Where Love's Sweet Roses Bloom

Chapter 2

The next morning

Sleep did not come easily to the architect of the Titanic once he returned to his cabin. In the rare moments his mind allowed itself reprieve and he was able to doze off, red hair and a fearful, heartbroken expression occupied his dreams. Not that his concern was unwarranted. Though, he suspected it was starting to become much more than professional devotion to a passenger's well-being.

     He needed to get ahold of himself.

Thomas tossed tirelessly into the wee hours of the morning, until he could no longer feign getting rest. Before the sun had even the slightest chance to grace the earth with her light, the master shipbuilder was stepping out of his cabin, now dressed in an obviously well-loved navy suit; it was the kind one favored but wouldn't mind should it get a stain. His leather notebook was in hand, as per usual.  There was work to be done, and, if God be willing, his path would cross hers. Más é do thoil é, he thought.

     He wasn't prepared for just how quickly his prayers would be answered.

As he made his way through the ship - his ship -, he made an effort to wish the few crew members he passed a sincere 'good mornin'.  Thomas couldn't help but drink in his creation as he leisurely went. He has designed many ships in his lifetime, but to Thomas, Titanic felt like the culmination of all of it: his experience, his skill, his passion for architecture. Occasionally, along his journey, he'd stop to jot down something that he noticed needed improving, no matter how minuscule it was.

The air was crisp, and the occasional sound of seagulls filled the silence out on the deck; passengers were scarce at this early of an hour, especially the First Class section.

Aristocrats had the means and luxury to prioritize their beauty sleep, after all.

The deck was scarce, but not completely empty it seemed.

As the beginning rays of early morning light began to bathe the sprawling expanse of polished wood, there, against the railing, stood poised the object of Thomas's thoughts. The flowing satin of her gown moved freely with the wind; the gentle breeze teasing at her fiery strands of hair that defiantly escaped their updo, which appeared set ablaze by the soft morning light.

     She was a vision.

     "Good mornin', Young Rose," he greeted warmly as he made his approach. He was sure to keep his voice low; there was no need to disrupt the tranquility of this quiet moment.

     "Ah, Mr. Andrews!" came her surprised response, a graceful smile making its way to her face. She turned from the railing. Had this been a few hours prior, he may have been more worried about her nearness to the edge.

     "'Tis a pleasure running into you, Miss. Though, sorry, but...it is quite early, isn't it?"

     "Yes...I guess it is, isn't it?" She supplied somewhat awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing the time. She felt rather foolish now.

    If Mr. Andrews thought anything of her odd behavior, he was gracious enough not to show it. "Are you usually awake at this hour?"

     The truth was Rose was not an early riser. Not this early anyways. But she had been on a mission.

     "Actually, Mr. Andrews-"

     "Thomas."

     "Pardon me?" She was not expecting the interruption and her words came out a touch more incredulous than she had meant.

     "Call me, Thomas. 'Mr. Andrews' reminds me of my father. And, although he's a good man, I'm not him."

     "Thomas," she tried out. Rose found she enjoyed the way his name felt on her lips far too much than she should have, enjoyed the intimacy of calling him by his Christian name. "I..."