ROMANOV AUTUMN
Chapter Twenty-Five

Jack spent the first couple of nights strolling around the ship, exploring the different rooms he had access to. He ate dinner in the second class dining room, meeting up with a middle-aged Russian man named Boris Stravinsky. Jack had been sitting alone by the window, enjoying the view of the sun setting over the water, when the man introduced himself.

"Hi," Jack replied, smiling. "I’m Jack Dawson." They shook hands, and Boris sat down at the table. "I’ve seen you before," he added, remembering Boris from the first night. "But you seemed preoccupied, so I didn’t want to bother you."

Boris chuckled through his thick mustache, working through his pork and potatoes. Jack had a bowl of chowder and fresh bread; his stomach was a bit queasy from the rocking of the ship. "It is difficult on us men who travel alone, yes?" he replied.

"Well, I don’t mind it," Jack admitted. "I’ve been traveling alone for the past few years. I’ve met some people on the way, but I tend to come and go as I please." He shrugged, taking a sip of his water. He rubbed his stomach, sighing heavily, and wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball on his bed. Boris noticed this, and frowned deeply, setting his cup of tea on the table.

"All right?" he asked, and Jack looked at his new friend, shrugging his shoulders.

"I get seasick pretty easily," he explained, and Boris nodded in understanding.

"Not a sailor, mmm?" he asked, and Jack laughed.

"Far from it." He closed his eyes, massaging his forehead. "So, are you heading back to Russia?" he asked, wanting desperately to distract himself from the awful feeling in his gut. He was quite sure he was going to lose every ounce of soup he’d taken down…and that was barely half of the bowl.

"Yes," Boris answered. "My family is from St. Petersburg, the capital. I came to America five years ago, and decided to start my own business in New York. I owned a general store, but after a while, the rent became too much to handle."

Jack shook his head…owning a business was definitely difficult, unless you became a millionaire like Mr. Rockefeller. There were indeed men who grew wealthy from certain types of businesses, but not everyone. Especially foreigners these days; they seemed to have the most difficulty keeping their stores running without scorn.

"I understand," Jack said. "I don’t know much about Russia, to be honest, except that it’s currently the largest country in the world, and very backwards as far as technology goes."

Boris gave a deep laugh. "That’ll do it," he said.

"That’s about as far as my education goes, I’m afraid," Jack said, blushing a little. He learned quite a bit about what he knew from books he read, but other than that, he didn’t have quite that big of a scope on world history. He needed to know what was going on right now to keep himself alive in this country.

"Well, let me explain a few things," Boris began, finishing the last of his dinner. "We are a monarchy, run by an emperor. Some have been excellent, and some rubbish…our current one…well…"

Jack blinked. "Rubbish?" he asked, and Boris chuckled.

"He’s still new to the throne, our Tsar--the Russian word for emperor--so it’s hard to say as of yet."

Jack cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. It wasn’t much different in America, where they’d had good presidents and not so wonderful presidents, but then again, the choices were given to the people through democracy, which helped considerably.

"How new?" Jack asked, folding his arms, and Boris took another gulp of his tea.

"He came to the throne in 1894...so six years ago."

Jack nodded in understanding. "And what do you mean by he’s not good?"

Boris sighed. "Ah…that is too much of a tale to get into tonight," he admitted. "I try not to think about the downsides of going back home…bad enough I’m forced to return. Besides, you are looking greener by the moment, boy."

Jack swallowed…the queasiness was getting worse, that was true. "Sorry," he apologized, immediately pushing back his chair and making a beeline for the deck. He grasped the railing and retched over the side of the ship, gasping for air after each bout. He was grateful to be alone, for he hated to be fussed over when he felt like this.

"Ugh…" He groaned, clutching his stomach once the vomiting ended, and he sunk into a deck chair, feeling weak and shivery. The breeze blew against his warm cheeks, tousling his hair. He placed the back of his hand against his forehead as he lay down, closing his eyes to rest a moment. He lay for at least a half hour before he felt well enough to stand, and stumbled back to his stateroom to rest early.

This, sadly, would not be the end of his stomach issues. There was a bad storm the fifth night of the trip, and with the tossing and turning of the ship, Jack spent half the night hunched over the toilet in the tiny bathroom. He didn’t lay down again until way after two in the morning, and slept past lunch the following day.

The next time he met up with Boris, the Russian man was concerned for his well-being, and commented on how thin and bony he looked.

"I’ve always been that way," Jack admitted, sighing as he nibbled lightly on a piece of toast for breakfast his first morning after the storm settled. The sky was now a bright blue, and the sun sparkled over the water, giving it an almost silver gleam.

"Pity," Boris replied, and Jack scowled. "So, what is it you do?" he asked. "I don’t think we had that discussion."

Jack cleared his throat with a sigh, having finished at least one piece of toast for the time being.

"I’m an artist," he replied. "I do pencil sketches. At least, that’s what I want to do…I was working as a bodyguard for Mr. Rockefeller of Standard Oil."

Boris nearly choked on the tea he’d been sipping, and his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "You gave that up to come to Europe?" he bellowed. "Are you crazy, boy?"

Jack cringed at the Russian’s heavy accent and loud voice, unsure of how to respond at first. "Well, I’ve always wanted to go to Europe," he admitted. "And focus on my art. So my employer offered to pay my way and give me some money to use for spending, so it worked out very well."

Boris shook his head, clicking his tongue. "You young‘uns with your dreams," he began. "Your fancy dreams…let me tell you something, Jack…dreams’ll get you nowhere in this world. It’s a cold, hard place, and you have to fight every step of the way."

Dead silence filled the air…Jack firmly disagreed with his new friend; without dreams, there was no reason to keep living. Even if a dream wasn’t easy to achieve, there was still no harm in trying. One look at Boris’s stony face told Jack not to say another word, and he decided to listen to a little girl playing the small piano in the corner. He smiled at her as her tiny fingers danced over the black and white keys, her flat shoe-covered foot tapping to the beat.

"I’d love to have children someday," Jack breathed, and Boris glanced at him, chuckling warmly.

"Ah…yes?" he asked. "Have you any prospects?"

Jack shook his head. "No, not yet…but I’m hoping to find someone in Europe."

Boris snorted. "Ah…old-fashioned, eh?"

Jack sighed. "I suppose," he admitted, wanting to get away as quickly as possible. Boris was one of the first people he’d met where their personalities clashed like oil and water. He was sure the man had a good heart deep down, but he wasn’t willing to bear some of the harsh retorts after everything he said.

"I think I’m going for a walk," he announced after a while. "I’m getting a bit warm in here." He pushed his seat back and took his sketchpad and pencils, receiving a half wave from the Russian, before bolting back onto the deck. Many of the other passengers had the same idea as he, and it was difficult to find a chair to sit down on and rest after a stroll. Therefore, Jack was forced to lean against the rail, and opened his sketchpad, flipping through the drawings he’d made over the past year or so. Bridget’s stood out the most out of all of them; she’d been his first nude drawing. He wondered how the plans for her and Harry’s wedding were coming along, and felt sorry that he most likely wouldn’t be able to make it.

He smiled when he saw the picture of the little girl with her brother on the beach, and their mother gazing lovingly towards them in the distance. The scene of another child running along the same beach with her father and holding a kite still stuck out in his mind…he shivered slightly in the breeze, and when he saw a chair open, he grabbed it within seconds.

It was much warmer in the sunshine, and he lay back, lifting his face to the sky. He watched as seagulls flew past, crying out over the roar of the waves, and sighed contentedly. He glanced beside himself and saw a man in a crisply pressed suit; a top hat covering his face to block the bright sun.

Smirking, Jack quietly took a fresh charcoal pencil out of his new cloth pouch, and decided he would be an amusing subject to sketch. He barely got halfway through when he had to sneeze, and luckily the man merely shifted positions, grunting under his breath. Jack sighed somewhat shakily, and continued his drawing, only having to sneeze again a short time later.

"Quiet!" the man laying beside him bellowed, not even bothering to remove his hat.

"Sorry," Jack apologized, rubbing his nose, and decided to get up before he agitated the man further. He burst out laughing as soon as he reached his cabin, and it took several minutes before his laughter subsided. He finally sat down and peered at his drawing, shaking his head with another chuckle. The characters of some people he’d come across were so different. First was Alan, a long thought gone school companion who wanted to make his own way no matter what, Harry, who fell in love with the actress he worked opposite in the movie, the twins, Billy and Allen from the Oaysys, and Boris.

Jack closed his eyes thoughtfully as he lay on his bed; his stomach didn’t feel nearly as ill as it had, though he wasn’t quite right yet. He gazed through the porthole window, knowing he had an entire day ahead of him. It was quite nice not having to worry about someone intruding when he was trying to enjoy peace and quiet; that was the issue with sharing a room on the Oaysys. Of course, being a crew member didn’t help things much; the accommodations were limited as it was with passengers.

Throughout the rest of the voyage, however, Jack and Boris began to get along a little better; they couldn’t stand each other for more than an hour at a time, but often they would sit in silence and enjoy each other’s company. Jack spent a lot of his free time sketching the different patrons, or reading in the second class library.

By the time disembarkation day arrived, he felt as though he would explode with excitement.

Most of the passengers on board the ship hurried to the deck to watch the great city of London pull into view, with its great towers and the clock Big Ben in the distance. The buildings were much older than those in New York, and the streets were more congested with people wandering back and forth. There were also some women dressed rather indecently, but that wasn’t a big surprise in a city atmosphere.

Jack made sure he had everything before he filed behind everyone off of the ship and thanked the officer at the gate.

"Enjoy your stay, sir," the officer replied thoughtfully, and with a tip of his hat, sent Jack on his way.

If he thought New York was a confusing city, Jack found London to be even moreso. He got rather lost trying to find where he exchanged his money, and was grateful when he was able to sit and rest in one of the local pubs. The owner was Richard Simmons, and he greeted Jack cheerfully, taking his order for a cup of coffee at the counter.

"American, eh?" the older man asked, and Jack noticed there weren’t many people in the pub at all.

"Yes, sir," Jack replied, sipping from his coffee mug once he received it. "Thank you."

"Saw the ship pulling in just an hour or so ago. Nice liner…getting fancier by the year."

Jack smiled softly, enjoying the feeling as the coffee slid down into his stomach, warming him instantly. Even though it was May, the air in London was heavy with the expectance of a good, heavy rain. In fact, the ground was soaked from a previous shower, and everything was covered with a thin, gray mist.

"Here very long, son?" Richard asked, cleaning his counters, and Jack shook his head.

"Not very," he replied. "Maybe a few weeks; I’m trying to focus on art while I’m here…I also wanted to go to Paris and Rome if I could."

Richard nodded in understanding. "A lot of budding artists around these parts, you’ll find.

Especially Hyde Park…I always see the painters setting up shop to try and attract customers. It’s not uncommon, lad…you’ll fit right in, you will."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Where is Hyde Park?" he asked, glancing at his sketchpad and pencil pouch beside his elbow, and waited patiently for the owner to answer.

"It’s about a ten minute walk from here…on Hatsbourough Road. Very nice place…got

yourself a pond, several walking paths…that’s how they gather their customers, the artists, I think."

Jack nodded, drinking more of his coffee. "And I’m also looking for a place to stay while I’m in London," he added. "But I’m looking for something pretty inexpensive. I don’t have a lot of money." It was true…considering Mr. Rockefeller had only given him one thousand dollars extra in spending money, and if he considered buying food and travel to the other countries with it, that wasn’t very much. Of course, he offered to give me more, but I refused, he reminded himself.

"Might want to try Rory’s Public House on Church Street," Richard replied. "Got a good reputation. A bit behind on the times…no private bathrooms…an outhouse in the back and you can use chamber pots if you like, but otherwise, warm and spacious. Owner’s a good man, too…he’ll treat you right."

Jack finished the last of his coffee after a while, and thanked Richard for his time. "Anytime, lad…anytime." The pub owner nodded as Jack left the building, and he walked out just in time for a horse and carriage to come plummeting past, just barely spraying him with a wave of mud. He stood making a horrible face, sighing heavily after he wiped a few drops out of his eyes.

"Nice," he muttered, trying to wipe some of it off of his clothing, and he stepped around the great puddle in order to start his trek towards Rory’s. To find a home was the first priority, and then he would check Hyde’s Park for a free spot. Jack found that the English, while typically prim and proper, were genuinely kind to tourists. He bought a street map from a corner vender, and spent several minutes trying to figure out where he was. He eventually found the hotel, and was surprised to see it looked very much like a regular home.

As Richard predicted, Rory’s was a perfect match. The owner of the hotel was Rory Giman, and he charged two pounds a night. "You won’t get much less than ten pounds elsewhere," Rory explained, and handed Jack a key to his room.

The room itself was pretty small, only containing the bare essentials--a bed, a desk, a small set of drawers. There was no bathroom…the entire building shared an outhouse in the back, and a tub sat in a spare room a few doors away for bathing.

Jack blew out his breath--this would certainly be the life of a starving artist. He settled in, glad he wasn’t planning on staying more than a couple of weeks. After he put his things away, he decided to take a walk, and try to get used to his new surroundings.

The citizens of London were genuinely polite to tourists, and answered any questions he had. On the way, Jack saw several artists with their easels set up, painting, for the most part. Jack went to speak to them, wanting to know if they’d had much success doing this. The first, a woman with long golden hair pulled into a French twist, smiled at him.

"Occasionally," she replied when he asked her this question, and dipped her paintbrush into a water dish, trying a new color. "But you really have to love what it is you do, or you’ll never get by. What do you specialize in?"

Jack blushed, clutching his portfolio and his cloth supply case protectively. "I draw black and white sketches with charcoal pencils," he explained, noticing that the girl was painting a portrait of the clock, Big Ben. Jack could see it off in the distance, and couldn’t wait to hear it chime on the hour.

"There aren’t too many of those," the woman said. "You might get lucky. The problem becomes when you want to partake in a popular craft such as this. Oh, dear…" She laughed, touching her forehead. "I’ve been dreadfully rude--haven’t introduced myself at all!" She set down her brush and shook his hand. "My name is Josephine Millard," she continued, "but you can call me Jo…everyone else does."

Jack chuckled, nodding politely. "I’m Jack Dawson…it’s a pleasure." He swayed back and forth on his heels, unsure of how to proceed--he was afraid he’d already interrupted her enough, and didn’t want to waste her time further.

"I hope to see you again, Jack Dawson," Josephine replied. "I wish you the best of luck, dear." She waved, and after thanking her, Jack scoped the area for a place to set up his little stand. The park was beautiful…still damp from the heavy rainfall, but the grass was green and full. There were oak trees blooming left and right, and a little river cut directly under a narrow stone bridge.

A walking path was paved around the park, and Jack assumed that was where the artists received their customers on nicer days. He eventually set his territory on a small plot of the park under one of the great oaks, right beside the miniature creek. The sound of the water rushing over the rocks was soothing, and he smiled to himself as he watched dedicated walkers passing nearby.

For dinner that night, he ate at a local pub, and sketched customers who sat around him. The food in England wasn’t the most elaborate…mainly consisting of meat, potatoes, and a piece of hearty bread. Still, it was filling, and Jack felt as though he would drop off to sleep right from his chair.

Due to the days staying lighter longer, he strolled past the different museums after eating, not wanting to do too much his first night. Using some of his extra money, he purchased his own easel and stool before heading back to the hotel around 9:30. He made sure to write a letter to Mr. Rockefeller and to Olivia, stating that he had arrived safely in Europe and was quite well.

To Mr. Rockefeller, he wrote:

May 15, 1900

Dear Sir,

I have safely arrived in London this afternoon. The travel went well, though a couple of storms made me quite seasick. I suppose that isn’t uncommon, but it was very unpleasant to deal with all the same. Other than that, I am feeling quite well, and am getting used to the city.

It is just as beautiful as I expected--only a little damp. There are many street artists around here, so I hope to set up shop within the next couple of days, weather permitting.

I hope you and your family are well--tell Bessie I keep that silk handkerchief she gave me as a token in my breast pocket for good luck. I wanted to again thank you for allowing me to work for you--it was probably the happiest time of my life since living at home with my parents and sister.

I also wanted to thank you for letting me live my dream--they are often looked down upon with boys my age. I do appreciate it, very much, that you encouraged me to go and live them.

Well, my candle won’t last forever, and I must write to my sister also, before I forget. Tell Margarita I am eating proper meals, and manage to clean my plate every night. I am sure she will get a laugh at this.

Keep well, and God bless,
Your former employee,
Jack Dawson

Jack re-read his letter, knowing his comment about dreams was true. He’d been pretty much brushed aside by Boris, who claimed they got in the way of reality. Of course, that was probably true for some, who had little concept of what reality truly was. Still, Jack hated the thought of not being able to do what he desired most, and was grateful for being given such a wonderful opportunity.

After writing a letter to Olivia, promising he was still alive and in one piece, he blew out the candle. The lights of the city lit his room with a gentle orange glow, giving him enough to see by as he changed into his pajamas. He climbed into bed, listening to the sound of his boarding house mates as they wandered in from being out late, drinking at the pubs, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six
Stories