Once I stepped off the Carpathia and set my feet on solid ground, I was expecting to finally crumble. Let everything sink in. All of the deaths I had just witnessed.
The horror.
The screams.
But it seemed as if the numbing cold north Atlantic air that had engulfed me had not yet left my soul. I started to wonder if it ever would.
I had no idea what I was going to do. Or what one would expect me to do.
Instead of feeling excited for my daughter's wedding, I would be planning her funeral.
I was left all alone with no family, no money and nothing to look forward to.
Mollie Brown kindly offered for me to stay with her until I get back on my feet. I assume she needed the company of someone who had experienced the terror that she had. Someone who would not ask questions or offer condolences. The others did not understand. We were all so sick of their pity.
It was difficult to talk to people. I could not concentrate on their faces without them morphing into the screaming faces of those who drowned in front of my eyes.
Mr Hockley was nice enough to visit me regularly. He appeared to be in less shock than I was. Perhaps his youthfulness helped him cope. I enjoyed his company even though we did not talk much. It was nice just to drink hot tea with someone who I was comfortable enough to just sit in silence with and not feel obliged to make polite conversation.
My favorite part of the day was sitting in the morning sun, sipping tea. The warmth temporarily filled my body and allowed the memories to stop haunting me for just a brief moment. Molly had a fantastic bird bath which attracted pretty little visitors. I really admired the birds. Their vibrant colors. Their cheery songs. Their freedom.
One morning, Molly ran outside to join me. Her face was flushed with excitement.
"Ruth! Are you ready to finally rejoin civilized high society?" She asked.
I was not. But she was persistent.
There was to be a ball that Saturday night and she thought that it would improve my condition if I went along. There was no polite way to refuse her.
I did not have a gown to wear and I could not borrow anything of Molly's for it would be much too large. Molly found someone who could make me a ball gown at the last moment. I did not want to admit it but I started to feeling something inside me that was not pure coldness.
Up until that point, I adored getting fitted for new dresses. However, I found the poking and producing of the dress maker to be intrusive as he made his measurements and adjustments. When the gown was complete, it felt too tight, too restrictive. But Molly insisted that it was just perfect.
I was adamant that my dress be black. It would be improper for it to be any other shade. Yet as I looked down at it, I could not help but think back to my husbands death. It was almost like I had gone backward. But instead of burying my husband, I would be saying goodbye to my daughter.
I had made countless inquiries but there was no one with the name DeWitt Bukater who survived the sinking. Just when I thought that my financial problems would be over.
No grandchildren. No legacy. Nothing.
I suddenly realized that the ball would be a terrible idea. It would be filled with young couples; all happy and dancing. And I would be alone. No daughter. No future.
But I could not back out.