New York City
Autumn, 1914
Rose
"Miss Dawson, you are late."
Rose looks up from smoothing out her uniform apron to find the stern gaze of Mrs. Ellis locked onto her, and her alone. She meets the woman's eyes only briefly before looking back down towards her shoes. She wants to argue– to keep her chin up– but has learned from past incidents with other girls over the year and a half that she has been here, that arguing will do her no good right now, even when technically, she is not late. Her shift begins promptly at 8am, and here she is, in place, before the chimes on the store's great timepiece even begin. She knows, however, that as much as she might wish to argue the point, in Mrs. Ellis' world, early is on time, and on time is late, and excuses will not be suffered.
"My apologies, Mrs. Ellis," she says in the most polite and contrite tone she can muster. "It won't happen again."
"See that it does not," the matronly woman responds, eyeing her for even a hair out of place, and then louder, "that goes for all of you. Let this be the example. If you cannot arrive as expected, the shop will not run as expected, and you will not be paid as expected. Is that clear? Miss Dawson, I am docking one hour of pay for impertinence."
Knowing that there's nothing for it, Rose nods. Still feeling that this chiding and punishment is wholly unfair, she swallows down the flare of indignation brewing within her and nods, managing an unenthusiastic "Yes, Ma'am," once again.
Coming from the background she does, with the way in which she was raised, to turn a blind eye towards the actual value of money, it had been a harsh wake up call for Rose to discover the wage with which real women her age often survive– and usually with the help of family before finding a spouse. She brings home a mere $6 per week for her labor here, with a commission bonus if she'd been lucky enough to help a particularly distinguished lady, and she knows that that is a competitive rate. Losing even just an hour of pay will be felt with the way she has to ration to afford a roof, and a meal, and the weekly fare to work.
When she first began here it had taken her a whole two months to work off the cost of two uniform sets, taken from her paycheck. And she knows it's not backbreaking work. What she does is light compared to a factory laborer or a laundress, but it's still more than she has ever done before, and for more than she has been accustomed to, and she likes to think that her work ethic is good.
With Mrs. Ellis' shrewd gaze directed elsewhere, finally, she finishes smoothing the pale blue apron tied over the long black skirt that matches that of every other girl here. She had chafed, at first, under the necessity of a uniform: the simple black skirt, white blouse, plain belt, and practical pointed-toe work boots that all the girls wear. For the first time in her life she had nothing to distinguish her from all the rest. She hated it, at first. She had cried when it was suggested she color her hair if she didn't want to stick out like a sore thumb. That is, until she realized the benefit of it. The thing about looking and dressing like everyone else around you is that it's easier to hide in plain sight, and ever since April of 1912, all she has wanted to do is hide. It has also been an unforeseen blessing not to have to think while getting ready on her own, so early in the morning, under-bust corset and all.
In truth, she had been in a rush this morning. With Jack's sudden appearance the night before, she feels as if her entire world has been thrown off its axis. To be here right now, receiving a dressing down from a wicked boss feels like the most normal thing that could happen, and oddly, it settles her.
With the emotions of their reunion last night, Rose feels wrung out. She also feels so very guilty.
She knows that her reaction– being so slow to warm, and so cautious and guarded– is not what Jack had probably expected. She could tell that he was masking disappointment more and more the longer they were together, but she had felt so overwhelmed.
She was shocked at the mere fact of his survival, and still so appalled with herself for not keeping her own promises, and Jack had been lovely. He hadn't pushed, or seemed to expect anything of her. He had held her gently, and said such kind words when she finally embraced him. He had made sure she ate something, aware of her long day. Though reluctant to leave, he had bid her good night on the promise of seeing her again today, apologetic over causing her such a shock. She could tell he hadn't wanted to leave her there at all. He would have rather her to go with him to wherever it is he now lives, or that she had let him stay. He had respected her boundaries, however. He had understood her overwhelm and had been nicer about it than she deserves. He had stood, hat in hand in her doorway, and had kissed her cheek goodbye when she had turned away at the last second, and he'd been quick to disguise the hurt the action brought.
He doesn't know all that Rose had put herself through to get to this place. She thinks that if he did, he'd be even more disappointed in her, and maybe that he wouldn't want her anymore at all, and what is she if not selfish? She'll keep her shameful secrets, if it means keeping him. She'll figure out some way to be less of a disappointment.
Hell, she had spent half the night awake, trying to think of how, and that is what had put her behind this morning.
She goes through the motions for most of the day. She dusts her counters, runs her errands to the storeroom and back. She keeps as watchful of an eye as she can for any ladies who linger a moment over the colors and powders on display behind glass cases, careful to make her gentle leading suggestions in order to secure up a few purchases. She does her trick of demonstrating on her own fair skin, still refined and smooth compared to some of her peers– a lovely canvas according to the deplorable Mr. Gimbel, who, when he can, will take any opportunity to invade a shop girl's space– to turn a pretty face between pinching finger and thumb, or to rake eyes up the silhouette of another as they model the latest from Paris. Today, at least, she manages to avoid him when he makes his jaunt through their floor between meetings, but not without tripping over her own two feet in the meantime when she spots a familiar face.
To her shock, among the group of suits following the man at a sedate pace as he expounds upon the virtues of a modern shopping experience, showing off the glamor of the store that he and his business partner have established, is Jack. He's more dressed up than he had been the evening before, in slacks and a shirt that look tailored and pressed beneath a different vest and coat, and under one arm he carries a sleek looking portfolio case. The expression on his face as he gazes around is one of boredom disguised as polite interest, though his brows rise slightly, eyes widening and mouth quirking when he catches sight of Rose peering out at him from around a corner column. It takes him a moment to recover and realize he has been spoken to, and he seems reluctant to peel his eyes away.
It's another girl, Alice, who helps her right herself from her fall, appearing at her elbow as if she had been watching Rose the whole time, and maybe she had, for all that she's questioning her.
"What has gotten into you, Rose?" she being as quiet as she can. "It's as if your head is entirely in the clouds today." is occupied for the moment and hasn't noticed, thank goodness.
Rose sighs. She wishes her hair weren't pinned up so she might run her fingers through it and alleviate some of her frustration at herself. She peers around the corner again, seeing that Jack is still there, pulled into conversation now, but obviously just as distracted as she is. "I didn't sleep very well last night," she answers. It's not even a lie.
Alice's eyes narrow. If there's anyone that Rose can count as a friend in this job, it's Alice, who is kind, and opinionated, and not above getting in a little bit of trouble, often to spare it for any of the other girls if something in a day goes wrong. Being the niece of the manager of the shopping emporium's restaurant, she's less likely than the rest of them to ever be fired.
Alice's gaze follows Rose's, over towards where Jack and a few other men are being shown something near the counter.
"I see why you were distracted," she says matter of fact. "That one is handsome. What do you suppose he's here for?"
Rose suppresses the urge to glare or scoff. Yes, Jack is handsome. Anyone with eyes and half an ounce of sense can see that plain. She's shocked however to discover that another woman's assertion of such a thing– another woman looking at Jack that way at all, has unhappiness and disease coiling within her. It occurs to her that Jack must get this kind of attention all the time. It takes her just another moment of seeing the way that Alice's eyes linger as she tilts her head to ponder her own question to realize that what she's suddenly feeling is jealousy, and indeed, what is Jack doing here? Is this how he had found her in the first place? Had he seen her at work?
She realizes, with a bit of a start, that she hadn't even thought, the evening before, to ask him what it is he does for a living now. It's obvious by his clothing, and the way he had mentioned renting and then buying a home from Molly Brown that he must be doing something incredibly lucrative, but she hadn't thought Jack the kind of person to have any interest whatsoever in business, of all things. Now though, as she watches the way that Jack seems to ask an intriguing question of Mr. Gimbel, nods at the answer and makes a note of something, and then says something again that has their whole group laughing jovially, it dawns on her again that she really doesn't know much about Jack at all. Before they're led from the hall entirely, Jack's eyes find hers again and with a wink sent in her direction she's not sure whether to be endeared or indignant.
The flurry of chatter from her coworkers about the handsome stranger that had been led through their hall earlier continues through the rest of the day. Each speculative guess about his identity is more and more ridiculous, and Rose has to bite her tongue to keep from being snappish and mean, the petty debutante in her wanting to rear her ugly head.
She's appalled at herself for feeling possessive of a man that she has no claim to. Though, that's not true, the traitor part of her mind tells her. She's aware enough to know that were she to ask it, Jack would be hers in an instant, if only she could quell her own guilt and allow herself to take that chance. If the way he had searched for her is any indication, he's been hers for the past three years.
At long last, her work day ends, with no more chiding but to remember to be punctual. In the cloak room she gathers her things– her coat and small purse, and she stows her apron away for the next day. Before heading out, she takes the time for once to stop by the toilet– to scrub her hands clean and check her appearance in the mirror, and then she admonishes herself for being silly. It's not as if there's anything she can really do about her appearance, nowadays, except hope that it might suffice.
She had agreed the evening before to allow Jack to meet her at the end of her shift, but she hadn't thought of giving him an exact meeting place. At a loss for what else to do she simply follows her usual path back through the closing store and towards the front where it empties into the bustling streets of the Manhattan shopping district, and there's Jack near the doors, beneath the great clock that had gotten her into trouble that morning. In an echo of an age ago, when his eyes find hers his grin blooms into place.
Jack, dressed exactly as he had been a few hours ago, but now sporting an overcoat against the cold, and a sharp felt hat on his head, leads her out of the way of the large entryway. He's got an unlit cigarette held firm between his teeth, and his smile grows further as he greets her as if he simply can't help it in her presence. She can feel curious eyes on them as other shop workers make their own exits for the day, and can already anticipate the questioning she'll receive tomorrow.
"Care to escort a guy to dinner?" Jack asks, once they've made it out onto the street. He's looking at her with earnestness, even though he probably anticipates her answer to be yes. His hands are occupied with lighting his cigarette, shielding the flame from his little silver lighter from the wind blustering down the avenue. Her eyes catch on the thing as he takes a drag- catches on his mouth. She recalls he had had a cigarette when they first met, when he talked her off the bow of the ship, casual as anything. She tries to remember the last time she had lit a cigarette of her own, and thinks it may have been aboard Titanic; perhaps lunch with her mother or Cal, or maybe at that party below decks. She hadn't had the money to spare for a pack, since. As if reading her mind, he holds it out to her in a silent offer. It feels foreign between her fingers now, but the tobacco and smoke in her lungs is exactly the thing she needs to ground her, and settle her nerves about this whole thing.
With the cigarette back between his lips, he holds up an arm, elbow at the ready for her to take. It's steadying. He's steadying. This dance of manners is nothing new. It's the thing she has been doing her whole life. It's what she was raised to do: to take a gentleman's arm. This is not something she has done in years, however; not even close. Instead, past those first awful months, once she had secured herself a place, she had kept to her own.
An invitation to dine would have once seemed ordinary, but now it feels terrifying. It means coming out of the tower she has been keeping herself locked up in. It means living instead of merely existing. It means coming out of the waking slumber- the fog that she's been under- and she's not sure that she knows how, any more. All she can really do however is attempt and bottle her anxieties up and try to trust this man. She loops her arm through his, and lets him lead the way.