Upon their return to London, it seemed to mirror their inner turmoil: the rain was a reflection of the melancholy that had enveloped them. The last day in Brighton was a fleeting paradise; how could such a beautiful time come to an end? But it did. It had to.
The stage, once a sanctuary for Rose Dawson, now felt like a prison. The boarding house, once a home, now felt like an alien place. London was unfamiliar. The one thing that kept her grounded was a near stranger—a stranger she had come to love. But five days in another person's home, she and Jack Dawson had found themselves and each other. They had learned to love and be loved in return.
The theatre, once a vibrant house of art, now felt like an empty shell. A life was changed, perhaps forever. It was now clear that the existence she had before that wordless dance with Jack Dawson was devoid of meaning...
He hadn't picked up a camera since Brighton. The storefront of his gallery, which he had once felt an ounce of pride for, was now just bleak and unwanted. It felt like a shackle about his body, dragging him into a beyond. Life had resumed, and why wouldn't it?
Jack Dawson was a renowned photographer. His diary, once opened, was full until at least August of social events, work and meetings. That would mean commitment and money. Commitment was easy, before he had committed to a woman he was in love with. Money had never meant a thing to him. Reliance on anything was a circumstance he'd fought against his entire life, and now there was no escaping it. Leastwise, not for him.
And then he had watched her, his Rose. She had performed so beautifully. The play had come to a sudden halt without her presence to be the perfect actress on stage. The media had reported on her absence; too many scandalous stories to even name. Some suggested that she was too difficult to work with, some suggested a rift between her and Stuart and then one had suggested she had run away with a lover—a photographer.
Smoking cigarette after cigarette whilst in the audience, Jack watched as she cried to Stuart. Kissed his mouth. Whispered words of love to him. Weeks prior, seeing her this way had led him to believe there was some passion, some spark, perhaps even love between the co-stars, but now, as she said those words, he had heard them while she was in the throes of passion. Amid orgasm. Under the stars. In his bed. Jack knew the truth...she had told him herself in so many words, so vague, but now it was evident. Rose had hidden herself within her character. Katherine. For four years, she had played another. Buried herself deep within another just to lose herself, and in that time, by taking on others, she had simply forgotten how to be herself. Now, after some time away to be just the woman she was, just a woman. A woman who was in love with a man, but now it was hard to return. It was challenging to become the character when reality was suddenly wonderful. Jack knew she was a brilliant actress, but the performance following their return to London showed that she had struggled. He had seen it there within her face, in her performance.
"Hey, you all right tonight?" Clara stood in the shadows of Rose's dressing room door. Without the cloud of smoke, it would have been hard even to notice her presence.
"Yes. Thank you." Rose quickly removed her costume jewellery and fiddled with the cuff of her dress. The pictures which sat upon her table caught her eye, and how every one of them now felt impossible to her. In her life. How was she living before Jack? They were pictures of a young girl who was heavily in mourning. Unrecognisable...
"We missed you when you went away."
"Well, I am back now. There is no need to fuss." She collected together the jewellery and placed it inside a small purse with a drawstring fastening. Her hair fell loose from the braid, and she glanced at it in the mirror with a sudden hatred for its brightness. How does one even recall her natural hair when it's been blonde for so long? Her voice was cold. Sharp. Devoid of sentiment.
"Look, I know we're not friends. I won't pretend to be. But I will say this." Clara paused on the threshold of the door. Her waif-like figure and elfin features came into view through the mirror of her dressing table. "I care about you. I am in awe of you on that stage. Most of all, I am jealous of how Stuart looks at you. How in one single look he becomes fluid and I chase him for months to get a couple of kisses." Her voice dipped in and out. "I don't understand this connection to each other. I don't comprehend how it works or if you're in love with each other–"
"We're not."
"—but I love him, Rose. I have said nothing. I have done nothing about it. Half of the time I don't even think he knows I am real if you're about but I have been stupid and fallen in love." Her voice shattered and Rose broke into a million pieces. In a second, she was on her feet, clutching Clara to her chest in an almost maternal way.
"Oh, you silly goose." Rose soothed her. "It is never that way with me and him. We are familiar. We are friends and he will be for the rest of my life." Squeezing her eyes closed, Rose felt the familiar feelings. Realisation hits hard when you think deeply. ''I—I told you before, that I had lost the only man I had ever loved."
Rose felt her nod in their unanticipated embrace. Clara may have been a head taller than her, but still her head laid upon Rose's shoulder. It was hard to see another woman so broken over a man. She had spent years the same way.
"Well, it turns out he wasn't so lost after all."
Clara lifted her head to query Rose until she shook her head, dismissively.
"This isn't about me. About the play. This is about you and how you feel, Clara, but I will say this: if you do love him and he returns those feelings, please don't let go of each other. "
"I couldn't. My heads been spiralling. I truly thought you left because of him. The Daily Mail printed that--"
"Damn that to hell. Forgot the papers."
"They had pictures of you in his flat and then leaving the next morning. They think you're his lover and then there's the photographer..."
"Ah, I guess that would be me."
The voice came from behind the open door, inside the corridor, and both women were startled by it. Darkness half shadowed Jack's face but still, Rose shivered from his very presence. It was a stark reminder of how she had spent an entire five days within his arms, shielded from her regular life.
Clara raised her head, steadying herself until the handsome, tall shadow emerged and came into the dressing room.
"I planned to knock but I heard you talking." Jack shifted his weight from one foot, to the other. His dark suit was tailored perfectly to his wide stance, and his hair fell into his eyes in a way that made him appear no older than the twenty years he was when he met Rose that first time.
"There's no need to knock." Rose raised her chin. She glanced from Clara whose watery gaze had subsided, to Jack. "Clara this is Jack, the photographer," she smirked as she muttered the word, "Jack, this is Clara, my friend and the dressing room assistant."
"Clara, how do you do?"
"Well, I'm all right." She smiled, accepting his extended hand to introduce herself. "I have heard so much about you, you're almost a myth around here."
Jack laughed. "A myth, huh? Then it must be disappointing that I'm stood here as real as you."
"No. It's a relief."
"Well, it's good to meet you, Clara." Jack glanced to Rose. "I came to claim you for a late supper but if you're busy here–"
"--she's not." Clara interrupted him, jumping straight and raising a knowing brow to Rose, more indiscreet than must have been intended. "I was just being silly here. I have love issues, and Rose here has just been a good sport, but you know how it is. You pick yourself up and lose yourself in a gin and tonic, right?"
Rose softened, suddenly conscious of how useless she had been to Clara. A friend...she didn't have many of those.
''Would you join us?''
''Oh, no. I don't wish to be a third wheel. And, like you said, I must find the object of my affections, declare my undying love and then weep as he breaks my heart in two so, hey, there's no time for little things like a drink out on the town.'' Clara's voice was chirpy, silly, laced with that hint of sadness which Rose had witnessed just as Jack had arrived. Rose took Clara's cool hand in her own.
''You are lovely and he will be mad about you, for if he isn't, then he's an idiot. You can tell him that I said that myself.''
Pulling away her hand, Clara held onto it protectively. The vulnerability about her made Rose wish to mother her in some way, even though they were roughly the same age.
''I hear red lipstick and a red cocktail dress are also the way to man's heart these days.'' Jack tried to thaw out the air. ''Take him dancing. It's as much a woman's world as a mans these days, or so it should be.''
''Perhaps,'' Clara muttered, slowly, eying Jack as though he was utterly ridiculous for suggesting such a thing. ''You mean, a woman, to ask a man to go dancing? Isn't that—desperate?''
''No, Clara. It's been modern...''
''Hmm. Modern.'' Clara allowed it to wash over her, as she ushered her feet to the door and disappeared out into the darkened hallway. Her muttering could still be heard as she went, but Rose simply shook her head in dismissal. She felt the urge to pace, but resisted due to her long training at the theatre and the performance that she had miraculously survived. Besides ladies did not pace. They revealed nothing other than serenity. They existed to ease a man's burdens, not add to them. Yet Jack—the most thoroughly masculine creature of her acquaintance—was the only individual with whom she felt comfortable sharing the shadowy aspects of her soul. She knew, with unaccountable near certainty, that he would not think less of her as others might. He would not alter his treatment of her. Darkness was known to him. He'd lived within it, embraced it, and seemed all the stronger for the experience. It still amazed her to think of how driven he was, how ruthlessly focused he could be and had been to ensure that he resisted morphine and to be dragged back to the depths of Hell, and how far he had been willing to fall from grace to avoid failure and be self-sufficient. At too young an age, his innate sensuality and stunning countenance had exposed him to the interest of those who were jaded and immoral. Knowing it was his responsibility to see to his future, he'd taken what advantage he could from an untenable circumstance. But at what cost to him? He had been lonely. Broken,
"Rose. What are you thinking about when you look at me in that manner?" She was staring at him, enthralled by his change. How the few days in the sun had tanned his skin beautifully and the undeniable edge to him. He exuded a raw sensuality that was nothing less than addictive. When she wasn't with him, she wished to be. That depth of craving had frightened her for the last few weeks, knowing as she did that nothing permanent could ever exist between them. Or could it?
Her world was not his; his was not hers. They travelled the same road for a brief time, but their paths would soon diverge. She could not stay in Brighton forever with him, and he would not long tolerate London Society, whatever he might say to the contrary. Rose was a performer and he was the photographer. Rose stayed at home until she went to the theatre. Jack was a man about town, or so it seemed—a man with a reputation for what he did. A reality was not yet discussed.
''I was thinking just what a future we could have past now.''
Although Jack appeared unmoved, she sensed the stillness that gripped him.
"After all you know about me?"
"Yes." There was a weighted pause.
"You are almost certainly the only person aware of my past transgressions who would say that." He moved toward her. ''I want what you want.''
"You have been honest with me. We have returned to the normality but I don't know what there is to do.''
"I was not without apprehension," he confessed, his jaw taut. "But I think that I may know.'' The recent emptiness in his chest now filled with something warm and tender. "I would not have believed it of myself but I saw you up there tonight, and I saw how you had changed.''
Rose lacked the words to explain what she was feeling. It was something akin to victorious, and it was so much the opposite of the defeat she'd felt when leaving the stage, it seemed impossible that one emotion could so swiftly follow the other. Her mind was her own. There was no denying that her body had been damaged, and her feelings could so easily be overrun by fear. Turning her head back to the pictures of her, ones which had been taken of her life after Titanic, after Jack. His eyes rose to them, flickering over them once or twice, and then he swallowed harshly. Now he had a glimpse of her life without him.
''I have changed. I think beyond repair.'' The freedom inherent in that revelation was profound and profoundly moving. And Jack had made the discovery possible. Without him, she might never have faced a choice capable of enlightening her. She had never before been presented with the option of accepting something unacceptable to her. Her world did not involve such decisions. Jack remained still as a statue as her world tilted on its axis, his handsome features hard set. She saw through his exterior and understood; he hadn't yet accepted his choices. Not the way he so readily accepted her. ''I changed when I met you at seventeen, I changed when I lost you, I changed after the war, and now, I have completely lost my senses.''
With great care, Rose untied the ribbons of her stage shawl and removed it, setting it carefully atop the seat of a chair. En route to the door, she skirted Jack, but though he turned to watch her, he didn't stop her. She knew he'd follow her if she left and thought herself lucky for that. She engaged the oval-shaped brass latch and heard his sharp inhalation behind her. Rose walked to the chaise and sat carefully on the edge. The feral look that swept over his handsome face made her quiver with heated expectation. But it was quickly masked, leaving behind an unusually austere countenance.
"I think that I have changed, too," he said, clasping his hands at the small of his back, "I took on the running of the gallery of a way to keep my mind occupied. I accepted the invitations to the dances, bars, and events to keep myself alive. To keep the cravings for something stronger at bay. But then, you came back..."
A wide smile curved her mouth. Clinging to the edge of the chair, she watched as his features softened. This moment was a realisation.
''Should we be in here alone?'' Jack asked, slowly.
"Do I look as if I care about propriety?"
"Have you considered the consequences? Last week they saw you with Stuart, in his flat and then with me, in the motorcar..."
''Oh Jack, stop it.'' She wanted it all. His hands on her. His mouth. All that raw expertise concentrated on ensuring her pleasure. She needed that heightened intimacy with him. She felt an overwhelming surge of affection for him and gratitude for the changes he was bringing to her life. "Oh, yes. I have considered them all. I know how I may look; spending time with two separate gentlemen in my line of work. It may look as though I court the attention but the truth is I don't give a damn."
His gaze heated at her breathy reply.
"I know that. I want to hurt them all, the ones who shove their camera in your face. That's why I don't know if I could ever take a photo--."
"No." Rose set her hands on her bent knees. "No, you cannot stop what you have done for years just for me. For my fear."
"Then what is it?"
"Why?" She looked up at him. "Why now? I thought the stage and London was everything that I could ever need and now I do not need anything at all...but you.''
''You sound as though you wish to forget me.''
"I've no wish to forget anything. In truth, I hope to remember every moment of this day. Of us." Jack showed no emotion, yet the air around him seemed strangely turbulent. "I feel very close to you," she said. "But I also don't know you. You're still a stranger to me in many ways. You asked me to marry you last week...''
"I meant it but you said that I could not just expect you to give it all up. I didn't ask that of you, I never would. I know how much you love to be on that stage and be an actress."
"I'm not. Not any longer."
His caution said a great deal about his intentions. ''What?''
"Isn't it enough I want you? Must there be more?"
"I am not prepared for you to give it all up, not for me. Not if that's what you don't want.''
Rose considered him carefully. He wanted to give up his gallery and his work for her, and she would do the same.
"You are attempting to dissuade me. Perhaps it is you who has had a change of heart?" She knew that was not the case, not with the indecent way he was looking at her, but his reasoning was a mystery.
"I have wanted you for so long now," he said roughly, "I've no memory of how it feels to be devoid of the craving. However, you must know what you are doing. I need you to think about who you are, where you are, and who I am. Think of how things will be once we've crossed this threshold. Think of how you will leave this dressing room. think of how people will know when I take you dancing tonight, with you on my arm that the press will be there, following. They will know about you and I, together. They will know how we have been lovers. How we have spent an entire week wrapped around each other." His crudity jolted her physically, surprising her with a surge of arousal she could never have expected. Her face heated. There had been the tender lover and then the man before her now. A man who she was willing to give it all up for; Jack Dawson.
Standing, she came to him; her eyes unwavering. ''I don't care if they know how you made love to me on the beach, against the rocks, in the bed. I don't care if they heard it. For all I care about is you. That is why I can no longer be an actress. I became that person to lose myself, but Jack, I have found out who I am now.''