Chapter twenty:

Frustration and anger hit Jack hard, he knew these feelings well enough, but they hadn't come to him in such a long time that they were almost foreign. Perhaps a cigarette would help the thing blocking him from being able to do the simple things such as draw the subjects which were most natural to him. He threw his charcoal and paper to the ground, not even caring if the wind blew it away or the spitting rain soaked into it. He placed his head in his hands for a moment and almost slapped his own cheeks in order to relieve himself of some pent up emotions. There had to be something to do which made this damned feeling relief itself just a little, right?

Digging deeper into his pocket he pulled out a rolled up cigarette and placed it between his lips before locating matches to light it with. Striking one alight, he puffed it. The feeling which followed allowed him to calm. Sitting backwards to rest against the back of the park bench, he found the rush of adrenaline surge a little and then he fingered his way through knotted, rain soaked hair. It was growing longer than he had allowed it before. It was Paris the last time it had been cut; one of the female subjects of his work had done it, in exchange of keeping the drawings and now, almost two months later, he was feeling the length was growing unruly. Upon his face he had grown three days worth of stubble and in his heart, well, something had grown there, too and it felt troubling.

Jack should have been smiling; enjoying the freedom offered to him out like the open arms of God. He had worked for two days lugging boxes down at the docks earning a decent amount and more work was promised the day after. Yet, there was a blockage within; just like it blocked his ability to draw and it also blocked his heart. He exhaled the smoke and glanced around the park through squinted eyes at all of the different scenes which lay out before him; a young family with children darting about in the rain, a young girl reading a book beneath the shelter of a canopy, a few children playing football and then an old couple sat together at the small cafe, with the love still obvious between them. Their old leathered faces still show signs of happiness. That was it right there…that was what he used to capture on paper. The real, raw emotions which people felt in everyday life.

Glancing down at the paper and the charcoal, Jack knew not to bother with an attempt. He had never been an easily affected man; yet, now, he seemed to be filled with it. New York City was still a city submerged in mourning. The Titanic tragedy had sparked an outcry of rage and an inquest was being held into the cause of the sinking. All about him, newspaper vendors continued to report on the matter. Folk spoke so openly about it on the streets. Some gossiped, some were upset but all the talk were just painful reminders of the days spent in Southampton with a woman who was meant to board the Titanic, just as he had been.

Strange twisted working of fate, huh?

Collecting his portfolio which had dampened in the rain, Jack pulled his rucksack onto his back and headed towards an unknown direction. He left the park and found himself dodging past horse drawn carts, women and children making their way about town with shopping bags in tow, gentlemen heading to a business lunch and the occasional slow driving automobile. His mind had not rested all day, and he was in some sort of constant state of agitation, knowing that he wouldn't, well, couldn't see Rose again. Feeling defenceless and also, slamming his fist into something hard to either wake himself up from the romantic dazed dream he had fallen into, or to simply vent out his pent up-whatever lingered within. It was all there, constricting his chest and pulling at his heart like nothing ever had before.

Spending days wandering around a city which he had first seen with wide, curious eyes three years ago when he had barely been more than sixteen, and now returning as a man, it felt completely different. He wasn't as enthralled by the towering buildings, the bright lights or the fast paced, modern world which seemed to be so stark in contrast to the small farming town in which he had grown up within. Confined to a world of his own, Jack could only walk the unfamiliar streets until his boots felt to be filled with knives and his feet were on fire, until a trio of ladies, with wide brimmed hats adorned with ostrich feathers and dressed in expensive woollen coats seemed to stop him dead outside the most extravagant building one had ever witnessed.

''Oh, look, there is Mr. Astor's hotel, should we leave our regards to the poor Mrs. Astor?''

''Rumour has it that she retired upstate whilst confined to the bed in her delicate condition.'' Another chimed in.

''So, it is true. The woman is a widow and soon to be a mother, how terrible.''

''Poor, John Jacob Astor, is it not his establishment? The Waldorf Astoria is beautiful beyond anything and he shall not return to enjoy the festivities of the DeWitt Bukater and Hockley wedding gala. I hear the families had grown thick as thieves.''

''Yes, rumour has it, that the poor young bride had such seasickness aboard the Titanic that she, too, was confined to her rooms. She wasn't seen since Southampton and aside from that, she has barely been seen since the sinking.''

In a hushed tone, came the response. ''Oh good lord, one hopes that she, too, isn't in confinement. I cannot imagine the scandal that would bring before a wedding. Mr. Hockley is a handsome one at that, and young Rose perhaps had not been able to resist-''

Jack managed a cough, so loud and disgusting in sound that it sent the three gossiping twits scarpering like seagulls scrapping over a piece of fish. Their vicious gossiping had made his stomach turn to a point that he felt sick. Rose had never been aboard the damned ship, he had wished to shout after them, but he knew better. Better than to cause such a scene.

Suddenly, though, Jack glanced towards revolving glass doors and into the entrance of the most beautiful space which a guy like he could ever see. His curiosity was killing him. His hands and legs had shaken out of frustration and temptation to not go inside. The Waldorf Astoria was the hotel which she had told him of. The one she would have stayed at. He could go inside, to find her room to speak with her. There would be someone guarding her, as though she was some precious artwork at a fancy gallery but in that moment, there was a rough need within him to demand. To lay eyes upon the man who she was to marry.

Jack's heart was hammering inside his chest but then, out of nowhere, he acted on adrenaline. Usually the doors were flanked by security of some kind, but in this stupid second, he didn't care one bit as he found himself walking inside the main reception, and dodging luggage carts and finely dressed ladies and gentleman; he intended to be gone after they blinked as he went, quick like a cat towards the main corridor; "Peacock Alley". The corridor and foyer were treated with pilasters and columns of Sienna marble and a colour scheme on the walls and ceilings of salmon-pink, with cream-colour and pale-green. The capitals of the columns and pilasters were gilded of solid brass or lacquered. The main corridor ran the entire length of the building from east to west. To the left of it was the Astor Dining Room, fronting on Fifth Ave. The panels of silk hangings were of rose pompadour, and a series of Charles Yardley Turner mural paintings filled arches and panels at the south end of the room. On the right of the main corridor was the Garden Court of Palms, rising three stories to a dome-like roof of amber glass above the floor. This, too, was used as a dining room. It was decorated in the Italian style, finished in grey, terracotta and Pavonazzo marble. On the 34th Street side of the corridor was the cafe, finished in English oak in the style of the German Renaissance, with Flemish decoration. To the right of this was an elevator and Jack ducked into it, surprising an operator to his whits as he did.

''Oh, where to-''

Catching a glance of Jack's attire, the operator could only blink before Jack took the lever from his hand and slammed it upwards, to go to the top floor and closed the metal gates behind him, very aware of the slight controversy his presence may have caused.

''Sir, you cannot be here.''

''Where is Hockley and his fiancee? Miss. DeWitt Bukater.''

The operator glanced at him, through a confused haze.

''I-I am afraid that I cannot allow you to-''

''Well I will find them, without you it will take longer and I shall be sure to tell them you're the reason it took so long for me to reach them.'' Jack softened, looking at the confused face before him. ''I am not an idiot; Rose is a friend, I have some sketches to deliver to her upon request.''

Upon hearing Miss. DeWitt Bukater's given name, the operator seemed to accept something of his lie. Well, it wasn't a complete fabrication.

''The Penthouse, sir. Top floor.''

''Thank you,'' Jack breathed out a sigh of relief but the complete adrenaline rush had seemed to have died down. The elevator went upwards.

''Once it is delivered, then I shall have to return you back downstairs.'' The operator informed him.

''Right,'' Jack muttered. The trail of what he would say was strong in his mind. Even the operator had not deterred him. It had made him even more determined. The obstacles which were thrown at him would only make him more desperate to see her. She was so out of reach but he would reach out to her; he knew that. She had felt so unattainable in Southampton; that gentle bred girl who hadn't so much as lifted her finger in seventeen years and yet, they had completely broken down all societal barriers.

Her behaviour, before hearing of the sinking, was not of an upper class lady, or of a woman engaged to be married. The ring on her finger had meant nothing even though he had seen through the initial pretence. Although at first he had trodden carefully, he knew he had no reason to. She had opened herself up to him and shared her thoughts and feelings. The feelings she had never told a soul. She had glimpsed into his world and now, he into hers. He wanted to take her away from that. Even now as he stood, his mind ablaze with a million thoughts. He could feel the adrenaline which had once kept him driven to the point of madness now turn to nerves. He didn't fear doing the wrong thing for he knew he had to tell her how he felt. He simply feared rejection once more. What could he possibly get out of this?

Rose certainly wouldn't run away with him, that was a stupid idiotic dream. He wanted to see her safe, that was the main thing. He wanted her to accept his help to escape the chains of the upper class. But how? That would be the question to ask himself later on, based upon her answer. Running his fingers through his hand once more, to smooth it away, he felt just how much he required to bathe.

''You gotta pen?'' Jack asked the operator, as the elevator came to a shaky stop.

''Yes.'' He pulled one from his inside pocket, offering it hesitantly to Jack, still eying him with disapproval.

Pulling a piece of paper from his portfolio, Jack took the pen and leant against a wall, scribbling shakily as the elevator doors opened and the next level awaited. Ripping off the piece which he had written on, he thrust the pen back to the operator and ran out into the beauty of the ornately lit corridor.

''I shall wait.''

Jack nodded, as he walked down the plush carpeted main hallway and raised his brow at the adorned walls of oil paintings and gold mirrors. High ceilings and chandeliers. It was like something from a great dream; a grand one. It was almost uncomfortably voyeuristic to be viewing a place as beautiful as this with such ease and walking about as though he was the man of the manor. Although it was endlessly beautiful, he found no comfort in the feel of thick Aubusson rugs beneath his feet, or bright electric lights above his head. He turned to see the operator still standing, straight and awaiting his return.

''You may be waiting a while there, my friend.'' Jack smirked as the operator failed to respond. Curving the paper nervously between his fingers, he felt to be almost a spy in a terrible Nickelodeon.

Jack would have been interested in the artwork adorning the walls if he wasn't strangely led upwards and onwards by the flare in his belly. Moving his hair from his eyes, he let his sight adjust to the darker area and he found a single landing with two double doors which one assumed led to the adjoining rooms of the soon to be new bride and groom.

Jack stood as straight as he could and remembered that he had pulled his collar off and was suddenly conscious of his open neck, but something told him to discard that and so he took a single step closer to the ornately carved oak door and knocked just once. It was silent. So silent that he could hear his own heart pounding. Running his fingers through his damp hair, he tried to neaten it, somehow. This was never going to be a time to amend one's looks or attire. He had never been a man so bothered by vanity.

A young maid came to the door immediately. Jack didn't even address her.

''I am here to see Miss. DeWitt Bukater.''

''You are?'' The girl spoke in a deep accent, possibly European. Jack watched as she frowned at him, from beneath her small white cap. ''Who are you?''

''Just give her this,'' he thrust the folded paper into her hands and she didn't open it to read. He knew that the security to see the family would be tight. Knew that after the sinking, there would be even more restrictions in place regarding visitors, but the maid glanced at him, with some sort of a knowing smile. ''I have some sketches to deliver,'' he held out his portfolio for some sort of proof.

''Yes,'' the maid nodded, as though she had no inkling of what he had just said. Instead, she opened the door ajar for him to step inside and as he did, she pointed towards a large upholstered area filled with so much ornate furniture that Jack barely took notice. ''Sitting room.'' The maid pointed. ''I get her.''

Jack nodded as the maid disappeared and he was left with his own thoughts. Own fears. His own insecurities.

''Phew,'' he glanced about, completely enthralled by just the kind of wealth the guy that she was about to marry had and this was only a hotel room. What could their homes look like? What would her life be like in these extremely beautiful rooms, housing so much colour and distractions? Money could only buy a guy so much though, Pops used to say, only so much.

Love, affection and happiness. Even the richest of people were the most lonely. The happiest of people were penniless but would have a house full of children, a loving husband or wife and enough wisdom to pass onto the generations which would come after that. Jack had been the product of loving parents without two dimes to rub together.

''Shit.'' It should have been daunting all of this wealth which surrounded him. It should have distracted him. Jack ran his fingers through his hair, moving it away from his eyes in order to gain some perspective and clarity on the events of the last minute or so. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a divan couch with a Monet resting against it, casually, as though it had very little value. Any other time, he would have been bowled over by an original Monet but in that second, he was too distracted as the fire burned beautifully beside the couch and the lighting was bright enough for him to witness Rose, just as she came through the door, painfully slowly and carefully as though she was approaching a complete stranger, but he seemed to see, in the dimness that her eyes were shining.

''Shit.'' It came out loud, and clearly.

Rose stood; so vibrant and beautiful beneath the glorious coloured palette of the fire, and Jack stopped breathing. The world stopped moving. The only thought he had was to just let her fly. To allow her to see what was beyond the walls of society. What was even beyond the ship. Beyond Southampton. Beyond just him and her. It was about caressing her hands, feeling the gentle shivers beneath her corset as his hands steadied her waist which caused everything to change. To tilt. To stop. It had been a risk; to kiss her, right there and so he didn't.

Jack didn't quite know how to move, what to do, to say or how to even breathe but his rucksack and portfolio were dropped onto the floor without so much as a care but as he moved towards her; she had come towards him. There was an inevitable pull and a shift in the circumstances.

Something had changed.