Chapter 37
"So. Who's on your list?" Katherine asks, stretched out Jack's ancient sofa, notebook and pencil in hand.
"Jus' the boys, I guess." Jack shrugs.
Sometimes, when he gets like this, it's hard to break into his world. Katherine wonders what it's like, sometimes, inside his head, the way that he sees everything in planes of colour and light and shape. He's working on a commission of the Hudson River at sunset for some big banking firm to hang in their offices – recommended for the job by Bill, after he'd seen Jack's work hanging in the Pulitzer's dining room. Katherine had been unsure about Jack taking it on, honestly, but they're paying him a hundred dollars for it, and he's promised that just as soon as they've got the house sorted he'll cut back. The mortgage got approved yesterday; there's only the actual transaction to go through now, so it won't be long. Plus, he's cut back his overtime hours at work, at least, after much nagging by herself and Medda, so she can't really complain.
She thinks about the tickets that are heavy in the pocket of her skirt and swallows down her excited reveal. They're a treat for when the house is bought, after all, because goodness knows Jack won't spend any money on himself at the moment. Instead, she returns to the paper before her.
"Names, Jack, names." She says, bouncing her pencil against the moleskine cover of the notebook.
Jack lays his paintbrush down and wanders over to her, nudging her knee to force her to make room for him on the sofa. "Uh, Davey, obviously-"
"And the rest of the Jacobs?" She tucks her knees up, obliging, and Jack slumps down beside her.
"Yeah, so, Esther, Sarah, Les, Mayer. An' then the newsies. So." Jack clears his throat, stretching out his fingers to count off the newsies. "Crutchie, Racer, Elmer, Mush, Albert, Specs, Henry, Finch, Sniper, Tommy Boy, Jo Jo, Buttons, Romeo, Splasher, Mike, Ike, Smalls. None o' the little ones, they's too young an' I wants the lads to enjoy themselves, not be babysittin', y'know?"
"Of course." Katherine nods, thanking her lucky stars for that shorthand course she'd taken two summers ago. "That's… twenty-two. And then Medda, obviously. I've got Edith, Ralph, Bill, and Daisy."
"What 'bout your other friends? Elizabeth an'… is it Rose?"
Katherine scrunches her nose. "I suppose I ought to invite them."
"Don' get too excited now." Jack grins.
"It's lucky we're only going for a meal, rather than a proper reception. Can you imagine if one of the newsies asked one of them to dance?"
Jack laughs at that, but privately Katherine is glad that they've chosen this. They've agreed on it, a meal rather than renting a hotel ballroom. It's not really like they even have enough people attending to warrant a ballroom, honestly. Katherine had thought, when they'd walked into Luigi's and asked to book themselves in for a quiet meal after the service, that she'd be disappointed. As a little girl, when she imagined weddings, she'd thought about ballrooms and buffet spreads, not less than forty people huddled around a few tables in a tiny Italian restaurant. The funny thing is, she's not. It feels right, somehow, apt. What's the use in wasting money on the wedding? It's the marriage that's important, not the wedding.
She was more disappointed when it came to the honeymoon, she'll admit. But that truly is a waste of money, as much as she wants to take Jack to Santa Fe, or, if she'd had the actual dowry she was supposed to have, take him to Europe and visit all the French and Italian art galleries she remembers from teenaged trips abroad with her mother and governesses.
At night, before she goes to sleep, she sometimes lies in bed and imagines what Jack's face would look like if she took him to the Louvre. The way that his eyes would widen, glint, the way that he'd drag her around, pointing at brushstrokes, asking questions in a voice he could barely keep hushed from excitement.
That, however, is out of the question for the time being. They've barely even both managed to get the week after the wedding off work, never mind scrape together enough for a cross-country trip. No, their honeymoon, if you can call it that, will be spent in the little house they've renovated together, just the two of them.
Jack feels guilty about it, she knows, scratching at the back of his neck and apologising every time the honeymoon is so much as mentioned. So, she stays quiet. They have the rest of their lives together, after all, to visit Santa Fe or to wander around art galleries. And really, it doesn't matter where they are, so long as they're together.
"Who'd have thought you'd have more family on your side of the church than me, huh?" Katherine jokes, trying to keep her voice light. By the look Jack gives her, she knows that he sees right through it. Maybe she'd wanted him to. She isn't quite sure.
"Let's not do that." Jack frowns, taking hold of her left foot with gentle, paint-stained fingers and tugging it into his lap. "The split church thing."
"What do you mean?" Katherine asks, determinedly ignoring the feather-light patterns Jack is tracing onto her ankle through the silk of her stocking and peering over the top of her notebook at him. She isn't going to lose her head over him touching her ankle, of all things.
"Let people sit where they likes. They's all family." He shrugs, then chuckles to himself. "The newsies like you better'n me half the time anyway."
Katherine laughs too. It's reached a point now where, when they walk into the lodgehouse, they get equally accosted by newsies. The younger ones seem to gravitate towards Katherine – perhaps because Jack, with his height and strength and charisma, is too intimidating. Honestly, if anybody feels intimidated, it's Katherine. She likes children, but they can be difficult to handle. Whatever kind of maternal feeling these little lost boys are seeking, she doesn't think it's within her power to provide, but she'll try, still. Because Jack loves them. And that means that she loves them too.
It's not quite enough, though, to fully dismiss her melancholy feelings. The church will feel empty without her parents, her other siblings. Young Joseph and Herbert are too much under her Father's thumb to defy him, she knows, and Constance is in France still. Even just imagining it without their ranks filling up the pew, without her Father's arm hooked through hers as they walk down the aisle, it feels wrong. It feels wrong in the same way that schools empty of children feel wrong, haunted by ought-to-bes.
"I really wish my parents were going to be there."
Jack's eyes flick up to meet hers, dark and full of fire. "Y'know, I's still happy to march over to the World an'-"
"It's not worth it." She sighs. If she lets him finish that sentence, she just might agree to it. "I want them to be there because they care about me, not because you care about me enough to threaten them."
And it's true. Relationships go two ways, so it's not worth it. With her and Jack, there's give and take – the same with the newsies, with Medda, with the Jacobs. But her Father? Her family? They just take and take and take, until she's drained dry, shrivelled up on the floor. She doesn't have any more of herself to give. And to be perfectly honest, she doesn't want to.
Still, she can't help but hope that there's somebody there behind the father that she sees now, somebody that she recognises behind the mask. Katherine doesn't want perfect, goodness knows none of the Pulitzers have ever been that. But… better. Better could be good. Better was what he used to be when Lucy, his favourite – and she'd always known that much, Lucy always had been, always will be, had been around. He'd had time, then, if only a little, to consider the possibility that he might not be right all the time. He's out of time, now.
Katherine swallows. It's loud, in the silence of the flat, Jack's fingers noiseless as they trace patterns on her skin through her stockings, goosebumps rising along her arms at the feeling. He looks over, studies her, the way she sets her jaw as she swallows, the graceful curve of her neck. Jack doesn't know how he got so lucky.
"Reverend Bates told me on Sunday that he will still officiate the wedding, but it's not going to be put into the parish newsletter or announced at service." Katherine tells him, her voice tight. It damn near breaks Jack's heart. "Apparently, my father made a rather large donation to make sure of that."
It's his turn to swallow, her turn to try to ignore the way that his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. His fingers still, tighten just a fraction around her ankle, not enough to hurt, but enough to stop her from moving, from leaving, tendons and muscles in his forearms tensing. "Is you-"
"Jack Kelly," Katherine levels a look at him, "if you ask me one more time whether I'm sure about marrying you, I swear I won't kiss you for a week."
Jack raises his hands in mock surrender, but the tension is gone from his arms. "Shuttin' up."
And she's glad of course, but she just wants to feel his fingers brushing against her again. He looks thoughtful though, for a moment, staring at the little clock on the mantelpiece, its hands frozen permanently at five past six, the glass cracked – a remnant of two of the newsies brawling on Jack's hearth rug, no doubt. She wants to ask him, feels the curiosity burn inside her stomach, but she squashes it down. He'll tell her when he's ready. And if he doesn't, well, then it's none of her business, is it?
Katherine's pleased with her silence thirty seconds later, when Jack asks, quietly: "Can I invite the boys from work? Ernest won't come, I bets, but I'd like to ask 'em all jus' the same."
"You don't need to ask, Jack." She says, nudging him with her foot. He gets the message, returning his fingers to where they've been as she returns her pencil to the page. "So, that's Ernest, Walter, and Daniel, right?"
"Yeah."
The list finished, she flips the notebook closed and lets it drop onto the floor. Katherine sits up properly, her feet still in his lap, and shoots him a smile. "I'm really excited to marry you."
Jack grins back. "I's real excited to marry you too."
…
The tickets that are burning a hole in Katherine's pocket finally come to fruition two weeks later.
"Ace, you know I hates surprises." Jack grumbles.
He grumbles loudly, Katherine would hasten to add, as he's in his bedroom and she can hear him from his living room, where she is perched on the couch in her best skirt and blouse combination.
"You're going to love this one, I promise." She calls back, suppressing an eye roll. Jack only grunts in response, though she's ninety-nine percent sure that there is no actual irritation behind it.
"Okay." Jack emerges from his bedroom, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. "'M dressed up fancy. Now can we go?"
Katherine arches a brow. "You still need a tie, mister."
"'S a weekend, Ace." He groans, reaching in her general direction as she brushes past him to go and fetch it, his head lolling back. She easily evades his grasp, heading over to the little wardrobe in his room and grabbing hold of the dark red tie that is haphazardly slung over the clothes rail inside. "Who wears a tie on a weekend?"
"You do, now." She replies, having absolutely none of it. Honestly, sometimes it's like wrangling a toddler.
He stays still, at least, despite his protestations, while she drapes it around his neck and ties it for him. Jack is perfectly capable of tying his own necktie, she knows, but honestly she isn't sure that he wouldn't just hold it out of her reach until she agreed to let him go without it, so she isn't taking any chances. Besides, she likes doing this for him, likes taking care of him in this little way. It feels domestic, but also romantic, in a strange sort of way, standing close enough that she can feel his warm, minty breath fanning across her face and see the slight sheen where his aftershave isn't quite dry yet.
When she's done, turning his collar down over the tie and straightening him up, she glances up at him. And oh, that's a mistake. Because he's looking at her with this kind of warm fondness, and it should definitely, definitely be illegal for any man to have eyes as pretty as his. Jack ducks his head to kiss her, snaking his one arm around her waist whilst the other hand comes up to fiddle with the hairpin that's holding her hair in its updo, his fingers teasing at it, promising something, something undoubtedly delicious, should she let him ease it out and let her hair pool around her shoulders. But, they have somewhere to be.
"Come on." She breaks away. "We'll be late."
"Late for what?" He grouches, but crosses to the door anyway, holding it open for her.
"Nuh-uh." She smiles up at him. "It's a surprise."
Surprised is one word for Jack's expression as they wander up the front lawn of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, approaching the great three-arched façade.
Katherine knows that her father was unsure about this particular gallery when it opened, a few years before her birth. It's certainly not one she was ever allowed to go to as a child, but as it's become more and more popular within society circles, he has had to rethink his stance on it. Still, he's never been, she knows; by the time he had come around to the idea of this very modern gallery, rather than the more traditional ones, his sight had been too poor for him to appreciate it. Although she knows, of course, that there is a good likelihood of there being at least one person that she knows here, with it being a rather major collection opening, she is, at least, comfortable with the notion that this is a space untainted by her father's influence. He may have eyes here, as he does in every corner of the city, but he has never set foot in this particular building. They're breaking new ground, here. Her and Jack. Starting over. Starting anew.
"Wha-" Jack turns to her, after he's read the plaque beside the doors.
Katherine smiles, reaching into her pocket and producing the tickets. "The Henry Marquand collection has some newly arrived paintings. I got us tickets to celebrate buying the house."
Jack has never felt more blown away by anybody in his entire life. "Has I told you I love you today?"
"You have." Katherine smiles, lifting her chin. "I wouldn't object to hearing it again though."
"I love you." He squeezes the arm that he has wrapped around her waist, tucking her into his side.
"I love you too. Shall we go in?"
Jack nods so excitedly that Katherine is quite surprised that his head doesn't roll off his shoulders entirely. Handing the tickets to the doorman, smart in a red and gold uniform, they are waved in. Jack whistles under his breath as they step inside, his eyes darting around the beautiful entrance hall, all arches and columns and fountains. Katherine squeezes his hand, now clasped around hers, and leans into him just a little. He's as pleased as she'd hoped he would be. Jack Kelly, lost for words. Now that's something that you don't hear every day.
They wander around for almost an hour, Jack pulling her from painting to painting, his excitement refusing to wane. When they get to the Marquand collection, though, Jack is a little perplexed as to why they're being hailed as such masterpieces.
"None o' 'em look very happy." He frowns.
And, well, Katherine can't say that he's wrong, following his line of sight to a portrait of a stern woman in a frilly lace cap. She's wearing what can only be described as Puritanical garb, all black and white and buttoned up to the ears. Considering that the plaque beneath the painting announces that it was painted in Holland in 1634, the resemblance to Miss Morton is startling. Katherine indulges herself for a moment, wonders whether Miss Morton is actually a time traveller, or if she's actually just more ancient than she's before anticipated.
"It's supposed to be a record of what a person looks like, my love," she teases, squeezing his hand where his fingers are intertwined with hers, "not just be of them grinning."
"Well, yeah," Jack scrunches his nose, swiping at it with the back of his free hand, "but… these folks, they's so… still."
"Jack," she lowers her voice, as if she's telling him a secret, "I hate to break it to you, but they're not real. They're just paintings."
"Sod off!" He laughs, nudging her with his shoulder.
His laugh is too loud for the room, echoes off the high ceilings and bounces around the gallery, drawing stares from the whispering visitors. Katherine can't bring herself to care. She was one of them, once, but isn't this what art is supposed to be? The joy that she sees in Jack's face when she makes him laugh, the way that his careworn expression drops away and he looks so young, alight with life.
"I means," he tells her, somewhere between fond and exasperated, "there's no expression. 'S emotionless, like. I knows what this person looks like, but I don' know what they were like. Y'know?"
Slowly, Katherine nods. She does know, sort of. It's not something that she would have noticed on her own, she must admit. Her governess had tried so very hard with her artistic education, but though she can list off the Old Masters (alphabetically by last name or categorised by their subject matter), she's never had much of an eye for art. Honestly, the art galleries she'd been dragged around in France and Italy through her teenage years had bored her to tears. She doesn't think she'd mind so much, wandering around them with Jack, though. He helps her to see things she wouldn't have otherwise.
"See, this one." Jack says, tugging her along with him to look at a different portrait, his attention span, unfortunately, being one of golden retriever puppy. The one he takes her to, however, is not an enormous oil painting, but instead a pencil sketch in a small, unassuming glass case. "Look a' this. Beautiful, that is, see the shadin' there? Looks like she's alive."
He points, his finger hovering just above the glass, not wanting to leave a streak of dirt across it. Jack peers in, his eyes tracing every line, every little detail. The plaque underneath says that it is a preliminary sketch for an oil painting which the museum is hoping to soon purchase for the collection. Jack wonders why they'd want the painting, when they have this sketch, the light in the model's eyes shining off the page.
Katherine cuts into his reverie, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Jack turns, smiling and puzzled.
"'S that for?"
She looks up at him, feeling almost unbearably fond. "I miss your smile, sometimes, that's all."
"You's gonna be sick of it soon." Jack chuckles, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Katherine tries very hard to remember to keep breathing as his fingertips brush her skin. "You's gonna hafta look at my dopey grin every day for the rest o' your life."
"It sounds like a hardship," she deadpans, "but I'm sure I'll manage it."
Katherine's weighing up in her head whether she'll be able to sneak a completely inappropriate proper kiss from him as the other visitors wander around, perusing the collection, when she hears her name being called.
"D'ya know ruddy everyone?" Jack mutters, not unkindly, shooting a glance over her left shoulder to see who is now preparing to accost them.
"Shush, you." She giggles, turning to face whoever it is now. "Rose, Dr. Graceton."
Rose is bright-eyed as she hurries over. Rose, Katherine reflects, is one of those unfortunate persons who tries her very best to be tactful, but wears her heart completely on her sleeve. Dr. Graceton, by contrast, remains thoroughly unreadable throughout every conversation. His face is a carefully schooled picture of neutrality as his wife drags him over toward them.
"I was going to call on you tomorrow, but we're having a little dinner party on the eighteenth and you simply must attend."
"That sounds delightful." Katherine smiles. Jack is endlessly surprised by her ability to lie through her teeth.
Rose nods enthusiastically, silence falling over the group, oppressive and stifling. Katherine coughs. Finally, after an interminable silence, Rose continues, looking decidedly less enthusiastic and more like she is performing an act of enormous graciousness and generosity.
"And Mr. Kelly would be most welcome too, of course."
Jack nods, the movement tight and jerky. "Thank you."
"That's settled; we shall both be there." Katherine smiles, before excusing them both and pulling Jack away to try and regain some semblance of control over the evening.
...
Author's note: The Henry Marquand collection welcomed new paintings to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the May and June of 1900. The collection was primarily of Old Masters, featuring art by the likes of Bartholomeus Van Der Helst. That's what I call commitment to historical accuracy, folks. Also, have fluff *throws some glitter in the air*.
