Seattle
Her days as Harriet's lady's maid were woven with threads of quiet companionship that blossomed into a tapestry of profound and meaningful friendship. Harriet, with her poised elegance, found in her a confidante to whom she could unveil her true self. In the warmth of Harriet's presence, she discovered a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the solitude that often shadowed her.
Morning rituals became moments of connection as she skillfully arranged Harriet's hair and helped her select the perfect dress. Their conversations flowed like a gentle stream, touching on the latest fashions and the books that enchanted their hearts. Harriet shared her favorite novels with her, and many evenings were spent by the flickering fireplace, their voices intermingling with the crackling flames as they read aloud to each other.
Under the golden embrace of the sun, they strolled through the estate gardens. Harriet, with her love for flora, shared her knowledge of each blossom and leaf, and the other girl, captivated by her passion, found herself enchanted. Together, they gathered wildflowers, arranging them in vases that filled the house with a symphony of scents. Harriet often laughed, marveling at her innate talent for creating beauty.
Harriet's husband, often absorbed in his own world of business affairs, left the two women ample time to weave their bond. Harriet appreciated her maid's gentle pragmatism and quiet strength, while she admired Harriet's grace and resilience. Their friendship was a dance of contrasts, each woman complementing the other in ways both subtle and profound.
One winter's eve, as snowflakes whispered against the window panes, the two women sat by the fire, cradling cups of tea. Harriet, in a rare moment of vulnerability, shared her own battles with loneliness, hidden beneath a veneer of perfection.
"I've always envied your strength," Harriet confessed, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. "You've faced so much, yet you remain unyielding."
Her maid offered a gentle smile. "We all carry our burdens, Harriet. Yours may not be as visible, but they weigh just as heavily."
Harriet reached out, her touch warm and sincere. "I don't know what I'd do without you. You're more than just a maid. You're a true friend."
Her heart swelled with warmth. "And you to me," she whispered. "You've given me a place where I feel cherished and understood."
One day, they ventured outside the city, into a nearby town, Harriet eager to gift her a day of delight. In a quaint tearoom, they laughed over delicate pastries and fragrant teas, savoring the joy of each other's company. Harriet, with a twinkle in her eye, bought her maid a small, intricately carved hairpin, a tangible symbol of their friendship.
Yet, their favorite moments were the hushed evenings in the library. Surrounded by towering shelves of books, they found solace. Harriet's piano playing filled the air with melodies that wrapped around them, bringing peace to their weary souls. Side by side, they read and discussed, their connection deepening with each shared thought and feeling.
As the months unfurled, their bond grew unbreakable. The maids whispered fears found solace in Harriets' listening ear, and Harriet's dreams were nurtured by her unwavering support. They became anchors for one another, their friendship a beacon of light in the darkest of times.
She stood in the spacious bedroom, folding Harriet's clothes with the care and precision she had learned in her time as a lady's maid. The house was quiet, al silence that usually signaled Harriet was out in the garden or reading peacefully by the fireplace.
But not today.
Harriet burst into the room, her face pale and eyes wide with panic. "You have to leave. Now," she said, her voice trembling.
Her heart skipped a beat. "What's happened?" she asked, setting down the clothes and stepping towards Harriet.
Harriet glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting her husband to appear any moment. "He found out," she whispered urgently. "He found out about your condition. He's furious. You have to leave before he gets home. I'm so sorry. I tried to talk him out of it, but his suspicions are too strong."
Fear gripped her heart. She knew how volatile Harriet's husband could be, especially when it came to matters of reputation and propriety. She had noticed a while back that it was starting to get harder to hide it. She tried and tried, but now the time had come that there was no possible way to be able to hide it any longer.
"What should I do?" she asked, her voice shaking.
Harriet didn't answer immediately. Instead, she rushed to her vanity and opened a small, ornate jewelry box. She took out a simple golden ring and hurried back to her maid, slipping it onto her finger. "This will keep you safe," Harriet said, her eyes pleading. "It's not much, but it's something. Go to the train station, I'll give you the money. Find a ticket to anywhere, and don't look back."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the ring. "I can't take this," she said, shaking her head. "It's too valuable."
"You can and you will," Harriet insisted. "It's a ring. It will keep you safe, cause less suspicion. Your safety is more important. Now go, quickly."
The maid nodded, understanding the urgency. She quickly gathered her few belongings, her mind racing with thoughts of where she could go. As she turned to leave, she embraced Harriet tightly. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."
Harriet hugged her back, tears streaming down her face. "Take care. And please, stay safe."
With one last glance at Harriet, she rushed out of the room, her heart pounding. She made her way down the back stairs and out into the street, her mind set on getting to the train station as quickly as possible. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the town as she hurried through the streets. She clutched her bag tightly, the ring on her finger a constant reminder of Harriet's kindness and the urgency of her situation.
When she finally reached the train station, she bought a ticket to the first destination she could afford, her hands shaking as she handed over the money. As she boarded the train and found a seat, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The train's whistle blew, and as it pulled away from the station, she looked out the window, the landscape blurring into motion. She didn't know where she was going or what the future held, but all she knew was that she was lost again and fear was starting to get the better of her once more.
…
Jack sat in his office, the weight of the year pressing down on him like an iron vice. It was November1914, a little over a year since Rose had left, leaving behind a void that swallowed his heart whole. For months, he had scoured every corner of the city, and places beyond, hoping to find a trace of her, but she had vanished as if she were never there. Eventually, life had demanded his attention, pulling him away from the fruitless search. Yet, the ache in his chest had never dulled, and with each passing day, his self-loathing grew. The man who once brimmed with warmth and laughter had withered into a shadow of bitterness and despair.
He stared out of his office window, watching the world outside begin to cloak itself in autumn's orange hues. The summer's end mirrored his own decline, both of them losing their vibrancy to the encroaching chill. He held his glass of scotch in his hand, the amber liquid catching the late afternoon light. With a resigned sigh, he drained the glass in one swift motion, the burn a welcome distraction from the emptiness inside.
Pushing his work aside, Jack stood and donned his coat. He left the office without a backward glance, his steps heavy as he made his way to his car. The drive to his apartment was a blur, his mind lost in memories of Rose's laughter, her touch, her everything. When he finally arrived home, the silence of his apartment enveloped him, a stark contrast to the storm within.
As he opened the door, a woman's voice reached his ears, coming from the bedroom. He sighed, not expecting her to still be there. He walked down the hallway, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. When he entered the bedroom, Edna was sitting on the bed, her see-through nightgown leaving little to the imagination. Her eyes lit up as she saw him, and she stood, walking towards him with a seductive smile.
"You told me you'd be back in an hour. But I've been waiting the whole day," she purred, her voice a blend of sultry and reproach.
"I got caught up in work," Jack replied, his tone flat.
"But you smell of alcohol," she noted, her lips brushing against his as she spoke.
"A man can enjoy a drink every once in a while, can't he?" Jack's words were a weak attempt at deflection.
Edna chuckled, a light, airy sound that grated against his nerves. She jumped back onto the bed, her eyes inviting him to join her. Jack hesitated for a moment, the ghost of Rose's memory flickering in his mind. But he pushed it away, letting Daisy's presence drown out the haunting echoes of his past. He walked over to the bed, each step feeling like a surrender to the darkness that had taken root in his soul.
The night had fallen, and Jack found himself at one of his favorite clubs, a place that once held memories of laughter and good times with friends. Now, it was just another stop in his nightly ritual of self-destruction. He sat at the table, surrounded by his old friends, the camaraderie now tainted by his incessant drinking. His words were slurred, and his laughter too loud, drawing annoyed glances from nearby tables.
Jack raised his glass to his lips, but before he could take another drink, Clifford reached across the table and took the glass from his hand, placing it out of reach.
"You're starting to embarrass yourself, Dawson," Clifford said, his tone firm but laced with concern.
Jack groaned, slumping back in his chair. "Come on, Cliff. Just one more drink."
"You've had more than enough," Clifford replied. "Ever since your engagement to Miss Huntington ended, your only companion has been a bottle of booze. You need to start getting your life back together. It's been over a year."
The others around the table nodded in agreement. Jack could see the concern etched on their faces, but he resented their intervention. The bottle was the only thing that dulled the pain of Rose's absence, even after all these months.
Arthur, always the practical one, leaned forward. "Jack, my brother is in Los Angeles until the end of the month. Why not visit him? He loves the city, and it might do you some good to get away from Boston for a while."
Jack's mind swirled with the idea. Leaving Boston, with its ghosts and memories, sounded like a real treat. Maybe a change of scenery would help him escape the torment that had become his daily existence.
He looked at Arthur, considering his proposition. "Los Angeles, huh? What would I do there?"
Arthur smiled, sensing a crack in Jack's resistance. "Anything but drink yourself into a stupor. My brother can show you around. It's a vibrant city, full of life and opportunity. It could be the fresh start you need."
Jack sighed, the weight of his friends' concern pressing down on him. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was time to try something different, to leave behind the shadows of his past and seek out the light of a new beginning.
"Alright," Jack said finally, his voice weary. "I'll go to Los Angeles. But I'm not promising anything."
Clifford patted him on the back. "That's all we ask, Jack. Just give it a shot."
The tension at the table eased, and the conversation shifted to lighter topics. But as Jack sat there, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. Perhaps Los Angeles would be the balm his wounded heart so desperately needed.
Dear Oliver,
I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize for not writing sooner; the journey to Los Angeles has taken me nearly a week, and it has been quite an adventure. The train rides were long and gave me a lot of time to think. I suppose that's why I'm writing to you now – there's so much I want to say, and I feel like it's been too long since we truly caught up.
I arrived safely and am settling in. Los Angeles is an entirely different world compared to Boston. The weather here is much better than on the East Coast this time of year. It's sunny and warm, and as I write this, I'm sitting on the beach, watching children play in the sand and water. It's quite a sight compared to the cold, dreary Boston winters. The ocean here is vast and blue, stretching out as far as the eye can see. The sunsets are magnificent, turning the sky into a canvas of colors.
I've been thinking a lot about you and how you're doing. How is school treating you? Are you still enjoying your classes? I remember how passionate you were about history and literature. I hope you're still finding joy in your studies. Are your friends still treating you well?
I wanted to let you know that I plan to return to Boston at the beginning of December. I'm not intending to celebrate Christmas with my family this year. After everything that happened last year, the thought of facing them and their expectations is just too much right now. Instead, I was hoping you might want to spend Christmas with me. I know most of your friends will be visiting their families, and I can't bear the thought of you staying at school alone.
I think it would be wonderful for us to spend the holiday together. We could make our own traditions, just the two of us. Perhaps even take a short trip somewhere. What do you say?
I do miss you, Oliver, and I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon. Take care, little brother. Remember that no matter what happens, you always have me in your corner. We may not have had the easiest of times, but we can create a better future together.
With all my love,
Jack
He folded the letter carefully and placed it into the envelope. As he sealed it, he looked out into the horizon, the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean meeting the sky in a blur of blue and gold. The wind blew gently through his hair, ruffling the loose strands. The anonymity of this place, so far from the life he knew on the East Coast, brought him a sense of solace. Here, he was just another face in the crowd, free from the expectations and pressures that had always surrounded him in Boston.
For once, he wasn't wearing a fancy suit or perfectly combed hair. Instead, he was dressed simply in a comfortable white shirt and trousers, his hair falling freely around his shoulders. He liked this version of himself, the one who could blend into the background and just exist without pretence.
He let his mind wander, thoughts drifting like the waves in front of him. The idea of shedding his old life and embracing this new, quieter existence was tempting. Here, he could find a sense of inner peace that had eluded him for so long. He was tired of fighting, tired of the endless cycle of expectations and disappointments.
Reaching into his bag, Jack pulled out another piece of paper. He hadn't drawn in ages, and the thought of putting pencil to paper again filled him with a mix of excitement and apprehension. He began to sketch, the lines flowing naturally as he let his hand guide him. At first, it was just a rough outline, but soon the image started to take shape: a mother and child playing on the beach, their laughter almost audible through the strokes of his pencil.
As he drew, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. The act of creating something from nothing, of capturing a moment of beauty and simplicity, reminded him of who he used to be. It wasn't just about escaping his past but about embracing the parts of himself that he had buried under layers of responsibility and duty.
Will this be the time he finally lets go of the past? Can he accept the conditions as they are and move forward with a sense of peace? These questions lingered in his mind, but for the first time in a long while, he felt somewhat hopeful. The road ahead was uncertain, but it was his to navigate, free from the burdens that had weighed him down for so long.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over everything, Jack finished his sketch. He looked at it, a small smile playing on his lips. It was a simple drawing, but it represented so much more—perhaps a step towards healing, towards finding himself again.
He carefully placed the drawing in his bag, stood up, and took a deep breath of the salty sea air before heading back to his hotel.