Chapter 3 – Friday
Rose sat on the unknown man's bed. Gustav. The one you're pretending to be. The room was mostly dark, with just small candles illuminating her space and Jack's across the room. She tried to sneak furtive glances at him, to distract him from his watch, but his focus did not break.
Her heart pounded in her chest, faster than she had ever remembered it. In her past life, she had always had little bouts of nervousness here and there before stepping on the stage, even in a role she had played every night for weeks. Then, the nerves before her performance had always melted away into the high she felt each time she stepped on stage. The nerves were an important step in feeling alive each night in the theatre. But now, she was facing the most difficult acting job she had ever had, and she had no idea what her lines were.
She felt restless, like she needed to get up and pace the room, but that was out of the question. She thought back to her acting days, and some of the breathing exercises and vocal warm-ups they did. Forcing herself to focus, she closed her eyes and breathed in deep, exhaling slowly, letting the air pass over her loose lips, willing the stress to leave her body. But it did not help. The minute she inhaled again, the nervous energy returned.
She looked back over at Jack, trying to figure out if he was feeling the same way. Did she want him to be? She knew without a doubt that her quick-thinking, resourceful Jack could get them out of anything. But she also didn't want him to have to be the one to save them both every time.
There was even a small part of her that just wanted it to be over. It was starting to get quite late – she had no idea exactly how late—and the events of the day were catching up to her. If it went well, she could forget all about the search and crawl into bed next to Jack. If it went badly, well, if it went badly they'd have more problems to deal with, but at least this waiting would be over.
After another few minutes of restlessness, her thoughts then turned back to why she and Jack were here. It was clear from her talk with Fabrizio earlier that he didn't remember having gone through this before, and she decided it was very unlikely anyone from her former life would have remembered either – if they had they would have known exactly where to look for her. But what abut Sunday?
The gears had been turning in the back of her head all evening, but now that she had time to actually think, it was becoming clear to her just how little they could do to change the outcome. She and Jack were on one of those moving walkways with no way to stop or get off, headed straight for disaster—
There was a swift banging on the front door, followed almost immediately by two men entering the room.
Despite the candles, the room was dark and the door was blocking most of her view of the two men. Half of her wanted to shrink into the part of the bunk shrouded in darkness, making herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. The other half wanted – needed – to know the identity of the two men who had entered. If they were crew, she might get a reprieve. If it were Cal or Lovejoy—
"We're looking for any witnesses to a potential altercation on the stern of the ship earlier this evening. Are you aware of anything?" The voice was even, with a hard to place accent. Maybe Welsh? Not Cal. She stole the tiniest of furtive glances at the man accompanying the one who had spoken. His face was obscured by the shadows and she couldn't get a good read on him at all. She couldn't even tell how tall he was.
Jack sprung into action first. "Sorry, gentlemen, I'm afraid I haven't heard anything of the sort."
"Nothing? You haven't heard anything at all about a missing red-haired woman?"
"Only talk. You know how people are," Jack said, laying on the charm as thick as she had ever seen him do. "I find it hard to believe all that, don't you?"
Fabrizio seemed to have recognized his cue. Rose watched him sit up in bed, feigning grogginess. A proper thespian, she thought.
"Wha- Che cosa sta accadendo? What is going on?" The panic in his voice was the perfect mimic of someone who had been suddenly woken from sleep. She almost wondered if he had fallen asleep during the wait.
"We're looking for a woman named Rose Dewitt Bukater. She was abducted from her loved ones earlier tonight. You aren't in any trouble unless you know something and don't speak up."
Ice ran through Rose's veins as she heard that voice. She hadn't heard it in years, not since the last time she had been on this boat. The second man was Lovejoy.
"Who?" said Fabrizio. "I don't think I've heard of anyone like that."
"Very well, let me take your names." It was the first voice again. "Just in case we have any follow up questions."
Jack and Fabrizio both gave the name listed on their ticket, seamlessly, as if they had been their own. They had played their parts perfectly. Neither of the two visitors had even looked over at Rose, and now it seemed like they might be heading back out the door.
"This is a four-man bunk, if I'm not mistaken." The voice came from the Welsh crew man, not Lovejoy. There was a hint of question in his voice, but not because he didn't actually know how many people slept in this room. "Are your roommates in, son?"
Rose watched Jack think. He didn't dare look over at her, but a part of her still wanted to see reassurance in his eyes. Even from her side view, she could almost see the calculations running through his head. If he said yes, they'd open the door further, revealing Rose. If he said no, all of this might be over and the two men might leave. But they might still open the door to check, catching him in an obvious lie.
Jack only let out a muffled sound, and Rose's heart was pounding so hard in her chest she was sure everyone on the room could hear.
"What was that, son?"
"Uh, I'm not sure. I haven't really seen them around."
Nothing happened for a minute. Rose hugged her knees to her chest, staying as still as possible, willing to hear the two pairs of footsteps retreat. The seconds ticked by, endless with inaction, until a large hand wrapped around the end of the door and pushed it further open.
"You there, boy!"
She saw Lovejoy's face peering around the door. She only looked back for a second before looking away – no reason to make it easy on him. She withdrew even further into the darkness, willing herself to be invisible, a nobody.
"Boy, do you hear me?"
She only just then realized he was talking to her.
"I don't think sh—that is—I don't think he speaks much Eng—" but Jack's protest fell on deaf ears.
Someone – please be the Welsh one – was walking towards her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack, looking like a cat ready to pounce should anything go badly. The sound of heavy footsteps neared, their pace quick and almost aggressive. Hiding her face behind one of her hands, she could do nothing but anticipate the valet's rough hands reaching to grab her lapel. She nearly jumped when a softer touch tapped her on the shoulder. The Welsh one. Oh thank goodness.
"Sir, do you know anything about a missing woman?"
Her finger had been resting on the page of the book, over one of the few Swedish words she thought it likely she'd be able to pronounce, but with Lovejoy in the room she wondered if it was wise to speak at all.
"Say something, you imbecile."
"Mr. Lovejoy," came the measured, Welsh voice. "Perhaps we'll get further if we don't frighten the young man?"
And it was now or never. Rose could either say something in Swedish to this neutral party, or would likely face Lovejoy at his angriest. She took a deep breath, trying to deepen her voice as low as it would go, and croaked out "vidrig."
"What did he say?" It was Lovejoy again, but this time, everyone in the room could honestly say they had no idea. He stormed out of the room, no doubt frustrated with the foreigner who didn't understand his interrogation.
"All right," the Welshman spoke again, this time extremely slowly. "I'll just need your name, and then I'll be done."
"I think his name is Gustav," came Fabrizio's voice from across the room. Seriously, had he ever thought about acting? He was the most convincing out of all of them. Not to mention his skills in improvisation.
"Gustav?" The crew man was speaking again, directed at Rose.
She nodded. "Ja," she had seen that word several times in the text, and its meaning was clear enough. "Gustav. Gustav Daw—Larsson. Gustav Larsson."
"Thank you, lads. We will circulate a picture or a more detailed description of the missing woman as soon as we have it. If you hear anything more, even if you think it's just talk, please tell someone in a White Star Line uniform." And, with that, he turned on his heel and was out the door.
No sooner had the door closed than Rose leapt out of bed and ran across the room to the other narrow bed and into Jack's arms. He was trying to say something, but she couldn't stop kissing him between his words.
"Oh Rose—how—how did—we manage—manage to—get out—of that one—Rose—I love you—we're—we're gonna—we're gonna make it Rose."
She broke apart just long enough to cast her eye up to Fabrizio, still in his top bunk. "You were amazing, Fabrizio. One of the best performances I've ever seen. Truly."
But she didn't know how he responded, or even if he did at all, because now Jack was kissing her again, deep and demanding, as he pulled the sheets over them both. With each kiss, they released all of the passion, all of the tension, all of the nervous energy from this evening. She pulled him as close to her as possible, trying to touch him with every inch of her that was possible.
Slowly, as if satiated for now, the kiss turned from one of need to one of familiarity, one of reassurance. Their pace slowed, and soon their lips broke apart, but only just. Their faces were millimeters apart and she could feel his warm breath mixing with hers.
"It is safe, do you think? For the rest of night? Will they come back?"
"No, I doubt they'll come back," he whispered, against her lips. "Will you stay here with me tonight?"
"There is nowhere else in the world I'd rather be."
She kissed him again, before settling in beside him. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but the rest of her body was awake with Jack's presence beside her. The bed was small, and they had to share a single pillow between them, but it was still the most comfortable she could remember being in a very long time. She let out a yawn, and had nearly succumbed to sleep when she heard him speak.
"They did seem to know you had red hair," he said, as if he had just remembered he had mean to say it all along. "That was one of the few things they actually knew about you, and they mentioned it to us, which makes me wonder if they've mentioned it to others. Maybe the real Gustav and his friend? So, perhaps, just in case, you should keep it covered for the night. Maybe leave your hat on?"
Rose chuckled slightly at that, a memory from another time – a future time – dancing in her brain. It was enough to tear her away from the early wisps of sleep, and she pressed her chin against Jack's chest, looking up at him.
"What's so funny."
"Nothing. Something about what you said reminded me of a moment during our – uh – missing time."
"Will you tell me?"
"If you want me to."
"I want to know everything, Rose."
"There was this song," she began. "It came out maybe five or ten years ago – well, five or ten years ago, relatively speaking. Some time in the 1980s."
"Shit," was all Jack could say. It must have sounded impossibly futuristic to him.
"Lizzy, my grand—"
Jack nodded, showing he remembered who Lizzy was. "I still can't imagine you as a grandmother, Rose."
"I know!" she laughed. "Lizzy helped keep me feeling younger than I was, though. It was always so fun to hear about musicians she liked or new restaurants that served food from all over the world. I have to say, Jack. You and I were not born in an era known for its cuisine. She even brought me to New York City, ostensibly to see some shows on Broadway, but we ended up spending most of our time in the East Village, drinking cocktails and watching drag shows. One day, she brought me to a figure skating competition."
"Figure skating?" Jack asked, nearly incredulously. She could only count a handful of times she had managed to shock Jack, ever, and she never would have thought that her attendance at a figure staking competition would do it. But it was beginning to dawn on her just how much the world had changed in her lifetime.
"Oh, figure skating has changed a lot," she explained. "It's not a stuck up gentleman's sport anymore. A young woman, I can't remember her name right now, came along a while back, wearing short skirts and doing tricks, and it redefined the whole sport. Now it's mostly about how well you can do fancy jumps while still looking sexy."
"Is hockey the same?" asked Jack. "I played a bit as a kid. I don't know how to do any jumps, but I imagine I can still manage to skate around. I'll even put on a short skirt if that's what you want."
Rose buried her head in his chest, laughter on her lips. She was nearly delirious with sleepiness now, but she was enjoying this conversation far too much to succumb "You are unbelievable, Jack Dawson. As far as I know, hockey is still the same. But as long as you teach me how to stand up on ice skates while you're at it, I'll take you up on your offer. I'll even start planning your wardrobe."
"Fair's fair," he said, clearly fighting off sleep himself.
"Anyway," she continued, "Lizzy brought me to this skating competition. There was a pair of skaters who performed to this song I had never heard before. The lyrics were all about a man asking a woman to take off her clothes, piece by piece. You know," she put on a deep voice, half singing the song, even though she couldn't quite remember the tune. "'baby take off your shoes,' 'but you can leave your hat on.'"
"From the way those ice skaters performed to it, it felt like the most salacious song ever written.I have to admit I was completely enthralled by the skating."
"As soon as we got home, I asked Lizzy to try to find that song on cassette – that's a new invention that's sort of like a tiny gramophone. But, when I heard it out of context, I didn't have the same reaction at all. Nothing like it. It actually felt a little—corny? But even still, I don't think I'll ever forget how watching that performance made me feel."
"So when I said you should leave your hat on?" They were already impossibly close, but Jack managed to close even the smallest of gaps as he pulled her closer, nuzzling her nose.
"I thought of the cheesy, sexy song that won't come out for another 70 years and couldn't decide between laughing or forgetting just how tired I am and ripping all your clothes off."
Despite her excitement at sharing the memory with Jack, the long day had finally caught up with her. She had tried to force the sleepiness away as much as she could, but she was betrayed by the yawn she let out while admitting how tired she was.
Jack chuckled and kissed her lips, and then her forehead, and then her lips again, before pulling her head down into the crook of his neck.
"Sleep, Rose. We'll have time to – what was it – leave our hats on in the morning."
Saturday
Rose awoke to the overwhelming awareness of unfamiliarity, like waking up after the first night in a hotel room. She had had the most pleasant dream. It had been one she'd had before, many times. Every time before, it had come crashing down as soon as she opened her eyes. But this time it had felt so real.
Nearly instinctively, she reached out to the other side of the small bed to find no trace of Jack. God fucking damnit! She clenched her fists around the pillowcase in frustration, trying to breathe in just the last dregs of the aroma of sandalwood soap she could just imagine was actually there, trying to record the feeling of being in Jack's arms once again to her memory.
Finally opening her eyes and shaking off the last of the sleep in them, she rolled out of bed and glanced around the room, revealing an exact replica of Titanic's third class stateroom. This had to be some kind of sick joke. Muffled voices came from somewhere above her, and she broke away from the swelling panic just long enough to look in their direction.
"Oh, Rose, sorry to wake you. Fabrizio and I were just having that chat I promised him."
She blinked up at him. Jack Dawson, just as she had dreamt. No, just as she had experienced. He was seated on the top bunk next to Fabrizio, all four of their legs dangling off the side. She approached them, his shins at her eye level. Needing to feel his solidness after this morning's scare, she wrapped one of her hands around his ankle and nuzzled the side of her face against the trouser leg covering his thigh.
"It's all right, Jack. I just woke up and you were—"
"I'm sorry," he said, sliding closer to the edge of the top bunk and lowering his voice so that what he said would be just between the two of them. "I woke up a couple of hours ago. For a while, I couldn't make myself do anything other than watch you sleep – it might have been the most beautiful thing I ever saw. But Fabrizio woke up not long after, and I knew I owed him a conversation."
"What time is it?"
"A little after nine. I think we might have missed breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," she said, mostly truthfully. "But if you and Fabrizio have matters to discuss, I would like to take a bath."
Jack smiled down at her, warmly. "I think the wash rooms are near the kitchens. You'll have to take a left out of this room, then a right, then a quick left again. After that I think there are signs. But, uh, Rose," he hesitated. "Since we were talking about, you know, blending in and being less conspicuous, do you want me to see if I can borrow a skirt for you before you go?"
The well-broken in shirt and trousers had been comfortable enough that she had barely even noticed she had fallen asleep in them and was still wearing them after waking up. But Jack was right. They had no idea what, if anything, the people looking for her had found while they were asleep. Their performance last night had gotten her out of the woods for now, but she would have to keep avoiding any attention if they wanted to stay safe.
"Good idea," she said. "Though asking around to borrow a dress might arouse its own sort of suspicion. Maybe you could ask for a needle and thread? Then I can quickly alter these trousers. Or—if you'd rather I didn't, I could use the—" she was hunting around the room looking for any bits of fabric that she could turn into a skirt, but not coming up with much.
"That's a good idea, Rose. Take anything of mine you need. Would you mind checking in my bag? I think there may be a small sewing kit. If it's not there or you need more, I can go ask around."
"You have a sewing kit?"
"Of course I do. What do you expect me to do if I lose a button on the road? I can't do much more than reattach a button, mind you. But I'm not totally useless."
"Oh, that much I know, Jack."
They had left Jack's bag on the ground at the foot of the bed. In the small room, it was only a few steps away from where she was standing. Yesterday, in their rush to get Rose to blend in, he had hastily dumped its contents out on the bed. But, today, she had a little more time, and she relished seeing and sorting through Jack's belongings. She knew him so well and so deeply, but there were details he had never shared that had tortured her for the decades they were apart. When was his birthday? Was he tidy or disorganized? Was he always an early riser?
She was not disappointed to see that the majority of the objects he carried with him were purely practical – a lighter, a partial set of what looked like camping cooking tools, soap and a razor, some tinned food and medicines. She felt her way through some fabric: clothes and socks and towels, and hit on three leather folders – one of which was his art portfolio – and a couple of flat square packages wrapped in newsprint. She didn't think he would mind if she looked through them, but she decided she would rather wait and ask him to show them to her himself, so she set them aside. Finally, she found several small tin boxes and pulled them out of the bag. The first one she tried was nearly empty except for a few sheets of cigarette wrapping paper. The second contained two needles, a thimble, and a large spool of black thread.
Taking the sewing kit with her, she sat back down in the bed she and Jack had shared the night before and got to work. Embroidery had never been her strong suit as a teen – none of the traditional, delicate tasks her mother had hired a governess to teach her were, but she had managed to pick up just enough of the stitches for it to become a valuable practical skill in her life before the theatre. Her eyesight had started to go in the later years, so she imagined she was probably a bit rusty. But being with Jack again felt like muscle memory; maybe her sewing skills would come back in a similar way.
As she got to work, she heard Jack and Fabrizio continue their discussion. They were speaking quietly enough, and she was concentrating enough on her work that she only heard snippets of what they were saying, but she thought that was for the best. Jack and Fabrizio did deserve to have this conversation without an eavesdropper.
She finished her work much more quickly than she would have expected to. After the first few stitches, her fingers started moving nearly of their own accord. Before she realized it, she was looking down at what had once been Jack's comfortable trousers, but now resembled a long skirt. There had not been enough fabric to widen the bottom, so it ended up being one of the narrower pencil skirts she had ever seen, but it fit better than expected. As a final touch, she wrapped a scarf she had seen in Jack's bag around her hair, covering the color, and then cleared her throat as she stepped up onto the lip of the lower bunk, now meeting Jack closer to his eye level so he could more easily capture her lips.
"I am actually going to go take the bath now. I hope you have a good talk," she said.
"We already are," he said, kissing her again quickly, before she rushed to the door, leaving the two men alone.
She would have thought that wandering through the third class corridors, with only a vague sense of where she was going, might have brought back memories of looking for Jack in the Master at Arms' Office, of racing through the sunken hallways trying to find an escape, of being colder than she had ever been in her entire life. But this morning, the memories that came to her were much more recent. Jack's lips on hers. Jack's tongue in her mouth. Jack's kisses moving down her neck, inching closer to her breasts. A sudden warmth overtook her, and she felt a strange comfort in wandering through the sterile corridors, almost like she was exactly where she belonged.
When she finally reached the women's wash room, she joined the line at the end – there were only a couple of bathtubs to go around. At first, the line hardly moved, and she wondered just how long the wait for a bath would be. Her thoughts went to Jack and his conversation with Fabrizio. She wondered if they were done talking. She wondered how much of their story he chose to reveal. And she wondered if he would be back in the stateroom, eagerly anticipating her return to him, freshly washed.
But, once the line started moving, the wait went by rapidly. There were conversations happening all around her, and while she was mostly confident to sit quietly with her own thoughts, one thread of conversation perked her ears up.
"So do you think there's any hope of finding that girl?"
"Not if she went overboard."
"And that's what they think happened?"
"I really don't know. But I heard someone something about how the angle of the piece of fabric left behind meant that she was on the wrong side of the railing when it ripped off. Or something like that. I didn't really follow."
"That gives me the heebie-jeebies," the first voice said. "Does anyone know if it's true?"
"Well," came the second voice. "I don't know anything for sure, but I gather there was some kind of obituary in the ship's newspaper this morning."
The two voices faded off, as each of the two women they belonged to reached the front of the queue for the bath. There were only a small handful of women between Rose and them, but she was already eager to finish her bath and go find out what more she could about what the ship newspaper thought had happened to her.
By the time it was finally her turn, she strode into the bath, and let the lukewarm water rush over her. It was a far cry from luxuriating in a bubble bath after turning on the hot tap, but her body was more tired than she realized, and a soak was just what she needed.
She took her time to make sure her hair was clean, along with any possible inch of her body that Jack might want to kiss. She ran a few fingers along her inner thighs, imagining Jack exploring her there with his own fingers. With his tongue? She remembered how she had felt preparing for Jack's drawing – her nerves warring with her determination, her doubt mingling with her confidence with each button of her dress she undid. She had taken just a moment to look at herself in the mirror, trying not to fixate on each little imperfection, brushing foundation over blemishes and freckles here and there. She pulled on the kimono before she could look long enough to lose her nerve. But then, as now, Jack had looked at her with nothing but love in his eyes. She remembered seeing the picture for the first time and seeing herself as he saw her – he hadn't ignored or magicked away the blemishes and imperfections, but he had somehow made them look—beautiful.
She stepped out of the bath, running a borrowed towel through her hair and up and down her body, before stepping back into Jack's shirt and the skirt she had altered this morning. Feeling refreshed, she made one small stop on her way back to the stateroom.