1st May 1912.
It had started when a telegram had arrived to confirm that Rose's mother; Ruth DeWitt Bukater was presumed dead. Her body had never been recovered from the wreckage and therefore, a private funeral was to be held in her name in Philadelphia with an invite for Rose to attend. Attend; as though she was an outsider, only allowed to be present by request even though it was her own mother.
Secondly, society now expected her to be in mourning. Although the clothes that Mrs. Hunt, an old friend of the Dawson family who had just learned of her increasing condition, had brought were far more appropriate for half mourning than full mourning, Rose decided to wear them. She had already gone against the dictates of propriety by wearing fabrics other than what was deemed fashionable and there was hardly anyone in the house who would dare to criticise her; so it didn't make much difference whether she wore black, brown, or grey. Moreover, she felt certain that Jack would not have minded.
Picking up the note that Mrs. Hunt had included with the clothes, Rose read it once more, a smile touching her lips.
'I had these made in Paris,' Mrs. Hunt had written impishly, 'without taking into consideration the consequences of Mr Hunt's virility. By the time I am able to wear them again, they will be out of fashion. My gift to you, with my deepest sympathies.'
Trying on the soft grey wool, which was lined with silk, Rose discovered that it fit nicely. However, her pleasure in the new gown was swamped in a wave of melancholy as she thought of her mother. Wandering disconsolately down to the main hazard room, she saw Jack speaking to a pair of dust-covered masons. He was much taller than either of them, and inclined his head as they replied. Then he made some quip that drew laughter. A glint of humour lingered in Jack's eyes as he happened to glance in Rose's direction. His gaze softened, and he took leave of the masons, coming toward her with unhurried strides. Rose fought to contain a rush of eagerness, afraid of appearing foolishly infatuated with him. However, no matter how sternly she tamped her feelings down beneath the surface, they seemed to sift out like diamond dust, sparkling visibly in the air around her. The odd thing was, he seemed similarly glad to be in her presence, since becoming his wife, perhaps more so. Now, as the last bits of what they had owned had been packed away, last adjustments were made to the detail of the house to fit Charlie's taste, it seemed strange to now have to face the reality of her mother's death. She had drowned in guilt at having tried to simply put her feelings away in a box and to deal with them if they had ever come out, her mother did, despite everything mean a great deal to her.
''Rose…' His golden head bent over her upturned face. ''Are you all right?''
''Yes, I … no.'' She rubbed her temples fretfully. ''I'm weary. And bored, and hungry. And fear that I should be falling about in a fit of tears when I cannot muster more than a drop.'' His quiet chuckle seemed to cut through her gloom.
''I can do something about that.''
''I have no wish to interrupt your work —'' she said diffidently.
''Charlie will manage things for a while. Besides, I think he really enjoys the authority. Come with me, let's see if the billiards room has been packed away yet.''
''Billiards?'' Rose repeated reluctantly, following him a door or two down the corridor before he nodded his head inwards.
''Don't try to claim this is too scandalous for you,'' he told her with mock severity. ''After running away to marry me, nothing is beyond you. Certainly not one little billiards game.''
Rounding the large solid oak oblong, with soft green inside, Rose watched as Jack expertly set it up to play. It seemed that he was filled with endless talents that she had yet to make a list of.
''I never knew that you were one to indulge in such pursuits. I thought it was only the physical kind you told me whilst in London.''
Jack smiled. ''That was then. Eric and I would play some nights, whilst he drank his last brandy and I would have a beer.''
Perhaps those were the most bittersweet of memories. With her smile fading, Rose came to think of the better memories of her mother, and found that whilst most weren't unpleasant, none were anything other than the usual ritual of what society deemed right.
''You sound fond of him,'' Rose smiled.
''I was.'' Jack realised just how broken they were between them both. Broken. Two pieces of a family which had been torn apart and left them alone to deal with the remnants so young. ''It isn't wrong to struggle to mourn. She was your mother, but fractured.''
''Fractured, yes.'' Rose glanced across the table to a large window which overlooked the gardens. ''I would walk about the house back home and just inspect every single part of it just for something to occupy myself. I was so lost within my own fragile mind and that was before my engagement. Before the trip to Europe.''
Jack listened to her intently.
''I would look at Cal and will him to be the man that my mother believed him to be. She thought he would remove all of the problems left behind by my father; pay the debts, save the family name from ruin and give us solidarity amongst the walls of society again but I didn't wish for any of that. I just wanted a mind like my own. Who would allow me to have my interests and he, his own. Once I was in the stables and he came to talk to me, and as I went to speak a fly flew right into my mouth.'' Rose stilled, recalling her fright. ''I couldn't scream, or move, or show anything but swallow it down and pretend it never happened. I told my mother later and she told me that it had been the right thing to do.'' Laughing with a frown, she glanced down at the dull attire. ''Now I am in mourning; receiving cards that I find no strength to open, bearing condolences and letters wishing to have details of the memorial that I have no clue if to attend because I feel as though I shall have to stop my life once more just to answer to the vultures of society and stand as they swallow every scrap which I offer to them.''
As the palms of her hands went to the billiard's table, Jack collected her body and pulled her to his chest, and she allowed herself to wilt there against the man who was her husband and saviour. She clutched at his lapels, inhaling the calming scent of his wash soap and he pressed his lips to her forehead just once.
''Stupid really,'' she blinked back the single tear which had fallen free, ''the only thing I keep thinking is how the only thing I owed her was for the world to never know just how far the DeWitt Bukater name fell into a disrepair. That was her biggest fear and-''
''The world will never know.'' Jack told her, confidently.
Rose kept her hands to his chest, pulling away with her eyes locking on his. ''Not from you or I, but Cal knows, his father and perhaps even the creditors would speak out to gain some money or the interest which accumulates faster than I could ever understand.''
''No, they will know because there is nothing left to pay.'' Just as Rose was going to ask, Jack pulled out a folded piece of paper from the inside of his pocket and quietly held it out to her. ''I should have told you sooner, but with your mother's death confirmed I just didn't wish to upset you further but-''
Rose took the paper from him, unfolding it and reading in elegant curved letters the names of several debt collectors, some of which her mother had mentioned and others not. Against each of the names was a stamp marked 'PAID.' Each sum was several thousand, perhaps totalling about fifteen to twenty, depending on how accurately her mathematics had been but with stunned eyes, she gaped atop the paper to Jack.
''What your mother wanted was to know that her daughter was safe beyond all of this. I fear that by marrying you off to Cal, she believed that he could be the one to take care of you both and ensure that you lived life to the fullest luxury and could never want for nothing. Your mother didn't believe that love should exist within a marriage because I fear she never had it herself. Perhaps her own mother and father had raised her with an iron fist and those before. Society dictates so much to us all, darling, but they can never tell you if to love your mother, to attend her memorial or to recall her in your own manner. Rose, she loved you, I know that just by her actions towards you, but whilst they were wrong, it was just what she knew.''
It was then, that the single tear shed, was followed by another and another. The numbness within her body had melted away and a bitter sadness gripped her.
''I loved her, too, I did. I knew that last time she turned to us and wished for me to join her for dinner even as the ship sank that she would never see dry land again but she was so stubborn, so harsh and unexposed to the truth that nothing but herself could save her.''
Jack swallowed back a lump, a swipe of his hair and he continued, preparing to take whatever tongue lashing she gave him in return. ''And, that was also you in parts. A woman so afraid to leave the quarters of what she thought kept her safe even though she was stifled and afraid. Your mother may not have been stifled but perhaps she was afraid of the world seeing her failures as a mother if the family name was tainted.''
''It was tainted when I left Cal, it was tainted when I married you, but that never mattered to me but to her.''
''But you cannot live forever on that.''
''Perhaps I could if I regretted any of it, but I don't''
Rose squeezed her eyes closed, taking an exhaling and cleansing breath to clear out the doubts which could seep in and take over but she brushed them away. Gazing at Jack with a steely, clear gaze, she declared from the bottom of her heart, ''If we have children-''
''When.'' Jack corrected, with an unfazed expression.
''When.'' She repeated. ''When we have children. We shall raise them with the knowledge which we have of this world, and remove all of the dark elements. I shall tend to my child, I shall nurse them, care for them as a mother should and you shall as a father would.''
''As my own did. Remember, I wasn't raised as you were, I was exposed to the rigid nature but my own mother carried, nursed and cared each day. My father was always present, even as he worked. We had no luxuries for hired help.''
Gaining clarity, Rose placed her hands across Jack's heart and she felt how it accelerated beneath the softness of his workwear. She admired how he appeared in a stark contrast to the vast interiors of an ancient billiard room which extended in a library. This was beyond beautiful, but the visions of Jack, holding their children whilst working or creating art—that excited her much more. ''Thank you so much.''
''There was never a need for thanks. I told you on board Titanic that if it was within my power to clear the debt then I would, for you, no one else.''
Rose pressed her cheek to his, revelling in how she had once believed marriage to be the most disastrous fate for her, now it had become her most treasured love. Jack had become that to her.
''So, shall we still be leaving?'' Rose asked, finally, as though needing Jack's permission.
''Yes, if you wish for it. I am only happy when you are.''
''I shall mourn for my mother, perhaps forever. I need no memorial in Philadelphia to know how much I shall miss her. I need no reminders of how life within societal walls is. I have no need to go any other place but forward.''
Jack gathered her hands, pressing them to his lips. ''Then, if your decision is final then we are to leave later on today or tomorrow, or when you feel fully up to it.''
''And are you to teach me to play billiards before we go?''
Jack smiled at the change of demeanour about her. "Sure if you like. Bend over the table.''
She complied awkwardly, flushing as she felt him lean over her, his body forming an exciting masculine cage as his hands arranged hers on the cue stick.
''Now,'' she heard him say, 'curl your index finger around the tip of the shaft. That's right. Don't grip so tightly, … let your hand relax. Perfect.'' His head was close to hers, the light scent of sandalwood cologne rising from his warm skin. ''Try to imagine a path between the cue ball – that's the white one – and the coloured ball. You'll want to strike right about there'' – he pointed to a place just above centre on the cue ball – ''to send the object ball into the side pocket. It's a straight-on shot, you see? Lower your head a bit. Draw the cue stick back and try to strike in a smooth motion.''
Attempting the shot, Rose felt the tip of the cue stick fail to make proper contact with the white ball, sending it spinning clumsily off to the side of the table.
''A miscue,'' Jack remarked, deftly catching the cue ball in his hand and repositioning it. ''Whenever that happens, reach for more chalk, and apply it to the tip of the cue stick while looking thoughtful. Always imply that your equipment is to blame, rather than your skills.''
Rose felt a smile rising to her lips, and she leaned over the table once more. Perhaps it was wrong, with her mother having passed away so recently, but, she was having fun. Jack covered her from behind again, sliding his hands over hers. ''Let me show you the proper motion of the cue stick – keep it level – like this.'' Together they concentrated on the steady, even slide of the cue stick through the little circle Rose had made of her fingers. The sexual entendre of the motion could hardly escape her, and she felt a flush rise up from the neck of her gown.
''Shame on you,'' she heard him murmur. ''No proper young woman would have such thoughts.'' A helpless giggle escaped Rose's lips, and Jack moved to the side, watching her with a lazy smile. ''Try again.''
Focusing on the cue ball, Rose drew back and struck it firmly. This time the coloured ball sank neatly into the side pocket. ''I did it!' she cried.
Jack grinned at her triumph and proceeded to set up various shots for her, positioning her body and adjusting her hands, and using every possible excuse to put his arms around her. Enjoying herself immensely, Rose pretended not to notice the audacious caress of his hands. However, when he caused her to miss a bank shot for the fourth time, she turned to him accusingly.
''How could anyone make a proper shot when you put your hand there?''
''I was trying to adjust your posture,'' he said helpfully. At her mock-accusing glance, he smiled and half sat on the billiards table.
Rose raised a cue stick as if to crown him with it. He caught her wrist easily in one hand and pried the stick from her fingers.
''Easy, firebrand. You'll knock out the few wits I have left – and then of what use would I be to you?''
''You would be purely ornamental,'' Rose replied, giggling.
''Ah, well, I suppose there's some value in that. God help me if I should ever lose my looks."
''I wouldn't mind.''
He gave her a quizzical smile.
''What?''
Rose paused, suddenly embarrassed. ''If anything happened to your looks … if you became … less handsome. Your appearance wouldn't matter to me. I would still …'' She paused and finished hesitantly, ''… want you as my husband.''
Jack's smile faded slowly. He gave her a long, intent stare, her wrist still clasped in his hand. Something strange crossed his expression … an undefinable emotion wrought of heat and vulnerability. When he answered, his voice was strained from the effort to sound cavalier. 'Without a doubt, you're the best thing that has ever happened to me.''
As she responded to him eagerly, his amusement dissolved like sugar in hot liquid. He kissed her longer, harder, his breath striking her cheek in rapid drives.
''Rose,'' he whispered. She tightened her arms and sought his mouth with hers. He groaned low in his throat and kissed her, and reached out to shut the door of the billiards room. Fumbling with the lock, he turned the key and sank to his knees before her. Her shoulder blades pressed hard against the closed door, and she leaned heavily on the panelling, her mind reeling with confusion and excitement. He hiked up her skirts, his hands searching beneath the layers of fabric, tugging at the tapes of her drawers. How was there so much material attached to a mourning dress and yet she had spent the entire day with him yesterday in bed without clothes and their bodies spread in all kinds of disarray.
''Jack, no,'' Rose whispered shakily, mindful that they were in one of the public rooms and that whilst the door was locked, there could be a key used from the outside.
''Please, you can't …''
Jack ignored her protests, delving beneath her skirts and pulling her drawers to her knees.
''Why not?''
''Because...,'' she said weakly, but he was beyond hearing. His hand was on her ankle, and his mouth was at her knee, nibbling and licking through the silk stocking. Rose felt a shocking jolt of desire, her heart drumming violently, her flesh awakening with irresistible hunger. Jack pushed the front of her skirts up to her waist and-
A knock cracked against the door of the billiards room and it vibrated against her back. Her eyes opened and Jack withdrew his hands.
''Hey, Dawson, got a visitor for you and your wife.'' Charlie called through thick wood.
Jack sank back on his knees, the cloud of desire evaporating. ''Not now.''
''Sounds important,'' Charlie called, knocking again. ''Rather important.''
''Is it about the house?''
''No...'' Charlie called, vaguely. Rose corrected her modesty.
"Tell them I'm busy," Jack responded, his hands resting on Rose's shoulder.
''It is actually a Mr. Caledon Hockley."