ROMANOV AUTUMN
Chapter Thirteen

When Harry woke Jack early the next morning, he found his friend in a rather foul mood. Not that it surprised him, really. After all, Jack had only recovered from the asthma attack just a few hours before, and now he was expected to take on a twelve-hour workday.

Harry waited at the bottom of the stairs for his friend, not wanting to get in the way. "Are you sure he’ll be all right?" Mrs. Logger asked, highly concerned as she prepared her things at the front desk. Harry glanced over his shoulder with a small smile.

"Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Logger, Jack doesn’t have much of a choice. We’ve just been hired, so it wouldn’t look too good if he had take a sick day when he hasn’t even really started working yet."

Mrs. Logger adjusted her spectacles just as Jack made his way down the steps, and she gave him a polite nod. "Morning," Jack grumbled, his skin still too pale for Harry’s liking.

"Have a good day, boys," Mrs. Logger replied, and Harry led the way outside.

"You…er…" Harry cleared his throat. "Look a little better today, Jack."

Jack sighed heavily. "Yeah," he muttered. "I wish I could say the same for how I really feel." They walked to the studio, and Jack was rather surprised to see a fancy carriage parked on the street. Harry and Jack stepped into the street, and Harry nudged Jack’s shoulder.

"I’ll bet that’s Bridget’s carriage," he whispered. "She’s supposed to be rather well-off."

Sure enough, a beautiful woman stepped out of her carriage, taking the valet’s hand. Jack felt his cheeks growing warm; she was tall and slender, with sleek black hair pulled into a French twist at the back of her head. She wore a cream-colored dress that went down to her ankles and a pair of white flats. Around her neck hung a string of pearls, and she wrapped a gray mink stole around her shoulders.

"Good day to you, Miss Campbell. Shall I come for you at 7:30?"

Bridget gave a small nod. "Yes, Hartley. 7:30." She seemed to feel Jack and Harry’s eyes on her, and turned slowly towards them. Jack gulped, wishing he could sink right through a hole in the street.

"Might I help you?" she asked, and Jack, though he tried very hard to speak, found that his voice seemed to have died with embarrassment. Harry, however, took Bridget’s hand and kissed it gently.

"You must be Bridget Campbell, I assume?" he asked, and Jack stared.

"Why, yes, I am." She lifted her head high. "Who might you be?"

Harry stepped back a pace. "Well, Mr. Gleeson just hired me yesterday, Miss. I’ll be acting opposite you in the film."

Bridget let out a hearty laugh, which nearly startled Jack out of his skin.

"Oh, how wonderful! I was hoping he was going to hire a lad as handsome as yourself!"

Harry turned to Jack and winked. "This here is my friend, Jack Dawson. He’s the artist."

Jack numbly shook hands with Bridget, who flashed him another one of her amazing smiles. "Well, the pleasure is all mine, surely!"

"Y-yes, Miss Campbell," Jack stuttered, and Harry smirked, checking his watch.

"Well, we’d better go inside before Mr. Gleeson has all of our heads." He took the lead, and Bridget gave a soft chuckle as Jack hurried to catch up. He couldn’t believe it…he would have to draw her naked? He was sure he would die on the spot when she undressed in front of him.

"Good morning, my dear!" He could hear Mr. Gleeson’s booming voice. "I see you’ve met our new hires, eh?" He eyed Jack with an expression of pride, and Jack had to duck out of sight when his chest tightened a little, causing him to cough.

"Where is Mr. Atwood?" Bridget asked, taking Mr. Gleeson’s arm and following him into the factory. Harry grabbed Jack’s arm from where he stood behind one of the pieces of machinery and dragged him along.

"He’s in my office," Mr. Gleeson explained. "Mr. Edison has…well…dropped in to see how our progress is going, and I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a ruffle."

Thomas Edison was there. Jack felt sick; this was not what he wanted to deal with right now. Not when he still felt lousy, and when he wasn’t sure he could perform to his best abilities.

"Oh, how delightful! You must introduce me!" Bridget exclaimed.

"Boys, come with me," Mr. Gleeson announced, just as Mr. Atwood and a thin, gray-haired man with a thin beard stepped out of the office door. Mr. Atwood looked distinctly annoyed, and the great inventor was merely chatting casually, as though he did not notice at all.

"Just in time! Just in time!" Mr. Gleeson chuckled, and Mr. Edison lifted his gaze to the director.

"Ah…" he spoke, and Jack was rooted to the spot.

"Sir, it’s an honor to meet you," Harry said happily, shaking his hand.

"Thank you. Mr. Gleeson, I’ve been going over your script with Mr. Atwood, and I’m not…entirely sure this is an acceptable piece for society’s viewing."

"In other words, he thinks it’s abominable to show a naked woman serving salad," Mr. Atwood growled, and Jack felt his heart sink. "It is pure pornography!"

"Pornography!" Mr. Gleeson cried. "Nudity is art, sir."

"And what exactly is the point of this picture?" Mr. Edison asked, and Mr. Gleeson looked at Jack and Harry.

"Er…boys, will you be kind enough to escort Miss Campbell to her dressing room? Help yourselves to a cup of coffee."

Jack was grateful to escape and hurried after his friend and Miss Campbell to a room in the back of the studio. They shut themselves into her dressing room, and Bridget removed the pins from her hair.

"Miss Campbell, I…" Jack started, and she tossed her mink stole to him. He quickly hung it up and accepted a cup of fresh coffee from Harry.

"That man is so terribly old-fashioned!" Bridget cried, shaking her hair loose. "That’s the second time he’s attempted to ambush us by coming in early in the morning. Thinks he can catch us off guard by dropping in very early in the morning. Well, Mr. Gleeson is onto him now. We’ll do the picture our own way. Great inventor indeed!"

Harry sipped from his cup of coffee, watching as Bridget began applying makeup to her cream-colored skin.

"Ma’am?" Jack finally spoke, feeling a bit more comfortable around her now. Bridget finished powdering her nose, and then produced her lipstick from her purse.

"Yes?" she asked, after smoothing a bit of it on her lips. Once she put it away, she turned to face Jack.

"I thought…er…that I should let you know that I’ll be the one drawing you…"

Bridget chuckled warmly. "Naked? Yes, yes, Mr. Gleeson informed me of that. Are you really as brilliant as he told me you were?"

Jack felt his cheeks burning again. "Well, I’m…I…" She pointed to his portfolio before he could finish his sentence.

"Might I see what you’ve done?" she asked, and without a word, Jack automatically handed her his sketchpad and tried to ignore Harry’s expression of deepest amusement.

Bridget carefully flipped through the worn pieces of paper, her green eyes narrowed in concentration. She was still peering closely at the sketches when there was a knock on the dressing room door. "Yes?" she called, not looking up.

"Are you decent, Bridget?" Mr. Gleeson asked, and she grinned.

"Yes, of course. Do come in," she replied, handing the portfolio to Jack, along with a kiss on the cheek. "You are a wonderful artist," she told him softly. "I do believe you’ll do me justice with your talent."

Jack smiled back, pleased. "Thanks," he replied just as Mr. Gleeson stepped in.

"He’s gone, thank heavens," he announced, and Bridget sank back into her chair, raising her arms with relief. "If he thinks," Mr. Gleeson continued, "that we’re going to give in and follow what every other idiot film creator has done, he has another think coming. Creativity, dammit! That’s what it’s all about! I’m sick of being restricted by such formalities!"

Jack swallowed, wishing he could lie down and take a nap. Every joint ached, and his head was still rather stuffy.

"Good for you, sir!" Harry exclaimed. "What did he say?"

"Well, naturally, I didn’t say any of that to his face," Mr. Gleeson replied. "Oh, no. That would have been the death of us. Mr. Edison is very powerful, you see. I continued to bribe him on the idea that nudity is the new wave of interested artists, and no doubt people would be flocking to the nickelodeon theaters to see it. He just stared at me for a few moments and then said that he’d see about that before leaving in a huff."

"So we’re still able to make the picture, Ed?" Bridget asked, brushing her shiny black hair. Mr. Gleeson was about to reply when Jack startled them all by sneezing loudly.

"Sorry," he apologized quickly, and Mr. Gleeson folded his arms.

"All right there, Jack?" he asked. "I noticed that you looked a bit peaked this morning."

Jack shrugged. "I’m fine," he lied, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"He had an asthma attack last night, sir…I mean…Ed," he corrected himself. "It was pretty bad, too."

Jack glared, wanting more than anything to slug Harry. It was one thing to mention his illness around the director, but to embarrass him in front of the lead actress was much worse.

"Really? Are you all right to continue working today, lad?" Mr. Gleeson asked, sounding truly concerned, and Jack nodded.

"Yeah," he replied. "I think I’ll be fine, sir."

"Ed, Jack, Ed." Mr. Gleeson laughed. "I refuse to listen to any of that sir business. I’m already forty! I don’t want to be reminded of being an old man every day!"

Bridget giggled at his comment and turned her attention back to her reflection in the mirror. "Well," Mr. Gleeson added, blowing out his breath. "Shall we give Miss Campbell some privacy? Harry, my boy, I still have to show you to your own dressing room. Come along, now." He ushered Jack and Harry out of Bridget’s dressing room, and Mr. Gleeson shut the door quietly behind them.

Jack still wanted to tell Harry off once they were away from Bridget, but now that he thought about it, it was probably best that Mr. Gleeson knew about his health. It was better than his accidentally thinking Jack was a lazy worker and not living up to his expectations.

Jack sneezed again, trying to stifle it, but only succeeded in painfully popping his ears.

"Bless you," Harry told him quickly, and Mr. Gleeson glanced over his shoulder.

"Perhaps you need some fresh air?" he suggested. "It is rather dusty in here."

Jack cleared his throat, shaking his head after he gave his nose a blow with his handkerchief. "No, I’ll be fine. Thanks." They arrived at Harry’s dressing room, and Harry peered curiously through the doorway. It wasn’t nearly as big as Bridget’s space, but it was still nicely furnished and well-lit.

"You’ll find your costume all hung up in the closet there," Mr. Gleeson explained, pointing to the specific location. "The actual makeup artist won’t be here ‘til noon. Jack," he added, "come with me so I can help give you direction about what I want you to do as far as sketches go."

Jack nodded, wishing his nose would settle down. He rubbed it with irritation, entering once again into the director’s crowded office.

"Now. You know about Bridget’s portrait," he began, "and I’ll want that done fairly quickly."

Jack nodded in understanding. "I told her I’d be doing the drawing…Ed," he replied, feeling a bit awkward calling his boss by his first name.

"Yes. She is very comfortable with the entire project. In fact, it is because of her father that we are even able to do this. He is generously funding the film, actually." He laughed at the look of surprise on Jack’s face. "Oh, come now. Not all elderly men are along the same line of attitude as Mr. Edison and his cronies. No, Mr. Campbell was thrilled when he found out about this picture; I think the fact that we asked his daughter to star in it thrilled him moreso."

"He knows she’s naked, right?" Jack asked, smirking, and Mr. Gleeson nodded.

"Yes, and he’s perfectly fine with the idea. Now if only Mr. Campbell can convince that thick-headed Edison…" He cracked his knuckles.

Jack nodded and quickly excused himself before sneezing for the fourth time. "Sorry," he croaked, and Mr. Gleeson raised an eyebrow.

"You really should be home taking care of yourself, Jack," he said. "You’ll still be paid once I give you a list of assignments. There are days I will allow you to do your work from home. Of course, once we start building the sets, I’ll need you here for most of the day as sort of my…how would you say it…visual assistant."

Jack wet his lips, not sure what to say. The idea of working from home for part of the time as well as being on location was certainly intriguing. Still, it was only his first day, and he didn’t want to make a bad impression on his new boss.

"I just…I just don’t want to leave you in a…bad spot…" He had to turn away with yet another sneeze, and Mr. Gleeson offered him a fresh handkerchief. "Thanks," Jack whispered, and the director shook his head.

"I insist you take the rest of the day off, Jack, after I give you your work list. As long as this doesn’t become a daily ritual, I’ll let today slide, all right? I just don’t want you sneezing yourself to death here."

Jack sighed, guilt gripping at his stomach. "Thank you, Ed. I really appreciate it. I only had an asthma attack last night because my new apartment hadn’t been cleaned in almost five years, and it should be cleaned today, so I’ll be fine for tomorrow."

Mr. Gleeson nodded with approval and clasped Jack on the shoulder. "You’re a good man, Jack," he replied. "There aren’t many like you around here these days. I can tell we’re going to get along fine."

With that, Mr. Gleeson began to jot down a list of sketch subjects he wanted Jack to complete. "When you come in tomorrow, I’ll go through what you’ve done and will see which I like best. Try to do two versions of each if you will, possibly at different angles and shades. All right?"

Jack nodded. "I’ll have it finished, sir." He struggled to his feet, and, after shaking Mr. Gleeson’s hand, made his way to the main door. Harry, who saw his friend heading off, asked the director what was going on.

"I told him he could take the day off," Mr. Gleeson replied. "I’m glad you told me about the asthma, Harry. He’ll be back tomorrow, of course."

Harry listened as the door opened and closed, and turned to go back to his dressing room.

*****

Jack took his time returning to the apartment, having a feeling that the cleaning would take most of the day. He tried to steady his breathing by walking along the beach, taking in the calming scent of the salt air. He listened to the seagulls as they cried overhead and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.

He didn’t actually return home until just around one o’clock, where he found Mrs. Logger frantically scrubbing the floors and the widows. "Oh!" she gasped, when he opened the door, and he saw that she had a bandanna around her head to keep her hair out of her eyes. The sheets had been stripped from the bed, and a fresh new set took the place of the old ones. "I wasn’t expecting you so soon," she added, standing, and grimacing as she rubbed her sore knees.

"Well, I wasn’t expecting to come back until this evening, either," Jack admitted, "but I’m really not feeling well, still, and my boss let me take the rest of the day off. You can keep cleaning," he told her, "if you want. I have some drawings I have to do for tomorrow, and I’d hate to sleep the day away and forget about them."

Mrs. Logger smiled. "Well, dear, you shouldn’t have to work with an old lady’s interruptions. Why not go downstairs to my study and do your work there? It’s warm and comfortable…"

Jack managed to bury his face in his arm just before sneezing yet again. "And there are plenty of handkerchiefs in the top drawer," she added, and Jack looked at her.

"Thank you," he replied.

"I shouldn’t be much longer," Mrs. Logger promised. "You do look exhausted, dear. Shall I put on a pot of tea before you begin working?"

Jack nodded. "That would be great," he agreed, and she looked relieved to be given another task to do.

"All right. Well, go on downstairs, then, and I’ll be with you shortly."

Jack walked down the narrow staircase and found Mrs. Logger’s private study. It was a cheerful room, a bit larger than his own. It contained shiny oak furniture, covered with light green and rose print cloth. He took a seat on the couch after finding the stash of handkerchiefs and propped open his sketchbook on his knees.

This, he told himself, as he began to sharpen a fresh piece of charcoal, is certainly the life.

Chapter Fourteen
Stories