” Her mother tried so hard to keep her voice to a respectable level. Her brother merely scowled at her. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, taking in a subtle whiff.

“Cigarette smoke, and alcohol. I can smell the sweat on you.” He hissed at her, his grip tightening. With a newfound stroke of courage, she tugged her arm out of his and her mother’s grip. She took a step back towards her door. With her nose in the air, she spoke.

“Where I have been is none of your buisness. You are no longer able to dictate my life. Goodnight.” And with that, she opened the door, slipping inside and bolting it. She walked to the bed, sitting with a hand over her mouth, containing the laughter that was bubbling up. 

Outside in the foyer, her family stood shocked, looking at the door where she had dissapeared. 

_____

The morning arrived soon enough, Sarah rising and foregoing breakfast to draw herself a bath. She wanted to stay in her room the entire day, just long enough until she had to leave to meet Steve. But she decided against it when her stomach grumbled from hunger. 

So she rose, got dressed in something simple, something she knew her mother would despise, and left to walk to lunch. As she exited her suite, she collided with someone walking in the same direction she was going. She blinked and apologized quickly, smiling as she recognized who she had bumped into.

“Mr. Stark, headed to lunch?” He smiled and bounced on the balls of his feet.

“I am. Care to join me?” He held out his arm for her to take. She wrapped her own around and placed it over his, smiling as she pulled the door the rest of the way closed. 

They sat at a table together, Tony having the ability to tell that she was not all that thrilled about sitting with her family. They chatted for a while, Tony recounting more adventures and inventions. But as she didn’t say much aside from the occasional comment or question, he sat back in his chair with a small smile.

“Someone has their mind preoccupied elsewhere.” He observed. 

“Hmm, yes. Wait-- oh I’m sorry.” She grinned sheepishly, twisting her fingers in her lap as Tony chuckled. He shook his head and sat up again, narrowing his eyes with a knowing smile.

“I know that look. It’s not me you are looking like that for, and your family certainly couldn’t make you look like that. So, who is it?” She could feel the color rising in her cheeks, and she bit her bottom lip. “You must not tell.” She begged, knitting her brow in concern. Tony shook his head and laughed quietly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t. I have been exactly where you are, my dear.” 

“His name is Steve. He’s-- not first class.” Tony grinned at her, leaning back once more. He nodded, and tapped his finger twice on the table.

“That third class boy? Big, blonde?” Tony asked, puffing his chest up and swinging his arms wider, a smile on his face as he imitated Steve. Sarah forgot all upper class manners as she slumped back in her chair, fingers dangling over the arm rests, mouth agape. Tony laughed harder, drawing the attention of a few other passengers. 

“How did you--? What?” He grinned wider.

“I do enjoy midnight strolls.” He said in a way of an explanation. Sarah’s mind automatically went to the previous night. Mr. Stark must have been walking along the deck and spotted her and Steve at the stairs. 

“Oh.” Was all Sarah could manage as she fixed her posture. Tony patted her hand from across the table, sitting back again. She laughed suddenly, quietly, her features lighting up.

“Was it only you who saw?”

_____

Sarah was back in her room, splashing some water on her face, and taking off some of her excess jewelry. She put on her simplest dress, hoping to not stand out. She exerted her room at 7:40, crossing to the door to exit the suite. 

“Sarah. Where do you think you’re going?” She turned to face her brother, a defiant look on her face. Her mother exited her bedroom, standing beside her oldest child, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“I will once again give you this answer… It is none of your business. Good evening to you.” She opened the door, but before she could exit, her brother gripped her wrist. 

“You will not leave. I forbid it.” She scoffed as she faced him down. 

“I will leave. You have no control over me, you are not father. I choose my own life, and I choose to live it away from you.” She said cooly, yanking her arm out of his grip. She gave him a murderous glare, whipping around and leaving, smacking him in the face with her hair as she did so. 

As she left her family in a perpetual state of confusion, she made her way to the bow of the ship. She smiled as she approached Steve, wrapping her arms around his middle. He bent down to capture her mouth in a kiss, bringing his hands to cup both sides of her jaw.

Once they broke apart, she placed her chin on his chest and looked up. 

“Can I go with you when we get to New York? I can’t take my life anymore.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and her fingers twisted into the back of his shirt. Steve moved his hands down to rub up and down her arms, face twisted into confusion.

“Just up and leave?” Steve asked, eyebrows pulled together. Sarah concentrated on the blue of his eyes, trying to have her own speak something words could not. Steve’s face softened, his heart pounding in his chest. 

He knew that look. It was the same one he had given Bucky when he had left New York to go to Europe. It was the same one that both Bucky and Sam had given him when they thought it was time to go home. It was the look of someone who could truly, absolutely, no longer take the life they were living. If they stayed, they would combust. 

Steve sucked in a breath, God only knew what that look did to him. He leaned his head down to rest his forehead against hers. 

“Sure, darlin’. But I can’t give you what you deserve.” Their noses pressed together as Sarah tilted her head up to encase his lips with her own. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she huffed a laugh and grinned. 

“You honestly think I like living like this?” Steve chuckled with his own wide smile. His blue eyes sparkled in the orange light of the setting sun. 

“Last night was the most fun I have ever had. Your friends have become better friends to me in one night than anyone else I have ever known. Sure, maybe first class looks a little nicer, but trust me, it’s a lot worse.” Steve smiled at her analysis, wrapping his arms around her tighter.

“Then we can get to New York, and we can get you away from the first class life.”

“Good.”

“OK then, come with me, I have to show you something.”

_____

Steve led her through hallways, down lower and lower, dodging crew members, ducking around other passengers. He eventually came to a door that he pushed open to reveal a large storage area, full of boxes, and trunks, cars and other assorted pieces of furniture. The whole area was dimly lit, only a few electric bulbs lining the walls. 

Steve pulled her to a lavish couch, red velvet over polished oak. Steve gave one gentle tug and they both collapsed to the soft surface with a laugh. 

“How did you find this?” Sarah asked with a large grin, resting her head on his shoulder. Steve slung his arm around her, tugging her close to his side, letting her take in his heat. 

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Steve chuckled, an air of mock superiority to his voice. Sarah squawked, flicking his side as she playfully frowned. Steve snorted out a laugh, toothy grin on his face.

“I did a lot of exploring when I got on the ship. And I may have followed one of the crew.” 

“You sneaky cat.” She reached out a finger to poke his nose playfully, to which he captured in his free hand and pressed to his lips. He then tilted his head down to capture her lips, then shifted to use his free hand to pull her closer. 

Sarah briefly fought with her constricting dress, just enough to get her leg up and over, so that she was straddling him. He reached his hands around to rest on her lower back, fingers playing at one of the buttons.

“May I?” He asked, a flirty grin on his face. She retaliated by placing her own hands on his stomach, thumbs tapping against his belt buckle. 

“Only if I can as well.” Steve grinned and popped the buttons, leading up her back. Sarah quickly undid his belt buckle, sliding it out one loop at a time. Steve slid the dress off her shoulders as she hooked her fingers under his shirt, pulling it up.

“Well, this isn’t fair.” She laughed. Steve made a shocked face at her corset, and she remarked on his ability to only wear a shirt. 

“How do you breathe in this thing?” He tried to wiggle a finger under it, but was unable to make it past the tight fabric. Sarah cuckold.

“Oh, it’s funny that you think I can breath.” She quickly showed him how to undo the strings as she ran her fingers against his chest, absolutely rippling with muscles. They both had smiles on their faces, heating the air around them with their growing passion. 

_____

Tony Stark watched as Sarah and her partner, Steve, she had called him, disappeared below deck. He leaned against the railing, playing with his watch, the red and gold metal glinting in the dying sunlight. 

He chuckled, looking straight out at the smooth water. He was happy for them. Truely. He turned to watch as two crew members went to the crows nest, relieving the two members already on duty. “Mr.Stark.” The call of his name dragged the attention away from the crew, and he gave his watch face a slight twist, showing him the time, instead of the temperature he had previously been looking at. 

“Ah, Mr.Russell, what can I do for you?” Sarah’s brother came up to him, standing directly in front of him, hands shoved in his pockets and a fowl look on his face. Tony leaned his backside against the wood of the railing, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Where is my sister?” His tone was accusatory, and Tony put one eyebrow up.

“No idea.” He bluffed.

“I saw you eating with her at lunch.” Tony chuckled again.

“And? How should I know where she is now?” 

“Let me make this clear, I saw you, just the two of you. At lunch.” Now it was really hard for Tony to resist laughing. So he did. His laugh was loud, boisterous. It drew the attention of a few other passerbys. 

“I have a wife back in the states, Mr.Russell. Pepper. You should meet her sometime. Sarah and I bumped into each other in the hall, that's all.” Tony stood up straight, coming eye to eye with the younger man. He faltered, and backed off, hands pulled from his pockets.

“My apologies.” He muttered. Tony started walking past him, patting him on the shoulder as he made his way to his suite. 

_____

Sarah slumped against the wall, breathless and laughing, hair going in every direction, clutching her dress around her shoulders, unable to button it back up. Steve crouched by the intersection, hiding from the crew members as he tucked his shirt back in. His grin was blinding, 

They turned to race down the hall, Steve fumbling with Sarah’s buttons with each bouncing footstep. They swung onto the nearest staircase, climbing higher and higher. They stopped at the very top of one of the stairwells, right behind a door that would lead to the dark deck. 

Sarah wrapped her fingers in his thin shirt, pushing him against the wall as she kissed him silly. She planted her lips over every square inch of his face, while he pulled her as close as possible, hands rubbing up and down her back. 

They both knew it was late, but neither of them were tired. They were just a couple with not a care in the world. They didn’t care what was going on on around them. Nothing but smooth sailing.

Until it wasn’t.

The entire ship groaned, it shuddered, the floorboards vibrating and the metal emitting a low hum. The pair broke apart, Steve gripping onto her arm as she nearly toppled down the stairs. Frowns had stitched themselves onto their faces, concern etching lines on their foreheads. 

Steve pushed the door open, and they both stepped outside. Sarah looked to the deck.

Ice chunks littered the floor, blue and silver and white in the moonlight. Some people, second and third class, were kicking around the ice, laughing as if they hadn’t just experienced that feeling.

Next, Sarah looked to where Steve was looking. She took in a sharp gasp as she watched the massive iceberg make its way to the stern of the ship. The pair walked up to the rail, leaning over to watch the massive tower of ice float away. 

“Mr.Andrews said this ship was unsinkable, right?” Sarah asked, dread settling into her stomach.

“Right.” Steve had let all traces of joy leave his shoulders, his eyes. His voice was low, and serious. 

“So what do we have to worry about?” She could hear the wobble in her own voice. She took a breath to steady herself, and turned to find something else other than the ice. 

Her gaze landed first on the two people in the crows nest. They were standing still, hands gripping the edge of their platform’s railing. Their faces were pale against their dark White Star uniforms. 

Sarah was quick to look at something else, dread settling deeper into her bones. She found a few bridge members running around. She spotted Mr.Andrews, charts tucked under his arms, trotting up to a man with snow white hair, trotting up to the captain, 

This was not good. And it was about to get worse. 

_____

Steve and Sarah stood at the railing, watching the iceberg float away for quite some time. Maybe half an hour they stood there. The engines had stopped, and the only noise came from the tiny waves lapping against the hull, and the murmur of voices on the deck. 

“Sarah!” She jumped at the sound of her brother’s voice. She turned around to see her mother and brother walking up to her, matching angry looks, looks that could kill. Steve looked over his shoulder, then to Sarah, who desperately tried to fix her hair. 

“Where have you been?” Her brother flailed his arms into the air, coming to stand right in front of her. Meanwhile, her mother busied herself with making sure all of the other passengers went away. Steve merely moved back to the door where they had come up earlier. Her mother seemed satisfied.

“You have been gone for hours!” Her brother nearly shouted, then ran his hands over his face and up through his hair. She side eyed her mother, who was standing rim rod straight, fury in her eyes. She chanced a glance at Steve, who was pulling out a cigarette to clamp between his teeth. 

“Like I said before, it’s none of your business, now get that through your thick skull.” She laughed at him, standing straight. Her brother was shocked for the briefest of moments, then his shock turned to white hot fury. 

He lashed out, gripping one of her wrists and then using his other hand to strike her across the cheek. Her whole field of vision went white, then faded back with a few dark spots before she could see properly again. She whimpered and bumped back to the rail. 

A hand clamped on her brother’s shoulder, fingers digging into his skin. 

“I wouldn’t think about doing that again.” Steve growled. Her brother let go of her wrists, turning to face his challenger. All kindness had gone from Steve’s eyes, his jaw was clenched tight, the muscle giving a little twitch. 

“I’m her brother.” 

“I don’t care who you are. Don’t touch her again.” Sarah watched the fear flicker through her brother’s eyes, shrinking down to a smaller size against Steve’s enormity. Steve’s face softened as he looked to her, giving her a small smile. Steve let go of his shoulder and took a step back, hands going into his pockets. 

Sarah’s mother looked from both his to her daughter and back, the gears in her head almost audible as she was struck with realization. 

“Oh.” Was all she said. Her face fell to a disgusted look. Her brother caught on a moment later. He had a bit more to say.

“You, you filthy animal!” He proceeded to advance towards Steve, giving him a hard poke in the shoulder. His anger radiated off of him, and he shoved both Steve’s broad shoulders. With a sigh, Steve stripped his jacket off and tossed it to the deck, handing the unlit cigarette to Sarah, who put it between her own teeth. Steve knew where this was going, Sarah knew where it was going, so did her mother and brother. 

Sarah dug through Steve’s coat to find the matches, watching the incoming brawl with interest, ignoring the protests from her mother. 

“Did you think it was OK to even think about someone of her status? Is that it?” Her brother asked, disbelief in his tone. He put his fists up in a boxers stance, and Steve rolled out the kinks in his shoulders, choosing to stay silent. 

“You belong with the rats. You belong in the mud, just like everyone else from steerage.” He spat out the words. Steve rolled his eyes and clenched his fists. 

“No one did ever teach you how to fight? Did they?” Steve flashed a cocky grin as he easily dodged the first swing. He dodged two more, one aimed at his gut, the other to his jaw, before he looked to Sarah. He was asking silent permission.

“Go ahead. Teach him a lesson.” She shrugged, puffing smoke into her mother’s face with a sly grin. Steve nodded.

With the next swing, Steve caught his fist, swinging him around so he went crashing to the deck. Steve pressed his knee down so he was pinned, and kept his arm raised in the air. Her brother let out a whimper, and Steve let him up. 

“That’s dirty.” He tried to defend himself, putting his fists back up.

“No one ever said we were boxing.” Steve pushed back, putting his own fists up. It was laughable how much bigger than her brother Steve was. Another jab from her brother was blocked by Steve’s arms, and instead of jabbing with his fists, Steve brought his knee up and into his opponent’s gut. 

Her brother doubled over, coughing his guts up. He regained his composure, and started blindly swinging at the blond, in a rage. Steve managed to either block or avoid most of them, but he still was hit twice. Once to the stomach, and once to the shoulder. Steve shoved his opponent sideways, knocking his elbow into his nose. 

Her brother pulled back, hands on his nose, trying as he might to stop the flow of blood streaming out. Her mother yelped and went to her son. Sarah gripped Steve’s hand, interlacing their fingers. 

“Goodbye, mother.” And she ran, taking Steve along with her. 

_____

People were emerging onto the deck all around them, life belts in hand with confused looks on their faces. Some were telling their servers to go back to their rooms and turn on the heat, others were standing around and drinking. Crew members were loading some onto the lifeboats, shouting for only women and children. 

“OK, time for you to get on a boat.” Steve said as he pulled her to one. She dug her heels into the deck, placing one hand over his wrist.

“No. I’m not leaving yet. I’m not leaving you.” 

“This isn’t an argument. Get on the boat.”

Sarah set her face to a stubborn scowl, twisting her arm so her hand popped out of Steve’s. He shook his head in disbelief, and walked forward, placing his hands over her shoulders. 

“Sarah, I may be poor, but I am smart. I can do math. There aren't enough boats.” Steve gave her shoulders a squeeze, trying to mask his panic, but he feared his racing heart would give him away. Sarah reached her hands up to rest on his jaw, smoothing her thumbs over his cheekbones. 

“Exactly my point. I’m not leaving until we can both get into a boat.” He smiled, almost shyly. Then he nodded, pulling her into a tight hug. 

White light erupted above them, followed shortly by a loud bang. They both looked up in time to see another rocket being fired off, illuminating the world around them in a brilliant light. Things were getting serious. But no one seemed to get that. 

That was the problem with boarding an unsinkable ship. People tend to believe what they hear, and hearing the ship that you were on was unsinkable, people tended to believe that. But it doesn't matter if the ship has a reinforced hull, or watertight doors. It doesn't matter if it has some of the best technology of the era. If it’s made of iron, it can sink. 

_____

Sarah pulled Steve along the corridors of B deck, passing through the residential area, then to the restaurant and lounge areas. Finally they made their way to the grand staircase. The entire stairwell was full of people. Arrogant people, who even with the floor slanting under them, were directing crew members to go get them more drinks. 

She frantically looked around, searching for the one person from her own class who showed her kindness. Steve was getting odd looks thrown his way, but paid them no mind as he looked up and around, at the ornate glass roof and polished oak and gold fixtures. 

Finally, Sarah spotted who she was looking for, and darted forward, her partner in tow. 

“Mr.Stark!” She was able to grab the millionaire’s attention through the haggle of people she was forcing her way through unapologetically. The dark haired man trotted up to meet her, moving away from the other man he was talking to. 

“Sarah, where is your life belt?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. His hair was a wild mess, his suit looked like it was thrown on on his way out the door, buttons misaligned. His face was pale, and he was trying hard to keep his breathing under control. 

“I don’t have one. I haven’t been to my room at all.” 

“I noticed.” He nodded to Steve, still clutching Sarah’s hand, but standing behind her. Tony turned to grab a spare life belt that was hanging over the bannister of the staircase, handing it to her. 

“No, you need one too. We can find our own.” Sarah tried to push the white floaty back, but Steve grabbed her arm from behind.

“Sarah, put it on.” Steve commanded softly, holding her hand closed over the life belt. His hand rested on the small of her back, giving him leverage to push her arm towards herself. 

“Thank you, Mr.Stark.” Steve addressed the inventor, nodding his head sincerely. 

“If we make it off this death trap, you can call me Tony.” Steve shook his outstretched hand with a small smile.

“Steve Rogers.” Tony returned his polite nod, and they let go of each other's hands. Steve focused on helping Sarah into her vest, tying the cords tightly. Once she was all settled in, they said goodbye to Tony so they could make their way back to deck.

“Be safe, Tony.” Sarah gave him a quick hug, then let him go so they could both leave.

_____

One hour, and 22 minutes after the Titanic hit the iceberg:

The deck was turning into pandemonium. The ship was tilting, the bow almost completely underwater, the stern rising up into the air. 

“Time to go.” Steve said, leading her up the deck and closing into the back of the ship. They passed empty lifeboat hook, after empty lifeboat hook. 

“Steve, there is nowhere to go!” Sarah shouted over the noise rising up from the deck. Another white rocket burst overhead as Steve looked at her. It illuminated the fear on her face, her eyes sparkling with tears. 

Steve faltered momentarily, then shook his head to pop up to look over the crowd running around the deck. He pointed, then led her away.

“I see one up there.” He began pulling her away, just as a door burst open and a group of third class passengers came racing onto the deck, knocking Sarah and Steve apart. Steve looked around frantically as the crowd dissipated, calling out her name. He looked back to the door, and sucked in a breath. 

Sarah had slumped against the wall, eyes closed and knocked out. She must have been thrown into the wall as the group had passed. Steve knelt beside her, quickly scooping her up bridal style. 

Pushing his way further to the back of the ship, he stopped in front of the lifeboat.

“Do you have room for one more?” He asked, nodding down to the unconscious Sarah in his arms. The crew member looked a little hesitant, taking a quick glance to the nearly full boat. He nodded and flicked his fingers forward.

Steve gently loaded her into the boat, two other women helping to keep her from tipping over.

“Thank you.” Steve said to them, and they nodded. Steve backed away from the boat so more people could get in, catching a sympathetic look from one of the ladies. 

_____

One hour, and 47 minutes after the Titanic hit the iceberg:

Sarah woke up just as the Titanic started to lose power, the lights flickering wildly before they shut off, plunging the entire area into darkness, the only light was that from the moon. The ship had most of its stern suspended in the air, the propellers standing still. 

She looked around, unsure of how she had gotten in a boat, but she was certain that Steve wasn’t with her. A hand rested on her shoulder, causing her to jump. She turned to face a woman, who introduced herself as Molly Brown. 

“Where is Steve?” She asked in a panic. The woman, Molly, placed a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“Big, blond? Looked like he was third class?” Sarah nodded, tears welling in her eyes. 

“He dropped you in her and then made sure a few others got in. Then he left.” Another woman sitting next to her spoke up. Sarah turned back to the ship, hand covering her mouth. She wanted to jump out of the boat and swim back. She would never make it. 

_____

One hour, and 52 minutes after the Titanic hit the iceberg:

Steve pushed his way along the deck, all the boats were gone, the ship was almost vertical. Still, hundreds of people remained on the ship or in the water around it. By the end of the night, all but seven of them would be dead. 

Steve gripped the rail by the Union Jack flag, at the furthest point he could go. His feet were slipping out from under him, the ship groaning under the stress of holding itself up. Steve wove his arms and legs around the bars, hoping wherever Sarah, and Sam, and Bucky, wherever everyone on this ship that he cared about, he hoped that they were safe. But for the time being, he was alone. 

An unearthly scream ripped through the air. It sounded like a thousand people all at once, but higher pitched and with more of a groaning undertone. Sparks flew and metal twisted, wood splintered and glass shattered. 

Steve looked down just long enough to see the ship break in half, then shut his eyes tight as the stern came crashing down into the water again. Huge waves spread out, shoving the people that were in the water. Steve slipped from the rail, crashing down into the deck.

He scrambled back to the rail, helping up another man who had fallen. He climbed up and over, gripping the flagpole as the ship was beginning to pull itself back down again, the deck slanting rapidly.

People slid down the deck, screaming like it was some sort of deadly slide. Which it was. A slide that led to the dark waters and broken metal. 

Steve pulled himself to stand straight up as the stern went completely vertical. He looked around, his mind blocking out all the noise as the ship bobbed there. He found the lifeboats, some barely half full. There was no way to tell which one Sarah was on, but he tried to pick her out anyway. 

He would survive this. He had to. He had to make it back to her. 

The ship began to progress towards the water, the black sheet bubbling up around the sinking metal. He took a few steadying breaths. Twenty feet, ten, five, he sucked in as much air as his lungs would hold as he was enveloped in the water.

He kicked his legs furiously, following the air bubbles to the surface, all the while being dragged down by the current of the sinking hull. His head broke above the water, and he desperately gulped in air. The water around him was shockingly cold, like nails digging into his skin. It was so cold, it burned. 

He looked around, and found his best bet was to swim out towards the lifeboats, try to keep his body warm and make it to safety. But it was getting harder to move, both the people dragging him back, and the cold stiffening his muscles. 

He spotted a portion of the deck, bobbing gently in the waves created by the swimming mass. He clambered on top, teeth chattering and lips blue. He rolled to his back, listening to the chaos around him. Screams. That was all the night was filled with. Screams for help, screams for loved ones, people trying to find someone. Screams to no one, just shouted into the night, one long wail of hopelessness and despair. 

Steve had to cover his ears, trying desperately not to believe that any one of those voices could be Bucky, or Sam, Clint, Natasha, or god forbid, Sarah. 

_____

Seven minutes after Titanic sank:

Steve still had his hands clamped over his ears, even though the screams had stopped. It was eerily quiet, the only sound was the low wind and the lapping of waves against bodies. 

He rolled to his back, trying desperately to keep whatever warmth he had left. The stars above him were bright, beautiful. They twinkled in the cloudless sky, like pinpricks in a sheet of black. 

A new sound rose in the silence. It started out quiet, and disembodied. Then a light passed over him. 

“Is-- out--” Steve could barely make out the words. But he forced himself to sit up. Through blurry eyes, he spotted an empty boat paddling around the corpse field. 

“Is anyone-- there?” Through a fuzzy brain, it slowly registered to him that rescue had come. Too late for hundreds, but maybe not for him. 

“Yes!” His voice cracked, the sound not traveling far. 

“Is anyone alive out there?” The boat seemed to call out again, unable to hear him. Steve coughed, clearing his throat.

“Yes!” he tried again, this time throwing his arm up, waving it around. By some stroke of luck, the flashlight passed back over him. With a small, frozen smile, he collapsed back to the decking, too tired to move any further. 

_____

Three hours and 28 minutes after Titanic sank:

The brigade of lifeboats rowed their way to the Carpathia, their savior. She was a smaller version of the Titanic. One smoke stack instead of four, barely a third of the length. 

Steve gazed up from his spot on the bench, swaddled in a blanket. His mind was foggy, and blank. It didn’t register as he was able to make his way up to the deck.

Nothing registered until he saw all the people up there. Crying, pleading, praying. Some with blank expressions, others were angry, or sobbing. 

His heart dropped as a crew member walked up to him. 

“Can I have your name please?” He asked, his entire physique tired. He held a clipboard and a pencil, writing down a list of survivors. 

“Steve Rogers.” The crew member wrote his name down, then turned to leave.

“Wait! Can you look to see if there is a Sarah Russell on your list?” The man scanned down his paper, and shook his head.

“Not that I can see, but we still haven’t gotten everyone yet.” The crew member turned away again, walking to the next group. Steve scanned around the deck, and began walking, conducting his own search. 

As he was looking behind him, he collided with someone. Turning around to apologize, he stopped.

“Sam.” The two men nearly collapsed into each other, shaking with relief. As they broke apart, they gripped each other's shoulders. 

“Do you know where Buck went? Clint? Any of them?” Steve asked, finding himself dreading the answers. Sam shook his head.

“We made it up on deck, but I got separated. I don't know where they went.” Steve didn’t know what to say. He could feel his chest constricting, grief flooding over him. He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to steady the shake in his hands. 

“Steve!” He twisted around to the voice of a man, hoping that it would be one of his missing friends. No, it was Tony Stark. 

The first class man approached the two cautiously, hoping that he would be recognized. He knew that Steve had been high on adrenaline earlier that morning, possibly didn’t fully take in the situation at hand. To his relief, the blond recognized him straight away.

“Tony. Are you OK?” Steve seemed worried, even for someone he met only in passing. He even reached out a hand to give a gentle squeeze to the millionaire’s shoulder. Steve Rogers, ever the mother hen. 

“Shaken, but I’m ok. I came to tell you, I saw her. Sarah.” Tony watched as his entire face lit up, then fell into a state of relief, then finally settled on concern, all in a timespan of .12 seconds. Steve looked to Sam, who nodded for him to go. He then looked to Tony, who pointed towards the bow of the Carpathia.

Steve was off faster than either man could comprehend, racing along the wooden deck with his blanket still draped over his shoulder like a cape. 

_____

Steve nearly vaulted down the staircase, startling a few passerbys. He landed heavily on his feet, then frantically looked around. The ship wasn’t all that big, so it should have been easy to see her, right? Wrong. He had to look for 15 minutes before he found her. 

She was shrouded in her own blanket, huddled into a small ball. She stared down at the floor, eyes red from tears. She was pale, her dark hair plastered to her head from the light spattering of rain that had begun to fall. 

“Sarah.” He sighed with relief, dropping down to one knee in front of her. She looked over, looked his face over once or twice, like she was trying to figure out who this was next to her. Realization hit her like a train, and she gasped, covering her mouth.

She flung her arms around his neck, sobbing into the crook of his shoulder. One hand on her back, the other on the back of her head, they stayed locked in their embrace for a long time. Long enough that the sun had come up. 

“Can I take your names?” 

The couple broke apart, looking up at the tired face of the crew member. A different one than before. He was poised to write their names, looking at them expectantly.

“My name was already taken down.” Steve said, sliding his hand down to interlace his fingers with Sarah. She was quiet for a moment, you could almost see the wheels turning in her head. She looked away, then back up at the crew. 

“Sarah.” She answered. He jotted it down, but slowed to pause with an expectant look to her.

“Do you have a last name, miss?” Sarah looked to Steve for the briefest of moments.

“Rogers.” She spewed out. Steve raised his brow, but otherwise stayed silent. The crew, too tired to question or argue any further, nodded and wrote it down as he walked away. 

“What was that?” he asked, trailing his thumb over her knuckles. 

“Like I said, I don’t want to live my life the same way anymore. I don’t want to be Sarah Russell anymore.” 

“You still want to come with me?” Steve asked, planting a gentle kiss to her nose. She nodded, returning his with one of her own, straight on his lips. 

“Of course.”

_____

The Carpathia docked in New York only a few days later. Only a third of the passengers that had left from Europe barely a week before made it to their final destination. Many drowned, many died of hypothermia. Hundreds of bodies were never returned to their families. 

Wives, husbands, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, all torn away from their families. Human arrogance was a major factor in the ship even encountering the ice in the first place. Arrogance and pride. 

To this day, the sinking of the Titanic is one of the biggest man-made disasters in history. Over 1500 people lost their lives, 700 more lost, in many cases, everything they owned, and then some. 

Just something to think about.

[cinephiled-com]

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Interview: Costume Designer Anna Robbins Returns Us to Sumptuous ‘Downton Abbey’

Like many diehard fans, I was beyond excited when I heard that Julian Fellowes’ popular British TV series Downton Abbey was following its six-season run with a full-length feature film. Taking place between 1912 and 1925, the television series had introduced us to the aristocratic Crawley family and their domestic servants who lived together in an incredibly grand Yorkshire home called Downton Abbey. Throughout the series, the Crawleys and their servants snaked their way through many of the big historical events of the early 20th century. As the film picks up the story in 1927, the Crawleys and their intrepid staff are preparing for one of the most important experiences of their lives: a royal visit from the King and Queen of England. This exciting experience will ultimately unleash scandal, romance, and intrigue that will leave the future of Downton hanging in the balance.

Among the joys in revisiting these beloved characters is seeing the amazing work of costume designer Anna Robbins (Emmy-nominated for her work on the series) which is even more spectacular on the big screen. This is a time just beyond the Gilded Age, entering the modern one, which is reflected in great detail in the costumes from Dowager Countess of Grantham Violet Crawley’s (Maggie Smith) pastel, formal Edwardian garb to the more flapper-friendly styles favored by Lady Mary and Lady Edith (Michelle Dockery and Laura Carmichael). For the latter pair, the silhouettes and color schemes reflect their outlook – Lady Mary in more angular blacks and whites for instance, and a beautiful gold flowing 1920s gown for Lady Edith, a gorgeous use of fabric and pattern and color where you can really see the texture and detail. I loved sitting down for a chat with the talented Anna Robbins about her work on the film, even if I did feel painfully underdressed.

Danny Miller: I so loved being with these characters again. And as far as I’m concerned, your work is one of the most important stars of the film. It was already so gorgeous on the TV series but am I correct in noticing that it all seems ramped up a bit for the movie?

Anna Robbins

Anna Robbins: Oh, yes, it is definitely ratcheted up a notch! We set a high bar for the show, with all the departments really pushing to elevate everything, but I think watching it on television we all thought it could be even bigger. And then along comes the opportunity to make it literally bigger which was so much fun to do.

I know, I just wanted to stare at the threads on the fabric seeing all those beautiful clothes on the big screen.

Yes, which is exactly what made it so challenging since I people would be able to see the threads and the quality of the craftsmanship in such detail. I like to use as many originals as possible and those had to be of a very high quality to withstand that scrutiny.

Wow, how on earth do you find 90-year-old dresses that are in good enough shape to look new?

For women’s wear I’d say it’s about half and half. I use more originals in evening wear because those dresses were often carefully preserved and they weren’t the kind of things to be worn every day so they haven’t worn out. Some pieces do require restoration, of course, and if it can be done to a very high standard, we do it but sometimes the fabric is simply too fragile so I might be able to re-imagine it as something else or take the fabric and rework it somehow. It’s a combination of a lot of things, but yes, I really had to raise the bar for the film and make everything even more sumptuous.

And, of course, this film includes the royal visit, so I’m sure that storyline also ramped things up.

Yes, that definitely upped the ante but it also meant you weren’t going to be exploring the most up-to-the-minute risky trends in women’s wear because there’s a very specific elegance and classicism to how you would dress to meet a royal.

I would imagine that you get to know these characters better than almost anyone. Do you have to think beyond the script to the whole of their personal histories? For example, Cora (Elizabeth McGovern) having been raised in America, do you think that influences her clothes?

Oh yes, where they came from is very important. The wardrobe’s got to say as much about the past as it does about the present day. It’s a very intimate process as well, working with an actor to find that characterization and it becomes a very important tool for them. But I have gotten to know the characters really well which meant I had a shorthand when I went onto the film that allowed me to work at pace right from the beginning without needing to do the huge amount of research that I did when I first came on board.

Shorthand like you could see something and think, “Oh, Lady Mary would never wear that.”

Yes. At this point I can walk into a vintage shop and see a Lady Edith dress across the shop and know it’s going to work.

Lady Edith is someone who really interested me in this film because, as we know, she had a big change at the end of the series. It did seem like her new status was reflected in her clothes.

I think Edith had one of the biggest journeys of anyone throughout the series. I remember in Series 5 her wardrobe was very restrictive and pared back, very autumnal colors during the period when she was estranged from her daughter and just very low emotionally. Then in Series 6 she literally blossoms as a human and finds her identity and she’s suddenly in this literary world so I created this London working woman’s wardrobe which was very different from her estate wardrobe. It still felt like the same person but she was far more adventurous and bold in her choice of prints and color.

You can literally see her self-confidence change over the course of the series and it was amazing to watch how her physical appearance reflected that.

Yes, I loved dressing her. And now in the film it was important that we didn’t lose that sense of style she had found even though now she’s no longer a magazine editor in London, she’s the Marchioness of Hexham and outranks all of them. So we took everything that she’s learned about herself including her self-assuredness and sense of style and moved it up into the position that she’s in now. But still always focusing on the level of craftsmanship in the textiles, it might be embroidery, it might be devoré, it might be printed silk. There’s always some sort of interesting surface to the fabrics that I use for Edith.

Was there at all a touch of rubbing her new status in Mary’s face with her clothes at all? A bit of showing off?

I don’t think so because I don’t think Edith has an ego like that. And she and her husband are very modern in their approach to their high positions. Remember — they arrive at Downton without a nanny. They call themselves “modern folk.”

I guess just the fact that she’s happy now is enough for her to stick it to Mary.

(Laughs.) Yes, exactly. I love dressing the two of them in their scenes together. Even when they weren’t at each other’s throats, there’s always a contrast, I always look to create some kind of dichotomy between them. Their dresses should always work with each other but create a nice contrast. And, of course, as individuals they’re very different.

I know the film takes place in 1927, which is a few years after the series ended, but do you have to think about certain characters like Violet (Maggie Smith) who may hold on to past styles in some way?

Well, Violet is a Victorian/Edwardian lady and that will never change. But the fabric choices may change. Where she once wore a fabric with an Edwardian pattern, that may become more art deco. You’re always looking for different micro trends that affected clothing manufacture, the way they were put together. And her jewelry might go from being more square cuts to show more modernity. I like to find ways to show that sense of modernity without changing her very recognizable silhouette.

Dame Maggie Smith

Did you know that there was a movie coming as the series was ending? Were things saved in a different way than they might have been otherwise?

No, we didn’t know. We hoped, but nothing was certain back then. Luckily, the main jeweler I worked with wasn’t organized enough to disband the collection and use it in other things so it was mostly intact.

Plus, the series was so popular, you could take the whole collection on the road!

Yes, we did work on a touring Downton Exhibition over the years so we’ve always been aware that there’s a life for the costumes after filming whether or not they ended up in a new film. But really getting to create new costumes for these wonderful characters was just a hypothetical dream that has thankfully now come true.

We’re talking so much about the women and my first instinct is to assume that costuming the men isn’t as interesting, but then I see their gorgeous clothes on the big screen and I’m totally fascinated.

Oh God, I love working with the men, I love tailoring. If you get that right, everything just looks so good. And the fabrics are fantastic. I was talking about using original pieces with the women, but it’s very rare that you’ll find any originals that you can use with the men.

Because men back then wore their clothes so much more often and they just wore out?

Yes, exactly, they just haven’t lasted. But the bits we do find are wonderful references for the cut and shape and how the pieces are constructed. I also work to make sure the men’s clothes complement the women’s and that all the scenes work together in composition. But the detailing in the menswear is just wonderful. And if you look closely in the film, the men change as often as the women do. I think Robert changes four times on the day that the Kind and Queen come to Downton. I was even able to design new dress uniforms for the livery staff with the Crawley insignia in the fabric, it was wonderful, those beautiful green tailcoats with silver frogging and lacing with the white breaches and stockings. Just brilliant.

Matthew Goode, Michelle Dockery, Allen Leech

So incredible. And then you leave work and go out into London and see people dressed like I am right now — it must be so depressing!

(Laughs.) I mean, I’m sure it was very hot and uncomfortable at times, so it’s good that we’ve moved forward, but those clothes do look so fabulous and I’m glad I get to spend such a huge proportion of my life with them!

Is designing for the servants more of a case of strict research on what the staffs of big houses would be wearing in 1927?

Well, there is lots of research and looking at what would have been worn but then you design touches for each character. For example, there is always a sort of very subtle floral pattern within the silk for Anna. And it may be more geometric for Baxter, with a more complicated cutting technique since Baxter is a dressmaker.

Is the implication that the servants would be mending their own clothes?

Yes, to some extent, so you’re going to see differences. They’re all designed to the character and to make them identifiable even if there’s a common look.

Lesley Nicol and Sophie McShera

I imagine at the first fittings for the film it must have been heavenly for the actors to slip back into these costumes to get back into character.

It was wonderful seeing them literally step back into their characters’ shoes. And it’s always been a very collaborative process working with them. It’s a joint effort to find the right looks. I lead it, for sure, since I have an overview of how the whole thing has to look and I know what’s going to work together in each scene such as they’ve got to start off in this setting which may be against red and then move into this room which might be green.

Oy, that seems like so much to keep track of. And it’s not like in real life we ever know the colors of every room we’re going to walk into!

Exactly, but I have to create these huge charts that allows me to painstakingly keep track of all those different elements. I work very closely with the director, production designer, the DP, and the actors. I have to think about lighting and how the colors are going to behave on camera.

I remember reading about the making of Gone With the Wind and how Selznick and costume designer Walter Plunkett tortured the actors with real corsets and other undergarments from the period even though they would never be seen. Are you a stickler period detail as well?

I am all about what makes the right silhouette but I might make the garments worn under the costumes more comfortable than the originals might have been. Remember, they didn’t have the luxury of stretch materials! Unless you actually see the underwear, as you do in some scenes in the film, then I absolutely insist on the real thing, of course.

Of course, the 1920s were more kind to women than previous eras in terms of undergarments.

Absolutely. You had underwear then that created a more boyish silhouette which could still be confining for some. But I also find that actors are quite keen to use whatever underwear creates the foundation that makes the clothing look more authentic and therefore more believable. And sometimes the underclothes affect posture and even the way you speak. I think it’s worth noting that while the girls lost the corsets, the gents were still wearing stiff-collared shirts full of starch with starch-fronted shirts. These are very uncomfortable, and you shouldn’t even be able to get a finger down the collar. So, rest assured, I still put the actors through the ringer.

I used to love the original Upstairs, Downstairs before Downton Abbey and I remember the actors talking about how they tended to be treated differently on set depending on what class they were playing. I remember Jean Marsh, who played the parlourmaid Rose, once said to the people on set, “Hey, I created this series, why is everyone treating me like I’m not as good as Lady Marjorie?” Did you ever notice anything like that on your set?

Oh, that’s funny. No, I wouldn’t say so. We were really like one big family and very equal. I think something the downstairs characters might get a bit of envy in terms of all the beautiful fabrics and costumes that the upstairs characters got to wear, but by the same token the upstairs characters had to do fittings week upon week upon week. The downstairs characters had a much easier time of it pre- and post-filming where they could just get into their cars and leave whereas I had to drag Lady Mary to do the fifth fitting that week for a new dress that she was wearing the following week.

I do feel inspired by your magnificent clothes in this film. As God is my witness, I want to start dressing better!

Go for it! The thing is, a bespoke suit can be very comfortable because it’s been made specifically for you. It molds to your body.

Thanks so much for chatting with me. I’m excited about all the Downton Abbey frenzy I’m seeing. This is definitely the movie that we need right now in this country, if you know what I mean.

Oh, trust me, we need it right now in the UK, too!

[agosnesrerose]

The 1913 Armory Show: America’s First Art War

William-Adolphe Bouguereau. The Wave, 1896. Oil on canvas; 47.64 × 63.19 inches (121 × 160.5 cm). Private collection.

America has been an epicenter of avant-garde art for a long time, but this was not always the case. The reasons for the rise of the American art world are plural and complex. In part, this rise resulted from a mix of post-World War II affluence, which created collectors, and Cold War politics, which weaponized American modernism and deployed it as proof of cultural superiority. But the American art world’s claim to center stage also rested on America adopting and modifying European avant-garde styles. If, as Serge Guilbaut put it, New York “stole the idea of modern art,”1 it had to first know about modern art. Perhaps no single event marked as epochal a moment in America’s avant-garde awakening as the International Exhibition of Modern Art held at New York’s 69th Regiment Armory in 1913. Tellingly, the Armory Show (as it is popularly known) did not just jolt young American artists into a new dialogue with experimental forms; it also polarized the American public and started what would be a long and loud battle, between people who claimed to be championing the most excellent and advanced artistic ideas, and others who thought those people were obviously, painfully, full of it.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, artists were trained at academies, in which idealistic realism reigned supreme. Academic art tended to promote softened, perfected forms and to render the artist’s hand invisible. Many European artists of the mid-1800s rebelled against academic art, but in America at the turn of the century, academic styles and modes of exhibition were still strong. So, in 1911, four young artists who were fed up with the academy—Jerome Myers, Elmer MacRae, Walt Kuhn, and Henry Fitch Taylor—began meeting at the Madison Gallery in New York to discuss new strategies for exhibiting art in the United States.

That group eventually gave birth to the Association of American Painters and Sculptors (AAPS), composed of young anti-academy artists. In 1913, AAPS organized the Armory Show. By this time, the purview of AAPS had expanded to include bringing the newest European art to American audiences. The president of AAPS opened the show with these words:

The members of this association have shown you that American artists—young American artists, that is—do not dread, and have no need to dread, the ideas or culture of Europe. They believe that in the domain of art only the best should rule. This exhibition will be epoch making in the history of American art. Tonight will be the red-letter night in the history of not only of American but of all modern art.2

The members of the association felt that it was time the American people had an opportunity to see and judge for themselves concerning the work of the Europeans who are creating a new art.

So, what would Americans make of this new art, when given the opportunity to “judge for themselves”?

Paul Cezanne. An Old Woman with a Rosary, 1895–96. Oil on canvas; 31.7 x 25.8 inches (80.6 x 65.5 cm). Courtesy of the National Gallery, London.

On display at the Armory Show were more than twelve hundred works of art by more than three hundred artists from the United States and abroad. There were newly minted Old Masters: Cézanne, Van Gogh, and Gauguin were well represented. But the work that captured people’s imagination—and, in some cases, enraged them—was of a more recent vintage. Contemporary avant-garde movements got the most attention, and it was the disorienting intensity and spatial decomposition found in Cubism that was the talk of the town. One painting in particular became almost synonymous with the succès de scandale of the Armory Show: Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 (1912), a painting by French artist Marcel Duchamp, who, in later years, would develop quite a reputation for attracting adversarial attention to himself.

Marcel Duchamp. Nude Descending a Staircase (No. 2), 1912. Oil on canvas; 57 7/8 x 35 1/8 inches (147 x 89.2 cm). © Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris / Estate of Marcel Duchamp.

Why did Nude stand out from the show and from other Cubist work there? First, its pictorial fragmentation was more violent and jagged than other similar paintings; its lines were closely knitted and overlapping, resembling sketch-work as much as traditional brushstrokes. While other Cubist works of the period stressed the multiplicity of a single moment—which is to say, an artist might render a subject from multiple angles—Nude combined this strategy with a Futurist-inflected temporality, simultaneously representing multiple moments in time. So, it played with at least two different kinds of psychic torsion. In other words, the painting appears to portray a woman at many, various stages of walking down a set of stairs and does so from many, various angles. This way of dealing with time aligns the painting with Eadweard Muybridge‘s (and others’) early photographic motion studies and, by extension, with cinema. But Duchamp combined this almost diagrammatic linearity with strategies of visual obstruction, placing the work uncomfortably between legibility and illegibility: now you see it, now you don’t. In a way, Nude angered people because they understood it too well, but also not enough: what is really frustrating to a viewer is a false start, not a foregone conclusion. The bottom half of the painting contains at least six triangular shapes that can easily be seen as bent legs; the middle section has five ovals that call to mind hip bones. But while you might be able to make out a face in the upper right-hand corner, the angular chaos in the upper left section of the painting cannot be easily synthesized. By rhyming this mindful disorientation with photography and cinema, Duchamp seemed to be saying something about modern life: maybe perception and cognition were changing at the rate of technology. Or the speed of light.

The most famous condemnation of Nude drew on a peculiarly modern metaphor to make its point. Julian Street called Nude “an explosion in a shingle factory.”3 This was by no means the only creative put-down hurled at Duchamp; Nude was variously described as “a lot of disguised golf clubs and bags,” “an assortment of half-made leather saddles,” an “elevated railroad stairway in ruins after an earthquake,” a “dynamic suit of Japanese armor,” a “pack of brown cards in a nightmare,” an “orderly heap of broken violins,” and an “academic painting of an artichoke.”4 Of all these, it was “explosion in a shingle factory”—linking together two particularly modern things, explosions and factories—that stuck and is often used to refer to Duchamp’s painting even today.

While it was the work that got the single most attention, Nude was not alone in drawing heat. The New York Times opened its review of the Armory Show with a few obviously rhetorical questions:

What does the work of the Cubists and Futurists mean? Have these “progressives” really outstripped all the rest of us, glimpsed the future, and used a form of artistic expression that is simply esoteric to the great laggard public? Is their work a conspicuous milestone in the progress of art? Or is it junk?5

Francis Picabia. Dances at the Spring, 1912. Oil on canvas; 47 7/16 x 47 1/2 inches (120.5 x 120.6 cm) © Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris.

Readers wrote to local and city papers, calling the art “nonsense” and declaiming its “amorphous conceits.”6 Gertrude Stein, as a champion of some of the most reviled art, came in for a drubbing many times. One writer complained that Stein’s criticism sounded like a drunk “who is suddenly called upon to make an after-dinner speech.”7 The Chicago Tribune published this poem:

I called the canvas Cow with cud And hung it on the line, Altho’ to me ’twas vague as mud ‘Twas clear to Gertrude Stein8

Theodore Roosevelt, then President of the United States, attempted to be evenhanded, writing in Outlook magazine, “The exhibitors are quite right as to the need of showing to our people in this manner the art forces which of late have been at work in Europe, forces which cannot be ignored.”9 After this brief nod of approval, he went on, “This does not mean that I in the least accept the view that these men take of the European extremists whose pictures are here exhibited.”10 In other words, Americans should keep track of the European avant-gardes, but by no means approve of them.

During the month Nude was on view, hardly a day went by without a story about the Armory Show appearing in the press. As a result, attendance swelled. Numerous writers could not help but compare the show—and whatever you think of the art, you cannot deny a certain aptness in the comparison—to productions by P. T. Barnum. The Armory Show became a circus.

On March 29, 1913, two weeks after the show closed, The Literary Digest published a collection of letters to editors around the country under the title, “The Mob as Art Critic.” [PDF] Some of the letters are astounding, if only in terms of the amount of energy people were willing to put into them. One man, claiming to be a scientist, worked his prose into brilliant contortions, fuming about the scientific language used by artists and critics favoring Cubism. He wrote:

These “sensations” we hear about “reproducing” are impossible of reproduction—even in the mind, still more on canvas—for when they are gone they are gone forever. What takes their place is not a sensation at all but a memory, and a memory is not a sensation. The sensation experienced upon being outside of a good dinner is gone, and it can not be reproduced by remembering it (nor painting its portrait), luckily for cooks. And just as a memory of the sensation—or “thrill”—of a dinner presents none of the satisfactions of the sensation itself, neither do the memories of any other sort of thrills.11

Georges Braque. Violin: “Mozart/Kubelick,” 1912. Oil on canvas; 18.1 x 24 inches (46 x 61 cm). Private collection.

The supreme irony of the passage is that, with its incoherent insistence and repetition and recoding of familiar nouns, it ends up sounding a lot like a poem by Gertrude Stein. The phrase, “What takes their place is not a sensation at all but a memory, and a memory is not a sensation,” could well have come straight from any of Stein’s most impenetrable texts (for example: “You are extraordinary within your limits, but your limits are extraordinarily there”12).

One concerned citizen was kinder to the scientific language being used to describe this modern art. In fact, she thought the art should be renamed “sensationalism . . . not in the popular sense, but in the scientific application of the term.”13 She went on:

For these artists are endeavoring to give a pictorial representation of the physical reaction to sense stimuli, the cellular and nervous reactions which carry the messages of sense perception to the brain. They attempt to diagram the shiver which indicates to you that you are cold; the nerve shock and accelerated heart action which mean fear.14

Armory Show NYC, Interior, 1913. Photo by Percy Rainford

While she granted there was skill involved, she ultimately thought the art should be “more appropriately placed in the lecture-room of a professor of psychology than in an art-gallery”; her ultimate complaint, in the form of a question, was, “But is it beautiful?”15 She thought not. That question would be echoed eighty years later, in 1993, when CBS ran an infamous j’accuse against the contemporary art establishment in a 60 Minutes segment called, “Yes . . . But Is It Art?” The title of segment not only played on widespread public suspicion of the arts (most people would answer, “No, it is not”), but also recalled the ontological vertigo that had overtaken the art world around the time of Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain (1917), an industrially produced urinal he re-christened as an art object.

Coming at a time when the National Endowment for the Arts was gearing up to battle Congress for its very life, that episode of 60 Minutes touched a nerve both in the art world and outside it. America was fed up with contemporary art, and contemporary artists, for their part, were fed up with America. People had drawn the battle lines back in 1913, with the reaction to the Armory Show.

But the story is more complicated than that.

Something interesting happened in the art world during the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s. The Surrealist concern with the articulation of psychologically repressed desires—such as violent sexuality and sexualized violence—developed into a widespread concern with the articulation of systematically repressed identities: queer, black, Chicano, bisexual, transgendered, diasporic, postcolonial, and so on. The reaction to this art—art that embraced what came to be called “identity politics”—was of a different nature than the reaction provoked by the Armory Show. Many critics during the culture wars actually used formal incomprehension to mask a greater understanding of a work’s real meaning. Critics of, say, queer art did not fundamentally puzzle over what they were looking at. And this is where we are today.

The virulent homophobia unleashed on the National Portrait Gallery’s Hide/Seek exhibit by the Cybercast News Service last November is an illustration of how much the debate about art has changed in the past hundred years. In some ways less insular, contemporary art is also less insulated from the day’s most divisive issues. It feels almost quaint to look back on a time when what angered people about art was that it violated the rules of perspective and of the unity of time and place, or that it unbound color from object. If these battles weren’t always pretty—for they were frequently fueled by class resentment—they still seem, relative to contemporary circumstances, somewhat bloodless.

1. Serge Guilbaut, How New York Stole the Idea of Modern Art (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985). 2. Milton W. Brown, The Story of the Armory Show (New York: Abbeville Press, 1988), 43. 3. Brown, 137. 4. All quoted ibid. 5. Kenyon Cox, “Cubists and Futurists Are Making Insanity Pay,” New York Times, March 16, 1913, VI, 1. 6. “The Mob as Art Critic,” Literary Digest 46, no. 13 (March 29, 1913): 708. 7. Robert Tuttle Morris, Microbes and Men (New York: Doubleday, Page, & Co., 1915), 261. 8. All quoted in Brown, 138. 9. Theodore Roosevelt, “A Layman’s Point of View,” The Outlook, March 29, 1913, 718. 10. Ibid. 11. “The Mob as Art Critic,” 708. 12. Gertrude Stein, Everybody’s Autobiography (1937; reprint Boston: Exact Change, 2004), 38. 13. “The Mob as Art Critic,” 708. 14. Ibid. 15. “The Mob as Art Critic,” 709.

Editor’s note: This essay was originally published on Art21.org in November 2011.

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