chapter eleven

                                    

                                          
Pulling out a faded and damp ten-dollar bill, followed by two fives, Jack laid the money out next to the fire on the stove. He had placed two chairs beside him, each holding his and Rose's damp garments, quickly drying them as best as he could. He emptied their bags and neatly arranged the contents before the fire to dry them off. The room was warm enough to shake the chill from their bones, at least for the moment. The cold had driven almost everyone to insanity aboard the ship. Now, one could only be completely grateful for feeling warmth again, for so many had died feeling nothing but frigidness.
The rain continued to lash against the thin windows, but it did little to disturb Rose's deep sleep. Since collapsing onto the single, rickety cot, she had yet to open her eyes, having finally succumbed to utter exhaustion. Watching the window rattle against the weight of the wind, Jack contemplated when they would see the sun again—those few days spent aboard beneath the lovely heat remained at the forefront of his mind. His shivers subsided as soon as he had tended to the wilting fire in the stove, but Rose had struggled and fallen into bed, still wearing the borrowed clothes from aboard the Carpathia.
His pocketful of change, totalling fifty-five cents, had secured two nights in a boarding house about an hour's walk from the docks. He brought her to rest in a vaguely familiar area, which he was sure he had roamed as a teenager during his first visit to the city. During his earlier time here, he had found places to sleep—parked cars, under bushes, and beneath bridges—anywhere he could lay his head. But for Rose, he wanted to ensure that she was warm and safe. He feared the cold had affected her more than it had affected him, even though he had experienced the icy waters firsthand. Rose was not accustomed to such extreme exposure, and it was for her that Jack feared the most. 
Glancing around the room, he found peace in the utter silence. He could hear Rose's breathing, slow and steady, with her lips parted just enough for her to gasp for air occasionally. The fire crackled now and then as he sipped tepid tea to stave off dehydration and the chill. Although he had never been a fan of tea, it was beautiful at this moment to taste something warm and different.
The boarding house owner, he was sure, suspected that they were survivors, as her over-enthusiasm to accommodate guests at such a late hour was unusual. Mrs. Gamble had offered freshly made scones, tea, and a bucket of coal to keep the stove going for as long as necessary. She promised to fetch the tin bath in the morning and provide more refreshments. He thanked her for her generosity without saying much more. For the time being, they needed to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, although he doubted that Cal would come looking for them, at least not immediately.
Contemplation was his only way to pass the time. His mind was filled with deep thoughts, so much so that he felt almost dreamlike. Sleep was never easy for him, and after five or six hours on the cold floorboards, he found it more comfortable to sit upright. His eyes wandered about the room, taking mental notes of what needed to be done as soon as Rose woke up. He was a man of action; he always had been. The next move lingered in his mind, and as cosy as this room was, he wasn't about to keep himself, and Rose cooped up there longer than necessary.
Arriving at the boarding house, finding a vacant room, and being greeted without a single question was incredibly lucky. By now, the entire city would be filled with survivors occupying the local hotels tenfold. But Jack had known to stay nearby; witnessing the faces of those who had suffered would feel like returning to a nightmare. One could either be surrounded by disaster or attempt to find some semblance of normalcy and move forward, allowing Rose's life to begin again. He craned his neck, placed his teacup on the wooden floor, and turned to her sleeping form.
There was something beautifully intimate about watching the woman he had fallen deeply in love with as she slept. Yes, he loved her. At some point, during their hours on the deck talking, he realised how he truly felt. Auburn hair framed her face, her arms were outstretched, and her left hand rested lightly above her head. He would have sketched her right there if his drawing materials had been nearby and there. A warmth filled his belly, planting a smile on his face. This was a version of heaven, and the settled feeling within him felt utterly new.