Chapter eight:
In a crowd of elaborately dressed women, Rose stood out in her red gown and the fact that she wasn't as adorned as the rest. She looked clean and winsome and appetising. Jack wanted to be alone with her, outside in the open air, his hands free to touch the paleness of her face. But he knew better than to entertain such thoughts about a respectable young woman. He watched the tense little scene involving Rose, Hockley and her mother. Although he couldn't hear their conversation, he read their postures, the subtle way Rose leaned into her chair's support. It was clear some kind of heated discussion had taken place. He imagined them together, in their stateroom as they took it in turns to slowly suppress and stifle the woman. It provoked him far more than he would have liked. Tamping down the surge of inappropriate curiosity, he dragged his attention away from them. As he anticipated the long, bland supper to come, the interminable courses, the mannered conversation, Jack sighed heavily. He had learned the social choreography of these situations, the rigid boundaries of propriety. At first, he had even regarded it as a game, learning the ways of these privileged strangers. But he had grown tired of hovering at the edge of their world. Most of them didn't want him there any more than he did. But there seemed no other place for him except at the periphery. A line of waiters clads in white moved forward to attend the guests, pulling out chairs, pouring wine and water. The long table was covered by an acre of pristine white linen. Each place setting, bristling with silverware with the White Star Line painted on it, was surmounted with a hierarchy of crystal glasses in assorted sizes. Jack was expressionless until he seated next to Molly and as soon as his wine was poured, Mrs. DeWitt Bukater was counted upon to bring the gossips and served it to their ears on a silver platter.
"So, tell us of your associations, Mr. Dawson. I have heard many a tale and none quite make any sense to me."
Whilst the others seemed to be gracious and curious of Jack's presence, they also listened with a close ear. It was a game now, just how much to reveal of himself and how much to leave them wanting in order to gossip more as they filled in the voids for themselves. Oh, how he wished to smirk, to fill them with a tonne of horse shit and allow them to feast on it for themselves, but he didn't, giving them the sincere truth, for what else could be said of his stature?
"Well, I am in charge of the most successful steel business in Boston, I have heard even the United States but who am I to know the true figures?" Jack was modest, smiling though as he watched Cal's slight reaction, gaging the way the ends of his mouth tensed. "The true mastermind was my uncle Eric Dawson who sadly passed in the fall of 1910. I say that I am 'in charge of' because still it truly feels as though it will always belong truly to him and I am merely like a babysitter of some kind."
The table listened, sincerely.
"Before that, I am sure that you heard I was not raised amongst you fine people but by a mere couple of farmers. My mother and father were from a small town in Wisconsin."
"I see." Mrs. DeWitt Bukater raised her eyebrows, not as subtly as perhaps intended. "I hear that you are well travelled."
"Yes. I was lucky enough to spend time in Europe and across America. There are other places I planned to visit before my uncle's death. I worked my way from place to place on tramp steamers and such. I find the bohemian life to have been somewhat refreshing to me in some ways. It differs from the world in which you all seem to know and I was able to do some charity work whilst out there, too."
"Yes, I can imagine that it would."
"Mr. Dawson is also a fine artist; he was kind enough to show me some of his work today."
Turning to his right, Jack found himself staring into Rose's curious emerald eyes. They had been seated next to each other. How had he not noticed upon been seated? Pleasure unfolded inside him. Her hair shone like satin, and her eyes were bright, and her skin looked like it would taste of some dessert made with milk and sugar.
"Rose and I differ somewhat in our opinions of fine art." Cal, seated the other side of Rose raised his black eyebrow in a smirk. "Not to speak ill of your work, sir." It was a thin veiled dig. Jack understood. He didn't give a damn what Hockley thought of any part of him.
"Not at all. I am sure that your division in opinions extends to other matters than simply art." Jack took a bite of his bread roll, chewed it like a bear and then spoke, with his mouth full. "Isn't that what makes us unique? Each of us been different. Isn't that the attraction to another human being? The qualities which differentiate them from the other."
"Of course." Molly agreed. "Those qualities make us all an individual."
Clearly irritated with the fact that Mr. Dawson seemed to have scored a point, Cal smirked over his wine. ''Well, Mr. Dawson, why don't you do a portrait of my fiancée, and then I shall see if that can change my mind. I shall pay of course.''
Was it a trick question? Hockley would pay him to spend more time with his fiancée. Jack almost wanted to laugh immediately across the table, but managed to pipe it down.
''Yes, of course. I would be delighted.''
His eyes went to Rose, who lowered her lashes immediately to concentrate on her food.
The rest of the table continued their chatter and suddenly, Jack was oblivious now that the spotlight was off. Keeping himself only slightly aware of the talk at the table, he focused on the meal instead.
"If you're trying to look meek and civilised," Rose said, "it's not working."
"I assure you, I'm harmless."
Rose smiled at that.
"No doubt it would suit you for everyone to think so."
Jack relished her light, clean scent, the charming pitch of her voice. He wanted to touch the fine skin of her cheeks and throat. Instead, he held still and watched as she adjusted a linen napkin over her lap. A footman came to fill their wine glasses. She stiffened as Cal whispered something to her low and she nodded a response. Jack's willpower—and he had a considerable supply—not to skewer Hockley with a dining utensil. He wanted her attention. All of it. To be unable to catch her gaze the way that he did when they were alone in order to read her expressions was difficult. It was as though he was completely and unreasonably in need of her, fully.
"At the first formal supper I attended in New York," he told Rose, "I expected to come away hungry."
To his immediate satisfaction, Rose turned to him, her interest refocusing.
"Why?"
"Because I thought the little side plates were what the upper class used for their main course. Which meant I wasn't going to get much to eat."
Rose laughed.
"You must have been relieved when the large plates were brought out."
He shook his head.
"I was too busy learning the rules of the table.''
"Such as?"
"Sit where they tell you, don't speak of politics or bodily functions, drink soup from the side of the spoon, don't use the nut pick as a fork, and never offer someone food from your plate."
"You share food from each other's plates?"
He stared at her steadily. "If we were eating how we did back home, sitting before a fire, I would offer you the choicest bites of meat. The soft inside of the bread. The sweetest sections of fruit." The colour heightened in her cheeks, and she reached for her wine glass. After a careful sip, she said without looking at him, "People rarely speak about such things. I believe it to sound rather charming. Of course, as you speak of individualism, that is never the case and we know it."
Before Jack could pursue the matter, however, the soup course was brought out. Footmen and waiters worked in harmony to present huge steaming tureens of salmon soup with lime and dill, nettle soup with cheese and caraway floats, watercress soup garnished with slivers of pheasant, and mushroom soup laced with sour cream and brandy. After Jack chose the nettle soup and it was ladled into a shallow china bowl in front of him, he turned to speak to Rose again.
"You fare well enough with these dinners."
''Doesn't one have to, to keep up the appearance that all is well?''
''So, are you well?'' Keeping his voice low, Rose caught his eye before Cal spoke to her again.
Jack took a quick inventory of the other conversations around him, all featuring mundane subjects.
"A real man makes his own look, Archibald." Cal replied. "Isn't that right, Dawson. I mean, one could call you the luckiest man here, such a rags to riches story that you regaled to us earlier this evening. And, of course, the un sung hero, I had not mentioned that Mr. Dawson was of some assistance to my fiancée last night."
Again, Hockley was firing aim after aim but none of it wore him thin. They were exactly that...digs. Amusement flared up his stomach.
"Well luck, is what you make it. Some believe in fate. Some destiny. Some none. I just know what I know. My father died in the same town he was born in, always talking of seeing the ocean but he was content with a loving wife and son. My uncle could never have children and yet was blessed with riches. I work my way from place to place, the other night I was sleeping under a bridge in Paris and the truth is I was happy with the air in my lungs and a few blank sheets of paper and now I'm dining here with you fine people." He took a slow sip of his champagne. "I figured life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it, not for love or money. Call it luck. Call it fate. I just wake up in the morning and I love what will happen. Who will I meet-" his eyes drifted to Rose, who watching him with such intent eyes that he wished the rest of them would disappear just so that he could hear her response, alone. "Make each day count."
A few passengers tensed apprehensively at Jack's insouciant speech, while others gave a few forced chuckles. Tension thickened the air until Molly broke it. Perhaps it was a topic too heavy to be discussed at dinner, but at least it would leave a lasting impression. Leave those with more than just dust between their ears a reason to use their brain for once.
"Here, here. A fine man, Dawson." Gracie passionately nodded.
"Well said, Jack." Molly agreed.
Slowly, cutting through the renewed silence, Rose shakily raised her champagne glass to a toast. "To making it count."
The other passengers followed. "To making it count."
Hockley failed to raise his glass in a toast. If he was deliberately trying to make an enemy of Jack, he couldn't have chosen a better way of doing it. Jack had a deep concern for those less fortunate than himself, and an active dislike for self-indulgent noblemen who failed to live up to their responsibilities. Especially that of a proper fiancé. He was about to rally her about and show her off like a damned prized horse.
All conversations resumed. Some of the ships design, some of their activities of the day and then, Molly elbowed his arm like a commoner would just after the last of the course plates were cleared away.
"I think you've turned the table and Hockley ain't too pleased about it. What happened between you two?" Keeping her voice low, piercing eyes watched Jack.
"Nothing of note. Just a bit of friendly rivalry or so I heard." He remained nonchalant.
Molly raised an eyebrow. "Heaven's sake, the girls engaged to be marr-"
"Not her. The business. We are both in steel." Jack shushed her.
Molly said nothing further but as the dinner progressed and the desert had finished, the orchestra struck up a lively waltz.
Smoothly, Cal offered his hand to take Rose to dance. She moved to him, that strained smile and her moves so mechanical it was almost as though she had been programmed. She didn't mould into him. Her steps never faltered. Her eyes stayed on Hockley's chest and as others joined them on the floor, Jack noticed how there was more emotions between those who had been married for years than the newly engaged couple. The way in which she gracefully went about was enough to make Jack wish to cut in, take her himself and swirl her about until that façade cracked and she laughed endlessly until her cheeks hurt and the flush covered the entirety of her body from the tips of her toes to the red of her curls.
"Tread lightly," Molly appeared behind him, speaking low. "She is young and a fool to be engaged to a man like that. But remember that her heart isn't up to be taken, not unless she tells you so."
Jack exhaled slowly. "I'm not after her heart, Molly. I merely enjoy her for the entertainment."
If it was another other than Molly, their face would have paled. "You plan to ruin her?"
"I'm not that wicked of a man. If I was then the answer to that question, dear Molly would have been yes, indeed."
"There are other ways to compete with Hockley. Keep business aside. Keep her out of it."
"She has nothing to do with it."
Rose appeared to be back at the table and the gentleman rose from their seats. Cal kissed Rose's cheek beside him.
"Care for a brandy?" Gracie called across the table to Jack. "Unless you wish to stay out here with the women?"
"Perhaps he would prefer that. Talking business and politics. I thought it wouldn't interest you." Hockley bent down to whisper something low in Rose's ear and she nodded.
"I shall be along momentarily. I'll have a heated brandy."
"Good man," Ismay nodded as he crossed his path. Jack inclined his head and then as they proceeded to leave, he turned to Molly.
"I was about to ask you to dance but it appears I am unfashionably late to."
"Yes. But I won't say no tomorrow, and every other night."
Jack laughed. "Do you need escorting back?"
"Good lord, no. Go and become the master of the universe." Molly kissed his cheek. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Molly."
Turning about, Rose sat, quietly and alone, nursing the remains of her champagne. Her mother was engrossed in conversation with Lady Duff Gordan and oblivious to her daughter's presence.
"Starting to see a little more why you wished to swim with the fishes last night." He whispered low so that only she could hear. She seemed to be affected by his voice against her ear.
"Yes, my presence here has very little significance."
"May I walk you back?" Jack offered, having the need for just a little time alone with her this evening. Jack had an inkling that she had refused Hockley's escort and his manservant as they had now left the dining room and gone in search of more gentlemanly pursuits.
"Yes, I would like that."
After failing to excuse herself, Jack led them away from the dining hall, through the reception room and to the upper landing where he took her to the Promenade deck. The outdoor room was sparsely furnished with cane-back chairs and a settee. Clouds sulked across the cool sky, while torchlight sent a brisk dance of light across the ground. As soon as the doors closed, Rose walked out ahead lightly and the breeze sent her hair flying about lazily.
"Will you really join them for a brandy?"
"For the drink. Not the conversation." He corrected her assumption. ''I take no pleasure in listening to a man whittle about his riches.''
"You're unconventional, Mr. Dawson. I like that."
A nervous tapping begun from beneath her gown. Her feet. Continuously against the wooden decks.
"I don't adhere to societal rules but neither do you." Jack examined her a moment. "I watched the two of you dance like strangers..."
Shaking her head, Rose raised her hand to her heat-infused cheeks. "Dear heaven. Am I that easy to read?"
"Perhaps your misery is." He smiled. "Do you truly believe yourself to ever love him?"
"That's none of your concern," she said, a bit too quickly. He watched her closely.
"Why did he leave you there alone. So that I could walk you back?"
"How did you—" She broke off and scowled as she understood what he was doing, throwing out provocative questions and gleaning the truth from her reactions. It was like a game and in that moment, she truly seemed to refuse to play.
Approaching her, Jack touched her vibrating foot with his own. The tapping stopped.
"A bad habit," Rose said abashedly. "I can't seem to rid myself of it."
"A hummingbird will do that in spring. She hangs on the side of the nest and uses her other foot to tamp down the floor.''
Her gaze chased around as if she couldn't decide where to look as his voice wrapped itself about her in a cool caress like the night in satin sheets.
"Miss. DeWitt Bukater," Jack spoke gently, while she fidgeted before him. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her until she quieted. There was something amiss. A riot about her.
"Do I make you nervous?"
Rose brought herself to look up at him, her eyes harbouring the blue-black glitter of a moonlit lake.
"No," she said immediately. "No, of course you...yes. Yes, you do."
The vehement honesty of her answer surprised both of them. The night deepened—one of the lamps above had burned out—and the conversation devolved into something halting and broken and delicious, like pieces of barley sugar melting on the tongue.
"I would never hurt you," Jack said in a low voice.
"I know. It's not that—"
"Is it because of last night? When I fell atop you and-"
"You . . . Good gracious, no!" Rose paled, unable to prepare herself for the quickness of his tongue.
"What then?"
"Why did you do it?" she asked in a half-whisper. ''Why did you-'' Rose closed her eyes, squeezing them. ''Why remove items of clothing, why help-''
"Impulse. Opportunity." Aroused by her nearness, Jack tried to ignore the coursing readiness of his own body. "I had to get you back over the damned rail or I would have pushed you over the thing in a fury."
Even in the darkness he could see the rich renewal of her blush.
"You just said you would never hurt me."
''No and I meant it.'' He softened. "If I carried you away with me . . ."
The idea of it, her soft, struggling weight in his arms, sent his blood surging. He was caught by the primitive appeal of it, all reason crushed beneath the thumping heat of desire.
"The last thing on my mind would be hurting you."
"You would never do such a thing." She was trying very hard to sound matter-of-fact. "We both know you're too civilised."
"Do we? Believe me, the issue of my civility is entirely open to question."
"Mr. Dawson," she asked unsteadily, "are you trying to make me nervous?"
"No." As if the word required emphasis, he repeated softly, "No."
Hell, he thought, wondering what he was doing. He was at a loss to comprehend why this woman, in her intelligent prickly innocence, should have captivated him so thoroughly. All he knew was a fierce longing to reach something in her, to strip away all the artificial trappings of stays and laces and shoes, the curtain of her gown, the little hooks of her hairpins. She was out here alone with him. Again. She shouldn't be. He spoke of compromise. She had accused him of trying to ruin her. Oh, how he could, right here beneath the lamplight but for the moment, he had some strength left within his body.
"Let's get you back. It's cold and I have a brandy waiting."
Because he could stay out here with her all evening. Alone. And in doing so, she would no longer belong to Hockley by the end of it.
Thank you so much for the reviews and appreciation. I absolutely loved writing this story and I am currently working on the sequel. In much need of writing recently, so hope that you do continue to love this!