Ch. 4: A Friend in Need
Rose leaned against the rail of the aft well-deck, the afternoon sun illuminating her pale yellow dress and crimson hair. She wore no hat, which was quite unusual for a first-class woman, but she appeared radiant in the eyes of Thomas Andrews.
Andrews had come from the restaurant galley where the cooks were complaining about a faulty hot press and overheating in their quarters. He instructed them to cease using the press and that he'd get his engineers to fix the heating problem as soon as possible. After that fiasco, he quickly made his way to the deck to escape the sweltering temperature of the galley. The cool ocean breeze was a refreshing transition, but he didn't expect to find Rose up there. He considered approaching her, perhaps to say hello or even initiate a simple conversation. Where was the harm in that? Of course, the thought of doing so was easier than the action itself.
He sighed and tilted the brim of his hat down and pulled out his notebook. He sat down on a deck chair and jotted a few lines about the hot press, but couldn't keep his mind on machinery. He looked back to Rose. She was a fair distance away, but he could easily make out the profile of her face. From his jacket pocket, he took out a sketching pencil and on a blank page began to outline the curve of her chin and cheekbones, and the curling trestles of her hair. It was a perfect moment.
"Tom! I've been looking for you everywhere!" a voice called. Andrews fumbled with his notebook and quickly shut it. Ismay strode towards him.
"Bruce, what can I do for you?" Andrews asked, pocketing his notebook. Of all the places Ismay had to be at that moment, why here?
Ismay took a deep breath of salty air and proceeded. "Well, Tom, it's the second day in, and I'd like to know your thoughts on how the crossing's going so far."
Andrews sighed. He disliked being honest with Ismay and rarely had anything positive to say. He also knew that the only news Ismay liked hearing about the ship was good news.
"Not as well as I'd hoped, Bruce. There have been a few problems."
Ismay said nothing, but looked at him expectantly with his eyebrows raised.
Andrews sighed and continued. "I met with Engineer Bell, and from what he's told me, I have to say that I'm disappointed in the water pressure in the upper decks."
Ismay looked at the shipbuilder as though he were speaking a foreign language.
Andrews continued. "And the kitchen staff is complaining that their quarters are overheated."
"Tom, don't you have anything good to tell me?"
Andrews shrugged. "We're…making fine time, if that's any consolation."
Ismay paused. "Hmm, that's very curious. I'm told the ship is only making twenty-two knots," he said, leaning closer to Andrews. "Does that satisfy you?"
"Well, yes it does, Bruce," Andrews said. "Twenty-two knots is quite sufficient for this ship—it's faster than any other White Star vessel, actually."
Ismay frowned. "But she was build for speed. Let's at least look at the essentials. The sea is calm and the weather is fair," he said gesturing to the cloudless sky. "Tom, you worked on the high-speed Cunard ships, so why aren't we going faster?"
"Bruce, Cunard may get its passengers there a little faster, but this is White Star, and we give them a far better ride. Might I remind you that when your father ran the line he focused on safety and comfort before speed."
"Well, Tom, I am not my father. These days people want speed above everything else!"
Andrews's efforts to dissuade Ismay were growing fruitless. "Bruce, Titanic is brand new. Let the passengers at least enjoy her before we trying anything rash. We'll get to New York as soon as we can, and if it takes a day longer, then so be it."
But Ismay wouldn't back down. "Tom, Titanic must be known as the 'Six Day Ship.' Hell, if the bloody Krauts can get the Kaiser around the world in barely a day—on a tugboat no less—then so can we."
"I'm sure that we'll do everything that we can. I'll have a talk with the Captain," Andrews said, humoring his friend.
Ismay smiled. "Now that's what I like to hear. Just think of the headlines when we reach New York ahead of schedule. You won't regret it," he said and tipped his hat to the shipbuilder and he strode off. "Good-day, Tom."
As Ismay left, Andrews weighed the option of increasing Titanic's speed. It was not his decision to make—nor Ismay's for that matter. Headlines would be wonderful, but a hasty push like this during ice season did not seem logical. He sighed and turned his attention back to Rose. She was gone.
He ambled around the boat deck for what seemed an hour. He searched for anything that might need correcting while he continually denied the fact that he was really looking for Rose.
What are you doing? He finally asked himself. You're in love—or infatuated no less-with a woman intended for a millionaire. There is no place in her heart for you. You fool, you have no chance.
He continued berating himself as he passed through the first-class entrance down to the promenade when a voice stopped him.
"Mr. Andrews?"
He turned. "Oh, Rose. Hello, er…good afternoon," he said, adjusting his hat mechanically. "I…trust you're well?"
"Yes," she said, but paused as though she were searching for the right words to say. "Mr. Andrews…I've been meaning to thank you."
"For what?"
"You've shown my family the utmost kindness, whether or not you were obliged to do so," she began, her blue eyes meeting his. "If there is anything we can do for you in return, please, we're indebted to you."
"Oh, think nothing of it," he said with a smile. "Rose, you're on this ship to enjoy yourself—not to worry about my needs. You should know that it is my top priority to see that everyone else is taken care of."
She looked away. "Well…I thank you anyhow, Mr. Andrews." And with a polite nod and a half-hearted smile, she turned to leave.
Andrews stood alone on the deck, wishing he'd said something else. Rose was already making her way quickly down the promenade.
"Rose, wait a moment," he said, catching up to her.
"Yes?" She looked at him hopefully.
"Will you…walk with me for a moment? I'd like to know your thoughts on something."
"Certainly," she replied, her face brightening.
He led her in silence through the first-class entrance.
"I…appreciate your help earlier and your thoughts on the hat hooks—as trivial as you might think they are, your ideas mean a great deal to me."
"Well, I'm glad to have been of some assistance," she said.
"Just through here," he said leading her through the lounge and into an eloquent room adorned with pale Georgian style decorations and furniture.
"The Reading Room?" she asked.
Andrews nodded. "I'd simply like to know what you think of it. I trust you've been in here during your spare time."
She paused. "No actually," she said hesitating. "It is not my intention to offend, Mr. Andrews, but as beautiful as this room is, I personally would never intend to use it. I have no one to write letters to, nor do I care to read when there is so much else to do on this ship. Besides…it doesn't seem like anyone else wants to either."
She was right. The room was deserted. He had a feeling that the whole room wasn't going to be as popular as he expected, but to hear Rose's opinion certainly helped.
She reached for a book on the browsing shelf. "The Toils of Archimedes?" she said making a face while examining its cover and thin yellow pages. "What 12th century library did you pull this out of?"
He reached for the book, but she pulled it away.
"Careful, it might disintegrate," she said with a playful smile.
Andrews suppressed his laughter. "Just for the record, I take no credit in choosing the books here. You can always talk to The Times of London if you dislike their selections."
Rose grinned and placed it back on the shelf and drifted over to the room's spacious bay window. "A lovely view," she said.
Andrews joined her. "Now, antique books aside, what other changes might you like to see?"
She scanned the room and shrugged.
"Too much space?" he suggested.
"I think so," she said. "It seems silly to have such a large room that nobody uses. Have you considered reducing its size or perhaps merging it with the lounge?"
"Actually, I'm toying with the idea of eliminating it altogether," he said. "What do you think?"
Her eyes roved around the room. "I think that's a fine idea. If you ask me, this room appears to be just another lounge. You already have that one," she said gesturing to the First-Class lounge, "which everyone seems to prefer, so why have another?"
Andrews was growing fond of her way of thinking. "I'm curious," he began. "If you were a designer, what would you put in its place?"
She paused, looking at him with surprise and began to absorb her surroundings. "An art room. An area devoted to nothing but painting and creating art. Just think how wonderful that would be. All different-"
She caught herself and paused.
"I suppose that sounds ridiculous," she said with a chuckle. "Personally that is what I would love, but realistically speaking, what first-class passenger would want to dirty themselves up with oils and watercolors? I'm sure you'd most likely do better with a few more staterooms."
Andrews smiled and made a few notes in his book. "I'll propose the idea to my colleagues. Perhaps when we take the ship in for its seasonal renovation, we'll work on converting it somehow."
He closed his notebook and slipped it back into his coat.
"Thank you, Rose," he said. "Receiving passenger input is certainly helpful to me-and the rest of my designers, of course."
"It's my pleasure," she said.
They passed through the lounge when a young steward stopped them.
"Mr. Andrews, sir. Begging your pardon, but I noticed something wrong with one of the starboard side lifeboats."
"Anything serious?" Andrews asked.
"I'm not entirely sure," said the steward. "I noticed something hanging off that most likely should be attached."
"Did you notify an officer?"
The steward paused. "Well…no, but…
"But?"
"Everyone tells me to find you in case something's wrong."
Andrews began to wonder if anyone at all was trained in the workings of the ship.
"You lead the way," he said to the steward. He looked back at Rose. "You're welcome to come along if you like."
And with that, she followed him up to the boat deck.
…..
A thorough inspection by Andrews revealed that a tie had come loose on the canvas covering a life boat. Andrews fixed it promptly and routinely made a note of the problem in his book.
"Well, I suppose that's all," he said to Rose. With hesitation he added, "May I walk you back to your room?"
"Actually, I was going to stay out on the deck for a little while. It's such a fine afternoon."
She paused momentarily.
"Would you like to join me? I could use a friend to talk to. Well, that is, if you're not too busy. I'm sure you have a lot of work to do."
Andrews shook his head and smiled. "I have all the time in the world."
…
The splash of the waves wasn't enough to break the silence between them. What was the matter? He talked to her with ease in the reading room, so why was it such a hassle now? Andrews wanted to say so much, but could not summon the courage to do so. This didn't seem like his usual vigorous self. Rose also seemed to be rather taciturn—and she was the one who wanted someone to talk to.
"Have you…used your Turkish bath ticket yet?" Andrews finally spoke.
"No, but my mother did," Rose said and paused. "She hated it."
Andrews laughed. "Why did I have the feeling she would?"
He noticed a faint smile forming on Rose's lips.
"Nothing can ever please Mother," she said. "She's always has to be so…particular."
Silence again. He paused, searching for another piece of trifling small talk.
"Any more troubles with your sink?" he asked hastily.
"Oh, no. It's working just fine," she said.
Andrews noticed the expression on her face growing slightly troubled.
"I'm sorry my mother made such a scene when you were there," she said. "I told her not to worry about it in the first place, but what does she go and do? Runs and tries to find help as though someone were dying." She let out an exasperated sigh. "I could have done the work myself."
"Perhaps I should have just left you to it then?"
"Oh no," she said turning to him, her expression rueful. "I didn't mean—well, I—I'm glad you helped. Honestly, I don't know what I would have done had you not been there; lost my mind, perhaps."
She paused.
"Mr. Andrews, you bring about a sense of normality that I haven't been accustomed to in so long. It's not every day I meet truly generous people, you know. I don't find many in my mother's company."
He could see the unhappiness in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. From what Andrews observed in Rose, she was one of the most bright and independent women he'd met, although he couldn't help but sense a trapped and disheartened soul within.
"Rose, this may not be in my place, but…" he paused, wondering if he should inquire any further. He wanted to at least be a person she could confide in. "It seems to me that your mother isn't the only thing troubling you."
An exaggerated smile filled her face. "Oh, no. I'm fine. Just fine," she said as though she rehearsed the answer in case of a moment like this. Andrews didn't buy into it. They stopped at the end of the deck and looked out towards the ship's bow.
"Rose," he said gently, "You don't have to mask the truth for my sake. Trust me-anything you say I'm willing to listen to. I would never tell another soul."
She seemed to loosen at his reassurance, but remained in contemplation.
"Mr. Andrews, I don't mean to sound selfish, and I'm sure the last thing you want to hear is how difficult life has been for me," she said with a sigh. "I just feel so trapped. Everyone is always telling me what dreams I should and shouldn't have—my mother is especially guilty of that—and they expect me to be this delicate little flower, but I'm not. I'm strong and made for work—not something lifeless and decorative."
It was though a door had opened. Her manner began to change, and her voice rose.
"I just want to get away. Abandon everything about this life to the wind."
Andrews regarded her with sympathy. He knew his upbringing wasn't as dreadful as hers appeared to be, but he tried to reassure her otherwise. "Rose, you seem to have people who care for you—despite what shortcomings they might have. And you have everything you could want-"
"You shouldn't be so presumptuous, Mr. Andrews. Forgive me, but I honestly couldn't give a damn about any of it. Having everything doesn't mean I want everything. Even Titanic isn't big enough to escape from them. I feel like I'm in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up."
Andrews glanced at her. "Not even your friend Mr. Hockley? He seems like a nice fellow."
She let out a cynical laugh. "He's the 'them' I was talking about."
"What do you mean?"
"Cal is my intended," she said dully. "He was…wonderful when we first met. So charming and thoughtful —always there to open a door or take my hand. But now. Now I feel so trivial in his presence." She stared ahead impassively. "I'm sorry. I won't bore you with that. Why don't we talk about something else?"
The truth was that it didn't bore Andrews one bit. He was curious about Cal's influence over her and wanted to know more, but decided to let it go unsaid.
"You seem to be rather fond of art," he said.
Her expression brightened. "Oh, I adore it. You see, one doesn't have to be an artist to appreciate fine art. Imagery should evoke different feelings in everyone."
The sun was already low in the sky, casting its golden beams across the water. Andrews remained captivated by Rose. They walked down to A-deck and continued to converse as they strolled down the promenade.
"Can I tell you something?" Rose asked.
Andrews nodded.
"When I was young I used to draw pictures for my father. After seeing the exhibitions recently in Paris I felt that young artist inside of me wanting to break free. But I haven't drawn in so long."
"It's never too late to start."
"Yes, but can you see me with the company I keep—my hands dirtied with pencil lead? They would go mad."
"That would be quite the sight," Andrews remarked.
Rose turned to him. "Just think how Bohemian it would be to be an artist living in a garret or on the streets of Paris…destitute and starving," she said with a laugh.
"With no hot water or caviar," said Andrews.
"I happen to hate caviar," Rose said. "Disgusting little fish eggs-"
A steward suddenly stepped in front of her, offering her a tray. "Miss, would you like some tea or bullion?"
"No!" she said adamantly.
Andrews grinned broadly and stifled a surprised laugh. She was a pistol.
"There's something in me, Mr. Andrews. I don't know what it is, whether I should be an artist a sculptor, a dancer like Isadora Duncan! Or…a moving picture actress!" Her eyes widened as she spotted a man filming on the deck. She ran in front of the camera and struck a dramatic pose. A few other first-class passengers shot her stern looks, and she straightened up quickly. "I apologize, Mr. Andrews. It's not my intention to embarrass you."
He shook his head and grinned. "Not to worry, Rose. This ship could use some life."
…
They passed through the doors of the B-deck entrance and made their way down the corridor to Rose's suite.
"Thank you for talking with me," she said. "It helps to have someone who is willing to listen. Really, it does."
"Any time, Rose," he said tipping his hat. "I'm always around. Good day to you."
She smiled and he watched her go, the unfamiliar feeling of longing taking hold over his heart once more.