Completely wrapped up in trying to write this for a few days, I am going through something very similar in my life. I am trying to make this fresh start and unable to find out where to go. I am over my fever and Covid! But this feels so raw to me at the minute and true.

I didn't want to write this at a point where Rose was completely bowled over by Jack, but just at the right point where her heart wanted to follow him. Named Fever, because I have done nothing but listen to an old Kylie Minogue song called Fever, and well, it'll make sense as you read…

Fever

The sitting room inside the suite of B52, was completely covered in the most melancholy colours. Wasn't this supposed to be a space for one to relax within? Where her mother and she could entertain, or take tea, just like the sitting room which they had back home in Philadelphia. The dark oak panelling just seemed to add to the dreariness of the mood. The olive greens of the wingbacks, of the divan couch and the plush carpet which sank as her heels walked across it. You could smell the newness of it all. The wood was yet to settle. The paint was fresh. China glittered. Even the books within the library seemed to be less well worn than usual. As she went to the wardrobe room, where the safe which Cal carted about was situated, a mirror met her.

When left with only the reflection of herself in the mirror, Rose started to resent it. Deeply. It was as though there was a strong pull between wrong and right. Which was the correct and vital path to take? The wrong felt liberating, almost like a dream. A version of one's life which only existed within the walls of her own mind but somehow, over a series of days, with help, she had plunged into the depths of some mind altering circumstances. The ornate brass mirror's reflection saw her mother glancing, the sharp gaze burning into her as though she was a child who was about to commit some sort of wrongdoing.

''Do you think I was raised within the walls of a convent? Do you believe that the notion of attraction is lost on me?'' Ruth came towards Rose, almost calmly. Rose had left her mother at tea, along with the Countess of Rothes and Lucille Duff Gordon and they had been flourishing talk of the wedding whilst Rose had drowned within the sea of waves which had come to collect her. Just as they had two nights before when she had found herself at the stern on a ship. Where she had almost ended her life.

''Of course I know of adolescent feelings. The feelings which young girls have when they see a handsome young boy.'' Ruth sighed, taking a sharp intake of breath and shaking her head. ''But boys like him haven't had an education. They do not know how to treat a woman, what a woman wants, her needs and how to be fragile with her.''

Rose met her mother's gaze within the mirror, and sought to find some compassion. She thought that there was a tiny speck, but maybe she was mistaken. Whatever it was vanished quickly.

''I can see how a young artist can appeal to a girl with your spirits. Lord knows where your fire comes from but it exists and with that comes great danger. Rose, we have to quash that fire, and he will only cause it to burn higher. Do you realise just how dangerous that is?''

Rose remained completely silent with her back poker straight and presented to Ruth. Outwardly, she was collected and calm. Her eyes softly gazed at her mother in the mirror once more, as delicate and manicured fingers came to rest upon her shoulders; there was the rock of a burden, just weighing her down endlessly. It had started as a slow and small fraction of pressure, just applied now and then, like a gentle nudge or tap but now she carried the entire world upon her and it would be only a matter of time before something cracked.

''Since we boarded the ship, you have barely eaten at meal times, you consume perhaps a glass of wine too many at luncheon and these headaches which you were getting some weeks ago, they seem to have returned as well as the melancholy cloud which surrounds you.''

Ruth's fingers gently ran across Rose's shoulders and stroked a few tendrils of her hair. This slight show of affection was a stark contrast to this very morning, when Ruth had all but warned Rose away from Jack, and reminded her once again of their precarious situation. Rose knew how frightened her mother was, and she was also aware of how close they were to becoming penniless. She wished to laugh; in part, because if she could remove wealth from this entire equation then she would. Why should some people be overly greedy and others never have a penny? Why were those less fortunate, such as Jack, much more in touch with the way the world worked? Why was money, whilst important, the root of all evil?

''I recognise the look in his eyes when he watched you, Rose and that is the most dangerous part.''

The endless depressive episode seemed to be eased right there, replaced by the sheer disbelief at just how black and white her own Mother saw this world. There were only twenty years between them. Yes, they were raised in different times, but surely time moved on. People were different.

''Jack is not dangerous, perhaps the only person that he is a threat to is you. Or Cal.''

''Yes, he is dangerous. He could look at you, and with your naivety, you would no doubt follow him if he clicked his fingers, wouldn't you?''

Raising her chin, Rose hesitated her answer, already knowing what it would be. ''No, mother, because I have no intentions of ever following him anywhere,'' she snapped, ''a woman is allowed to chose her own friends and simply because he is of another class and gender then I am completely forbidden to even associate with him.''

"He is beneath you. A boy like that…"

"He is a man, a number of years older than I am."

"And he is renowned for his bohemian existence. I should imagine his associates live in squalor and speak no English."

"His friends are Irish, Romanian and Italian. They're from poor backgrounds but are filled with such a zest for this new life and the adventure which this ship would take them to."

"A ship built for luxury!"

"A ship built by fifteen thousand Irish men. Several of which died whilst it was in construction. The ship is made by the hands of those immigrants or of their peers. These fabrics were woven by them. The beauty which you can only see with your eyes because it sits so beautifully within a sitting room or a writing room is only there because others worked their fingers to the bone to provide it for you."

Striking realisation dawned on Ruth, but Rose didn't cease there. Her point seemed to be well off.

"You asked me this morning if I wished to see you working as a seamstress? As though there would be shame-"

"-but there would be! Our finer things would be sold and I would have to work. To provide."

"There is no shame, mother. Your own seamstress has no shame when she is upon her hands and knees and altering each and every part of this season's gowns for you."

"Mrs. Farley is not a member of one of the eldest or most prominent households in Philadelphia nor will she ever be."

"What if she has a brilliant mind? What if Mr. Dawson is a brilliant artist? What if he had money? Should we be having the same conversation because he is handsome or is it purely because he is residing in a third class cabin which may or may not be infested with hardly any rats?!"

"Rose!" Ruth scolded. ''The situation is ugly. Your temper is unbecoming. Cool it down, this instant.''

The only ugliness Rose saw in the world was her own narrow-minded crowd.

''It is the way I see it. The boy would ruin you, take away your innocence and leave you an unwed spinster with God knows how many mouths to feed.'' Ruth's voice spiked with a venom, and Rose knew that her mothers temper would soon be at full throttle. She had no intention of arguing. There were very few spirits within her to even speak. Yet her mother seemed to be well off her own point. Did she truly believe Jack's only motive would be to take her into a bed and then leave her be? Surely if the man was only after such things then would have taken such liberties to catch a feel when he had lain atop her after dragging her back overboard? But instead, he had simply held her shaken body and before they had known it, Quartermaster Rowe had been there and her quite reverie of staring into the truest blue had been broken.

''Well it is better than marrying a man that I will never love.'' Rose decided, aloud.

"Good heavens, you truly have lost your mind."

Rose started to play with the tassels of her cream wrap. The beading added weight to the garment. Was there weight to everything?

"Perhaps I have."

"You must have a fever. A sickness. You may need a doctor."

Rose laughed pitifully. "No, mother, I shall not require a doctor. Or medical assistance. I am quite all right."

"Your mind is lost…"

"My mind has been lost for some time. My mind has been absent. My mind has no clue as to what is happening to me; I have no hallucinations, no nightmares because the reality of what would be in them is my life.''

The frown between Ruth's brows deepened, as she clasped onto the edges of a brown wingback chair as though she required support.

''I haven't been bitten by a bug and I am not coming down with something which cannot be cured. I am not ill. I am not depressed, I have been so melancholy throughout my engagement to a man who I know that I can never love.''

''Dear God, don't tell me that you believe yourself to love a man you met less than two days ago?''

''I do not love anyone. I am fascinated by him.''

''That's what he wants! To draw you into him.'' Ruth cried. ''He is interested in our fortune, but that is what we do not have!''

''No, we do not, so perhaps, in your eyes, that may make us a little more even to him.''

''Mr. Dawson is not, and never will be, our equal! What has gotten into you?''

Rose couldn't reciprocate her question with an answer, because the truth was that she didn't quite know. There had been a point, during her becoming acquainted with Jack Dawson, that her entire world had tilted on its axis and spun about to cause the entire contents of her head to re-arrange. Nothing made any sense. Glancing at the several paintings which sat unhung about the sitting room, she tried to quickly stare and gain some sense from them. She never could….they were completely bizarre and odd. Perhaps like the artists. Weren't they known for the queerness? What had she told Cal? It's like being inside a dream or something. There's truth but no logic.

There was no logic…

''Well,'' Rose started, still engrossed in Monet's Water Lilies. ''What would you describe for my symptoms?''

''It's an infatuation. A silly, iditoc notation described in plays and dime novels. Rose, this…," Ruth's hand gestured to the decor of the sitting room. "This is what you are. You are a finely brought up girl. Well bred. Well educated. And you are about to marry a fine man."

"And that will be enough to ensure our survival."

"Of course it will!"

A plethora of emotions swirled at Rose in the moment, most of all, an absolute riot of anger. At the situation. At her mother. At more than anything to herself.

"My symptoms seem to be crippling at times. When I am melancholy, it is more than despair but a need to just become another being, a butterfly perhaps and just fly away to another location."

"You would be a fool to rush away from your responsibilities. Life isn't without its hardships." Rose faced Ruth, finding it difficult to see many turbulent times within her mothers lifetime. "Your father was a decent man and he was honourable but he wasn't what I would have wanted for myself. My father liked him and so there was a match."

"Like you had decided that Cal should be the match for me?"

"You dislike Cal?" Ruth recoiled. "Goodness Rose, perhaps you are in need of a doctor. You seem to be acting love sick since you met that artist."

"No, mother, I have seen some sense." Rose felt the way her stomach reacted to the way her mother said 'that artist.'

"I am certainly not love sick."

Rose glanced down to her trembling hands which she placed across her stomach to calm every single part of her. She felt, in Jack's presence, as though she was constantly tripping over. As though she was dancing upside down upon the ceiling. What part of that made sense? None of it. Perhaps she did have a strange fever. A fever causing hallucinations. There had been no part of it though invented within her own mind, it had all truly happened. Jack Dawson had saved her life. Had opened her eyes to the endless possibilities of life. Shown her how he was an artist and how the lower class lived their life so completely freely. But above all, he seemed to have unveiled another side to Rose, perhaps one he wasn't intentionally meaning to. Their dance, so close, had stirred feelings within Rose…

"What do you seriously expect an artist to do in order to support you? The man cannot support himself."

"Perhaps that isn't even a question." Rose paused, recalling how she had tried to reason with Jack in the gymnasium. He had made it very difficult for her to move. Breathe. She wished to wilt beneath his iced gaze, with his hand at her cheek and his breath on her lips. "I don't wish to be supported by any man." Jack certainly hadn't been offering financial value. He carried ten dollars and his artist's materials. He carried very little burden and he seemed to be as happy as could be. "The truth is, I want to help myself. I am seventeen years old. I am self sufficient. I am a woman."

"You are a child."

"Yes, a child right now but in three weeks time when I become a wife of a millionaire, I shall be a woman then. When my husband exercises his rights as he rightly should and I shall lay there and simply lose more sight of myself. My entire person would be lost. I would no longer recall who I was."

"I question your sanity."

"I question my own. I question yours. Above it all, I question God and the way of this world."

"Rose, we are women in a man's world. The suffragettes will never be truly seen as more than a movement. World hunger will never be solved. You will never be anything other than Cal's wife. But he is a good man…"

"I shall never be anything more than Cal's wife?" Rose was inflamed. Above anything, her mother was right and that statement was true. Only if she stayed right within the confines of the space of where she lived. The sitting room in all of its beauty was a cage. "I shall never be anything other than a wife. I shall be decorative. Ornamental. Perhaps I should carry children someday and allow them to be just as useless in this world. They may have great minds but if I bare daughters then they shall never have the chance to use them."

"Daughters are a painful reminder of one's own past mistakes. One's own burden. I shall like to see you blessed with sons."

Rose glanced at her mother, who was so engrossed in the topic of conversation that she barely lifted her gaze from the carpet. There was a glimpse of herself and what she could become in fifteen or twenty years. A woman who was so burdened by societal barriers than if one so much as stepped out of place then it would cause a rippled effect of shock or horror. What was the alternative?

''You're the most amazingly, astounding, wonderful woman that I have ever met in my life.'' A covert smile deepened the corner of his mouth but then it disappeared. ''I would never have enough to offer you, I know that as I stand here with ten bucks in my pocket, but being as involved as I am, I cannot let you go."

''I am not yours to take.''

''I know that. The choice would be yours. To be trapped with them, for the rest of your life. For the fire that I have grown to love about you, to you burn out or to find some kind of freedom.''

''It's not up to you to save me. I am not in need of saving-.''

Jack stroked his thumb over her skin. It was soft to touch. Rose raised her white gloved hand to touch his. It lingered as she searched his face. He was offering her a way out. One which she never had been given before. He was serious; she could see so in his face.

''You don't need saving. You just need to set yourself free." His voice was etched with hopefulness. She grasped his hand tighter.

"But it's not up to you to save me, Jack."

His closeness left her paralysed to the spot. He had such an effect on her, it was frightening.

"You're right. Only you can do that."

She couldn't breathe; his face was an inch or so from hers. If she stayed any longer, the tension would grow stronger. She had to stick to her word. Her eyes met his, glancing to his lips and then back as her stomach sank at the utter realisation of one thing; she could never leave her world. Whilst she still had some rein on herself, she found her voice.

"I'm going back. Leave me alone."

Jack had never forced his hand, or an opinion. The only thing which he had done was extend an open arm and suddenly, it was apparent. Even though her absolute misery was obvious to Jack, he never tried to install his thoughts into Rose. There had never been a moment where he had told her to leave, or to go with him. He had simply left it open, for her own interpretation. For her own mind to be made up all by herself. A decision, for the very first time, and as astoundingly large as it was, would have to be decided. Rose would truly have to steer the path of her own destiny.

''Are you sure that you don't have a fever, your teeth are chattering…''

''Yes, alert the doctor, if you must.'' Rose interrupted her mothers fettling. ''I fear that I may need one afterall.''

Ruth was gone to fetch the maid right away, leaving Rose alone within the sitting room. A steady silence settled over the world for just a moment and it was peaceful. As she watched the changing of her own mind occur before her very eyes within the mirror, Rose realised that no matter what Jack offered her; a friendship, help to simply become accustomed to another life or whether he kissed her endlessly and deepened the longing which already pulled at her, then she would cross the path when the time came. With her mother gone though, and a quick test to see if her own mind was truly lost, Rose decided that it was all intact.

She wasn't infected with a fever. Maybe just an infatuation.