Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Winter 1903

Rose

She knew as she was doing it that she'd be in trouble the moment she got caught. Papa wasn't home to lessen a punishment– coddle her, as her mother said. He hadn't been home for the past two weeks, and Mother always took her governess' word on everything. She even took the governess' word when she would lie or make up stories about what they had done that day, when really she was reading her fashion magazines or primping in the big mirror in Rose's bedroom. Most of the time Rose didn't care. When the governess was occupied with things other than Rose's school work, or reprimanding her about how to be a polite young lady, it meant that she got more time to read, or more often, daydream.

On days like today– rare times when she's allowed to leave the estate to accompany her governess, Miss McAllum, into town to run an errand or two, she finds herself too fascinated by the outside world to have time for daydreaming.

On this day, they pass by the schoolyard. It had snowed the night before, and this early in the day it hasn't yet all turned into black sooty sludge, though she knows all the snow in the city will be gray by nightfall. It's still powdery and fresh as they make their way down the street. Rose is doing as she's told– following along and practicing her good posture, as she's reminded to do so often. She has been trying to copy her governess' gait for the last block; the way she's got her head held high, and the short clipped steps she takes, arms still by her sides.

As they pass by the schoolyard, however, she's distracted. The children are outside playing, girls and boys both. They're running about in the snow-covered grass, and building snowmen, and there are some children sledding down a hill at the far end, which she has never been allowed to do before. At the tender age of eight she doesn't think she's ever held so much jealousy within her small body.

All she wants in the world is to go and join them. She wants to know what school is like– real school, though she'd been told that a public school like this isn't "proper for a young lady." According to her mother, she learns all she could ever need to know form Miss McAllum, and that when the time comes, she'll go away to a finishing school suitable for fine women, though if she's to be taught all there is to know by a governess, she doesn't understand what there could be to "finish."

Up ahead of her the governess has stopped her dainty, exhaustive walk, and is leaning against the school gate, talking to a man inside who's smiling at her an awful lot. Rose has never seen this man before, though it appears that Miss McAllum knows him. The way she's leaning close against the fence, and the way that she reaches through the bars to straighten his tie suggest to Rose that she knows him well.

She has the fleeting thought that perhaps they're in love, though that can't be right. She knows enough to know that her governess isn't married. She has no ring on her finger, and she has heard mother say that no respectable governess has a spouse, and no respectable man would take a governess for a wife, because all good governesses are spinsters– that no woman with a head for teaching could attract a suitable man at all, which is why they teach, and why that is an ambition that Rose should never aspire to. She can't say she really understands why. In her mind, teaching has to do with learning, which means she could read all the books she wants.

Still though, whether Miss McAllum knows this man or not, she's distracted for the moment, and Rose sees her opportunity. She's going to enter the school yard and play in the snow with these other children, and she's sure whatever punishment she gets later will be worthwhile, because she'll have done it.

Her punishment is not worthwhile.

The rest of that winter she's kept indoors, and allowed nowhere near town unless it's in the company of her mother herself. Not only that, but she no longer has a governess to get bored enough to let her read books or daydream. Instead she has her mother giving her all of her lessons herself, because Ruth Dewitt-Bukater will stand for no more incidents, Rose. I mean it.

The time Rose had spent on the playground with other children her age had been short, but certainly memorable. She thinks she had nearly made a friend, even: another little girl, with two braids (a style her mother said only suited the poor) who invited her to ride a sled. That's where it went wrong, however.

Rose hadn't known, like this other girl had, that you can't steer a sled, and that you have to wait your turn. Instead, once the person next to them had pushed off to go down the hill, Rose had promptly followed suit, and they had collided with that older boy in a way that she doesn't like to think about.

The boy was heavy, and their sleds were made of wood and metal, and Rose's forearm had become pinched under the bottom of his at the bottom of the hill. She had heard the snap as if it had come from within, and through blinding pain she had only had time to register red on the snow before, like a lady from the books she sometimes liked, she found herself fainting.

She had broken her arm– something unsightly, and completely unseemly for a young lady, according to her mother. Even worse, it had happened because her governess wasn't watching her. It had happened because her governess was instead spending her time flirting with a man– a thing that her mother made sound like an even worse crime than what Rose had done in running away in the first place. According to her mother, her governess had not only been speaking to that man that afternoon, but that she had been seen around the city with him, alone– a true scandal.

Rose never saw Miss McAllum after that day, but the lesson certainly stuck with her: doing anything alone with a man is improper and may make one lose their job, which is probably a terrible thing, even if the man seems nice and handsome and makes you laugh, not that Rose, a real proper lady, will ever have a job in the first place to know anything about any of that.

New York City

Autumn, 1914

Jack

At a quarter past five, Jack steps out of the station on Bleecker street and heads west, towards Rose's tenement building. Though he probably shouldn't be bothering her, after everything that had happened that afternoon, he feels that he needs to see her right away or else she might disappear again– he needs to apologize and make sure she doesn't, though he's not sure she'll want to see him right now. He's not sure at all, really, how he has managed to make such a mess of things only two days after finding her, or if she'll let him do anything to help.

After being caught together on the stairwell by Mrs. Ellis, they weren't given much leeway to explain. The old lady had been quick to put together some pieces, however wrongly. Jack is pretty sure that she had already made up her mind about the two of them and their story when she had learned his name that morning.

"I don't know what deception the pair of you think you're getting away with here," she had said, "but it won't be tolerated."

He had tried to ask what she meant by that, and Rose, too, had looked completely bewildered.

"Did you not tell me upon your hiring that you're a widow, Miss Dawson?" She addressed Rose directly.

Rose had answered that she had. Jack, who still had his hand laid on her arm could feel her go tense at the question. For a moment he'd been confused as to what Mrs. Ellis was on about. How could Rose have possibly been widowed? Who would she have married in such a short time? Until he realizes– Mrs. Ellis means him.

He is meant to have been Rose's dead spouse. Really, he could see why she might have gone with that story. Contrary to Rose's assumptions, he knows enough about society to know that it would lend her a modicum more respectability than being a single woman on her own. It also, in some circles, could have shielded her from the unwanted advances of other men, if she's seen as a woman in grief, left with nothing. He also kind of hates the burgeoning hope that the realization sparked within him at the thought of her thinking of him like that– that she might have thought of him as having been as good as her husband; that she may have wanted him to be, and would have missed him enough to mourn.

In retrospect, he probably should have thought, before it was brought up, of the complications that might arise with them having the same last name now, and the assumptions that will probably be made.

"Do not take me as a simpleton, Mr. Dawson," the older woman had said coldly. "I can see your wife's lie plain enough right before my eyes. Here you stand, and so she is not widowed at all; probably just playing at such to secure herself the job, because you being an artist, as Mr. Gimbel said, I highly doubt you're stable enough to support a wife. You're both con artists, I'm sure, and I'll not have it within my department."

Jack's frustration rose quickly. He hadn't been mad about the accusations thrown his way. He's been accused of enough within his life– from cheating at cards, to petty crime, to jewel theft, but he doesn't want to tolerate what this lady is insinuating about Rose, who's done nothing wrong. She may have lied in calling herself a widow, but she truly had been grieving her old life at that point, and she had done it to get the job in order to survive, just as she had done everything the past few years.

"If you'd just let us explain–" Jack had tried.

It was no use. He was cut off with the raise of a hand for silence.

"You're dismissed, Mrs. Dawson," she had said to Rose, as the guilt and indignant anger had risen within him.

"You're dismissed without pay, effective immediately, and if I have anything to do with it you'll not be allowed back in this store, and neither will your husband here, once I've had my say. Collect your things and go, and I will be seeing Mr. Dawson directly back to Mr. Gimbel. We'll see there if he can weasel his way out of trouble for the pair of you. Somehow I doubt it."

Jack had wanted to argue further right then. He would have if it hadn't been for Rose, who had simply nodded, and handed over the parcel she had been carrying.

"I haven't deceived anyone," she had assured the woman. " And neither has Mr. Dawson. Though I don't expect you to have a heart enough to consider the truth."

He had called out for her as she had turned away to leave– desperate to do something to make her change her mind– to stay and fight it– but she had simply shaken her head at him, eyes sad. "It's no use, Jack. I'll accept it."

The conversation afterward, with Mr. Gimbel had been a strange one; one of the strangest of Jack's life, probably. Mrs. Ellis had escorted him to the same office from that morning and given her accusations with animosity now that made him wonder if Rose's parting words had gotten to her. When she had finished speaking, the shop manager, maybe just a decade older than Jack, had turned to him expectantly.

"Well," he had asked. "What's the truth of it? Are you married to that girl?"

"No," he had admitted honestly, in part just to hear Mrs. Ellis' scoff. He had continued on. "I'm not. I think it's true to say that a couple of years ago we would have gotten married, but unfortunately, we got separated before we could. I am sure that she truly did believe me to be dead, just as I thought her to have perished for a time. She took my name in remembrance."

"Poppycock!" Mrs. Ellis said, which earned her a pointed look from Mr. Gimbel. Jack had wanted to laugh at this point because this whole thing was just so absurd. The shop manager, however, had been intrigued.

"And why would your wife-to-be assume you're dead?" he asked. He had lit a cigar to sit fat between his teeth, the smell of the thing cloying within the shuttered room. Jack just wanted to leave– to go and find Rose and figure out what to do next.

"Well, sir," said Jack, wondering if he should say anything at all– whether it would be safe to say it, with Rose having been hiding her past for so long now. She hadn't really been his wife-to-be, but someone else's, but these people don't need to know that.

"We were together aboard the Titanic. When it went down we were separated in the water, and we both believed the other to have perished."

"So it's true," said Mr. Gimbel quizzically. He must have seen the confusion in Jack's face, because he clarified: "You must know your reputation precedes you– the story of the penniless artist who survived that sinking by being pulled from the water, and how you've risen to your current wealth and measure of fame through sheer luck and ingenuity. It's a remarkable story. It's part of why I sought you out to work for us, after all. I was intrigued to hear it, as unbelievable as it is. I guess I had hoped to unearth its embellishments, but here you are corroborating it. Surely you can forgive a fellow entrepreneur his curiosities."

Jack nodded hesitantly. He's not sure how he feels, knowing he had been hired in part for the spectacle of it, rather than on the merit of his work. His Pa would have told him "a job's a job, son," but is that really the kind of job he wants?

"So your girl," continued Mr. Gimbel. "Rose, was it?"

"Miss Dawson," Jack had corrected him, not liking the informal, impolite way he spoke about women, though he normally wouldn't care about titles or manners like this.

"Pretty girl," Gimbel continued. "I know which one she is. Used to have red hair, didn't she?"

Jack nodded, growing annoyed.

"So you're telling me, that she's been working here for the past two years– got the job on a lie, and that you didn't know she was right here under your nose?"

"I had no idea where she was," Jack confirmed, not wanting to corroborate Rose's lie one way or another.

"And how long have you known she was alive?" he asks.

"Since a week after the sinking. I've been looking for her all this time. I just found her again a little over a day ago, sir– the night before I came to interview with you. When I came here yesterday I had no idea this was where she was working. It was a bit of a shock, actually, to find her here." It wasn't a complete truth, but not a lie, either.

"Well then," Mr. Gimbel had said, sounding like he was growing bored from the lack of any real scandal. "Sounds like fate. I guess there's nothing for it but to congratulate you on your rekindled romance. The problem, as I understand it is Mrs. Ellis says your girl has been dismissed for being caught in a lie. You yourself have confirmed that lie, and on principal I don't employ liars Mr. Dawson, surely you can understand that. Liars are as good as thieves."

"Exactly why Mr. Dawson here should be dismissed as well!" Mrs. Ellis had interjected, only to receive a glare from her boss.

"That is not what I've said. So far as I can surmise, Mr. Dawson here has been forthright enough, and I know his side of the story to be true, therefore, if he's willing, I'd be happy to continue to work with him. From what I've heard of your reputation Mr. Dawson, surely that girl of yours will have no more need of a job at all. I'm sure you'd prefer a broad like that to stay home anyway, to keep you warm this winter. That's why a man wants a wife, wouldn't you say?"

Jack knows he should have left it at that. He should have kept the commission, and let it go, but he'd been too mad– too indignant on Rose's behalf, and so he had been stupid, he reflects now. As far as he could surmise, the only reason he had kept a job and Rose had not was because he was a man and therefore 'more believable.'

He also suspects, after hearing the reasons for his being hired in the first place, he's there as more of a bragging point for Mr. Gimbel, than anything else, and that's not the precedent he wants to establish. He doesn't want people seeking out his art for the gimmick and novelty of the name behind it. In a moment of unprofessionalism that will probably bit him in the ass later, had told Mr. Gimbel to shove his job up his misogynistic ass and to find someone else to do his catalog– fat chance this late in the season– and he had left with determination simmering in his blood, that has only turned to shame, the closer he's gotten to Rose's door.

He realizes as he draws up to the building that he has no idea how to reach her. He can't knock on the lower door and risk the landlord or another tenant answering, nor can he just go inside and up to her room. Cursing himself he walks around to the back alley, trying to remember from being inside the other night, which room would be hers.

Finding the window he's almost positive is hers, and seeing light from the lamp within still glowing, he finds his way over the short back fence and into the small courtyard between her building and another, which houses garbage bins, a row of outhouses, and lines for hanging clothes. He's being reckless and impulsive, he knows, but right now he doesn't really care. He just needs to see her and make sure she's alright. Briefly he's reminded of having this same feeling on the ship, and of spending an afternoon trying to sneak into first class. Now, here he is, living a first class life and trying to sneak into third. He can only conclude that it's Rose who makes him mad. He's throwing literal pebbles at her window like a forlorn Romeo.

It works quicker than he expected. On the third try, her silhouette appears, and he heaves a sigh of relief as she pulls open the sash.

"Jack!" she hisses. "What the hell are you doing?"

He shrugs, standing up from where he had crouched down to find more pebbles to throw.

"I had to see you," he says, as if it's that simple. "Can I talk to you?"

He can see her hesitation.

"There's a whole group downstairs right now, having dinner." she answers. "The landlord and a few tenants. I could never sneak you up the stairs unseen. If I leave to go out now, it'll only arouse suspicion."

Jack frowns. It's not a no, but simply a matter of logistics. He looks around him, and thinks for a minute.

"Okay," he says. "Stand back. And catch this!" He flings his closed portfolio up and through the window without giving her a choice.

Using the fence for leverage before she can argue, he hoists himself up onto the roof of a latrine easily enough before looking back up towards the window. Rose hasn't moved back, but instead is leaning out of it, looking alarmed.

"Jack! What are you doing?" she's hissing again, in a whisper-shout, trying to keep her voice low. "Jack, no!"

He can't help the grin he gives her as he scrambles from the tiny roof to a low beam, built to support the clothes lines, but sturdy enough to bear his weight. If he can get on top of that and over to where the side fence slopes upward, he thinks he can make the jump to her window pretty easily.

"Stand back, Rose," he warns her before moving again quickly. He doesn't give himself time to think before he's making the jump, grabbing onto her window ledge and using his feet against the brick of the outside wall to temper any noise he may have made. He just needs to pull himself up and through and he's there. He doesn't let himself look down, or think about the fact that he hates heights and the sinking feeling they put in his stomach– always has since he was a boy. Once he's got a full arm hooked over the windowsill and onto the wall on the other side, he feel's Rose's hands on him, helping to pull him through.

"You're crazy!" she's telling him, still hushed, once he's fully through the window, rubbing at his knee where he has scraped it on the way in.

He glances up at her. He has to temper his urge to say "crazy about you," because he knows they're not in a place right now where his old flirting lines might be acceptable. "I just had to see you," he repeats instead, fully taking her in as he stands. She has thrown on her lengthy coat, he notices, probably done when she had heard the noise at the window, but beneath that she's somewhat in a state of undress, just in a combination, corset, and corset cover with long bloomers, perhaps having been preparing for sleep even though it's still rather early, and it somehow feels more intimate to see than when he had seen her completely in the nude. Her face is red, though, hinting that she may have been crying before he showed up, and that makes him feel even worse. "I can go if you want me to, I just needed to make sure you were alright, after earlier."

"Well, I'm alright," she says defensively.

He narrows his eyes knowing it's not the truthful answer.

"I am!" she argues, arms coming down to her sides from where they had crossed protectively in front of her. It's a motion betraying her honesty and he softens a little.

"I lost you your job," he says, remorsefully. "I'm so sorry, Rose."

"You didn't lose me my job," she argues. "I lost the job on my own. I know how people are. I took for granted that no one would care what I did outside of there. I didn't think about how it would look when I left with you yesterday, because I just wanted to spend time with you."

It's more candid of an answer than he had expected. The admission that she had wanted to spend time with him feels like hope.

"What happened after I left?" she asks hesitantly. She sits down on the edge of her bed, knees drawn in so her chin can rest on top of them. To keep from looking at her, Jack fusses with his own coat, checking where he had somehow snagged it coming up, and then picks up his portfolio from where it had landed on the floor, setting it on top of the crates he uses as a table. He makes the assumption that her continued conversation means he can stay for now, and takes a seat in the chair he had used the other night.

"I told Mr. Gimbel he can shove his jobs up his ass," he answers matter-of-factly.

Rose snorts out a surprised laugh. "You really are crazy," she asserts, and he shrugs.

"Yeah, probably. He pissed me off, though. I didn't like the way he talked about you– about any girl. And then he basically told me he only hired me for my reputation, and not actually for my art, and that was enough. He can find someone else for his catalogs."

She looks at him curiously. "Your reputation?" She asks.

He shrugs again. "Yeah. I uh… well, it seems that I've accidentally become a novelty for people like him to hire. My story precedes me, I guess."

"And what story is that, Monsieur Big Artiste?" her head is tilted as she considers him, a lopsided smile on her face beneath her swollen puffy eyes, and he feels his heart give a kick. Is she flirting? Now? He hasn't explained much about how his past few years have shaken out, and he knows she's justified in her curiosity, but he's a little shell-shocked by her flirtatiousness.

"I told you that early on, Molly helped me find work," he answers, and she nods. "It was illustration work. Just personal and family portraits at first, for people she knew, but then through word of mouth others started to get curious. They wanted to meet the artist who had survived the sinking."

He explains this part with a bit of a scoff. He had never felt good about using the sinking as a point of interest, but he had also not been in a position to deny any opportunities.

"Eventually, though, my work started getting noticed on its own merit, and I began to get larger jobs; advertising illustrations and work for publications, like what I was gonna be doing at Saks. As my popularity grew, so did my paychecks." He gives a shrug as she nods in understanding.

"By then I had gotten to know Molly's family pretty well. They were still in the city at that point, and I'd been with them for about a year. Her son Larry and I have become good friends, and he's the one who suggested that I start making investments with my earnings. He took care of everything for me, honestly. I just made the choice of which stocks, and it kind of snowballed." He fidgets with the sleeve of his coat, not sure how Rose will respond to this revelation– that he, the penniless artist she had met, has turned into an unwitting stock playing tycoon like the men in the world she'd been so desperate to leave.

"And… your earnings are enough to have made you a novelty to that crowd," says Rose, understanding what he's implying.

"To my dismay, it seems, yeah." He nods. He still can't get a read on what she may be thinking– whether she's disgusted at the thought of him giving up his principles for money, because that's certainly what it feels like he's done.

"And when you say it snowballed, you mean to say…"

"That I'm not such a poor guy anymore," he gives a humorless laugh, remembering the moment on the ship when he had encouraged her to just call it how it was.

'A poor guy. Go on, you can say it.'

"Well," she says, sitting back a bit. "Looks like our stations truly have switched, haven't they."

"I think that's the problem," he says. "That's why I'm worried. Me losing that job is fine. I don't need it. You losing your job, though, when you won't let me help you… I just want to make it right, Rose. Please say you'll let me."