AN: I've taken some historical liberties. WWI didn't happen in this universe, and as later chapters will explain, the situation in India involves the movement for independence from Britian.

Philadelphia

August 1927

Rose held her hat by the brim, resisting the hot wind's efforts to tear it from her head as she stepped from the train. "Here, let me help you," Jack said, placing one hand on her waist and the other on her elbow. "I'm fine," she replied. "Really, I am." But he held on anyway. "There we go," he said once they were on the ground. He slipped his hand into hers. "It's this way," he added, turning them to the right. After a few steps he put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. Rose shook her head. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered.

"I don't want you walking into anything unexpected," he said. Rose nodded. "I know," she said. "There's a lot of people here," he added. "I hear that," she said. "It sounds like quite a crowd." Beads of sweat ran down her forehead. The back of her dress was already damp. A slight redness filled her cheeks. "We're almost there," Jack assured her. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, laughing. "Am I such an invalid I can't walk in the heat for ten minutes?"

"I don't want to walk in this heat for ten minutes," he replied. His collar stuck to the back of his neck; stray locks of hair were plastered to his forehead. "And luckily," he said, opening the door of a taxi. "We're not."

….

The black door loomed over them. It was perfectly ordinary, and yet neither of them enjoyed standing in front of it. They didn't particularly like anything about Ruth's house. It was cold and stiff, though at times that seemed unintentional, as if it were simply being itself. "You told her, right?" Rose asked. "She isn't going to—be shocked." A hint of nervousness crept into her voice. "Of course, it will be a shock, but what I mean is, not a complete shock." She touched the scars next to her eyes. The one on the left ran down her cheek. "With the way I look…." Jack placed his hands over hers. "You look beautiful," he said. He gently removed her hands from her face. "Don't even think about it."

"I can't see it, but I know how bad it is," she argued. "You don't have to lie." Rose felt his gaze on her. "Stop looking at me like that," she said. He took her face in his hands. "Like what?" He lightly traced her scars with his fingertips. "Like this?" he asked, tilting her head up slightly. She shivered despite the heat. His lips brushed hers. "You're beautiful," he whispered, pulling her closer. "Jack," she sighed.

Grinning, he kissed her. "Yes?" She closed her eyes and let her head fall against his shoulder. "You haven't convinced me of anything," she said, her voice muffled. "That's alright," he said. "I will."

Neither of them noticed the door open. Clara watched them for a moment before loudly clearing her throat. Laughing, they turned toward her. "Madam would like to know if you are planning to come in," she said.

"Of course we are," Rose said. "But we hadn't even knocked yet." Clara's tone was stiffly polite. "She saw your taxi through the window, upstairs." She pointed toward a window on the left. "Follow me, please."

"Of course she already knows we're here," Jack murmured. "She knows everything we do." Rose giggled nervously. "Jack, don't!" she whispered.

"She watches us when we're here," he replied. "Trying to figure out why you stay with me."

…..

The tension was palpable. Ruth's words were polite, courteous and pleasant even, but her tone was clipped when she addressed Jack, and her eyes were flinty. "How was your trip?" she asked, taking a sip of her tea. "It was nice," Rose said. "We…had very good weather."

"I don't understand what persuaded you to get on another ship," Ruth replied. "I'd never set foot on another boat, of any size, if I were you."

"It can't happen twice," Rose said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. She couldn't see her mother's expression, but she sensed it. Jack reached over and took her hand. "And we like a little adventure," she finished. Ruth's mouth thinned. "I've been told," she said, locking eyes with Jack. "Some might say you like it a bit too much." Rose gave his hand a squeeze. "Oh, you've always thought that," she said airily. "Remember when I wanted a bicycle? You were convinced it would kill me—or render me barren."

"Rose, don't talk about such things," Ruth said sharply, as if she were scolding a child. "You know it isn't appropriate."

"Who else would be more appropriate to say something like that to, if not my mother and my husband?"

Ruth sighed heavily. "Why you insist on trying to shock, I'll never know, but since you insist we discuss the matter, is there any other reason you've yet to have children?" Jack studied the pattern on his tea cup. Rose stared straight ahead, her face blank. Both knew the answer, but neither wanted to say it. Especially not to Ruth. Their relationship with her had never been ideal, but it had reached a point where they could all tolerate one another, which meant more to all of them than they cared to let on. Explaining they couldn't have children together would only strengthen her belief in the overall wrongness of their marriage. "You may love her," she had said to Jack more than once, "But you don't deserve her, and you were never supposed to marry her. Such arrogance." He always replied the same way. "Maybe it is, but she's happy."

"May I have another sandwich?" Rose asked, breaking the silence. "Of course," Ruth said. "He may not feed you properly, but I will." Ignoring Ruth's comment, Rose lifted her hand; she froze, unsure where to go from there. "Right here," Jack said, lifting the plate so she could reach it. "Thank you," she said, quietly. Ruth studied her solemnly. "Is there any hope for your eyes?"

"Some," Rose answered. "There isn't much, but Dr. Kendrick, the last doctor we saw in England, he thought it was possible my sight could return."

"When?" Ruth pressed.

"There's no way of knowing," Rose explained slowly. "It would likely be gradual, and—and it may not last."

"So, you'll be like this forever?" Ruth forced her voice to remain even. Her lips pinched together, and her eyes hardened. Jack met her gaze with difficulty. It wasn't my fault. But he didn't entirely believe that.

India

1924

"Rose! Rose where are you?" Jack fought to hear himself. Bombs exploded in the distance; screams filled the air. People ran in all directions. It was almost like being back on the Titanic as it sank. He tried to stay still—how could she find him if he kept moving?—but the crowd swept him along. "Rose!"

He saw her hair first, and then her white dress. "Rose!" he screamed, shoving his way through the crowd. She lay in a heap at the edge of the road, as if she'd stumbled there and fallen. "Rose," he said, quietly now, as he gently lifted her up. She was unresponsive. He couldn't breathe. Blood ran down her face; her eyes were closed. He pressed her closer and began running. "Don't die!" he yelled through clenched teeth. "You won't die."

…

"Do you need any help?" Jack watched her from the doorway. Rose shook he head. "I can do this." She slowly ran the brush through her hair. "I'm sorry," she said, "for how my mother—"

"Don't be. She's just angry about what happened."

"Aren't we all?" Rose carefully laid the brush down. She moved toward him, holding her hands out in case she misread the direction his voice was coming from. "It isn't your fault."

"Isn't it?"

She cupped his cheek. "No," she said softly." Closing his eyes, he leaned into her touch; her hand was soft and cool. "If I didn't have these scars, she wouldn't care half as much," Rose said.

"That's not true."

"Before there was always a hope I would leave you for a man she wouldn't be quite so ashamed of, but now…I don't even understand why you still want me."

Jack's eyes snapped open. "I love you," he said.

"That's not the same." She let out a surprised cry as he swept her off the floor. "Jack—" Her words were lost as his lips moved down her neck. His kisses were light but with a sense of urgency. "Jack," she began again.

"Sshh…" he said, laying her down. He kissed her lips. She wanted to resist; this wasn't the way to resolve their discussion. A gasp escaped her throat as his hand moved up her leg. "You're beautiful," he said. He kissed her again, deeply this time. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing him closer. He reached around her, searching for the buttons on her dress.

For a moment they simply lay, their nude bodies pressed together. Jack caressed her face. "I love you," he said. He took her hand. "You're beautiful." He kissed her palm before gently guiding her hand down. "And I want you."

….

Rose's breathing was even; she was curled up against him, one arm thrown over him. Her face rested against his chest. Jack watched her, wondering what she saw in her dreams. He brushed a few stray curls away from her face before kissing her cheek. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slipped out of bed.

His footfalls echoed in the empty hallway. He walked past what seemed like dozens of closed doors. Why did Ruth and her husband need so many rooms? They lived alone, save for the servants, who had their own quarters at the back of the house. His stomach growled. The tiny sandwiches served at tea were never especially filling, and the tension had kept him from eating more than a few bites. He quickened his pace and headed for the kitchen.

Dinner was just beginning to be prepared when he walked in. Ruth was gone for the rest of the afternoon—and as for her husband, he had yet to see him during this particular visit—but dinner would still be served promptly when she arrived back. "Yes?" the cook, Martha said, surprised at his sudden appearance. "Do you need something? Or your wife—she's not well, Madam says."

"She's fine," he answered. "She's…" What? Recovered from her injuries? The fact was, she had recovered very well, aside from the blindness, but there was nothing more they could do about that. The glass shards and bits of rock and dirt that had gotten into her eyes after the blast had damaged them irreparably. "She's fine," he said again, more to himself than to Martha. Except she wasn't really, was she? It was the shock. She would be fine, as soon as she recovered from the shock of it all, and he couldn't expect her to just be the same, as if nothing had happened. "I was just wondering if I could have something to eat before dinner," he said, flashing a smile.

Jack slowly walked through the downstairs rooms, munching a sandwich. Even during a mid-August heatwave, the house was cold. He didn't know how Ruth did it. He popped the last bite into his mouth and prepared to head back upstairs when the front door swung open. He turned to face Ruth, who frowned at the sight of him. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Going back upstairs."

"Where is Rose? You didn't leave her alone, so she can injure herself further, did you?" she demanded.

"She's asleep," he said, a defensive note in his voice. He immediately regretted letting it creep in. "I came down for something to eat. Aren't you back early?"

She swept past him and into the sitting room. "It's none of your affair, but yes, I am," she said. She removed her hat and gloves and placed them on the table. Jack hesitated, unsure whether to stay or go. "I don't know how you talked her into going to that Godforsaken place," Ruth said.

"It was her idea."

"Of course it was." Ruth sighed. "And you did nothing to discourage it."

"Why should I? I didn't know she would get hurt." He moved into the doorway. "She could have been hurt anywhere—maybe not in the same way, but…" Guilt washed over him. He should have known, somehow. The image of Rose crying in their bed at home filled his mind. "I just wanted to make her happy again," he said.

January 1923

Santa Monica

Jack lay down beside her. She didn't resist when he wrapped his arms around her. "It's gonna be alright," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "No, it isn't," she whispered. "What's wrong with me, Jack? Why can't I…"

"I don't know. Maybe it's just not supposed to happen for us."

"I thought this time would be different," she said. "It felt different." A fresh wave of tears overcame her. He hugged her tighter. "It isn't your fault," he said. He brushed the tears from her eyes. "I don't care if it never happens, as long as I have you."

"I'm doing everything I can for her," he said. "She's seen the best doctors in India and England."

Ruth sniffed. "The best you could afford."

"The best there are."

"And is that all you've done?"

"That's all she wants. I can't make her keep going, and if they can't tell us anything new, she shouldn't have to. If I could change it, if somehow I could, if it could be me instead—" His voice cracked. "But I can't. I can only watch her go through this, and try to make it easier for her. And I don't care that you still, after fifteen years haven't accepted that she married me because helping her be happy again is more important than any of your opinions about this situation. So stop saying things that upset her." Without waiting for a response, he turned and left. He was at the top of the stairs when he heard Rose's scream; he broke into a run.

"Jack!" she cried, terrified. She was tangled in the sheets. He lifted her up, sheets and all, and clasped her to him. "I'm here," he said soothingly. "I'm right here. I didn't leave you." She sobbed into his shirt. "It felt so real," she stammered. "I was there again—the bomb went off—everything hurt so much—and I couldn't find you. I couldn't see anything, and I couldn't find you."

"I'm right here," he said. "I'll always be right here." He looked up to see Ruth watching from the doorway. "Don't leave me," Rose pleaded.

"I would never."