Work Text:
“Rose.”
500 invitations. Rose couldn’t help but be slightly dumbfounded by the number. 500 people, the upper echelons of New York and Philadelphia society, invited to celebrate her engagement to Cal. Celebrate, indeed. She idly wondered how many would still show up if they could see what happened behind closed doors. Likely, she thought, it would make little difference.
“Rose.”
Somewhere behind her, the string quartet cut through the dull buzz of the dining room with a cheerful tune that she was sure she’d heard before, but couldn’t quite place. She wondered which song her mother had selected for her impending walk down the aisle, which song would have the misfortune of being forever tainted in her mind by its association with the day she was dreading.
“Rose!”
A hand on her arm. The faintest hint of forcefulness beneath the tidy, proper touch between a respectable man and his respectable fiancé—or maybe she was just imagining it. She was jolted out of her reverie as she turned to face Cal, her stomach tightening reflexively.
“Sweet pea,” he said, his voice cool and light, “Won’t you join me for a stroll on the promenade? It is such a lovely evening, after all.”
She looked around. Her First Class peers were slowly beginning to filter out of the dining room, and she could see by looking out the windows on the wall opposite her that the sun had set some time ago. She looked back at Cal, who had a pleasant but expectant look on his face. She had no energy to argue.
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, alright.”
They arose from their seats, exchanging pleasantries with their table companions, before making for the staircase that would take them from D Deck up to the A Deck Promenade. Rose dutifully tucked her hand into the crook of Cal’s arm, her years of training in the ways of society life dictating her movements even as she wanted to kick off her expensive heels and run.
It had been good, at first, with Cal. The smallest of smiles almost twitched on her face as she remembered the dozen red roses he had given her when they first began courting. He was well-spoken, and handsome, and so very, very charming. She couldn’t deny to herself that those were qualities she found attractive in a man—that she had found attractive in Cal. (She felt ill with shame whenever she thought that perhaps, on some primal, uncontrollable level, she still did.) She had thought that maybe she and her mother had struck gold, as it were—this dashing young heir to a steel fortune wanted to marry her, and in doing so, would solve all of the problems that had arisen after her father died. Their debt would be wiped out, and they would never want for anything ever again. It was supposed to be perfect.
The process of realizing that it wasn’t perfect had been slow and exhausting. At first, it had been little things—a short word here, a slightly-too-rough hand there. A thinly veiled comment about her weight, her diet, her fashion sense, jibes taken just a step too far. Things she could easily justify to herself. He was tired, he was under pressure, he just had too much to drink. Sure, she’d asked him not to call her “sweet pea,” and she’d told him she didn’t like lamb, and yes, he responded only by tightening his grip whenever she tried ever so politely to squirm out from beneath his arm. But surely, she thought with renewed conviction after each new offense, it was all in her head. After all, how could any of it be bad when it was all supposed to be perfect?
The first time he hit her, she should have been angry. She berated herself, even now, months later, for not being angry, for not shouting or hitting him back, for being able to muster only shock. How could she have allowed that to happen? The way her mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the sight of the red mark on her cheek the next morning had told her everything she needed to know—her job was to be a good wife, and she was already failing. She would have to try harder, she realized with dejection, as much as every instinct in her body was screaming at her to run, louder by the day. This simply couldn’t happen again. She wouldn’t let it. She could protect herself by making sure never, ever to provoke him.
But, of course, it happened again. Each time he was tired, or under pressure, or had just had too much to drink. Each time he felt like she’d crossed him. He’d usually apologize, assure her with a businessman’s charisma that it would never happen again, that it had been a misunderstanding or an isolated slip-up. Trudy had gotten very good at covering the marks with powder each morning. She had begun to feel like a china doll that was carelessly broken, over and over again, only to be glued back together and placed back on the shelf where she belonged, silently awaiting the cycle to start again.
They reached the top of the Grand Staircase, and he held the door open for her as they exited onto the promenade. The night air on the Atlantic was crisp, cold but not quite biting. She wondered how warm it ever truly got out here on the open sea.
Cal led her forward toward the ship’s bow, his pace leisurely. She could see another couple slightly ahead, walking towards them. As they approached and came into sharper focus, she recognized them as Isidor and Ida Strauss. The two pairs exchanged a quiet “how do you do?” before the Strausses slipped out of sight, through the door from which Cal and Rose had just come.
They were alone.
Cal approached the railing, Rose still on his arm. They stopped, and she placed both of her gloved hands on the railing and looked out into the darkness. The only light came from the ship behind her and from the dazzling constellations of stars in the sky above them, shining like the diamonds Cal so loved to buy her. She couldn’t deny that it was a spectacular sight.
“How are you finding the journey so far, sweet pea?”
She turned her head slightly to look at Cal, whose face was only partially illuminated by the dim light.
“It’s…quite grand,” she replied after a moment’s consideration. She had no interest in antagonizing him, not tonight. The very thought of it made her bones feel heavy with exhaustion.
“Yes,” he said, taking a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it. “This is, after all, the grandest ship in the world.”
“Mm.” She could think of nothing else to say.
Cal exhaled a cloud of smoke, which lingered for the briefest of moments before disappearing into the night air. Rose watched it go with an unexpected pang of jealousy. Without realizing she was doing it, she glanced downwards, over the railing and into the icy waters of the Atlantic. She wondered how cold it really was, whether the fall would hurt or if she would simply disappear into the sea, quickly and painlessly…
“Rose.”
Cal’s voice was tense, irritated. She snapped to attention.
“Sorry, darling, what was that?”
His eyes flashed with anger for a moment longer, but he quickly rearranged his face into a neutral expression. “I asked whether you’re looking forward to the honeymoon.”
Truthfully, the thought of it made her stomach turn, but there was no need to let him know that. “Of course,” she said lightly. Six weeks in France and Spain. She’d have loved to take that trip with someone with whom she wasn’t afraid to be alone. She mourned, momentarily, for all the experiences she would never have without him.
“I look forward to it every moment of every day,” Cal said, his voice dropping to a low purr. Her heart began to pound, and she could feel beads of sweat forming on her palms.
“It will be here before we know it,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice neutral.
“I’ve had Lovejoy book our passage already,” he continued. “First Class, of course. Only the finest accommodations. We leave the day after the wedding. No time to waste.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him slowly turning to face her.
“I’ve heard the art in Paris is exquisite,” she said, grasping at even a small change of subject. Her heart continued to beat wildly inside her chest. With a pang of self-disgust, she realized that it wasn’t only due to fear.
“Yes,” Cal responded softly, “Though the most…exquisite of it has yet to arrive.”
God, she hated him.
Out of nowhere, she felt his hand on the side of her face, turning her to face him, and then his lips were on hers, possessive, demanding. She took a small step back in surprise, and his arm wrapped around her waist like a cobra, squeezing her to him.
She closed her eyes instinctively, hating herself for letting him control her like this, hating herself for not shoving him overboard, hating herself for not hating the feeling of his tongue sliding into her mouth. His left arm remained snaked around her waist, holding her firmly in place. His right hand found its way between them, traveling up the front of her corset and settling rather roughly on of one of her breasts. She gasped, so shocked by him doing something so brazen on the open deck of a ship, where anyone could see them, that she found herself frozen.
He turned her so that her back was to the railing, the only thing standing between them and the Atlantic churning below them. She could feel her gloves becoming soaked through with sweat from her palms.
He pulled back briefly to look over his shoulder, first right, towards the stern, then left. She had just enough time to realize, with cold terror, that he was checking to make sure that they weren’t being watched, before his lips crashed into hers once again. She wondered, for a brief, wild moment, whether he intended to push her overboard.
His hand was beginning to travel down, much further down than was proper in such a public place. She was bewildered; he had certainly made advances in the past, had made it clear that he expected to have access to her body whenever it suited him, but this was something completely out of the blue. She didn’t know how to react.
She pulled her head back from his, gasping for air. “Cal,” she whispered, “Cal, what—“ But he wouldn’t let her get words out. He seized her in another aggressive kiss, his hand now firmly planted between her legs and his hips pushing hers rather painfully into the railing. She was grateful, in a darkly ironic sort of way, for her many layers of skirts.
“Cal—“ she hissed against his mouth, desperate to deescalate the situation. “Cal. Stop.” He didn’t stop.
Whether it was because she was pinned against a railing over ice-cold waters or because she had quite simply had enough of being touched and treated like a possession, something in Rose snapped. She managed to bend her knee and lift her foot up high enough so she could remove her shoe, and before she had time to think, she was cracking its sole against the side of Cal’s head. “STOP IT!”
He reeled backwards in surprise. She took a step forward, her back smarting from being pushed into the railing, the shoe still clutched in her raised hand, which, she realized, was shaking madly.
He considered her with a frighteningly calm look on his face. She wondered again, with somewhat more genuine concern this time, whether he would throw her over the side of the ship. Feeling dirty and used, she wondered whether she’d deserve it.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than another couple came strolling towards them up the deck. Cal nonchalantly straightened his dinner jacket, and she lowered her hand, quietly dropping the shoe back onto the ground and letting her foot slide back into it.
Their company were Colonel and Mrs. Astor, who regarded them with no indication that they noticed anything amiss. “Good evening, Mr. Hockley, Ms. Dewitt-Bukater,” greeted the Colonel. “A fine evening for a stroll, is it not?”
Cal nodded and gave the newcomers a polite, charming smile. “It is indeed,” he said, his voice betraying nothing. “A very fine evening. Wouldn’t you agree, sweet-pea?”
Rose clutched her shawl in an effort to hide the shakiness of her hands, and when she nodded and replied, it was like she was watching and listening from afar as someone else spoke. “Very fine.”
The Astors gave them each a polite nod and continued on their way, heading towards the bow. Rose couldn’t tell if she was imagining it as she and Madeleine Astor exchanged the briefest of glances.
The interruption seemed to have been enough to deter Cal, who now looked upon Rose with an iciness that made her wonder again if she might prefer the cold depths of the sea.
He didn’t shout, he didn’t approach her. He merely straightened his jacket once more and said, his voice dripping with venom, “I’ll see you inside, sweet-pea.”
With that, he was gone, striding haughtily back towards the ship’s entrance.
Rose let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, willing her hands to stop shaking. He’d just ensured her a walk back to their staterooms that would feel more like a march to the gallows. Her brain couldn’t compute what had just happened. Months of justifying, explaining, and making excuses led her to only one conclusion—the problem, once again, had to have been her. She hadn’t stopped him, after all. She’d closed her eyes, let her hands rest on his arms. She hadn’t pushed him away sooner, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t told him no. She’d let him touch her.
She wondered, seemingly out of nowhere, what her father would think if he could see her now. She tasted salt and realized that she was crying.
In a split second, she decided. There was nothing for her on this ship, nothing for her in Philadelphia. A life with Cal would be a life of misery, littered with moments exactly like the one she had just experienced. Bitterly, she thought that perhaps Cal had never wanted her at all—perhaps he just wanted a plaything. That was to be her life now.
She turned her gaze once more to the inky blackness of the sea. In the silence, it seemed to be calling to her, promising her something better, kinder, than what she was headed towards.
Her mind made up, tears still coursing down her cheeks, she began to run towards the stern.