Chapter 8
Rose sat at her vanity, staring into the mirror, her reflection almost unfamiliar. Her hands, once adorned with delicate rings and polished nails, now bore calluses from daily tasks she'd never imagined herself doing. The room was still, save for the faint voices of the family drifting up the stairs, distant yet warm. The linen skirt she wore felt solid, almost grounding, its rough texture a reminder of how far she'd come from the silks and chiffons that once enveloped her. The embroidered blouse—a gift from Sarah—hugged her shoulders with a quiet kind of elegance, nothing like the glitz and glamour that used to parade through her wardrobe. She looked… simpler, more real. But in the shadows of the quiet room, Rose couldn't help but feel like someone she didn't fully know.
Her eyes flickered to the dusty closet across the room. Drawn by a sense of nostalgia, of lost dreams and past lives, she rose and crossed to it. Reaching to the back, her hand found the box, tucked into a dark corner, right where she had left it a while ago. The lid felt cold beneath her fingers as she lifted it, revealing the diamond necklace within—a blue jewel that seemed to pulse with its own light, frozen in time. Heavy, eternal, and now, strangely out of place.
She let her fingers slide over the necklace, feeling the weight of it, the memories it held. He had once clasped it around her neck with his rough, possessive hands, admiring it as if it made her complete. But that woman—his woman—felt like a ghost. With a slow, deliberate breath, she lifted the necklace and fastened it around her neck, the diamond coming to rest just above her heart.
In the mirror, Rose barely recognized herself. The diamond glistened, catching the light, a stark contrast to her modest blouse and undone hair. Her reflection was like a bridge between two worlds, one of which she no longer belonged to. There was an ache there, an echo of the girl she had been, the life she had left behind. She touched the diamond, feeling its coolness beneath her fingertips, and wondered what that girl would think of the woman she'd become.
Lost in her thoughts, Rose hadn't heard his footsteps coming closer. They stopped in front of her room, his hands knocking loudly on her bedroom door.
"Rose, we're leaving." Jack's voice called from the other side.
"Just a minute!" Rose's heart raced as she stuffed the necklace back into the box, her hands shaking as she shoved it back into the closet, burying it under an old woolen coat. The weight of the diamond still lingered around her neck like an imprint, a ghostly reminder. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She could still feel the coolness of it on her skin, but Jack's insistent knocks tore her back to reality.
"Rose!" Jack's voice cut through the door again, more insistent this time. She flinched, straightening her blouse with one last tug before rushing to the door and flinging it open.
He was right there, closer than she expected. They both took a step back, Jack looking her over with an expression she couldn't read, a flicker of something that vanished as quickly as it came. His gaze sharpened, frustration lining his face, his mouth a thin line of irritation. "We have to go now," he said, his voice clipped. "What took you so long?"
Rose swallowed, quickly falling back into the familiar reserve she'd practiced so often. "Nothing. I just—needed a moment," she replied, her voice softer than she intended.
Jack's brow furrowed, but he didn't push further. He only turned, gesturing for her to follow. "Well, we're running late as it is," he muttered, starting down the hall without waiting for her response.
She followed him, feeling the silence between them stretch, taut and uncomfortable. The flickering candlelight cast shadows against the walls, making Jack's shoulders look tense, his strides brisk and unforgiving.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Jack slowed, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "You… did something different with your hair," he remarked, though his tone held no warmth, only the hint of forced observation.
She touched the back of her head, where she had clumsily pinned it up. "Yes, well… even between the hales of bay, I still have to keep up with the latest fashions." Her attempt at humor was weak, and Jack didn't smile. He only nodded, the corner of his mouth tightening. As they gathered near the doorway, preparing to leave, Sarah glanced between Jack and Rose with a teasing grin.
"No arguing between the two of you today? What a time to be alive!" She gave Rose a playful nudge, clearly trying to lift the mood. Jack simply looked away, adjusting his coat without comment. Rose forced a smile, but she felt the uneasiness between them like a thread stretched too tight.
They stepped into the carriage, and Rose sat beside Jack, feeling the weight of his silence. Sarah and Mark, settled in front of them with Evelyn, who was busy coloring in a small book. Baby Grace, nestled against Sarah, gurgled softly, her tiny hand reaching for her mother's necklace, bringing a fleeting smile to Sarah's face. The carriage lurched forward, making Rose grip the side as they traveled through the winding streets of their town. The excitement in the air was palpable, with townspeople bustling about, chatting animatedly in anticipation of the day's events.
Once they stopped, Jack was the first to jump out, his brisk pace carrying him away from the rest almost immediately. Inside, the hall was a hive of activity. People bustled around, arranging decorations, setting up chairs, and chatting in lively clusters. Jack quickly scanned the crowd, his gaze landing on Betty, who stood a little ways off, wringing her hands, her face creased with worry. He waved, catching her attention, and approached when she didn't wave back.
"Oh, Jack!" she gasped, her face crumpling as soon as she saw him. "I have to cancel the whole show." Her voice was laced with desperation. "My pianist just left—he's too ill to stay. Now the children have no music to sing to." Her lip trembled as she spoke, and her eyes darted around the room, clearly searching for some solution.
Jack laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Hey, it's all right," he said softly. "Let's not cancel anything just yet. There must be another way." He looked over his shoulder, scanning the room, though a hint of doubt crossed his face.
Just then, Rose appeared by his side, catching her breath. She took in the look of distress on Betty's face and the worried crease in Jack's brow. "What's going on?" she asked, glancing between them.
Betty sniffed, wiping a stray tear with her fingers. "My pianist… he fell ill at the last minute, and now the children have no music for the show tonight." She shook her head, the hope already slipping from her expression. "I've looked everywhere, but no one's available on such short notice. I was just telling Jack that I may have to cancel." She then burst out in tears.
Feeling sorry for her friend, Rose took her hand and lead her to the back. Some children were running around, clearly unaware of the unforeseen panic that lingered in their teacher's eyes. She handed Betty a glass of water and searched for a chair herself when she caught eye of a stack of papers laying on a table.
"Is this the sheet music?" Rose asked.
"Yes."
Rose picked them up, flipping through them. Her heart raced with a mix of anxiety and excitement. The notes danced before her eyes, and as she inspected them, she felt a flicker of confidence growing inside her. They weren't too complicated—simple melodies that she could manage.
She turned to Betty, her decision solidifying. "I can do this," she stated, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her, "I'll replace your pianist.
"You can play the piano?" Betty gasped, her voice tinged with surprise.
Rose's lips curved in a modest smile. "I'm not a professional, but I can read music, and these… well, I don't think they're too hard." She managed a small laugh, trying to reassure Betty as much as herself.
"Oh, Rose, you're a lifesaver!" Without warning, Betty threw her arms around Rose, squeezing her tightly. As she re-entered the bustling hall, the chatter and laughter of her family filled the air. Sarah and Mark looked up, their expressions shifting from curiosity to concern.
"Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine!" Rose replied, her voice steady but bright. "I'm going to fill in and play the piano for the show."
Jack, standing slightly apart, raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're going to play the piano?" he chuckled, clearly amused by the idea.
Rose arched an eyebrow, refusing to back down. "Unless you'd prefer to do it yourself, Mr. Dawson?"
His smile widened, and he shook his head, clearly amused. "Oh, no, I'd much rather watch you take on the challenge, Miss Williams. This'll be… interesting." His tone was suddenly playful.
She held his gaze for a moment, feeling a spark of boldness. "Then perhaps you'll see that I'm capable of a few things you never expected."
"Oh, I have no doubt," he replied, his voice lower, though he quickly glanced away, clearing his throat.
Rose took her seat at the piano, hands hovering above the keys as the nervous energy surged through her. She inhaled deeply, her eyes tracing the lines of the sheet music in front of her. The chattering crowd had stilled, with faces expectantly turned her way, and Rose felt the weight of every gaze in the room. Her heart thudded in her chest, the nerves prickling her skin, but there was something grounding in the feel of the cool ivory under her fingertips. With one more steadying breath, she placed her hands down and began to play.
The first notes drifted out into the hall, tentative at first, like testing the waters, but soon they grew steady, filling the room with a soft, lilting melody. Rose's fingers moved more confidently over the keys as the music poured from her, old muscle memory waking and guiding her through each note. The simple chords, the warm familiarity of some of the tunes—it all returned with a strange ease, like rediscovering a forgotten piece of herself.
The children's voices joined in, a chorus of sweet, high notes that melded with the piano's tones. Their voices were clear, innocent, and even a little shaky at times, but Rose played on, setting a rhythm they could follow, anchoring them. She cast a glance at the children clustered together, their faces aglow with the excitement of performing, and a tender smile pulled at her lips. She felt herself relax, settling into the music as the room filled with the cheerful, simple songs of youth.
Midway through a song, Rose allowed herself a brief glance toward the audience. Her now family sat close together, Sarah beaming with a proud smile, her hand on Mark's arm. Little Evelyn sat at the edge of her chair, her eyes wide with admiration as she watched Rose play, yet her gaze inevitably fell to Jack.
He stood toward the back of the room, his posture casual, arms folded as he leaned against the wall. But his expression was anything but detached. His eyes were fixed on her, softened in a way she hadn't seen before. There was a quiet respect in his gaze, and—perhaps for the first time—a hint of pride. When he noticed her glance, his mouth curved into a small, genuine smile, free of his usual dismissive smirk.
With renewed confidence, she turned back to the piano, her fingers moving with more fluidity, bringing a livelier tempo to the song. The children followed her lead, their voices rising with excitement, their little faces beaming with the joy of performing.
The last song soon came to an end, and a beat of silence hung in the air. Then, applause erupted, filling the hall with an energy that made Rose's heart swell. She looked up, blinking at the sudden wave of cheers, and felt her cheeks flush with pride and disbelief. Betty rushed over, her face alight with gratitude, and threw her arms around Rose in an embrace that made the crowd laugh and cheer even louder.
Sarah, watching from a few steps away, finally approached with a bright smile and looped her arm through Rose's. "Well, I'd say you've stolen the show, my dear." she teased, nudging her gently. "Who would have thought?"
That evening, The warmth of the family dinner, the gentle clink of plates, and the quiet chatter about the day's events filled the room, creating a comforting cocoon of normalcy. Jack set his glass down, a faint curiosity in his expression. "Has anyone heard from Mrs. Jones?" he asked suddenly. "And Maureen? I wrote her before coming home, but I haven't heard anything back."
The question hovered in the air, and in an instant, the warmth of the evening seemed to slip away. Sarah's hand froze halfway to her glass, her expression shifting to something pained, almost shocked. Mark's face tightened, and he glanced at Sarah, their silent exchange heavy with something unsaid.
"Oh god," Sarah gasped, a hand coming up to her mouth. "Jack, you… you still don't know, do you?"
Jack laughed nervously, his gaze flicking between them, as though searching for some reassurance in their expressions. "Know what?" he asked, his voice catching in a way Rose hadn't heard before. She felt her own heart begin to pound, the faintest sense of dread weaving through her. She tried to keep her breathing steady, but her fingers tightened unconsciously around her own glass.
Mark cleared his throat, reaching for Sarah's hand as though steadying himself before taking the lead. "Jack… you remember how ill Mrs. Jones was," he began slowly, carefully.
Jack nodded, his eyes narrowing as if he could read between Mark's words, piecing together what he feared was coming.
"Maureen was supposed to come back to care for her mother," Mark continued, his voice low and steady, but tinged with sorrow. "But something happened along the way."
Rose held her breath, her grip tightening around her glass, and she could feel the room shrinking, the sounds fading into a numb silence. She watched Jack's face, his eyes widening slightly, his mouth parting as he took in Mark's words, searching for meaning in them.
Mark took a shaky breath. "Maureen was on the Titanic, Jack. She… she didn't make it."
The room fell into a stunned silence. Jack's face went pale, his gaze fixed, unseeing, as though he were trying to comprehend a foreign language, a truth too heavy to accept. "This can't be," he whispered, almost to himself. "No. Maureen was…" He trailed off, his voice breaking.
"We're so sorry, Jack," Sarah murmured, her voice choked with emotion. "We… we tried everything to get more information, hoping maybe there was a mistake. But she was on the list." She hesitated, her words fragile, each one shattering the air around them. "They never found her… her body."
Lost in thought, Rose barely noticed how tight her grip had become, how her fingers dug into the delicate glass until it could hold no longer. Suddenly, the glass shattered in her hand, shards embedding in her skin, and blood streamed down her palm, staining the white cloth beneath.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips, the pain breaking through the numbing shock. The sudden sound jolted everyone from their silent grief.
"Oh my goodness, Rose!" Sarah exclaimed, "You're bleeding—"
"Oh!" she exclaimed, trying to pull herself back to the present. "I—I'm so sorry. I am so so sorry." She fumbled, attempting to pick up the larger pieces from her hand, wincing as fresh pain flared with every movement.
"Rose, stop—" Jack's voice was distant, as though his mind were still far away. He rose, moving around the table.
Sarah rushed to get a cloth, returning swiftly and pressing it to Rose's hand, her own eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Rose," she murmured softly. "Are you all right?"
Rose nodded shakily, looking down at the blood and shards with an expression somewhere between pain and distraction. But as she glanced up, her eyes met Jack's—he was staring at her with an intensity that held no blame. Rose's own chest tightened, the weight of her guilt—her own presence on that ship, the life she'd been given when so many others had been taken—now sharper than ever. She searched for words but found none, feeling instead the grief neither could yet express.
Mark took a steadying breath and leaned closer to Rose, gently taking her hand and examining the cuts more closely. His expression was grim as he noticed the blood still trickling down her fingers, the pieces of glass wedged deeply into her skin. Jack knelt beside them, his own hands hovering uncertainly, as though unsure whether to help or to keep his distance.
"It just keeps bleeding," Mark murmured, his brow furrowing as he met Jack's gaze. "We need someone who can tend to this properly." He took a deep breath, a decision forming on his face. "Jack, could you take her to Mrs. Turner?," He looked at Rose again, "She used to be a nurse. She'll know what to do."
Jack nodded immediately, his expression tightening with worry. "Can you walk?" he asked softly, his eyes searching her face, his voice suddenly gentle, stripped of the banter.
Rose gave a slight nod, her expression tight with pain but determined to keep her composure. "Yes… yes, I can manage."
Without another word, Jack helped her to her feet, his hand firm but steady at her elbow, guiding her through the house and out into the cool evening air. The silence between them was thick, filled with everything left unsaid, every sorrow still hanging heavy in the air from the dinner table.
Mrs. Turner's home was only a short walk away, but with every step, Rose could feel the pain throbbing in her hand, each heartbeat sending another sharp sting through her fingers. Jack's grip was unwavering as he helped her along, his other hand keeping pressure on her injured palm to slow the bleeding. She could feel the warmth of his hand, grounding her as they walked in silence.
When they reached Mrs. Turner's door, Jack gave a few brisk knocks, his jaw tight as he tried to keep his worry in check. Moments later, the door opened to reveal Mrs. Turner, a petite, no-nonsense woman with gray hair swept back in a bun and eyes that took in everything at once.
"Jack Dawson?" she asked, surprised. Her gaze shifted to Rose, taking in the cloth wrapped around her hand and the faint sheen of sweat on her face. "And Miss Williams. Good heavens, what's happened?"
"She had a bit of an accident with a glass," Jack explained, trying to keep his voice steady. "We need some help with her hand—it keeps bleeding, and the glass is still in there."
Mrs. Turner's eyes softened as she gestured them inside, motioning to a small table near the fire. "Come in, come in. Sit down, Miss Williams, and let me have a look."
Jack helped Rose settle into the chair, his hands gentle as he eased her down. Mrs. Turner carefully unwrapped the cloth, clucking softly as she examined the cuts, the blood beginning to seep again. She went to fetch a basin of water, clean cloths, and a small set of tweezers, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd tended countless wounds before.
"This might hurt a bit, dear," Mrs. Turner warned, her eyes meeting Rose's with a look of quiet empathy. "But I'll be as gentle as I can."
Rose gave a tight nod, steeling herself, her face pale but resolute. Jack knelt beside her, his hand finding her uninjured one and squeezing it gently in silent support.
As Mrs. Turner began to carefully remove the small shards, Rose couldn't suppress a few gasps, the pain sharp and immediate each time a piece was pulled free. She felt Jack's grip tighten on her hand, his gaze never leaving her face.
"You're doing well, Rose," he murmured softly, his voice steadying her more than he likely realized.
Mrs. Turner worked with a focused care, her brow furrowed as she cleaned the cuts, removing the last of the glass and carefully bandaging each finger. Finally, she wrapped Rose's hand in a fresh cloth, securing it snugly but not too tight.
"There we go," Mrs. Turner said with a gentle smile, patting Rose's shoulder. "You'll be sore for a few days, and try not to use that hand too much. But it should heal fine. You were very brave."
"Thank you," Rose whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
Jack helped her stand, his hand steady at her elbow. He looked at Mrs. Turner, a rare softness in his expression. "Thank you, Mrs. Turner. Really."
Mrs. Turner waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing of it, dear. Now you two best get home, and mind you keep that hand dry, Miss Williams. Come back in a week to let me check on it."
The path back to the house was quiet, the night settling in around them. Rose's bandaged hand throbbed gently, a steady reminder of the evening's events, but her thoughts were more on Jack and the grief she'd seen etched into his face. The words rose up unbidden, breaking the silence as they walked.
"I'm sorry about your friend, Jack," she said softly, glancing over at him.
Jack looked at her, surprised for a moment, before offering a lopsided grin, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Rose." he said, a flicker of his usual bravado in his tone, though she could sense the weight he still carried.
They fell back into silence, walking slowly, both of them lost in thought. When they reached the porch, the soft glow of candlelight spilled out from inside, casting a warm but fragile light over them. Jack hesitated as they approached the door, turning to her with a look of quiet resolve.
"Shall we stop this, Rose?" he asked, his voice soft but firm. "This… childishness between us. You see, we don't have to like each other, but maybe we can call it a truce?"
Rose met his gaze, seeing an honesty there that caught her off guard. She felt the sharpness of his words softened by something deeper, something she hadn't expected to see. For a moment, she let herself take it in, feeling the walls she'd built between them loosen, if only slightly.
"Yes," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I think you're right."
They stood there, both a little uncertain, the fragile truce hanging between them, and Rose could feel the shift—like a crack in the ice that had settled between them, small but real. Jack looked down at her hand, his gaze tracing the fresh bandages. He lingered on the porch, now watching Rose's silhouette disappear into the dim warmth of the house. The door closed softly behind her, and he found himself standing alone in the cool night air, silence stretching around him like a blanket. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette, the ritual familiar and grounding. He lit it, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke curl around him as he looked out into the darkened yard, lost in thought.
The quiet of the town at night brought memories rushing back, memories he hadn't let himself linger on in years. The old streets where he and his brother used to race their bikes, the worn fences they'd climb over to steal apples from a neighbor's tree, the laughter that once filled his parents' house. He thought of his mother's careful hands guiding him through the lessons of life, and his father's steady but calloused hand on his shoulder, grounding him when he'd grown too restless, too wild. Those days had felt endless, each one bright and filled with possibilities.
And then there was Maureen. Her laughter echoed faintly in his mind, her teasing words drifting back like ghosts from a past that felt impossibly distant. They'd been close as children, always finding trouble and adventure together, talking about the lives they'd lead once they left town. He'd always thought she'd get out first, that she'd leave him behind with her big dreams and daring plans. But now, she was gone.
A pang hit him, sharp and sudden. He felt the restlessness start to stir, like a storm building in his chest, the old urge to move, to leave before anything here could take root. That had always been his way, after all—drifting from place to place, finding solace in the movement, the freedom of a life untethered by expectations or memories. This place held too many of those, weighing him down, filling him with a sense of loss he couldn't quite name.
He took another drag, feeling the warmth settle in his chest as he blew the smoke out slowly. Maybe it was foolish, he told himself. He'd never been one to stay. But tonight, he found himself wondering if it might be different this time. If there was a reason—someone, rather—who could make him want to stay, to let the roots he'd been running from all these years finally take hold.
The cigarette burned low between his fingers, and he dropped it, grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. For a moment, he stood there in the dark, his mind tangled between the urge to run and the unexpected weight of wanting to stay. And as he took a last look at Rose's window, he knew he wasn't ready to answer that question yet. Not tonight.
