Disclaimer: I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's Titanic first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

IV. Wild Pagan Spirits

Besides the attendant, there was only one woman in the reading and writing room. She sat at a table at the room's fore, beneath a huge window overlooking the electric lights of the A-deck promenade. I pulled up a chair at her table. "How do you do? I'm Margaret Brown."

I remember she was reading Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams. She looked up rather slowly and we shook hands. "Rose DeWitt Bukater."

She wore a stylish, women's two-piece suit: feminine, and yet toying with men's fashion norms as well. She had wide green eyes, a soft and clear young face, and a bun of thick and curly auburn hair. My political beliefs make me wince to write this, but I believe any man, any at all, who laid eyes on her would be quite taken with her. And perhaps half the women who saw her, too.

"Pleasure to meet ya, Miss DeWitt Bukater." I sat down across from her. She managed to look down her nose at me a bit, now that we were on the same level. "I've met your mother at galas in New York." Ruth DeWitt Bukater had made little impression on me before Titanic, besides 'middle-aged, old money,' but I always remember names and faces. Very useful talent in those circles. "Ya'll are from Philadelphia if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes," Rose frowned, quiet. "Mother tells me you're from out west."

"Missouri by birth, Colorado for most of my adult life, and these days you can find me just about anywhere in the world," I smiled.

If my answer charmed her, she didn't show it, keeping her chin up and her tone icy. "Yes. Well, Mrs. Brown, I'm delighted, really. But I came here to read rather than to socialize, so…"

"Oh. Of course. Don't mind me." I pulled some blank postcards and a pen out of my purse.

Rose's purported motive for coming to the reading and writing room was a big fat lie. You see, while the smoking room was officially "men only," a ship's reading and writing roomwas the unofficial haven for us ladies. The "ladies' smoking room," so to speak, except with no smoking allowed, and no official sanctions against our men intruding on us if they were so inclined. I was actually surprised to see this room so desolate, even if it was after 9:00 PM on sailing day. It should have been a den of chatter and gossip.

My postcards boasted color drawings of the Pyramids at Giza and the Great Sphinx. I would have sent them before leaving Paris, if I hadn't been distracted by the news of my grandson's poor health. Rose, for all her posturing as a scathing socialite, stole inquisitive glances at the illustrations. Finally, I broke the ice: "Ever been to Egypt, Rose?"

"No, I can't say that I have." She frowned thoughtfully at the postcards. "Mother limits our travels to western Europe and the eastern States. She believes the rest of the world is too savage."

Ouch. Well, nice to know what her mother thought of my own geographic origins.

"Would you… recommend Egypt, Mrs. Brown?" Rose earmarked Freud and set him gently on the table. "I hear there are a lot of insects…"

"There are, but you just gotta get good netting."

"I've also heard they…" She leaned in towards me. "They practice sorcery there?"

"Well, yes and no. The common people are Mohammedan: it's a different creed, but God-fearing all the same. There are some fortune-tellers and tarot readers, but you see those in Europe too..."

"Of course." Rose anxiously glanced around the room, then whispered excitedly: "I've always been curious to go to one. Just for fun!"

"Well ya should! I did in Egypt!" Her eyes grew wide. "Although it was a bit of a rip off," I chuckled. "As soon as he heard I was American, he started babbling on about disaster at sea, knowing I'd have to cross sometime, and trying to boost his business with sensationalism…"

After spending so much time with innocent Maddie Astor, you must think I was beginning to feel like a governess, always explaining the ways of the world to younger women. But my job was easy with Rose; she was a bright and eager pupil, asking about ancient Egypt's glorious architecture and pagan religion, about the weather, the food, the language, even the camels!

I was my usual pleasant and informative self, Josephine, I will have you know. As I spun my yarns, Rose's judgmental façade began to fall, and she shyly smiled more than once. I became curious to know about this intelligent, seemingly adventurous young girl whose travels had been restricted to crusty, "civilized" locales surrounding the North Atlantic. "So are you and your mother traveling for social purposes?"

"To shop for wedding gowns, actually." She thrust her left hand forward, showing off a gold engagement ring, with rubies surrounding a diamond the size of a pine nut.

"Well isn't that somethin!" I blurted. Rose's face turned a shade of red reminiscent of her namesake. "Congratulations, darlin."

"Thank you."

"London or Paris?"

"Philadelphia, next month; all of local high society will be there." Her answer was surprisingly glum.

"I meant for the dress shoppin?" I said gently.

"Oh! …Both."

With a rock thatbig, and a multi-city, trans-Atlantic jaunt just to find the perfect dress, I had to wonder… "Who's your beau?"

"Caledon Hockley," she answered quietly. "I've heard he's the second-richest man on the ship, after J.J. Astor of course." I waited for her to brag about his endearing qualities, the way lovers usually do. She did not.

"So… how'd you like Paris?"

"Oh," she breathed. Her blush faded and her eyes sparkled. I prepared for rhapsodies about Parisian bridal fashions. Instead, what she said next nearly floored me: "I saw the Divine Sarah. She was so powerful!"

She referred to the actress Sarah Bernhardt, and with the epithet used only by her devoted fans- including me, of course. But Bernhardt is a controversial figure, to say the least. "Your mother won't take you west of the Mississippi, but she took you to see Sarah Bernhardt?" I teased.

She flashed a devious grin. "No, she just let me go. With an old friend from finishing school. And I suspect if she knew anything about Sarah's work, she wouldn't have done even that!"

We chatted away at least a half hour about the Divine Sarah alone, marveling at her versatility, her dark and mysterious beauty, her voix d'or ("golden voice"). Furthermore, we spoke of what her work meantto us personally: resilience, an independent spirit, unabashed passion in life.

"Ya know, our society needs a few women in each era who listen for the call of their muses and nothin else," I said.

"Wild pagan spirits," Rose giggled quietly. She had her elbows on the table and her hands coyly in front of her face, the soft white fingers laced together.

"Exactly. In our day, the muses have blessed us with Sarah in the theater. And in dance, well, they graciously gave us-"

"Isadora Duncan!" we said in unison. We giggled like schoolgirls sharing a scandalous secret. I felt the attendant staring. I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair.

"Did ya know Sarah Bernhardt writes plays as well?"

"No!" Rose exclaimed. "Does she? I bet they're fascinating."

"They are. Do you read French?"

"Oui bien sûr, madame." Rose clearly had the benefit of a proper finishing school education; her accent was more perfectly Parisian than anything I'd heard on the streets of Paris.

"I have an autographed copy of one of her works back in my stateroom." I smiled to myself as Rose's jaw dropped. "If you promise to take care of it, I could lend it to ya at breakfast tomorrow."

"Absolutely! I promise!" she gushed. "That's very generous of you, Mrs. Brown-"

"Please, call me Molly."

"Molly. Oh, my… I'm speechless. It's such a lovely gesture on your part, truly."

"Hey, what's a priceless book between two devotees of the Divine Sarah?" I winked. I pulled out a pocket watch I kept in my purse, one of my J.J.'s old watches. "It's after eleven, darlin, we better be gettin to bed."

We left the reading and writing room arm in arm. "Molly, I can't tell you how much it means to have, well…" she searched for words. "An invigorating conversation, for once. I should show you the paintings in my suite, sometime; I look forward to your take on them."

"Should I escort ya back to the suite?" I asked as we entered the Grand Staircase.

"Oh, no." She pulled a copy of the White Star guidebook out of her purple velvet pocketbook. "I can find my own way, but thank you."

"Good for you!" I smiled. "Be independent, Rose! Find your own way in this world!" My encouragement was over-the-top, I know, but in the spirit of our conversation. I was surprised when my words caused Rose to blink furiously, her smile strained. Perhaps it's just too late in the evening for her, I thought at the time.

"Goodnight, Molly."

"Goodnight, Rose." We parted ways.

Back in my stateroom, I flicked on the electric heater and checked the time again. It was nearly midnight. A late evening for me, certainly! I should have hopped into my pajamas and burrowed into those decadent down bedcovers straightaway, but first there was one more thing I felt compelled to do.

I lifted the protective sheet off the canvas propped against the wall. In shimmering, chaotic impressionism, I saw the shop-lined Seine River in Paris on a sunny day. In the foreground, two ladies rowed a tourists' paddleboat together. One was a buxom, soft-faced redhead, both her hair and her dress loose and flowing. The other was a thin, sharply-dressed brunette. At a glance, they seemed to have little in common except the boat itself- and their adoring smiles towards one another.

The painting was by Louise Abbéma, a mildly famous French painter and the brunette depicted in the scene. Her rowing companion was none other than Sarah Bernhardt. All of Paris society knew they were inseparable, the best of friends. Some whispered that perhaps they were more than that.

Personally, I didn't care much about what the two women might or might not have done behind closed doors. But the trust and understanding between them, seen so clearly in their eyes, that was something I longed for. Something I hadn't felt in years.

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A/N: Margaret Brown was a Sarah Bernhardt fan, though I don't know if she had an autographed copy of L'Aveu; made that up for kicks. :-) Though I couldn't find any photos of it, the Abbéma painting depicting her and Sarah in a rowboat together does exist. In reality it was lost to history until the 1990's. When it was discovered, an inscription on the back not only confirmed that Abbéma and Bernhardt were the women in the painting, but also strongly suggested that the rumor of them having been lovers is true.