Ch. 7: Feeling the Pull
This was not the way he wished to spend his afternoon—running around each deck of the ship alerting the staff of Cal's unusual request.
"Does he want a special dish prepared?" they would ask. Or, "Does he want a photograph taken?"
"I don't know," Andrews would reply. "I would suppose not. I'm sure it will be over and done within minutes. It's a proposal, not a wedding."
Andrews walked out onto the promenade and took a deep breath of sea air. He leaned against a rail and looked out to the horizon. He never imagined that he would be in a situation like this. It was ridiculous; something that would only appear in books. And it was all because he happened to set his eyes upon Rose the first day of sailing.
Why did it bother him so? He couldn't bring himself to admit anything to Rose. He was too afraid. A coward. Indeed, it was true. So often he wished he wasn't as painfully reticent as he felt. If only he were able to freely assert himself with ease, almost like the way Ismay did.
But she was out of his reach. He forced himself to face that fact. This wasn't going to be like a fairytale. He wasn't going to rescue the princess from the clutches of the evil villain, and she was never going to fall in love with him.
Never.
He repeated the word in his head until it hurt. Forcing himself not to love her seemed to be the only sensible thing to do, and the only way he could quietly turn away in defeat.
As he walked towards the First Class entrance, he saw two familiar figures emerge from the doors: Ruth and Rose. What perfect timing, he thought, but he could hardly bring himself to turn away as he reveled in the sight of the young woman. She wore a pair of delicate beige gloves with a gold-trimmed shawl draped around her beautiful violet dress. Andrews felt like he was melting, but he shook himself out of his trance realizing that Cal was probably in tow. If Cal saw him so much as look at Rose, he didn't know what dreadful punishment would be in store. There was no doubt in the shipbuilder's mind that Cal carried the notebook close to him, ready to reveal all his secrets to Rose. It was a fearful thought, however implausible it sounded.
He quickly turned his back to them and tried to find an escape. The door to the lounge pantry was closest. He twisted the handle. Damn! Locked.
Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw them coming closer.
"Mr. Andrews, is that you?" he heard someone call. The voice was Ruth's, and one he couldn't ignore.
He turned around, ready to face the firing squad. "Erm…good afternoon," he said.
"My dear Mr. Andrews," Ruth continued. "I was hoping to speak to you. It's about the hinges on—"
Andrews cleared his throat abruptly. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now."
"Why ever not?"
"Because…I am needed on the bridge. Perhaps another time," he said in an unusually hasty tone. "Please excuse me."
He rushed past them as quick as he could and headed in the direction of the bridge. He could feel their eyes upon him as he strode away. He hoped that his brusque manner hadn't offended them too severely, but he couldn't face Rose. Not now. Not when it felt like everything in his notebook, every confession, thought and perception of Rose was written all over his face.
He cut through the bridge to the other side of the ship and took a seat on a nearby bench. His head was pounding. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to alleviate his strained senses. At least Ismay wasn't hounding him. That he was at least grateful for.
"'So lonely 'twas that God himself scarce seemed there to be,'" came a voice.
Speak of the devil. "Hello, Bruce," Andrews said, weary of the sight of the man. He tried to mask his fatigue with a half-hearted smile.
Ismay's grin faded, undoubtedly at the sight of the shipbuilder's pallid complexion. "Andrews, what's the matter with you?" he asked. "Am I to presume you're suffering from a broken heart?"
"What?"
"Well, you seem to convey all the usual symptoms: melancholy, withdrawn, hardly speaking to friends," he said.
Andrews didn't how to respond to this. How could Ismay of all people know? After a moment Ismay smirked and patted Andrews' shoulder. "Only joking, Tom. Don't tell me you've lost your sense of humor now, have you?"
Andrews heaved a sigh and shook his head, relieved Ismay wasn't privy to his situation.
"Tom," he began, "if you don't mind me telling you, you do look rather poorly. Is anything wrong?"
When Andrews did not respond, Ismay exhaled and faced him squarely. "I'm only concerned. Smith told me you missed a meeting with him. I said that didn't seem like you at all." He paused, trying to examine Andrews' face more closely after he looked away from him. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine, really. I've…" Andrews stopped, unsure of whether to tell Ismay, who only looked at him expectantly. "I've…lost my notebook. I'm sorry Bruce, but it's been a maddening circumstance for me at the moment. Everything I had written down about improving the ship was in there." And so was everything about Rose, he thought.
Ismay raised a brow. "So that's what this is all about? Shame," he said. "You and that book were inseparable. I do hope you find it soon. We can't have you moping around the ship in this dismal state for the entire voyage."
Andrews managed a small smile. "Thank you, Bruce. I won't let it get to me."
"That's the spirit," he said. "Oh, before I forget, I have a piece of exciting news. Smith tells me at the rate we're going, we're likely to reach New York by Tuesday night." He grinned broadly. "Didn't I tell you! Just think of the headlines, Tom. Think of what it will mean for White Star, for me, for you."
Andrews' expression remained unchanged. He didn't care for headlines. All he cared about was the state of the ship and its passengers—and one passenger in particular. Ismay smiled merrily and tipped his hat as he turned to leave. "See you at dinner."
If Ismay wants his press spectacle, then let him have it, Andrews thought. He had neither the energy nor the patience to persuade him otherwise. He didn't even have the heart to tell Ismay that he never received an invitation to dinner that evening. Besides, he wasn't expecting one. Why would a steel tycoon and his party want to dine with a man unfittingly besotted with his soon-to-be fiancée? He opened his watch. It was nearly four o'clock.
He ventured back to his room and found his steward, Henry, busy tidying up the clutter Andrews created during his search for his notebook.
"Have you found it yet, sir?" the young man asked.
Andrews shook his head. He felt drained as he slumped back in his desk chair. He was beginning to feel less and less like himself; disinterested in searching for flaws in the ship, unable to concentrate on any work. Rose had invaded his thoughts and wouldn't leave, no matter how much he tried to push her out. But the more he thought of her the more he wanted her. He wanted her in his arms, to touch her crimson hair, to feel her skin on the palm of his hand. But more than that, he wanted to help her. He could make it happen by simply walking right up to her, telling her forthright how much he loved her. His mind began to swim with impossible scenarios of Rose and himself, as he whisked her away from Cal and her family, away to Ireland where he could grant her the freedom she so desperately wanted.
But then reality dawned and erased every impractical thought away. How could he, an inhibited shipbuilder help someone so independent yet so vulnerable? And besides, what good was imagining? Such folly only made him feel powerless, and any effort to help her would be insignificant. He hated himself for it.
He pulled out a piece of stationary. Surely composing a missive to his father would take his mind off the strenuous matters at hand. He managed to write only a few sentences. He tucked the letter away and decided he would send it via telegraph later.
Replacing his notebook seemed to be the only sensible thing to do at this point, at least, until he got the original one back. From the drawer of his desk, he pulled out one of the extra notebooks he found and decided to use it as a replacement for the last. He readied his pencil, but stopped and thumbed through the blank pages. I haven't drawn in so long, he recalled Rose saying. He was suddenly struck with a bold idea. Perhaps if he was unable to help her, Andrews felt he could at least grant her a small means for happiness by giving her a blank notebook for drawing.
He gathered four extra pencils and tied them together. He opened the book to the first page and scribbled a note on the first page: To The Artist, Draw your own dreams. Your friend, The Shipbuilder.
He shut the book and took out a large piece of drawing parchment, laying it on the desk in front of him. He used it to wrap up the book and pencils, and tied the make-shift package together with a piece of twine. For a moment he held it in his hands. What if Rose didn't want it? Did he really know what was he doing? What did he have to lose?
"Henry," he called to his steward. "Will you deliver this to room B-56, please. And make sure it goes only to Miss Rose DeWitt Bukater."
The young man nodded and disappeared down the hall with the small package.
Andrews unfurled a roll of ship blueprints and sat at his desk. He didn't know what would happen. A sudden wave of anxiety began to build. What if Cal intercepted the package? The idea seemed so perfect a moment ago, but now it only worried him. He could only hope Rose would receive the package without any trouble.
….
The evening arrived sooner than he expected. Andrews prepared the staff for Cal's surprise proposal. As he made his way to the floor above the Grand Staircase, he felt a wave of sickness rise in his stomach. He knew going through with Cal's plan made him feel like he was betraying Rose.
He checked his pocket watch. 7:55. He peered out the window of the upper landing to the floor below. Stewards were busy ushering people out in a quiet fashion, undoubtedly letting them know what was about to happen.
For a moment he thought he could sacrifice his notebook, allow Cal's plan fail by running in and calling a halt to it all. What did it matter anyhow? He could easily risk that dreadful embarrassment of having Rose know how he secretly felt about her. It would hurt no more than a sting from the bees he kept back home. But then would he feel the lingering pain afterwards? No. He could not bring himself to do it. Either way, Rose would end up marrying Cal.
Andrews turned his attention back to the foot of the Grand Staircase. The floor was empty. He held his breath and felt his heart hammer in his chest as he waited for the couple to appear. He heard a door open below and saw Cal and Rose appear. Andrews hid himself behind a door frame and looked down, watching Cal escort Rose to the base of the stairs. He saw him mouth a few unheard words to her. Rose looked around, undoubtedly wondering where everyone was. There seemed to be a brief pause where neither spoke. Finally, Cal took Rose's hands in his and knelt on one knee. Andrews could hardly bring himself to watch. He saw Rose inhale sharply, a blank expression on her face, like she was facing her own execution. He saw her nod and could read the words "yes" from her lips. Cal slipped the ring onto her finger and kissed her hand. Andrews knew it was like a deathtrap for her.
"Alright, open the doors. Let them through," Andrews said, his mouth dry. One of the porters gestured to another to do the same. A flood of ladies and gentlemen passed through the doors, their voices in a buzz of curiosity. A group of familiar faces including Ruth, Molly Brown, and the Astors gathered around the two congratulating them.
Andrews descended the staircase, making sure to avoid Rose at all costs. Through the clamor, he approached Cal without saying a word, his eyes livid and hurt.
Cal reached in his jacket pocket with a smile and presented the notebook to the agitated shipbuilder. He reached for it, but Cal pulled it away and moved in close to Andrews. "Keep to your ship," he whispered icily into his ear. "My fiancée is no longer your concern."
Cal deposited the book into Andrews' hand and returned to his party leaving the shipbuilder to return to his cabin weak and wounded.