Chapter 9

Rose's hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before she pushed it open, stepping into Jack's room with a tentative glance around. "Jack?" she called one last time, but the room remained silent. She moved toward the bed, setting down his neatly folded clothes, about to leave when something caught her eye.

Scattered across the floor, his desk, even spilling over onto the dresser, were pages upon pages of sketches—some faint, barely more than a few lines, others so richly detailed they seemed to leap off the paper. She hesitated, glancing back toward the door to make sure no one else was around, before bending down to pick one up.

It was a drawing of a Paris street scene, rendered with astonishing detail. She could almost feel the life in it—the bustling crowds, the sway of the trees, the towering silhouette of the Eiffel Tower in the background. She sifted through more of them, her fascination growing as she found drawings of people, street musicians, and glimpses of places she could only dream of.

Rose turned the paper in her hands, a soft smile forming as she recognized a familiar corner of Montmartre, one she'd seen in a book once. The place her parents had deliberately avoided during their own travels to the city. Jack had been there, she realized, actually been there, and she felt a strange pang—somewhere between envy and admiration. She glanced over at the desk where several other portraits were laid out: quick sketches of people caught in unguarded moments—a girl laughing, an old man with eyes that seemed heavy with stories.

Suddenly, a throat cleared behind her, low and unmistakably familiar.

Rose startled, the drawing slipping from her fingers as she turned sharply. There, standing in the doorway with a quiet but unreadable expression, was Jack. His arms were crossed, leaning against the frame as though he'd been watching her for some time.

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, bending down quickly to pick up the paper she'd dropped. "I just… I knocked, but you didn't answer, and… your clothes… and I then…"

Jack chuckled, though there was a hint of nervousness in it. "You got distracted by my art?" he echoed, stepping further into the room, his shoulders relaxing a little.

Rose held up the sketch with a look of genuine admiration. "You drew these?"

Jack nodded, mumbling, "Yeah. They're just some sketches. I was… sorting them out, that's all."

She shook her head, eyes wide as she took in the scattered papers again. "Just some sketches? Jack, these are incredible." Her expression grew concerned as something dawned on her. "Wait… you're not going to throw these away, are you?"

He shrugged, looking down at the floor as though it might offer him some kind of answer. "There's just too many of them, and no one's interested in them, anyway. Not even in Paris."

Rose scoffed, almost offended on his behalf. "That's where I recognized some of these streets." She looked at him, her eyes alight with wonder. "Are you saying you've actually been to Paris?"

Jack raised an eyebrow, surprised by her reaction. "Yeah… spent quite a long time there," he said, watching her with a faint smile, intrigued by the way her excitement transformed her usually guarded expression. "But 'recognized'?" he asked, his smile growing. "Are you saying you've been there?"

The question seemed to catch her off guard, and for a second, she bit her lip, her mind racing for a response. "I've… seen pictures and such," she finally spoke, her voice dropping just a bit. "In books."

He tilted his head, a knowing look in his eyes as if sensing there might be more to the story. But instead of pressing her, he only nodded, his voice softening as his gaze grew distant. "It's a magical place, Paris. More than any picture could ever capture."

Rose felt a pang of envy but couldn't help but smile. "I've dreamed of it," she admitted, glancing down at the sketches. "The art, the streets, the life everyone says just spills out of it…"

Jack's eyes softened as he watched her, his voice losing its usual edge. "You'd fit right in, you know. Paris has a way of calling to people who don't quite fit anywhere else."

She looked up at him, something vulnerable and open in her gaze. "And yet here we both are."

He nodded slowly, their eyes meeting in a moment of quiet understanding. "Here we are," he echoed, as though they'd somehow both ended up in this small town despite—or maybe because of—the worlds they carried within them. Rose's eyes flickered over the drawings once more when her gaze landed on a particular sketch—a woman reclined on a chaise, completely nude, her expression serene, vulnerable, and utterly at ease. Rose's lips curved into a teasing smile as she looked at Jack, her eyebrow raised.

"Well, well, well," she said, holding up the drawing. "Now I understand why Paris is the place to be."

Jack grinned, shrugging in mock innocence. "Lots of girls willing to take their clothes off," he replied with a wink, his tone lighthearted but with a glimmer of mischief.

Rose examined the drawing again, noticing the delicate detail he'd given to the woman's fingers, the way they curved slightly as they rested in her lap. "You've used her several times," she observed, flipping through the pages and finding the same figure, her hands captured in different poses, each more intricate than the last.

Jack nodded, picking up another drawing and holding it out for her to see. "She had beautiful hands, you see." His voice softened as he traced the lines with his thumb. "Could never get them quite right, though. Always seemed… impossible to capture."

Rose chuckled, her tone teasing. "You must have had a love affair with her."

Jack laughed, shaking his head. "No, no. Just with her hands."

They shared a look, both of them laughing, but something lingered in the air—an unspoken curiosity, a slight thrill in the quiet revelations between them. Rose's gaze returned to the drawing, studying the lines more closely, marveling at how his hand could convey such grace and intimacy with just charcoal and paper.

"Still…" she murmured, a hint of daring in her eyes. "To see someone like that… I imagine you must've had a connection with her."

Jack shrugged, his gaze distant for a moment. "Paris was a place of connections, but they were the kind that you let go of as soon as you left. People, places, things… none of them stick with you."

Rose looked up at him, her curiosity softened by a sudden understanding. "But you kept the sketches."

Jack met her gaze, his smile fading just a little, something honest and unguarded flickering in his eyes. "Guess some things do stick with you, whether you want them to or not."

For a moment, silence fell between them, both of them held by something unsaid. Rose realized she'd stumbled into a part of Jack's past that he rarely let anyone see—a part he might've even forgotten about himself. And in that moment, she wondered if maybe, despite their differences and the walls they both kept, they might just be two souls searching for the same thing: a place to belong, a piece of themselves they hadn't yet found.

Jack cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. "Anyway," he said, taking the sketch from her hands with a small, teasing smile before laying his attention to the bandage, "How's your hand doing?"

Rose flexed her fingers gently, wincing a little but brushing it off with a smile. "It's doing fine, I guess. Though I did have to quit my career as a pianist," she joked, giving him a wry grin.

Jack chuckled, crossing his arms. "Shame, really. You could always try the flute."

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "Right. I'll add that to my ever-growing list of talents."

With a small smile, Rose glanced around the room, collecting herself. "I'd better get back to the chores."

"Yeah," Jack said, nodding as he glanced toward the window, where the afternoon sun was starting to dip. "Mark needs a hand with the horses too. I'd better get out there."

They both moved toward the door, only to nearly collide in the narrow doorway. Rose stopped short, catching her breath as she looked up at him, startled. His hand rose instinctively, just brushing her arm to steady her, and for a brief moment, they stood there, close enough to feel the warmth between them, to notice details—the faint ink smudge on Jack's fingers, the slight flush rising on Rose's cheeks.

"After you," Jack murmured, stepping aside, his hand dropping to his side as he cleared his throat again.

Rose nodded, offering him a shy smile as she slipped past him, and they both felt the air shift back into something familiar yet changed, as if they were learning to navigate a new rhythm.

Once outside the room, they shared a brief glance, an unspoken acknowledgment of something shifting between them, though neither of them dared to say it out loud. With a quiet nod, they each went their separate ways—Rose to her chores, Jack to the stables. But as they walked away, both couldn't help but glance back once, catching the other's eye before disappearing into their separate tasks, each of them feeling that the ordinary rhythms of their day had suddenly become something else entirely.

….

The church bells rang out, their steady chimes filling the small town square as people filed into the building, greeting each other with nods and warm smiles. Rose found herself beside Betty just outside the entrance, adjusting her hat against the gentle morning breeze. Betty fidgeted beside her, her gloved fingers twisting the edges of her shawl as she glanced nervously toward the path leading up to the church. They stepped inside and slid into a pew near the back, and Rose could feel the tension radiating from Betty, who sat rigidly beside her, her gaze darting back to the doorway every few moments.

Finally, unable to stand the silence, Betty whispered, "Rose, I can't… I just can't take it anymore."

Rose turned to her, her eyebrows rising with curiosity. "Can't take what?"

Betty bit her lip, casting another glance around before leaning in closer. "I need to know… does Jack ever… talk about me?"

Rose froze, feeling a surge of awkwardness at the sudden question. She glanced over at Jack, still oblivious to their conversation, before looking back at Betty's expectant face. "I… I really don't know, Betty."

Betty's expression fell slightly, and she looked away, her voice edged with a touch of frustration. "Well, I can't blame you. You two can hardly stand each other, so of course, you wouldn't know anything."

"Well…" Rose started, her voice trailing off, unsure of how to respond. She wanted to tell Betty that things between her and Jack had softened recently, that he wasn't quite the unbearable rogue she'd first thought him to be, but before she could say anything more, Betty spoke up again.

"You know what," Betty said, her voice lifting with sudden resolve. "I'm just going to ask him if he wants to go to the flower parade next Wednesday. It's the twentieth century, after all."

The soft murmurs in the church quieted as the minister took his place at the front, but Betty's resolve was unwavering. After the service, she made her way over to Jack as people began to file out. Rose watched from a few pews away, her heart pounding a little as she saw Betty approach him, her shoulders set with determination.

Jack turned when he heard her footsteps, looking mildly surprised to see her standing there. Rose watched as Betty leaned in, her cheeks pink as she said something to him. She couldn't hear the words, but she saw Jack's eyebrows lift and then that familiar lopsided grin spread across his face.

Betty's expression was hopeful, and for a moment, Rose saw Jack glance over Betty's shoulder, his gaze landing directly on her. Caught off guard, Rose felt her stomach flip under his curious, almost searching look. Then he turned back to Betty, nodding slowly. Whatever he said made Betty's eyes light up, her smile widening as she clasped her hands together, thrilled.

Rose forced herself to look away, suddenly feeling as if she were intruding on a private moment. But as she moved toward the church doors, she couldn't help overhearing snatches of their conversation.

"Flower parade?" Jack was saying, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Why not? Never seen a parade quite like it, I'm sure."

"You'll love it," Betty said, her voice bubbling with excitement. "It'll be the best day."

Rose felt a pang of something she couldn't quite name—relief, perhaps, or something closer to regret. Whatever it was, it left her feeling strangely hollow as she stepped outside into the sunlight, the cheerful voices around her muffled as she walked toward the path leading back home.

A few minutes later, Jack caught up to her, falling into step beside her without a word at first. They walked in companionable silence until he finally spoke. "Betty asked me to the flower parade."

Rose nodded, not breaking her stride. "I know."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "You knew?"

"Well," Rose said with a faint smile, "I knew she wanted to ask you. I assume you said yes."

Jack looked away, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Yeah. I said yes."

For a moment, silence settled between them again, the soft rustle of leaves filling the space. After a beat, Jack looked at her, his expression curious. "Are you going to the parade?"

Rose simply shrugged. "I am not sure yet."

Just then, Sarah, who was a few steps ahead with her husband Mark and the children, turned around and caught the last part of their conversation. She beamed at Rose, her eyes warm and encouraging. "Rose, you can always come with us, you know. Evelyn would love it if you came along."

Her eyes softened. "Thank you."

They reached the carriages parked by the church, the horses shifting and stamping in the midday heat. Rose paused, then took a small step back from the group, looking over her shoulder toward the open road that wound back toward town.

"I think I'll walk home," she announced, her voice light but resolute.

Sarah's brow furrowed in confusion. "Walk? Rose, it's such a long way."

"And it's awfully hot," Mark added, glancing up at the blazing sun. "You'll be sweltering before you're halfway there."

Rose gave a reassuring smile, a glint of defiance in her eyes. "I'll manage. Sometimes a good walk clears the mind, don't you think?Make sure to save me a biscuit or two for when I get back."

She offered them a cheerful wave, turned, and began walking the other direction without waiting for further protest. Her heart beat a little faster with each step, not entirely from the heat. She wanted—no, needed—the time alone, away from their prying, concerned glances. Walking would give her the space to untangle the knots of emotions that had been building inside her all morning. The feeling of having lost control. Again. The moment her mother had announced her engagement to Caledon Hockley loomed in her memory, vivid and haunting.

It was a chilly January day when the news had come. Rose had been curled up in the library of their grand home, the soft crackling of the fireplace filling the silence as she lost herself in a book. Trudy, their maid, had burst in, her expression urgent. "Miss Rose! Your mother would like a word with you in the drawing room."

Rose had risen, puzzled. Her mother rarely called for her unless it was for something important, and she had seen little of her lately. As she crossed the hall, the air had felt thick with an unspoken tension, something foreboding lingering just beyond her sight.

When she entered the drawing room, her mother had looked radiant, almost as if she were glowing with excitement. She approached Rose and placed a kiss on her cheek, a gesture that felt unusually intimate for the moment. Then, without preamble, she announced, "The engagement between myself and Mr. Hockley has been settled! Isn't it wonderful, my dear?"

At that moment, Rose felt as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet. The walls of the room seemed to close in, the ornate decorations blurring into a haze. "What?" she managed to whisper, her heart racing. "But… I've only met him once, Mother. I hardly know him."

Her mother's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, completely oblivious to her daughter's shock. "He's a wonderful man, Rose! Charming, ambitious, and from a good family. This is what's best for us. You'll see. The wedding will be magnificent!"

Rose had fought the urge to scream, her thoughts spiraling out of control. Her father had passed away just two years before, and now her mother was moving forward, grasping at stability in a world that felt anything but. But in her urgency to find security and save the family's name, she was dragging Rose along with her, shackling her to a future that felt like a prison.

"I… I need time to think," Rose had said, her voice trembling. But her mother had only smiled, dismissing her concerns with a wave of her hand.

"Time? Oh, my dear, time is a luxury we cannot afford! You must understand, this is for our family's sake. You'll be so happy, I promise."

The coldness of her mother's words clung to her, but it was the laughter from a nearby field that made Rose stop in her tracks. She turned to see a young couple walking hand in hand, their faces lit with joy as they strolled through the tall grass. The sun glinted off their hair, giving them an ethereal quality, as if they were living in a moment that could stretch on forever.

The man paused, gently lifting the woman's hand to his lips and planting a soft kiss on it. The woman laughed, a clear, ringing sound that floated on the breeze, making Rose's heart ache in a way she hadn't expected. That was happiness, she thought, a pure and unfiltered joy that radiated from the couple like sunlight. It was so uncomplicated, so alive.

She found herself watching them, entranced, as they walked together, oblivious to the world around them. They were lost in each other, a bubble of intimacy that seemed to shield them from anything else—social expectations, future plans, or the weight of their families' legacies. It was just them, here and now, sharing a moment that felt infinitely more precious than any grand future could promise.

The sight stirred something deep within Rose, a yearning that seemed to echo her own restless heart