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The gilt pattern on the carpeting blurred together and he blinked several times, listening as the clock inside chimed the hour. He heard nothing else. All was well. He stood up slowly, his muscles aching from crouching, and turned away from the door. His footsteps receded down the hall. *** Her hand reached for the switch beside the lamp and she saw that it was trembling slightly. The room plunged into darkness and she felt her way into her room, the left side of her face still stinging. He had long been gone, but she'd had to be sure. Except for the brush of footsteps out in the hallway ten minutes ago, there had been no other sign of life. He had gone for the night. She was safe. Inside her room, she changed quickly into her nightgown, her dress dropping onto the floor, and she climbed into bed, glancing toward her door to make sure it was locked. Then she removed the leatherbound book from underneath her pillow, and, her hand shaking slightly as she grasped the pen, began to write. *** Monday, April 15, 1912 "Where were you las night?" Fabrizio demanded as Jack slowly got dressed the next morning. "I wake up at two, three o'clock - and your bed is empty." Jack had a pounding headache, probably a combined effect of his lack of sleep and the stress he'd been under. He didn't feel like dealing with Fabrizio's questions. "I was out," he said shortly. He bent down and began lacing his boots. "Why you so secretive all the sudden?" Fabrizio complained. "You were with that girl, no? Miss whatever-her-name-is?" "Rose." Jack instantly regretted his testy tone. He glanced up quickly and saw that Fabrizio was staring at him, his eyes clouding. "I'm sorry, Fabri," he apologized quickly. "I'm just - tired." And worried. What if Rose isn't all right? Was I wrong to leave last night without making sure? Did I chicken out? "You have time for breakfast?" Fabrizio asked a few moments later, grabbing his jacket. "Uh, no, you go ahead," Jack told him distractedly. "I have some things to take care of." "I see right through you, Jack." Fabrizio rolled his eyes. "You have fun talking to your rich girl. I see you later." He disappeared through the door. Your rich girl. The words rolled around in Jack's head as he stared after him. Fabrizio had only meant it lightly, of course, but it was true. Rose was rich beyond all imagination. What the hell was he even doing with her? Was he digging himself into a hole that would be impossible to get out of? He hesitated, contemplating this thoughts. Then he shook his head. It didn't matter. Yesterday he'd had the courage to tell her the way he felt, and today he would have the courage to live up to it. Money did not matter. All that mattered was Rose. The door clicked shut behind him as he hastily left the cabin and headed toward the boat deck. *** It was a cool, windy morning; the sun often slipping behind heavy patches of clouds. Rose stood at the railing - the boat deck had come to be her favorite place on the ship - and stared down at the water. A little smile was playing on her face. She felt so light that she could fly. Despite the fact that she'd only gotten about four hours of sleep the night before, she was in an incredibly good mood - "giddy" her mother had said disapprovingly. Rose grinned at the thought. She certainly was giddy. Rose had slipped out of the suite while her mother was dressing, walking around the boat deck once in search of Jack before coming to stand here at the railing, but she was itching to move. She wanted to spin around in circles down the deck. So this is what it's like to be in love, she thought, rising on her toes and falling back down again, unable to sit still or remove the ridiculous smile from her face. So this is what it's like to be truly happy. Unable to contain herself any longer, she hummed softly and then said his name out loud. "Jack." She stared off into space, thinking. "Jack Dawson. Rose DeWitt Bukater Dawson. No. Rose Dawson. Mrs. Rose Dawson. Mrs. Jack Dawson. Mr. and Mrs. Jack Dawson." She quickly glanced around to see if anyone had heard her absurdity. Seeing no one, she spoke a little louder. "Mrs. Rose Dawson." She peeked around furtively, like a spy, trembling from held in laughter. "Hello," she said regally to the air. "I am Mrs. Rose Dawson, daughter of Ruth the society empress. Pleased to make your acquaintance." What my mother's conceited friends would think of that! Rose was incredibly amused. She fell silent as an older gentlemen walked by, nodded politely to him, and then turned back to the railing, resuming her game while she waited patiently for the man she loved. *** What on earth is she doing? Jack stared at Rose further down the deck, unable to keep the grin off his face. She appeared to be talking to someone, but . . . there was no one there. Once in awhile she waved her hands around a bit, like she was proving a point, but Jack didn't see a soul. Finally it dawned on him that she was talking to herself, which he found incredibly funny. Wondering what she was saying, he slipped quietly along the deck, still wearing his "borrowed" coat, and came slowly up behind her, straining his ears. "Mrs. Rose Dawson," she was murmuring to herself. "The beautiful, talented, brilliant Broadway actress. No...dancer. No...actress and dancer." Jack couldn't contain himself any longer. "Would that be like a dancetress?" he suggested with a straight face. Rose jumped a mile, clapping a hand to her mouth and whirling around. Her face went bright red when she saw him. "Jack," she gasped. "How...how long have you been here?" Jack was laughing too hard to answer. "So...beautiful and talented and brilliant, huh Mrs. Dawson? Boy did I hit the jackpot." Rose looked mortified. "Well you - you eavesdropped on me!" she finally accused, her face even redder than before, if that was possible. That set him off again. "It's a public deck," he managed. "I was just taking a little stroll when I saw you were deep in conversation with the railing here." Rose glared at him, trying to cover her humiliation. "Well, now you can have a little conversation with the rail," she snapped. "Because I am leaving." She turned and started to stomp away. Jack lunged after her, grabbing her arm. "Oh no you don't," he said. "Let me go," Rose said unconvincingly, moving closer to him. "I don't wish to speak with you right now." "Fine," he said. "I didn't plan on talking." He leaned forward, his lips brushing hers. He felt all her anger melt away as she closed the short distance between them. Then the rest of the world receded, and all the doubts he'd had only minutes before disappeared, as though they'd never been there at all. *** His fingers slid along the mattress until they found what he was looking for. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled the leather book out from under the pillow and sat down on the edge of the bed, glancing once at the door to make sure it was shut. He opened the book, rifled through until he found what he was looking for. The most recent entry, dated 04/15/12. Good lord. She must have written this last night. He skimmed the entry, not a shred of guilt tugging at his conscience. His eyes grew narrower as he read of the escapades his dear, sweet, innocent fiancé had involved herself in since they'd come aboard...she and that worthless bastard, Dawson. He'd wanted to nail him the night before, but the minutes ticked by and the plan he and Lovejoy had so carefully put together fell apart. Now, as he continued reading the innermost secrets of the woman he had thought he knew, he only wanted to get rid of Dawson more. And in a far worse way. . . . it was as if we existed in our own world, the two of us, in which we wanted and needed nothing more than each other . . . . . . the way his hands felt on me, indescribable, I cannot . . . put into words, those hands, artists hands, roughened by work but so tender and so gentle and the way he touched me, so beautiful . . . . . . I can't express the way I feel about Jack, I love him, but so much more, words don't do justice . . . he loves me too, he said, and I wanted to cry and laugh and demand where he'd been all my life . . . I need him, so much . . . . . . suddenly my future is bright; no ring, no engagement, no wedding, no Cal. He struck me last night, it didn't hurt very much, not when I know that tomorrow Jack will touch that very spot on my face. Cal is less of a man than I had previously thought. He is no gentleman. No true gentleman would strike a woman. Cal is a bastard, a fool, and I can't wait until he is out of my life . . . . . . I can't wait until this ship docks in New York . . . I can leave all this behind me forever, and a future with Jack is the most beautiful thing I can ever imagine . . . Cal slammed the book shut, his face darkening. He did not want to read any more. His fiancé certainly was quite a writer. Luckily for him, she was not a very careful one. He'd seen her scribbling in this damn thing before, and it wasn't hard to guess where she kept it. He slid the book back where he'd found it and smoothed the blankets again. Then he walked to the door, through the sitting room, and left the suite. Where was that idiot Lovejoy? It was time to quelch this problem before it got out of hand. |
