New York City
Autumn 1914
Jack
After getting in, Jack lights a fire in the hearth and collapses down onto his sitting room sofa. He feels exhausted. He's physically and mentally drained. He's so full up with relief at finally finding Rose, and happiness as well, but it's also bittersweet. It's not a fairy tale ending. He knew it wasn't ever gonna be, but he has to admit to himself that he had hoped for a bit more— a bit more openness, at least. She's still so closed off; so scared of letting her feelings show and letting her emotions rule her actions and of being candid about what she's been through, and he can see her desire to let go warring with her need to be cautious, and really, he does understand. Just like she's afraid to lose this, he knows that if he were to lose her again, he might very well just give up everything. He's been so close to running so many times over the past few years— so close to just giving up and going back to his old vagabond existence. So long as there's any possibility of having Rose in his life, however, he knows that he needs to stay wherever she is and that he'll go wherever she wants to go..
He had hated seeing her off at the stoop of her tenement building, knowing that she'd be going upstairs to her cold little room. He wishes still that he could just take her home here, let her move in and take up some of this space. He thinks with her it would feel like a home; she'd make it a home. He hopes that maybe that can still be a possibility, someday soon.
As it is, he doesn't really use much more than this one room. He doesn't often cook meals for himself, preferring the noise of people in whatever bistro or food hall or cafe he can find at the end of the day. The noise, and any friendly chatter he happens across keeps him from getting too lost in his own thoughts and memories. He doesn't use the frankly ridiculous number of rooms, other than the small studio he has set up for himself on the first floor, with his easels and a drafting table and his supplies, the window open to the street noise outside when the weather allows. He doesn't even really sleep in what would be his bedroom; what he hopes may someday be their bedroom, together. He'd spent so many years without a bed to call his own, sleeping wherever there was space for him, that he's simply not used to it. When Molly and her family aren't here to judge, he simply pulls a blanket off of the back of the sofa and curls up there, which is exactly where morning finds him after he has finally dozed off.
He gets ready for the day, trying not to let anticipation get the better of him. He had ended his night with Rose with a promise of seeing her soon, but it hadn't come along with any firm plans this time. All he has is the hope that their paths will cross, and he knows that they will. He's meant to be at Sak's again, the store where she works, to sign contracts and firm up plans and start drafting for approval. He has two weeks to get the five pieces he's been commissioned for finished and ready for print, and while that's not a lot of time, he thinks that with Rose there in the building, he'll have more than enough inspiration to get it done.
He enters through the grand entrance at a quarter-to-eleven, and greets the doorman kindly, remembering him from the day before. Though still not used to the practice of it, he allows his coat and hat to be taken, and thanks the man, ready to take the elevator up to the hallway where the office of Mr. Gimbal and his business partner Horace Saks sits, large windows open to the atrium in the center of the store and overlooking each department. He looks out the grated window on his way up in the elevator, to see if he can spot Rose as he's passing through where he had learned her third floor work station is, but he has no such luck.
When he reaches Gimbel's office, the door is open, but he can hear voices inside — a woman, saying something about propriety and expectations. It almost reminds him for a moment of Ruth, and he has to stifle a laugh as he knocks.
Mr. Gimbal is sitting at his desk, hands folded in front of him as he listens to the woman standing across from him, clearly exasperated, but he gives a smile when he sees Jack, cutting the woman off.
" , my boy! Come in, come in. Right on time, I see."
"Yes sir," responds Jack, entering fully into the space. The woman, realizing she has an audience, has stopped talking and turned, eyeing him up and down.
"Mrs. Ellis," says Mr. Gimbel, "This is Jack Dawson. He's the impressive young artist that we've employed this year to do the illustrative work for our winter catalog. He'll be at his leisure within the store for the duration. Please see to it that he has anything he may need from your department should he ask."
He turns to Jack again. "This is Mrs. Ellis. She oversees our cosmetics, lingerie, and hosiery departments, and manages the daily affairs of our shop girls, some of whom I'm sure you probably noticed yesterday. We employ only beauties here, so it's hard not to, I assure you."
Not liking the way Mr. Gimbel refers to the women in his employ, Jack turns to Mrs. Ellis none-the-less, and offers her a kind smile, holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ma'am."
Rose hasn't talked much about her job, but if she's in charge of the shop girls and the cosmetics department, that means this woman is Rose's boss, so of course he's going to try and make as good of an impression as he can.
She doesn't move to shake his offered hand however, and instead gives him another once-over.
"Mr. Dawson, is it?" She asks. Her hard stare is penetrating, giving him the sense that he's somehow already done something wrong.
"Yes, ma'am," he answers with a nod.
"I'll expect you not to be a distraction for my girls. No dallying or flirting whilst they're on the clock. They get enough of that from the customers."
Before he even has the chance to say anything to that, she's sweeping out of the room, her heavy skirts leaving a cool breeze behind. A bit flabbergasted, Jack turns back to Mr. Gimbel to find him shaking his head.
"Don't mind that old bat," he says. "Horace hired her an age ago. She's got rather old fashioned ideas if you ask me, and she keeps those girls on too tight a leash, but at least she gets a job done and sees that things are run efficiently."
He's really not sure what to say to that, so he changes the subject entirely, and pulls out his portfolio and the notes and fast sketches he had made the day before.
"So, I wanted to see what you thought," he starts, laying out a few pages. "I'm thinking that instead of just drawing the products you've got on display, and building details, we could personalize it a bit— include some portraits of some of the people who actually work here— give the customers a familiar face to see when the catalog brings them in." He looks up to see that the man is receptive to the idea, glad to see that he's nodding along, already looking impressed.
"I figured for the haberdashery department we could, for example, show the department head arranging the ties in the case, or the tailor at work— same for the millinery room. We could highlight the cafe by showing the chef, and you mentioned, is it his niece who works here as well? We could bring in the whole family friendly angle that way," he flips to a quick sketch he had done of the chef yesterday while he had waited for the end of Rose's shift.
'And of course," he continues, knowing that he'll have to play this right, "a few portraits of one of the shop girls, perhaps? Show the customers the friendly faces they'll meet here?"
He of course has the ulterior motive of inventing a reason to get time to draw Rose— he had decided on it the moment he realized that this job was in fact at her place of work. He might not ever get the chance to draw her again the way he once had— not so intimately— but if he could invent a reason to spend even a little bit of time memorizing her face and trying to capture her beauty, he'll jump on the chance. If he can get her a break from being on her feet for a little while, too? All the better.
"All delightful ideas, Mr. Dawson. I leave it to your expertise."
New York City
Autumn, 1914
Rose
The whispering follows Rose from the moment she walks in through employee entrance. It takes her as far as the cloak room to realize that the whispers are about her, specifically, and about the mysterious, handsome young man who had been in the store the day before and how they had been seen leaving together. Listening to the chatter– the way they speculate about who he is, how they know one-another, whether they're an item– reminds her of the way that girls would gossip at finishing school. Most of it had been harmless fun: whispers about rendezvous and admirers and speculation about secret engagements . Some of it though had been insidious– words and accusations thrown around to put targets on backs, and she doesn't need that here. She has been very careful, since being hired, to not gain any kind of a reputation for anything, be it good or bad and to fly under the radar, making a few friends, but no real enemies. It seems like this week in particular her luck here at the store is running out.
"I heard they walked together as far as Broadway!" she hears one girl say as she puts her things away. Rose doesn't look up from her cubby, but she can feel their eyes on her.
"Well I heard it was as far as the Village, and then they ate together at a restaurant. Can you imagine? Eating with a man, alone? Letting him pay?" It's another girl who says this, and a flare of mortification rises within her. It's frustrating because that girl is actually correct, they had gone as far as the Village. They had dined together alone, and Jack had paid, because he's a gentleman, and that's all they did together last night. At the end of their meal he had walked her home, and had kissed her cheek goodnight, and that was that. If these girls knew half of what she and Jack had once done together they would probably be so scandalized they'd run her out of the store.
She does understand that to these girls, an evening alone with a man is verging on a scandal. Especially within her old world, and she's well aware, in this one too, for a woman to accompany a man like that unattended, they're either already married, in an announced engagement and among friends, or they're women of loose morals; a pitiable kind of woman who's seeking money or favors in exchange for their company, and it's easy for one to assume that the interactions had aren't innocent.
"Well," another girl tries to defend her (for which she's thankful) "How do you know she and that man aren't married?"
"She wears no ring," another answers, and it seems that that is that.
She tries her hardest not to let it bother her, even when, after their morning arrival, everyone there has made a point to stand a noticeable distance away from her– enough so that Mrs. Ellis picks up on it, her shrewd dark gaze zeroing in on her for the second day in a row. She comments on the fact that Rose had indeed shown up "on time" today, but then it's clear that the older woman has heard the gossip, too, because she launches straight in on a rather pointed speech about how they're all expected to conduct themselves as ladies both on and off of the clock, and that their reputations are the store's reputation, and that if anything untoward were to reach her ears she wouldn't hesitate to turn any one of them out of the job. Even Alice has opted to take up a place on the opposite side of the mascara counter from Rose today, though she at least offers her a sympathetic smile, and a whispered request to talk later.
Rose tries her hardest to just ignore it all and get on with her work. The longer the day wears on however, the more clear it is that she is being ganged up on and snubbed out to a point that she almost can't ignore. The other girls are heading off customers left and right, steering them clear of her counter, which gives her no opportunity to earn any decent commission for the day, and when that's not happening it seems Mrs. Ellis is watching to double down, hell bent on sending her on treks to the storage rooms in the boughs of the building as often as she can find reason to and has already asked her to stay behind at the end of the day for "a word." She has missed her lunch break, and is feeling harried and honestly upset at the entire situation, worried over possibly being fired, so she's not looking where she's going, when she walks directly into Jack in the west-side stairwell back up to the third floor.
"Jack!" she says, surprised. She doesn't think she'll ever get used to the novelty of seeing him, so very blessedly alive.
His hand has gone to her elbow, steadying her after their collision, and he gives it a gentle squeeze before letting go. She thinks she'll probably be feeling the ghost of the simple touch for the rest of the day.
"I didn't know you would be here again today," she says, stepping back to a respectable distance between them. If he's at all upset about it, he doesn't let it show.
"Yes," says, sounding rather more unsure than she's used to. "I uh, got the job I was here to see about yesterday. I'll be aroun pretty regularly for the next couple of weeks getting some sketches done."
"Oh," she says, somewhat lamely. She finally notes the same portfolio case he had been carrying the day before is tucked under his arm, and he's got a drawing pencil tucked behind one ear. There's a bit of graphite smudged at his chin where he must have scratched at his face at some point, and she wishes she could wipe it clean for him. She curses herself for not even thinking to ask what it was he'd been doing here yesterday after everything, too consumed by the rest of their conversation. "So you– you're an artist? Professionally?" 'You've done it,' is what she wants to say. 'You've fulfilled your dream.'
"Mostly," he answers with a shrug. "The commercial stuff gets me more than a dime, at least. It keeps the lights on, anyway." She can tell that he's hedging, and that there's more to the story, but now's not the time to ask about it further.
"Actually–" he starts, at the same time she in with "Anyway, I've got to–"
He chuckles, gesturing for her to continue, but she finds herself just saying "No, you first," though she really needs to be getting back upstairs.
The concerned line between his brows is back, and so are the frown lines at the corners of his mouth when he looks at her now, stepping down to be on the same stair as her, back on her level.
"Are you alright, Rose?" he asks. "You seemed a little upset when you were coming up the stairs just now. I tried to get your attention, but it seemed like you were somewhere else completely."
She sighs, not sure how to answer that. She is upset, though telling Jack the truth about why is likely to upset him as well, and it's not his fault. He's likely to see it that way– it was his presence the day before that had put her on the outs with the other girls and her boss, but he hadn't actually done anything wrong; he's here to do a job of his own. It's her own fault for being distracted, and for not being more careful about being seen leaving the building on his arm, though she still thinks it's absurd that anyone actually cares. She doesn't want to lie to him, either, though. He always tells her the truth and she doesn't want to be any different.
"I'm just having a rather bad day is all," she replies. "It'll be over soon and I can start fresh tomorrow."
His frown deepens. "What's wrong?" he asks. She sees his hand move as if he wants to reach for her, but he seems to remember himself at the last moment. "Is there anything I can do?"
She wants to laugh. This is exactly why she hadn't wanted to say anything. She can't help that her tongue runs away before her mind can catch up, however. "No, Jack," she says. "I think you've done enough."
She sees the hurt register on his face before she can stop it.
"What do you mean by that?" he asks. He crosses his arms against his chest, over his portfolio, and she's not sure whether the stance is meant to be defensive or protective– shielding his vulnerable heart from her thoughtless words. Now she feels even worse than she had before seeing him.
"It's nothing," she says hurriedly. "I'm sorry. I'm being horrible. You did nothing wrong. It's just, I'm in a bit of hot water for having been seen out with you yesterday. I've been snubbed all afternoon, and there was a talk given this morning about expectations and propriety when we're not on the clock, and how we all impact that reputation of the store, and they've been sending me on endless errands so I'm not on the sales floor. I've been asked to a meeting so I'm pretty positive I'm going to be sacked by the end of the day."
Saying it out loud, she realizes she feels pretty miserable over it all. It's not that she loves her job or anything, but it's much better than she could have found. She does have a friend here in Alice. She has enough put by to see her through a couple of months now, if she's careful, but she'd still hate to leave here, and also to have a strike against her name, making it harder to find something else. And really, she's proud of her work here. She's proud that she had done something entirely on her own for the first time in her life, and that she has managed to stick it out this long.
At her admission, Jack looks horrified.
"God, Rose, I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to bring you any trouble."
"I know you didn't," she tells him.
"Just point me to whoever I need to talk to and I'll explain. They don't know that we know one-another. I can tell them that they've got the wrong idea, and it'll all be fine, right?"
She shakes her head. "It doesn't work like that, Jack," she tells him sadly, a bit charmed in spite of herself that he still seems to barely understand the unspoken rules that govern their society. "You could be any man and it wouldn't matter. I was seen out with you alone, as an unmarried woman, going further than a quick walk to the station. Assumptions are made. I've seen this same thing happen to other girls who've been dismissed. It doesn't matter."
He's about to argue, she can tell, but they're interrupted. The sharp call from up the stairs of "Miss Dawson!" catching both of their attention. Mrs. Ellis hasn't rounded the corner to see them yet, but Rose can hear her sharp-heeled footsteps coming closer, knowing she must have heard Rose talking. "When I send you to fetch something for me, I mean for you to bring it post-haste! You'll not be told again, no dallying!"
The woman rounds the corner to the top of the stairwell and stops short, eyes going from Rose, to Jack who in his apologetic state has brought a hand up to her arm again, and in spite of herself she has leaned into it. She's sure from the top of the stairs the touch, and the way their heads had been tilted in towards one-another as they talked looks even more incriminating. She almost feels now as if she's being stared down again by her mother, who'll unleash her true opinions the moment they're back in the privacy of their quarters. It's so unfair how quickly she can still be made to feel like a child out of bounds.