Rose He had to admit that, much like the original protagonist, using life experiences Rose had never encountered could certainly stir an innocent girl’s heart.
The consequence of doing so, however, meant temporarily setting aside the entire matter of class distinction.
This Rose before him was quite…
substantial.
No, that wasn’t right, she was very fair.
No, that wasn’t quite it either.
Never mind.
Let’s just say she was striking and leave it at that.
Luca composed himself, raising his eyes slightly to meet Rose’s gaze.
This woman had to be deliberately testing him, dressing like this while supposedly planning to jump into the sea.
What exactly was she thinking?
The eighteen-year-old Winslet stood at the absolute peak of her beauty, a world apart from whatever rounder forms the future might hold.
The current Winslet, no, Rose, possessed that particular fullness that drives men to distraction.
As the saying goes, exactly right in all the right places.
Her figure would have made her a peerless beauty and paired with that gown, maintaining focus became genuinely challenging.
Fortunately, as a man with a mental age approaching forty, Luca had long passed the stage where blood rushed too quickly to his head.
With tremendous willpower, he composed himself and adopted an air of nonchalance.
“That poem came to me simply from gazing at the stars.
I never imagined I’d encounter such a beautiful lady at this hour.” “Rose DeWitt Bukater.
A pleasure to meet you.” Unlike others who might discriminate against an Easterner, Rose, naive and sweet as she was, harbored no such prejudices.
Instead, she extended her hand quite happily and introduced herself.
In her mind, an artist capable of composing such aesthetic poetry deserved nothing but admiration and respect.
“Luca Quinn.
Miss Rose, the pleasure is entirely mine.” Holding Rose’s delicate hand, Luca offered a harmless smile.
Soon they were deep in conversation about the so-called art of poetry.
While he personally questioned whether anything written could truly be called poetry, that didn’t prevent him from using it to charm the naive rich girl before him.
After all, he was a legendary street scribe in his own right, he knew these matters well enough.
Against true literary masters, he’d be vulnerable, but for fooling ladies like Rose, his knowledge sufficed and more.
“Let life be beautiful like summer flowers, and death like autumn leaves.” Rose murmured the lines she’d just learned from Luca, feeling herself grow almost breathless with emotion.
To compose such touching language, the poet before her instantly made her feel they’d met far too late in life.
Such was the nature of romantic young women, especially those like Rose who hadn’t yet been hardened by society’s realities.
They harbored so many unrealistic fantasies.
If Luca’s mission in this world had been simply to win Rose over, he could declare it complete right now.
Unfortunately, his actual mission was considerably more demanding.
Reluctantly, he had to gently maintain some distance as Rose seemed inclined to draw closer.
He still needed this girl and her fiancé’s connections to smooth his own path forward.
Pushed back slightly, Rose suddenly realized how forward she’d been.
Though the British didn’t concern themselves with such propriety as the Easterners, they had only met.
Her behavior had indeed been somewhat improper.
“Well…
I simply wished to discuss poetic culture with you.” Rose attempted to salvage some dignity from her forward behavior, hoping the refined gentleman before her wouldn’t mistake her for a frivolous woman.
“Miss Rose, your knowledge of poetry fills me with admiration.” “An intellectually accomplished woman like yourself, I couldn’t find another in all of London.” He could certainly offer a few complimentary words at no cost.
After all, flattery costs nothing, and who knew?
The awkward tension between them dissipated instantly.
They settled together on the bench, immersed in discussion of verse.
“Mr.
Quinn, I found the person you were looking for!” A breathless Jack scrambled up from below deck.
Using his particular talents, he’d extracted the location of the ship’s black market merchant from a Gypsy girl and rushed back, eager to claim his reward.
Considering the Titanic’s total area rivaled that of an ordinary town, Jack’s ability to locate his target so quickly could only be attributed to his status as the story’s fortunate son.
But when he saw Rose sitting side by side with Luca, something vital seemed to slip away from his life.
“Hello, beautiful lady.
I’m Jack Dawson.
Delighted to make your acquaintance!” Jack swiftly composed his disheveled appearance and approached Rose with his most charming smile.
Rose glanced up and nodded slightly.
Her mind remained filled with the verses Luca had shared, if not for her excellent breeding, she wouldn’t have acknowledged this suddenly appearing stranger at all.
“I am—” Noticing Rose’s indifference, Jack raised his voice, preparing to deploy his seduction techniques.
True, this girl apparently had a fiancé.
True, she was a first-class aristocratic lady.
True, she seemed rather taken with his new employer.
But so what?
He was Jack Dawson, a professional appliance repairman.
Since when did a minor difficulty like that deter him from his objectives?
“Jack, what do you consider the most thought-provoking line in Shelley’s ‘Ode to the West Wind’?” Luca asked calmly, watching this guy attempt to steal from him so brazenly.
“Ah…
Shelley…
the west wind bringing snow?” Jack found himself suddenly tongue-tied.
His sketching skills, modest as they were, combined with his talent for posing as a wandering artist, had certainly charmed many naive young women.
But Shelley?
Byron?
Did he look like someone with money for that kind of education?
“If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear, if I were a swift cloud to fly with thee!” Though Jack remained ignorant, Rose, ever the literary maiden, immediately supplied the answer.
“Those are my favorite lines from Shelley.
They’re simply the sweetest interpretation of love!” Watching these two exchange incomprehensible words, Jack felt his entire worldview under assault.
Since when could garbage like that be called poetry?