April 15th, 1912
"Come about!" The steady, forceful scream brought Rose Dewitt Bukater back to reality with a cold shiver, and she pressed once more against the flotsam, fingers dropping the officer's whistle and scratching for resistance. Don't slip under the water, oh, God, not the water, Jack did...
Gasping with what she realized were both coughs and tears, she finally gave in to the urgent shouts above and let her grip relax, heart thumping slowly, too slowly, as warm hands...no, perhaps not warm, but not frozen...grasped her arms and lifejacket, pulling her into the lifeboat with soft, broken murmuring.
"Easy now, luv, we've got you..."
"She's pale as a doll, I tell ya. She's not gonna make it..."
"You said that about the Italian, and he's still breathing. Look, over there, that fellow. Pull him in as well, do you hear me? That's an order, right..."
"He's stiff, I tell ya."
"Stop telling me and grab him, man. We've got plenty of room. Look, we've room, and its the least we can do, bring him back. A proper funeral."
"Too poor for a funeral, might as well leave him be. He'll go down in the water and stay there good this time, if we just let him."
"We already let him, that's why he's stiff. I'm not doin it again. Grab him, men, that's right, nice and easy."
Jack? Struggling to waken, Rose fought the scream rising.
"Here, Miss, lie back now, you're sick and all that fighting won't help you."
"Let me go." The words were raw, raspy, the best she could manage, and even that small effort sent pain shooting up her throat, in her head..."Let him go, let him go, I don't want him in here." Not Jack, no, he didn't deserve some shanty charity funeral, she couldn't, didn't know how to arrange better, and he deserved so much better. At least the ocean was natural, and he wasn't alone...
"First class, always carping about sharing space with the trash, even when the trash is dead." Disgusted, a rougher voice broke out angrily. "Sod-minded, these people, after all this, and still carrying on..."
"Shut up." Cold, firm, and authoritative, the young officer's voice cut in. "She's sick, and I won't have your grumbling ringing in her ears. We're all in this together, now."
Now? Now, after over half were dead? Tears stinging down her cold face, Rose shivered again. The voice lowered, became soothing, as lean hands busily tucked a blanket under her chin. "Just a while longer, and you'll rest easy on a rescue boat. Just sleep, Miss..."
Allowing her face to fall within the warm shelter of the woolen blanket, Rose shivered again, and gave up trying to get through to them. The tears still settled under her lashes, she drifted off into sleep for the second time that morning.
Winter, 1930
Lifting cold fingers, the actress rubbed away at the waxy stage rouge, peering upward into the dressing mirror. It wasn't Rose Dawson's face that she was wearing this night, any more than Rose Dewitt Bukater's. It was a cold face, a face familiar with mimicked emotion, forced smiles and tears, and it wasn't a pleasant face. Not young and fresh enough for the calling for much longer, at any rate.
You've burned your candle at both ends, Rosie girl, she told herself wryly, and its time to give up the ghost already. There are certainly other dreams to pursue.
But give up acting? Surely, not so soon. It had only been a decade since her first tremulous stage scene, there were actresses who continued on in the dramatic tradition for far longer. To be sure. They just weren't taken seriously, or were little more than bedroom entertainers, or comedians...
The small voice of Rose Dewitt Bukater within Rose Calvert firmly reviled those labels. Neither of her alter-egos raised a protest. Rose, in general, was tired of fighting them, and the lines she had drawn for herself...she'd come to wonder just what in her life she was holding on to out of genuine affection, and what was dutiful flotsam. The acting dream, perhaps. Rebellion, perhaps. Her family, yes, God help her, almost certainly. She had outgrown them, in her way...a woman of thirty five years, and rapidly discovering disillusionment all over again.
Oh, if she were to be perfectly fair about it, she wasn't being perfectly fair. Her life was wonderful. She had health, financial freedom, respect...two gorgeous kids and a husband that...while not Jack Dawson, was perhaps the closest substitution.
And for that she felt tremendously guilty, every day of her life.
His name was Calvert, a stage name, of course. It was an amusing little creation of her own, after too many cups of coffee and too little inspiration...or the wrong sort of inspiration, that money of Cal's she'd found in the coat pocket, miraculously undamaged. It had given both she and her companion the opportunity for a new life, most unwittingly, and so she had used that gift. 'Cal' for the man himself, and 'vert' for green, an indication of the money leading them to their new life. Pity Mr. Hockley hadn't lived long enough for her to wave the insult in his face.
You've grown hard, Rose, she told herself grimly, tugging a brush through her shorter, more styled hair, then, in a fit of frustration, slamming it against the mirror and shoving the rouge tins aside, cradling her head in her hands. No, not hard, just confused. She loved her husband, her family. They were...had been...happy, despite the unavoidable financial scrapes and binds. Why so unhappy now? Why be ungrateful for what she had, why dwell on what she didn't have?
"Mummy!" The dressing room door slammed open, admitting the usual nightly crowd, and she turned, smile genuine. "I learned more Italian today!"
"Oh, you did?" Swiftly tickling her daughter and then settling her in mothers arms, Rose calmly pushed aside her earlier frustration and met her husbands eyes over the child's head. He grinned tired greeting, nodding down at the sleeping baby boy in his arms, eyes worriedly taking in the scattered pots of makeup and the cracked mirror. Rose ignored the querying glances he was giving her, instead turning to the child before her. "Tell me, just what is it that you learned?"
Marinna Rosia Calvert grinned, hair falling in tendrils about her face as she looked up, nine year old face glowing. "Papa says that my name means 'from the sea'."
"That it does." Standing and releasing the fragile little girl long enough to pull on her coat, Rose smiled, mind drifting back involuntarily. Oh, the memories themselves didn't sting quite as much anymore, she'd long ago pushed them back. It was just...they weren't supposed to crop back up, not this suddenly, not this particular one. Sighing slightly, she put on her gypsy face, glancing down into her daughters eager face. "The ocean is a part of your destiny, Marinna. Your father and I met out on it...we might never have met otherwise. And had destiny dictated a little differently, we might never have been given the chance to have a life together. When we finally got around to having you, Marinna just seemed a perfect name."
"But you don't like to go to the ocean." Accepting her mothers hand, the young girl fell into step between her parents, skipping stones as they headed down the street to home. It was only a temporary one, really, Mummy and Papa moved a lot with their acting work, but they had told her that each and every place was a home, to remember it. Glancing to and fro between them, her cheer disappeared. Papa, still trying to be quiet for Tomisio, had still managed a sharp intake of breath, and was glancing over at her mother with his best 'worry' face. Mummy, for her part, had on her 'very sad' face.
"It's very hard to explain, Marinna." Papa explained, speaking in low tones. "When you grow more."
"We can't hold off on it forever, Fabrizio." Rose let him unlatch the apartment door, taking baby Tom into her arms.
"She's nine years old, only." Like always, when he was upset, the Italian fell back into broken English.
"Cora Cartmell was younger."
"Why d'you have to bring all that up now?"
"Because I've restrained myself from bringing it up before? Because I'm tired of bottled memories and bottled emotions?"
"Oh, Christo..."
"Fabri, I received flowers from Jack Dawson today."
In the ensuing silence, Marinna didn't like the look that passed between her parents at all. Her mother stood back against the door, expression almost fragile, pitying, and Papa just...wilted.
Finally, Fabrizio De Rossi Calvert moved, kicking on the lights, turning to face his little family with crossed arms. "Marinna, take Tomisio to bed with you. Your mama and I, we have to talk."
"Yes." The actress nodded, a faint, unamused smile playing across her lips. Bending, she kissed each child on the forehead, settling the baby into his sisters arms gently, then straightening, hands flattening against her hips in defense. "We do."
"Come about!" The steady, forceful scream brought Rose Dewitt Bukater back to reality with a cold shiver, and she pressed once more against the flotsam, fingers dropping the officer's whistle and scratching for resistance. Don't slip under the water, oh, God, not the water, Jack did...
Gasping with what she realized were both coughs and tears, she finally gave in to the urgent shouts above and let her grip relax, heart thumping slowly, too slowly, as warm hands...no, perhaps not warm, but not frozen...grasped her arms and lifejacket, pulling her into the lifeboat with soft, broken murmuring.
"Easy now, luv, we've got you..."
"She's pale as a doll, I tell ya. She's not gonna make it..."
"You said that about the Italian, and he's still breathing. Look, over there, that fellow. Pull him in as well, do you hear me? That's an order, right..."
"He's stiff, I tell ya."
"Stop telling me and grab him, man. We've got plenty of room. Look, we've room, and its the least we can do, bring him back. A proper funeral."
"Too poor for a funeral, might as well leave him be. He'll go down in the water and stay there good this time, if we just let him."
"We already let him, that's why he's stiff. I'm not doin it again. Grab him, men, that's right, nice and easy."
Jack? Struggling to waken, Rose fought the scream rising.
"Here, Miss, lie back now, you're sick and all that fighting won't help you."
"Let me go." The words were raw, raspy, the best she could manage, and even that small effort sent pain shooting up her throat, in her head..."Let him go, let him go, I don't want him in here." Not Jack, no, he didn't deserve some shanty charity funeral, she couldn't, didn't know how to arrange better, and he deserved so much better. At least the ocean was natural, and he wasn't alone...
"First class, always carping about sharing space with the trash, even when the trash is dead." Disgusted, a rougher voice broke out angrily. "Sod-minded, these people, after all this, and still carrying on..."
"Shut up." Cold, firm, and authoritative, the young officer's voice cut in. "She's sick, and I won't have your grumbling ringing in her ears. We're all in this together, now."
Now? Now, after over half were dead? Tears stinging down her cold face, Rose shivered again. The voice lowered, became soothing, as lean hands busily tucked a blanket under her chin. "Just a while longer, and you'll rest easy on a rescue boat. Just sleep, Miss..."
Allowing her face to fall within the warm shelter of the woolen blanket, Rose shivered again, and gave up trying to get through to them. The tears still settled under her lashes, she drifted off into sleep for the second time that morning.
Winter, 1930
Lifting cold fingers, the actress rubbed away at the waxy stage rouge, peering upward into the dressing mirror. It wasn't Rose Dawson's face that she was wearing this night, any more than Rose Dewitt Bukater's. It was a cold face, a face familiar with mimicked emotion, forced smiles and tears, and it wasn't a pleasant face. Not young and fresh enough for the calling for much longer, at any rate.
You've burned your candle at both ends, Rosie girl, she told herself wryly, and its time to give up the ghost already. There are certainly other dreams to pursue.
But give up acting? Surely, not so soon. It had only been a decade since her first tremulous stage scene, there were actresses who continued on in the dramatic tradition for far longer. To be sure. They just weren't taken seriously, or were little more than bedroom entertainers, or comedians...
The small voice of Rose Dewitt Bukater within Rose Calvert firmly reviled those labels. Neither of her alter-egos raised a protest. Rose, in general, was tired of fighting them, and the lines she had drawn for herself...she'd come to wonder just what in her life she was holding on to out of genuine affection, and what was dutiful flotsam. The acting dream, perhaps. Rebellion, perhaps. Her family, yes, God help her, almost certainly. She had outgrown them, in her way...a woman of thirty five years, and rapidly discovering disillusionment all over again.
Oh, if she were to be perfectly fair about it, she wasn't being perfectly fair. Her life was wonderful. She had health, financial freedom, respect...two gorgeous kids and a husband that...while not Jack Dawson, was perhaps the closest substitution.
And for that she felt tremendously guilty, every day of her life.
His name was Calvert, a stage name, of course. It was an amusing little creation of her own, after too many cups of coffee and too little inspiration...or the wrong sort of inspiration, that money of Cal's she'd found in the coat pocket, miraculously undamaged. It had given both she and her companion the opportunity for a new life, most unwittingly, and so she had used that gift. 'Cal' for the man himself, and 'vert' for green, an indication of the money leading them to their new life. Pity Mr. Hockley hadn't lived long enough for her to wave the insult in his face.
You've grown hard, Rose, she told herself grimly, tugging a brush through her shorter, more styled hair, then, in a fit of frustration, slamming it against the mirror and shoving the rouge tins aside, cradling her head in her hands. No, not hard, just confused. She loved her husband, her family. They were...had been...happy, despite the unavoidable financial scrapes and binds. Why so unhappy now? Why be ungrateful for what she had, why dwell on what she didn't have?
"Mummy!" The dressing room door slammed open, admitting the usual nightly crowd, and she turned, smile genuine. "I learned more Italian today!"
"Oh, you did?" Swiftly tickling her daughter and then settling her in mothers arms, Rose calmly pushed aside her earlier frustration and met her husbands eyes over the child's head. He grinned tired greeting, nodding down at the sleeping baby boy in his arms, eyes worriedly taking in the scattered pots of makeup and the cracked mirror. Rose ignored the querying glances he was giving her, instead turning to the child before her. "Tell me, just what is it that you learned?"
Marinna Rosia Calvert grinned, hair falling in tendrils about her face as she looked up, nine year old face glowing. "Papa says that my name means 'from the sea'."
"That it does." Standing and releasing the fragile little girl long enough to pull on her coat, Rose smiled, mind drifting back involuntarily. Oh, the memories themselves didn't sting quite as much anymore, she'd long ago pushed them back. It was just...they weren't supposed to crop back up, not this suddenly, not this particular one. Sighing slightly, she put on her gypsy face, glancing down into her daughters eager face. "The ocean is a part of your destiny, Marinna. Your father and I met out on it...we might never have met otherwise. And had destiny dictated a little differently, we might never have been given the chance to have a life together. When we finally got around to having you, Marinna just seemed a perfect name."
"But you don't like to go to the ocean." Accepting her mothers hand, the young girl fell into step between her parents, skipping stones as they headed down the street to home. It was only a temporary one, really, Mummy and Papa moved a lot with their acting work, but they had told her that each and every place was a home, to remember it. Glancing to and fro between them, her cheer disappeared. Papa, still trying to be quiet for Tomisio, had still managed a sharp intake of breath, and was glancing over at her mother with his best 'worry' face. Mummy, for her part, had on her 'very sad' face.
"It's very hard to explain, Marinna." Papa explained, speaking in low tones. "When you grow more."
"We can't hold off on it forever, Fabrizio." Rose let him unlatch the apartment door, taking baby Tom into her arms.
"She's nine years old, only." Like always, when he was upset, the Italian fell back into broken English.
"Cora Cartmell was younger."
"Why d'you have to bring all that up now?"
"Because I've restrained myself from bringing it up before? Because I'm tired of bottled memories and bottled emotions?"
"Oh, Christo..."
"Fabri, I received flowers from Jack Dawson today."
In the ensuing silence, Marinna didn't like the look that passed between her parents at all. Her mother stood back against the door, expression almost fragile, pitying, and Papa just...wilted.
Finally, Fabrizio De Rossi Calvert moved, kicking on the lights, turning to face his little family with crossed arms. "Marinna, take Tomisio to bed with you. Your mama and I, we have to talk."
"Yes." The actress nodded, a faint, unamused smile playing across her lips. Bending, she kissed each child on the forehead, settling the baby into his sisters arms gently, then straightening, hands flattening against her hips in defense. "We do."