Chapter Text
Silas and Daphne are going to America. In four weeks the SS Mosaic will depart from Liverpool, and Mr. and Mrs. Silas J. Barry will be aboard, en route to New York.
Silas walks through the chilly streets of Liverpool, two Saloon Class contract tickets in hand, trying to calm his racing heart. He had not wanted to be the one to brave the White Star Line Headquarters to purchase his and Daphne's tickets. Daphne is his confidence and most times his voice, and she and their small flat are his safety; but there is no denying that it's much simpler for a man to secure transatlantic passage. And, against all odds, that is Silas.
"Daphne, I... I don't know if I can," he had admitted when she'd brought up that fact. "I haven't spoken to anyone other than you since we were in Manchester for Christmas. I haven't even left the flat."
And that hadn't even been the half of it. Even before Christmas, Silas had found himself unable to hold a conversation with anyone besides Daphne, and he'd left their flat less and less until he never went out at all. Christmas with Mary, Frances, and Agnes had been the anomaly.
Daphne had given him a pained look.
"I know, Silas," she'd said. "I know you haven't."
Nonetheless, the fact remains that it is far more straightforward for a gentleman to acquire tickets for himself and his wife than the other way around. Besides, Silas had sort of felt like he owed it to Daphne, since he had been the one to bring up the idea of moving across the ocean for medical school (and also– maybe mostly?– to put more distance between them and the Royal Speaker Society).
Daphne could never be accused of hanging her husband out to dry, though; she had helped him rehearse the transaction and had ruthlessly dragged him along on errands to practice speaking to people again. It had been miserable for everyone involved, the first few outings in particular where it had seemed like it might have been easier to pull out all his teeth unanesthetized than push out a single word. But over a series of trips, Silas had, in fact, managed to rebuild his ability to adequately speak to people other than his wife, especially for such predictable interactions as those with shopkeepers.
In a twist of cruel irony, however, by preparing in such a way, Silas had also managed to build up the purchase of the steamer tickets into an even more intimidating feat; but at that point, it was in his head that he would be the one to secure their passage, and so the thought of backing out did not cross his mind. The thought that had lodged itself in his head, bothering him to no end, was how pathetic it was that something as simple as buying some damn tickets required so much of him.
That morning, Silas had steeled himself as he headed to the White Star office. He had not flapped his hands, but he'd allowed himself to swing his arms quite vigorously as he walked. His heart has not stopped pounding since he'd left the flat, but the actual process of talking to the agent, paying for the tickets, signing the passenger contract, it had all gone as smoothly as Silas could have hoped.
His heart still races as he makes his way back towards the flat. He can hardly believe he managed the transaction, but the proof is there on the slips of paper he clutches in his hands. A particularly chilly breeze rushes through the street and tugs at the tickets. With a start, Silas quickly tucks them into a pocket of his thick coat.
Stepping back into the warmth and safety of the cramped flat, Silas breathes deeply for the first time that day. Daphne comes over to meet him in the entryway with a frown.
She isn't angry, but her concern is pronounced as she asks, "Where have you been all morning? Why didn't you wake me before you left?"
Silas grimaces.
"I'm sorry. I went to buy our steamer tickets. I needed to go as fast as I could once I got up, before I got too nervous, and I didn't think to wake you."
He'd been so focused on internally repeating and practicing any words he thought he might require as he shakily got dressed that it had left little room in his head for other thoughts. He realizes now, of course he should have roused Daphne and told her what he was doing.
Daphne exhales a soft chuckle and reaches to pull Silas into her arms. At least she never blames him for the way his mind works. Silas melts into her, and his heart and lungs finally relax into rhythmic calm.
After a moment, she loosens the embrace. Silas pulls the tickets from his pocket and hands them to her.
"The Mosaic leaves Liverpool from Prince's Dock on the 15th of April," he says as he sheds his coat. "That's a Wednesday, but we'll board Tuesday the 14th. They have us get settled in the day before departure."
Neither Daphne nor Silas have ever traveled by steamship before. Daphne had recalled Lord Luckenbill returning from steamer voyages in years past, criticizing (in a manner she'd suspected to be quite performative, and Daphne's hunches are always right) the "appalling negligence of etiquette" that apparently occurs on such vessels. Other than that, well, the advertisement posters and the White Star agent have successfully made the Mosaic sound rather remarkable.
The pair make their way over to the sofa that sits beneath the flat's single window, and Daphne looks over the tickets.
"Did the agent mention how long the crossing is expected to take?" she asks.
"Yes, about ten days if the weather's favorable. There's also a brief stop at Queenstown a day or two in."
Daphne nods. "That's not bad. Hopefully the ship's as comfortable as they make it out to be on their posters."
The Saloon Class facilities on a White Star steamship have quite the reputation. A look at the Barrys' small flat and fairly unembellished lifestyle would never imply that they can even afford such tickets, but the obscene amounts of money possessed by the late Lord Luckenbill did not, in fact, disappear into thin air. Silas and Daphne had decided a trip across the Atlantic Ocean was an appropriate instance to break from their generally frugal habits and so had opted for more luxurious Saloon Class tickets.
"The accommodations do sound like they'll be more than plenty," Silas muses before remembering with a jolt something else the agent had mentioned. "Ah, but Daphne-" he doesn't try to hide how he balks. "There will be ten-course dinners."
Silas hasn't endured such an extended meal in years, with so many expectations for how he should speak and sit and eat, and with far too many repellant foods. He almost wants to tear up the steamer tickets on that thought alone. His parents and tutors would have chastised and derided him for how he recoils, but Daphne clasps his hands in reassurance.
"It'll be alright, Silas. I'll be there with you. We'll see if we can't get you through them. And if not, well..." her eyes sparkle in that mischievous way that Silas loves so ridiculously. "Perhaps Mr. Barry suffers from a weak stomach that turns dreadfully because of the waves. And so, most regrettably, he cannot attend any meals for fear of becoming violently ill."
Silas laughs. It's a ludicrous excuse, of course, but it will be a brilliant one if needed.
"You're a genius," he grins as he releases Daphne's hands to wrap his arms around her waist. Smiling, he leans in to press his face into the crook of her neck.
"Of course I am." Daphne twists her head and kisses Silas's temple. She lingers there, and Silas can feel her smile on his skin. She runs a hand up his arm to the back of his head and gently hooks her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck.
After a moment, Silas's smile fades, and he murmurs, "It's not just the dinners. I know I said I wanted to go to America- I mean, I still do- but I wonder if it's a bad idea."
He rests in the feeling of Daphne's steady heartbeat in her neck and the smooth vibration of her voice in her throat as she asks, "What parts about it scare you?"
It would probably be better to ask what parts about it don't scare him.
"There will be so many people who we'll- I'll be expected to talk to, who'll probably pay too much attention to us since I'm... odd, and you have green eyes, and why would a violet-eyed man have a green-eyed wife, and that's assuming they don't catch that I wasn't born a man in the first place-"
"Silas." Daphne pushes him up from her neck, but he doesn't stop.
"We'll be stuck on that boat, and I don't even know what to expect as far as what's expected of me, really, and the if we get to New York in one piece, I don't actually know- America- what-"
"Silas." Daphne squeezes Silas's shoulders as his breath hitches. "Silas, no one can touch us. If people on the steamer think either of us are strange, it doesn't matter. They won't do anything to a couple of oddball passengers except judge for ten days, and that's their problem, not ours."
Silas clenches his fists in slow pulses as if he can physically cling to her words.
"And then, when we get to New York," Daphne continues, "you will go to medical school and become a surgeon. I will get my writing published. And there will be no Speaker Society or anyone else to try and shove us into stories that aren't ours."
Silas closes his eyes, his breathing fast but deep, and reaches a hand to gently grasp Daphne's wrist, placing his thumb on her pulse. His being does not fly out in every direction, neither does it contort into a breathless trap; he is afraid, but she steadies him.
"Okay. Okay," he breathes. "I love you, Daphne."
"I love you too, Silas." She folds him securely in her arms.