This is getting mad with how much love I get for this now its on the edge! I am sorry to tease you just a teeny bit more because...no its not the flying scene next :( buttt...because I am excited for reactions, I shall post the next chapter maybe tonight or tomorrow if people are interested for this to progress a little more!
I am writing again now, kinda, but starting a new job next week and my maternity will end so I will have less time but this is completely written so only Runaway will be slower in been written!
Thanks for the kind words always!
Chapter seventeen:
The First-Class Lounge was one of the most ornate public rooms on board the Titanic, modelled in the Louis XV style after the Palace of Versailles. It occupied a large space mid-ship on A-Deck, offering views onto the Promenade Deck and the ocean beyond. Intricately carved English oak panelling with intermittent motifs of musical instruments were the dominant feature of the room. Bronze sconces and large rounded mirrors were installed throughout. A 49-light opaque glass and ormolu Electrolier with crystal embellishment occupied the central recess of the ceiling, which was itself elaborately melded with instrumental motifs. Adjoining the open seating area were cosy alcoves with inset mirrors and tall bay windows of leaded and stained glass.
The Lounge had an impressive height of 12 ft. 3 in., enabled by raising the ceiling above the level of the Boat Deck. Groups of tables and chairs, sofas, and armchairs upholstered in plush velvet with green and gold floral patterns were scattered throughout. At the centre of the forward wall was a gracefully carved grey marble decorative fireplace as it contained only an electric heater. A replica statue of the Diana of Versailles stood on the mantelpiece, with a large mirror above. At the opposite end the wall curved and contained a wide mahogany bookcase which functioned as a lending library for First-Class passengers. They could choose from a permanent collection of classics and the latest releases. The room was used primarily for socialising, play cards, read a book and the taking of tea, coffee and light refreshment before and after dinner, serviced by a small connecting bar. It was a largely female domain but available to both sexes; because of its size it was also convenient for holding concerts and other First-Class events.
The clattering of china, plates and the scent of cream cakes, coffee and the sound of the chatter seemed to be magnified as Jack was seated beside Molly in the lounge with a selection of buns and refreshments on the table before them.
''This is the worst thing you've ever done to me," he told Molly, as she stirred her tea in the cup and shot him a piercing glance.
"Oh, not at all, I'm sure I've done worse things to you." She replied in a mocking tone.
Jack considered that, running through a long list of remembered offences in his mind. "Never mind, you're right you made me attend church. But to be clear . . . I'm only tolerating this to humour you."
"Yes, I know. I do hope you'll humour me further, and tell me why you look as though you've been hung, drawn and then quartered all in the time you went on a tour of the ship with Mr. Andrews?''
He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. "One could almost infer that you are in need of a female companion to gossip with, either that or you enjoy toying with me.'' Jack dropped the spoon which he had used to stir his cup of coffee.
"Not at all. I was merely asking; we can discuss other matters if you like.''
"Thank you," he said dryly. ''How was tea with Mrs. Astor?''
''Lovely, she is quite a woman with a mature head for such a young age. Perhaps marriage has mellowed out old John, too.''
''They're happy, let them get on with it.'' Jack dismissed it, as he had done with Mr. Astor himself just that morning after their discussion.
''Oh, Jack, you have nothing to do but see how it can change the course of your life.''
''I see that it can, and also, see how it can cause such ruin beyond repair it causes bitterness until the very end. Who wishes to remain married to a woman one can barely tolerate.''
''You are from marrying stock, both your parents and your uncle and aunt had long, happy partnerships...''
''Yes,'' Jack exhaled, ''but that was due in part because they met when both my father and my uncle had barely two dimes to rub together.'' He gave Molly a warning glance. ''I am happy, leave it be.''
"But I also happen to believe that you'll be much happier when you fall in love and perhaps marry."
"If I ever fell in love with someone," he retorted, "I certainly wouldn't ruin it by marrying her."
''Oh, heavens, you truly are about to be led to the gallows.''
Molly was quick to finish her tea, and Jack's coffee sat simply to cool until it was forgotten of. It wasn't that her jests felt like pressure upon his back, he knew that she meant well by suggesting that he have companionship at some point. But it wasn't an option now. Across the lounge, Rose was seated with her back to them both, taking tea with her mother, Lucille Duff Gordon and the Countess of Rothes. She was such a fragile thing to witness from afar with her head bobbing animatedly to the rhythm of the chatter and enduring the pain of been surrounded by women folk discussing the importance of life and setting the world to rights.
The guests began to arrive early in the evening for dinner, and when Jack noticed the time, it was almost sunset. Women were dressed in silk or taffeta, jewelled brooches glittering at low rounded necklines, hands covered with wrist-length white gloves. Many feminine arms were adorned with matching bracelets in the new fashion. Gentlemen, by contrast, were dressed with severe simplicity in black coats and matching creaseless trousers, and cravats in either white or black. The clothes were tailored with a touch of welcome looseness, making natural movement far easier than it had been in the constricting garments of the recent past.
''I think it's about time for dinner.''
''I suppose I should be your escort?'' Jack raised his brow to Molly, and she gathered her purse and hat. ''We haven't even taken the time to change.''
''You can just walk me to the dining room, and then take your leave.''
"Very well."
Music floated through rooms abundantly dressed with flowers. Tables draped in gold satin nearly creaked beneath pyramids of fruit, cheese dishes, roast vegetables, sweetbreads, puddings, joints of meat, smoked fish, and roast fowl. Footmen moved through the circuit of public rooms, bringing cigars and liquor to men in the library, or wine and champagne to the card rooms. The dining room was crowded, with clusters of people all around the sides and couples dancing in the centre. Jack had to admit, there was an uncommon number of attractive young women present. They all looked pleasant, normal, and fresh-faced. They all looked the same. But he proceeded to take Molly to be seated with the Astors's before taking his leave and departing the centre of the social universe as quickly as possible.
And all the while he hunted for glimpses of Miss. DeWitt Bukater. She was wearing a royal blue gown; the same one she'd worn earlier for the bridge tour. Her hair was caught in a smooth, tight chignon at the back of her neck. She watched over her mother while remaining discreetly in the background. Jack had seen Rose do the same thing countless times before, stand quietly among the dowagers and chaperones as girls only a little younger than herself flirted and laughed and danced. It was absurd that she wished to not be noticed. She was the equal of any woman there, not standing in the background, be damned. Somehow Rose must have felt his gaze on her. She turned and glanced at him, and she couldn't seem to look away any more than he could. The Countess captured Rose's attention, asking a question about something, and she turned to the dratted woman. It was the time just before dinner begun, and yet, there was something about the air this evening that had turned to electric. An excitement perhaps. Sighing, Jack leant back against the wall and let his thoughts wonder.
"I had despaired of anything interesting happening this evening," a familiar voice came beside him. Hockley.
"What is it?" His voice was low and strained.
''Your eyes are all over my fiancée.''
''My eyes are all over the dance floor.'' Jack turned to be faced with a wine-stained breath. ''There are quite a number of available, young women this evening to dance with, would you not agree?''
''She is mine at quite a price and I have no intentions of letting her go. We will marry.''
Jack stared at him coldly. ''Congratulations.''
''I heard the only way for you to have a woman is to purchase one, yes, perhaps the finest prostitutes Paris had to offer, but Rose is not up for sale.''
''If she was, I wouldn't be purchasing her because she is a woman who deserves freedom to marry whomever she wishes to.''
Hockley stunned him by smiling, his face softening. ''Of course, you speak with such sincerity, one would think the two of you were better acquainted than I thought.''
Jack exhaled with an annoyance. ''You lost a game of squash because I was the better player. You lost the woman at the gala in New York those years ago simply because she preferred my company. You lost the customers of your business over the last eighteen months because your prices are disgustingly high and the quality has grown poor. If you lose your fiancé, it will be from your own doing, certainly not through mine.'' Even though there was a temptation to slaughter Hockley where he stood, instead he made his face implacable. ''Perhaps start with been a suitable husband to her.'' Not that he would ever deserve her. No one ever would. Least of all either of the two men stood adjacent to her.
A course laugh erupted. ''Surely you're not threatening me.''
Jack smiled coldly. "Much as I always tried to ignore your inebriated ravings, Hockley, a few things did stick in my memory from the past. Some of your confessions of misconduct would make more than a few people unhappy. I know enough of your secrets to land you in prison without so much as a chum ticket, your old father at least. And if that's not enough, I would be more than willing to resort to bashing your skull in with a blunt object. In fact, I'm becoming quite enthused about the idea." Seeing the astonishment in the other man's eyes, Jack smiled without humour. "I see you grasp my sincerity. That's good. It might save us both some inconvenience." He paused to give his next statement greater impact. "And now I'm going to dance with your fiancée right here in the middle of the floor and there isn't a thing that you could do to stop me because society dictates so."
The older man's face went livid. "You'll regret having made an enemy of me, Dawson."
"Not nearly as much as I've regretted having once made a friend of you."
Captain Smith approached Hockley, and in a second his demeanour had changed to that of a gentleman. Tonight, the family would be the guest of honours at the Captain's table and there was no chance that Mrs. DeWitt Bukater would allow that opportunity to slip through her fingers. Feeling Hockley's eyes burning into his back, there was a flicker of arrogance within Jack as he strode through the small crowds who were beginning to disperse to take their place at the dining table with such determination. Whilst he was aware of the attention of other ladies upon him, Jack had no interest at all in even dancing with a single one of them. He had taken one other for a waltz over the course of the voyage and it was intolerable.
''Would you do me the honour?" he asked, gesturing to the whirl of waltzing couples.
Miss. DeWitt Bukater blanched as she became aware of the multitude of gazes on them. It was one thing for them to speak in a crowd, for them to have taken one waltz together at dinner the previous evening but it was something else entirely for him to dance with her, now. He knew it, and he didn't give a damn.
"Go away," she said in a sharp whisper, her heart beating wildly.
A faint smile touched his lips. "I can't. Everyone's watching. Are you going to give me a public set down?"
She could not embarrass him that way. It was a violation of etiquette to refuse a man's invitation to dance if it could have been construed that she didn't wish to dance with him personally. And yet to be the focus of attention . . . to set tongues wagging . . . it was contrary to every instinct for self-preservation.
"Oh, why are you doing this?" she whispered again, desperate and furious . . . and yet somewhere in the midst of her inner tumult, there was a tingle of delight. He could sense that much.
"Because I want to," he said, his smile widening. "And so do you."
He was unforgivably arrogant and yet also a little fragile.
He also happened to be right.
Which made her an idiot. If she said yes, she deserved whatever happened to her afterward.
"I do not wish to, Mr. Dawson." Biting her lip, she took his arm and let him lead her toward the centre of the room. ''I am simply dancing to avoid further speculation.''
''Speculation?''
''Oh, do not play the innocent. You are the muse of many women here this evening.''
''I am?'' Jack raised his brow. ''Shame that I haven't noticed a damn thing other than you.''
With her cheeks flushing, he was happy to know that she was still unable to conceal the heat of their conversation. The heat of everything which transpired between them both.
"You could try smiling," Jack suggested. "You look like a prisoner being led to the gallows." He smiled, echoing Molly's earlier teasing. It had been true of him then, and Rose now.
"It feels more like a beheading," she said.
"It's just one dance, Rose."
"You should waltz with another miss," she said, wincing inwardly as she heard the sullen note in her own voice. ''I hear you waltz wonderfully well with the wallflowers.''
Jack laughed quietly. "Once was enough. I've no wish to repeat the experience."
Rose tried, without success, to smother the ripple of pleasure that went through her. "You didn't get on?"
''Yes,''
''And you danced with Miss. Darvin.'' Rose was referring to a dance he had with the youngest daughter of a well-known actor aboard the ship the night before.
''Yes, and she never strayed far from one topic of particular importance. Herself."
''I'm sure that with maturity, Miss Darvin will become less self-involved."
"Perhaps. It's of no importance to me."
Jack took her into his arms, his hold firm and supportive, and inexplicably right. And an evening that had seemed so dreadful only moments before became so wonderful that Rose was light-headed. He held her, his right hand precisely against her shoulder blade, his left hand securing hers. Even through the layers of their gloves, she felt the thrill of contact.
The dance began.
In the waltz, the man was thoroughly in control of the timing, the pace, the sequence of steps. And Jack left Rose no opportunity to falter. It was easy to follow him, every movement non-negotiable. There were moments in which they seemed almost to hover before sweeping into another series of turns. The music was an audible ache of yearning. Rose was silent, afraid to break the spell, focusing only on the blue eyes above hers. And for the first time in her life, she was wholly happy until out of one of the alcoves, she saw Lovejoy watching them both, and her spine tingled. It was a constant and glaring reminder of who she truly did belong to.
''I saw you speaking with Cal.''
''Yes.''
''What troubles him?''
''Reminding me that you are to be his wife. His property. His.''
''You need no reminder. I am his. I am to marry him.''
''Yes,'' Jack held her firmly. ''So, this is to be our last dance and after that, I will not come to you again. I will leave you alone. To marry the man that you love or so you now appear to say that you do.''
''You have said that numerous times. You knew this from the very beginning and yet-''
''-I have never been a weak man until now. You are the cause of that.''
Rose visibly winced beneath his words but she didn't stop dancing.
''What weakness could possibly cause this?''
''My weakness. My sin. I have a bad habit, of yearning, of—so many things that I could never put into words, all for you.'' His voice was hushed as they danced, so that others nearby would be unable to hear. Sometimes, he wished that they could hear, to perhaps break open the cage in which it felt they were stuck. He didn't wish to touch her, but she was beneath his skin. Beneath her spell. Like poison and he was within chains that were so very difficult to break. Sometimes he wondered if they would be breakable.
''I am a sin?''
''To love you would be. To have you. To -'' Jack squeezed his eyes closed, unable to discuss the severity of what could happen due to the fact that her emerald eyes were so curiously wide; a stark reminder of her pure innocence which was not up to be grabbed at and perhaps the most frustrating part of it was that it wasn't the most appealing side of her; he loved the wickedness of her tongue or the laugh which touched his soul.
''I feel as though this was a game, that I played and didn't win. I was caught within a trap of some kind and now, I am unsure of what would happen next.''
''There were never any rules with us,'' Jack told her, ''except societal ones.''
''Yes, the ultimate rule book.''
''And you are to marry a man who would never deserve anything less than to be manure upon the bottom of your prized dancing shoes.''
Jack could tell how she tensed, perhaps how she wished to scold him with that wicked tongue of hers but was unable to. In the end, this had to be it. Across the room, seated with Captain Smith, Hockley watched them through narrowed and tense eyes. This could have caused trouble, at least for himself, but maybe this would be the final chance to be close to a woman who had turned him inside out beyond his own doing and politely refused to allow him to be of any assistance to her—no matter what that was. As he gazed at her, intently, for the final times, it was dawning on him that he would be more than happy to solicit her freedom from the tangled web of the engagement and see her off to live undependable and never see her again rather than stand in a Philadelphia church before five hundred members of society and witness her wed the man who would never treat her as anything other than a trophy and a vessel.
The dance lasted three minutes, perhaps four. Rose tried to collect every second and commit it to memory, so that in the future she could close her eyes and bring it all back. As the waltz ended on a sweet, high note, she found herself holding her breath, wishing it would go on just a little longer. His hands weakened until they completely let her go.
''Thank you, Miss. DeWitt Bukater. Goodbye.''
He went. Striding away confidently into a future that was bleakly unknown.