HEARTS CAN BREAK
Chapter Nineteen

Rose did not open her eyes. There was no point. She was surrounded by eternal blackness either way. She thought her body felt bruised and battered, but she knew it was truly her soul.

She was in so much pain...no one would ever understand. The screams had been silenced so long ago, and yet their shrieks still echoed in her head. She was trapped in herself, drowning in the darkness of grief without the will to live.

Like a dream coming back to her on a cloud, he was there. The musty scent of him drifting to her–like work and charcoal and wood and sweat. He was breathing sweet words into her ear, trying to fan her flame back into the roaring fire that was her spirit.

That fire was stamped out completely. The glowing coals had been extinguished and replaced by torturous hurt, hurt that screamed through her heart and tore her mind to shreds.

She had been wrapped in thick flannel blankets as a pathetic attempt to warm her. God, didn’t they know? There was no hope for her to be ever warm again. Ever.

Anger overflowed inside of her at the goddamned officer in the lifeboat with her. The Goddamned officer who had waited too long. The Goddamned officer who had lost Rose her future. The Goddamned officer who had made Jack suffer such unbelievable pain...

She tried to cry. Maybe she could wash some of the anguish of...losing...him with salty tears. Maybe she could weep away these awful feelings inside.

But it was for that reason that water would not form on her eyelids. It was for that reason her cheeks remained dry. She did not want relief from her emotions. She deserved this torment for an eternity.

You fool, she thought to herself. You despicable fool.

Cries wracked her body. Cries that were woven with a burst of colors–red for blood that had pulsed in his veins, black for loss that she had been destroyed with, blue for the sea that had claimed her heart, yellow for the sunshine she would never feel, orange for a horizon that was no longer there, lavender for a love that was drowned.

She began to slip into a restless sleep that was laced with agony. She did not have the power to fight it. Ever so slowly, her mind fogged until she could think no more.

*****

Don’t worry, Rose DeWitt Bukater told herself. He’ll be there.

She stared hard into the vanity mirror in her stateroom, as if challenging her reflection to disagree.

To her utter relief, the only thing that returned her gaze was her expression, wholly as it was on her face.

This is getting insane, she thought briskly. You barely know the man. You just talked to him for one afternoon–one afternoon–and you are going crazy with anxiety over him.

The truth was, Mr. Jack Dawson was no ordinary man and she knew it. Even though she had been around the male race all of her life, tonight she found herself splashing extra dabs of perfume over her skin and washing her face more carefully with cold, clear water.

There was a slight knock on her bedroom door and Trudy, Rose’s maid, whisked inside, curtseying hurriedly.

"Goodness, Miss Rose, we have to hurry and get you ready!" she rushed and started to tighten the laces of Rose’s corset, pulling until there was hardly room for Rose to breathe.

"Trudy, please!" she gasped, her chest heaving against the restrictions the undergarment presented. "Not so tight! I don’t want to faint in front of J...Mr. Dawson, do I?"

For a moment, the servant’s forehead creased and Rose knew what she was thinking. Who was this mysterious Mr. Dawson and why was Rose so concerned about what he thought? Rose never gave a care about Mr. Hockley’s interpretations. But soon Trudy’s fingers loosened the pressure on Rose’s ribcage.

He might not show up. He might not even want to talk to me. Oh, God, I’m going crazy.

Trudy helped Rose slip into her evening gown–one of the latest fashions. The dress itself was slim and close fitting. It had a rather low-cut neckline, short sleeves, and black lace and beads draped over red silk. Her mother had chosen it for her. "It accents your figure so nicely," she had said. "Cal will love it."

Inwardly, Rose groaned at the thought of Cal. He had seemed so charming at first–an heir to one of the biggest fortunes in society and a respected man in the steel business, someone who could treat her like a queen. But after the engagement, things had changed. Rose felt more like a chambermaid than a royalty at all. Not that it mattered what she thought anyway. For Cal, Rose was more or less of a trophy, a glittering object to show off and control. The only problem was that Rose DeWitt Bukater had just enough spirit within her to make this task difficult for him, which in turn crumbled any relationship they had been building. Now she was stiff and cold at his touch. She did not speak to him unless spoken to. Quite honestly, she acted as if she abhorred him, and she believed she did.

The only thing that she was confused about was the mystery of Mr. Dawson. Jack was unlike anyone she had ever known before and it both amazed and terrified her. He believed in...in life, in love, in freedom...these values that Rose had never experienced, had never known.

She heard the door shut softly from her bedroom as Trudy slipped out to assist Ruth in dressing. She could see her overpowering mother, standing forebodingly in the middle of her room, directing her maid as if she was on her way to war, sifting through her countless gowns.

That was the life that Rose was expected to live. She was expected to care about nothing, feel nothing, and be nothing. Parties, socials, husbands, and children. Wasn’t there something more?

It was all too confusing, too puzzling, and she didn’t have the strength to solve it. Her spirit was being taken from her, and she knew it, but still she refused to save herself. For some reason she thought she was expected to die, and Rose DeWitt Bukater always did what was expected of her. So she allowed herself to drown in this heart-tearing society, being callous and cold and unfeeling.

The only thing with drowning was that, no matter how much you set your mind to it, your lungs still wanted glorious air.

Pushing these thoughts from her mind, she rearranged her hair, twisting every fiery red strand into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. A few curls were loose and framed her perfect face. Others lay on her skin, silk against her neckline. She stared into the mirror, not really seeing her appearance, and clasped her delicate silver and gold necklace about her neck. She fingered the pendant gently. Her father had given it to her–her irresponsible, disgraceful father who blemished the DeWitt Bukater name and then died to leave her and her mother to deal with his problems–his enemies, his debts, his financial distress. Yet at the same time, even though he had slashed everything her grandfather had worked so hard to build, she loved him. It was a strange, furious, painful kind of love, something that she could not rid from her heart even if she did not want it there. She remembered how strong he had been–those big arms lifting her up when she was a little girl, twirling her around and around and around, never stopping. She remembered how his voice climbed and fell like a melody, rich and thick, when he read her a story, stories of princesses and dragons and princes and castles. She remembered how he held her when she cried, tears only an innocent little girl could cry. For all of this, and maybe even the pain he had put her through, she loved him.

She fixed ruby earrings to her lobes, watching them gleam with her father’s blood in the golden lights. That’s what she thought of whenever she saw that kind of deep red. Her father’s blood.

I will not cry, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut. I will not cry. I can’t do anything about it. I...will...not...cry.

Somehow, she managed to keep her tears at bay and pull on her white satin gloves. The fabric reached to her elbows and she hated them. She hated the falseness of her class. She hated the fanciness and the need to impress the rest of the world. She hated that she couldn’t just be herself.

There was a knock on a door. She turned abruptly, interrupted in her world of fantasy and remembrance.

"Come in."

Cal stood in the doorway, his tuxedo stiff and starched, his hair slicked back. He looked intimidating, but she refused to let it work on her.

"I’m glad to see you’re ready, sweetpea. You look absolutely stunning." His eyes swept her form, staying hungrily at certain parts of her body.

She gave a tolerant smile, one she knew appeared cold, but she couldn’t help it. Although she was hot with anger inside, it would not show on her outside. She knew that Cal wanted her to be warm to him, to be loving and obedient and submissive. But Rose did not want anything to do with him. She remembered the night her mother had told her, those three months ago. Ruth had almost twirled into the parlor, beaming with joy.

The words that had swept from her mouth were words that changed Rose’s life forever.

"You are going to be Mrs. Hockley."

Rose Hockley. The name sounded so strange, even in her mind. At night, she would sit in front of her vanity and try to say it, but it would not roll off her tongue. It sounded like two detached people, a flower and steel combined to freeze her in time forever.

Cal was looking at her expectantly. Rose shook herself from her slumber to notice that her mother was on his arm and they were prepared to leave for dinner.

She was always an outsider. It seemed as if Ruth and Caledon had planned the engagement for just their benefit, so therefore they went through it together. She knew that it would be unseemly for an older woman not to be escorted by a gentleman, and she really didn’t mind not holding onto her fiancé. She liked being different, apart. It made her feel as if she had more control in her life, even if she knew she had none.

The two turned and began to sweep out of the sitting room and into the hallway. The entire time they engaged in a pointless conversation that Rose was not paying attention to. All of society’s conversations were pointless when put in the face of love and life, of death and war, of starving children and deprived infants. She had realized this today, after her talk with Jack, so she just stopped listening.

Instead, no matter how hard she tried not to, his image was still dancing on the edges of her mind. She kept seeing his face, his well-shaped cheekbones, his tan, smooth skin, and his long light blonde hair sweeping boyishly into his eyes.

Actually, for someone who had that boyish appearance, his eyes were too wise, too full of horrors and wisdom and maturity and things that no one else had ever seen. She knew that they flickered with flames from the fire that had claimed his family, his home, and his foundations of life. She knew that behind their pools of blue color were visions of the horrors of the world, and how people were really all the same, rich or poor, Italian or French or Swedish or American. In that gaze, she saw her faults and her gifts. She also saw rare, naked truth, and it terrified her.

She hardly noticed that they were in the lifts now, going to idly chat with acquaintances under the dome of the magnificent Grand Staircase.

The ride from B-Deck to the boat deck was short, but long enough for her to pay attention the bellhop.

He had intelligent features–thick brown hair and sharp brown eyes, eyes that took in everything like an eagle’s. He was backing against the control plate, near the lever to move the lift. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he was watching the conversation between Cal and Ruth.

Suddenly he felt Rose’s gaze on him and his look swept to her. He was curiously returning her stare, and in those eyes she saw a person. A person. Not a poor crewman, not a disrespectful steerage rat. A person.

That was when she began to take the final steps to breaking free from her society, even if she didn’t realize it. Jack Dawson had given her strength she didn’t know she could possess.

The golden doors slid open and Rose swept out first. Her mother’s perfume lingered in the elevator and she whisked away to avoid the over-strong scent.

She stared at the blinding white dome of glass above her, gleaming with light even as late as it was because of its electric bulb. It was wrought iron, designs beautifully created into it. The Grand Staircase was molded from oak, a glorious stair with steps from marble that flowed elegantly from Boat Deck to A-Deck. Carved from the same warm wood was the clock that displayed a picture of Honor and Glory crowning Time. It was so intricate, so amazing, that she could not tear her gaze from it. Everything was bathed in a golden light.

She could hear her fiancé’s deep voice and another man’s joining his, trading introductions and civil greetings. She watched Cal and Ruth turn and begin to glide down the stairs, discussing Cal’s business, of all things. Money, again. Rose was so sick of money.

She followed them slowly, and she was stunned to realize that her heart was pounded like a drum and had moved to her throat. She was nervous about seeing Jack.

Such a strange emotion poured over her whenever she was with him, refreshing and clear like cool water. Like her thirst was being quenched. Like she could walk on raindrops and float over clouds.

She didn’t want to know what that emotion was.

She finally let her gaze travel down the steps to the landing.

Please let him be there. I need him there. Don’t let him forsake me.

She felt like hundreds of tiny butterflies had taken wing in her stomach, forcing her whole body to flutter with anxiety. She knew she looked presentable, her gown pouring from her body in folds of red and black, silk and lace, her hair pinned elegantly along her neck, her eyes sparkling with excitement. But she felt as if she wouldn’t ever be good enough, wouldn’t ever look like more than a spoiled, pampered brat to Mr. Dawson.

She recognized him immediately, standing at the base of the stairs, making gestures to Cal’s back. He seemed to be talking to himself, and, Rose realized with amusement, Cal and Ruth had completely glided past him, hadn’t even recognized him.

She knew why. He looked like a first class gentleman. He didn’t look like the tumbleweed Jack anymore. His lovely blonde hair was slicked back away from his face, dark with water. He had somehow managed to borrow a tuxedo–his black pants were dustless and pressed, his snow-white shirt was stiffly starched to fit his chest, and his jacket was dark as night, made of what looked like Italian fabric. He even wore shiny, black shoes that reflected the light above him. She couldn’t help but let a smile decorate her face as she saw the perfect satin bowtie laced under his collar.

Even dressed like the others, he looked so out of place. She was still several steps away from him, but she could already feel his overpowering radiation of energy and life and joy. His eyes were dancing with the daring to leap over the challenge of acceptance and glowed with flashes of deep blue.

When he turned with a light grin playing on his lips, she thought she would faint. He looked, began to turn away, and then realized she was there.

When their gazes met, she felt like she was melting into warm water. She couldn’t move. For a moment she was transfixed, her feet frozen to the marble beneath her. Everything began to spin and the only thing that remained solid and steady was his face. A smile was etched on her full, ripe lips, and it faded slowly as that feeling came over her, that feeling that always came over her when he was close to her, that feeling of flying and falling.

Somehow, she told her legs to move. Finally her brain connected the message to her body and she slowly continued to descend the stairs, one step at a time, her gown rustling in its beauty behind her.

He took a few smooth steps at the base to meet her. How can he look so calm? she asked herself. How can he be so sure of himself? How can his heart not pound and his stomach not flutter?

He was like a welcoming beacon, and she paused a few steps above him, enthralled by his eyes.

Jack took her gloved hand slowly, never taking his gaze away from hers. She thought she would faint when he touched the fabric. It was as if he was feeling through the satin, caressing her skin. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would rocket out of her ribcage and to the sky.

Suddenly he lowered his lips to her hand and kissed her fingertips. Her feet froze to the floor. Everything began to spin. Colors blurred in and out. Her head throbbed like a drum. Excitement and joy tingled up every molecule in her body.

Ever so gently he raised his head, becoming level with her even though she was a step above him. He was suppressing a smile and she saw him fight to keep a laugh from bubbling out of his mouth.

"I saw that on a nickelodeon once and I always wanted to do it."

It was just a slight brush of his mouth on her hand. So many hundreds of men had done it to her before. But this time she was drowning in feelings that made her cheeks glow and her skin become rosy and pink under his fingertips. She giggled at his comment. It was hard to imagine him sitting in a theatre, watching a man kiss a woman’s hand. Not her tumbleweed Jack.

Her Jack?

She shoved the thought from her head as she watched his elbow extend towards her. When he offered it, she hesitated. From the way she was feeling now, she was terrified that she would make a fool of herself in some way, become unsophisticated and heady all over again, like this afternoon on deck.

Well, the damage had already been done. Her feelings were already out of control, her responses purely instinct. And for some strange reason, she could not deny herself the pleasure of being with him again, of laughing until her stomach ached, of taking in his scent that was seeping through the tailored suit–of charcoal and sunlight and work and sandalwood.

So before her practical, engaged self could interfere, she slipped her elegantly gloved hand into his elbow and allowed him to escort her from the stairs.

She couldn’t help but let her stifled laughter burst when he raised his nose in the air, obviously mocking the more pompous first class passengers. She doubled over briefly, then quickly stood straight again as he lowered his face, a grin playing on his lips.

If anyone had the right to mock society, it was he. From what she had heard of his life, it had been rough and painful and callous, yet he had never backed down from the challenge of survival, had not once let the hardships of life actually rob away his life.

It was that she admired him most for.

He almost strutted along the marble, still forcing down a smile from his act. She steered him to her fiancé, dreading the fact that the time had come to reintroduce them.

"Darling?" she asked. In her grip, she felt Jack shudder. Then again, maybe it was she. She hated using such a sweet name for a bastard like Cal. Maybe he was not a bastard, but he surely was not worthy of the title she bestowed upon him.

Caledon whirled around, Ruth turning with him.

"Darling, surely you remember Jack Dawson."

Rose almost laughed when she saw their faces. Both of their polite smiles, results of pleasant and idle chatter, washed off of their faces. Two pairs of dead, choked eyes combed Jack for any flaws.

Suddenly, Cal’s fake smile sauntered back in place on his face. Although other people would have easily been fooled, Rose could still feel the tension and disdain that Cal truly was thinking.

"...Dawson?" He sounded shocked, amazed, maybe even a little intimidated. Surely she was imaging it. Caledon Hockley, son of a Pittsburgh steel tycoon, was never intimidated. Especially by someone of such low social status.

Then again, maybe it was the raw truth and acceptance about Jack that unbalanced him. No matter what it was, it caused him to shoot something full of vengeance out into the open.

"Well, you could almost pass for a gentleman! How extraordinary!"

In that moment, Rose wanted to slap her fiancé. How dare he be such an idiot to a guest, someone he knew she enjoyed the company of? She watched, seething, as Cal turned away, towing Ruth behind him.

Almost automatically she looked up into Jack’s eyes, begging an apology. He shrugged it off with a grin and started walking again. His expression was one of amusement, and although she didn’t know if it was all honest, she forced herself into believing it and followed after him.

"I was afraid you wouldn’t come." Rose tried to mask some of the relief from her voice, but it appeared he sensed it anyway because his smile broadened and he shook his head.

"Nothing could keep me away. It’s my reward," he answered, looking down at her, a little bit of a laugh sparkling in those orbs of blue.

"You wouldn’t have jumped," he whispered in her ear, making her tingle with sensations.

Down the Grand Staircase they went, flight by flight, exchanging small conversation.

"So, these are all the rich people, huh?" he asked quietly as they turned to descend the last few steps, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. She nodded and, when they paused on the landing, decided it was best to acknowledge the different people to him.

"There’s the Countess of Rothes."

He straightened his coat with his free hand and turned to where she discreetly pointed. She saw him evaluating the woman, reading into her soul, with his artist’s eyes, something only he could do. They concentrated their swirling calm water blue at the Countess. She was clothed in layers of off white and a solitary feather was stylishly fixed into her glossy brown hair. But Rose could tell that Jack was looking past her appearance and into the hidden depths of her heart.

He bit his lip and turned back to Rose as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. She stared up at him, transfixed, as he looked back down on her, shifting that free spirit, heart- melting gaze at her.

She woke from her trance. Don’t you do this, Rose, she scolded herself inside. Don’t you listen. It’s just Mr. Dawson. Just Mr. Dawson.

Frantically, she knew she had to keep the conversation going. She picked out a familiar face in the crowd.

"That’s Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress, Madame Adair. Mrs. Guggenheim is at home with the children, of course..."

Jack turned to study the stately form of Mr. Guggenheim and his handsome face looked again amused, whereas every other face in the room looked repulsed. The middle-aged man, now left with nothing but a small halo of smoke-colored hair, was flirting madly with his sleek, dark-haired mistress, who was giggling over a cup of champagne and looked quite out of it. Rose could see foggy memories stir behind Jack’s pupils.

Why was she already feeling to be a part of those memories?

"And that’s John Jacob Astor," she continued as she looked and saw the couple descending the stairs. They moved over to engage in conversation with their fellow passengers. "The richest man on the ship. His little wifey there, Madeline, is my age and in a delicate condition."

She swept Madeline up and down, seeing her unfailing elegant beauty and also noticing the almost hidden rounding of her stomach beneath folds of burnt oranges and golds.

"See how she’s trying to hide it? Quite the scandal," she added playfully, turning back to Jack, suddenly so close she could feel his warm, minty breath fall on her skin. He chuckled and his wonderful smile lit his face again. She tried not to notice how his eyes traveled around her face, searching for something, trying to give something. It made her feel like she could run around the world to meet him, that she would fly to Mars to be with him. She tried to ignore the feeling.

"And there’s Sir Cosmo and Lady Lucille Duff-Gordon," she finished, watching the older couple that Cal and her mother were speaking so animatedly with. The man’s gray, drooping mustache only added to his intimidating appearance. His wife’s eyes were dark and seemed to burst from her skeletal face.

"She designs naughty lingerie," Rose continued, waving a delicate hand to the Sir and the Lady. Before she realized what she had said, her cheeks turned pink and her eyes sparkled brighter. "Very popular among the royals."

Here Jack laughed, and he looked down on her again. He was looking past her outer beauty right now, and she knew it. She felt like she was melting into liquid from his gaze. The only thing she could concentrate on was his lips, how smooth and soft they looked, how she wanted to press her own against them...

Suddenly he brushed a curl from her face and she heard herself inhale deeply. His smile softened and broadened at the same time. The sounds and visions of the Reception Room began to fade away. He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and she would kiss him back...

"Sweetpea?" Cal’s voice drifted into her dream world, jerking her into reality. Jack’s grin turned more apologetic as Rose turned to her fiancé.

Her fiancé.

She didn’t want to remember she was engaged, didn’t want to feel the heavy diamond on her finger. She wanted to be free.

"Yes?"

Usually, in public, she would have added darling, but she could not make herself right now.

"We’re leaving the Reception Room for the Dining Saloon." He turned to Jack. "Dawson, you’ll be still joining us then?"

Jack seemed to laugh at Cal with his eyes and Rose knew that Jack realized Cal didn’t want him to come. But then, with or without an invitation had obviously never mattered to him. So of course, Jack nodded and started to follow Cal and Ruth. He seemed to almost gingerly step on the lush carpet, as if he was afraid to soil it. As they gracefully descended the last flight of the Grand Staircase, Rose steered him over to the left with a gentle push of her gloved hand.

His walk was smooth, confident, but somehow she knew he was nervous. She could feel it. She could feel his emotions.

For a while, they strode in compatible silence. Every once in a while, Jack would make some remark that would send a laugh out of Rose’s throat.

"This isn’t exactly a party," Rose murmured, watching Jack’s eyes flick around the room like a flame, taking in everything in their path. He turned to her suddenly and chuckled.

"Nah, but that’s fine with me. I’ve been to enough parties to last me a lifetime."

He licked his lips, seemingly waiting for her to say something. Her curiosity got the better of her as they walked, and she pushed a curl out of her eyes.

"What sort of parties?" she asked, watching him, interested. He seemed to have done more in twenty years then generations of her family had ever done. She was attracted to him because of that–because of his spirit and his charm. She loved hearing him talk about his experiences, and as of now she slowed her walk to listen.

When he spoke, it was softly. His head was inclined to hers and she kept her eyes on his face, watching for the bright portrait of passionate emotions that always painted his form when he talked.

"Well, back home in Chippewa Falls, we did a lot of nonsense partying. We weren’t really wild kids, but we all would get together in some old barn and dance ‘til we turned blue. I never got real good at it, hell, never came close, but no one really cared. No one really cared, that is, ‘til I got older and started dancin’ more seriously with the girls. Then I had to get better because they didn’t appreciate my stepping on their feet all the time." A wry smile appeared on his cheeks and she giggled, quickly masking the laugh because of social proprieties.

"And then my parents died and you know I left. Couldn’t stand to be there with the memories. I was gone on the first train. Didn’t look back. Never have. And that’s where the conflicts began. I had always been a well-respected kid. Well behaved. I didn’t know how to deal with nightlife when I first was introduced to it in France. I had never gone outside in New York at night, not once. But in France I didn’t have a choice. I had worked my way across the ocean and didn’t have two cents to rub together. Didn’t even have one to drop on the sidewalk. So I had to work. Mostly, I had to work at night on the docks. Loading ships in time to go out at dawn, unloading cargo for stores. Sometimes, when I couldn’t get a job, I would sketch and sell my drawings on the streets to all of those who came out at dark."

Rose continued to watch him, intrigued.

"Well, one night, I heard this music in an old, falling down building. Of course I went in. Let’s just let it be sufficient to say that there were...dancers...in there. And–"

Jack was interrupted as a heavy woman swathed in furs, silk, and feathers appeared rudely next to him. He smiled, never once letting on that he was annoyed, when he recognized Mrs. Brown.

"Care to escort a lady to dinner?" she asked in her southern drawl, arranging her scarf. Her hair had been curled in fat, shiny ringlets that were pinned atop her head under an elaborate headdress. She was wearing dark makeup and looked like she was still new money.

Jack didn’t seem to notice. If he did, he didn’t care. "Certainly," he replied, holding out his free elbow to Mrs. Brown. Molly took it and trudged along beside them, a strand of his slicked back hair hanging into his eyes. He shook it away from his forehead and it became tucked behind his ear.

"No trick to it, is there Jack?" Molly commented as they whisked into the dining salon. "Now remember, they love money, so just pretend you own a gold mine and you’re in the club."

Rose inwardly acknowledged the fact that her fellow first class passengers were so shallow; cash and physical beauty were all of importance to them. She was beginning to see that in Margaret Brown, there was the sort of naked truth that Jack possessed, though a bit more tarnished than his perhaps.

"Hey Astor!" Molly suddenly shouted out, letting go of Jack and waddling over to the richest man on Titanic, John Jacob Astor, and his wife.

"Why, hello Molly," Mr. Astor smiled.

"JJ, Madeline, I’d like you to meet Jack Dawson," Rose said politely.

"Hello, Jack," John started boisterously. He shook Jack’s hand firmly.

"How do you do?" Madeline followed.

"Are you of the Boston Dawsons?" her husband inquired, his dark, wavy hair sprinkled with gray.

Jack seemed to almost smile for a moment. The Boston Dawsons. Sure. No, this Jack had grown up on a farm in the middle of nowhere, knowing no place but Wisconsin. This Jack had lounged in the company of drug addicts and alcoholics and prostitutes, trying to show them true life.

"No," he said, shaking his head to affirm what was coming from his mouth, "The Chippewa Falls Dawsons, actually."

Mr. Astor grazed over Jack’s face, trying to detect a joke or a twinge of laughter. But he was as solid as ever, his face solemn and mysterious.

"Oh yes, yes..."

As Jack and Rose walked away, arms looped, Rose murmured quietly, "My, my, Mr. Dawson, we can manipulate people, can’t we?"

He grinned.

Suddenly she could almost feel his pulse quicken as he looked about the dining saloon. She almost heard his thoughts–so many, many people, in dull and bright colors, dresses and tuxedos, silk and velvet. They all looked so intimidating.

"Jack, don’t worry–they’re so shallow, so bland, so plain...they can’t hold a candle to you–"

He shot her a smoldering, curious look and, dammit, she felt her cheeks heat up. Her own heartbeat started thundering.

She was saved from the embarrassment of the moment by Cal, of all people, who waved her over to the table they would be dining at. She watched as Jack tried to recognize all of the people.

First, he made it over to the Countess. He must have seen something in her, for his eyes held sympathy. Rose made polite introductions as he kissed the older woman’s hand.

The Countess of Rothes was obviously charmed by Mr. Dawson, and she blushed a deep shade of red when Jack lightly kissed her hand. He has that affect on everybody, Rose thought, amused.

With stunning and yet mocking politeness, Jack swept back a chair for Rose to sit in. Cal never did this, but seeing the beautiful smile Rose beamed at Jack, she could see Jack’s insides melt. He blushed, a handsome, adorable, boyish rosy shade coming into his cheeks. She giggled as he tripped backwards into his seat.

*****

Suddenly, without warning, pain returned to Rose’s head. She was blinded by the astonishing pang of it. Her body was throbbing with the desperate hurt. In her blanket of horror and grief, she welcomed suffering, praying for more. More to take away her inner anguish, to distract her from the misery that was driving recklessly through her frozen blood.

Through her eyelids, something green was burning...flickering...trying to pierce her like the knife that was already tearing her insides. She tried to block out the light. She would rather drown in darkness.

Against her will, her eyes seared open and the bitter wind and sting of salt greeted them immediately.

She saw a man standing above her. His officer’s cap was still on...he seemed so desperate for rescue.

What was there to be rescued for?

He was waving a green flare, allowing the silver smoke to swirl from the torch and burn into the sky that was still sprinkled with stars. Even they seemed duller now, as if they had wept away their sparkle. She remembered how bright they had seemed before the iceberg, before her life began and so abruptly ended. Her soul was gone and all that was left was her body, empty.

A lamp was thrown next to her. In bold red letters it proudly proclaimed Titanic. She could still recall how amazed everyone had been, how Titanic had been goddess of the sea and ruler of the world. How all had marveled at her size...her luxury...stability...strength...

And now it was all gone. Everything.

"It is unsinkable. God Himself could not sink this ship–"

She wanted to scream, to weep in her anguish and sorrow and pain, because she was alone again. For just three days she had felt free, finally. But Jack had disappeared, and she was forever lonely.

She could feel only the horrible, white hot hate towards herself, the desire to die. She didn’t even deserve to die. She deserved to be put through this torture.

It had seemed so much like a fairytale, she decided now. The sunset, the drawing, and the car–his tender, calloused hands treasuring her like no other had done. So unreal...she must have known it wouldn’t last.

She could still feel him from her dream that had been her memory. She could still feel his warm breath on her skin when he leaned close to whisper to her. She could still feel the starch of his jacket and the affection in his eyes.

The oars were dipping quietly in the silent sea. She could not hear the officer shouting over her, his voice echoing across the icy emptiness. The only thing she could listen to was the droplets of ocean falling in crystal drops from the wood like the whole world was in mourning.

Like a wounded, dying animal, she heard the shrieks inside of her, from her heart. Yet they would not transfer from her lips. They seemed so unearthly, so full of despair; so full of everything she was now.

But the tears would not come. The pain would not wash away. And Rose, the once beautiful, fiery Rose, was a ruined and trampled on flower, robbed of everything but hate and misery.

She did not notice as pink and orange stained the black-blue sky.

For in the field of ashes and ice, the sun had disappeared and would never rise again.

Chapter Twenty
Stories