"Are you alright, Miss?"
Rose looks up from where she's sat, noticing her maid's presence for the first time. Steeling herself, she sits up straighter in an attempt to appear normal, and takes her hand from her temples.
"I'm fine, Sarah, thank you," she answers, turning back to the mirror, knowing she still has to get herself ready for dinner.
The young maid's skepticism is still present however, and she gives Rose a pointed look. Really Rose can't be surprised. Over the past several months, this new maid had seen her more than any other living person had. She had become aware of Rose's moods and ailments, and almost attuned to them. It was her job, after all, but somewhere along the way Rose felt that they had also almost become friends.
"Is it your head again?" Sarah asks. "The ringing in your ears?"
Rose nods.
"I wish it would stop," she confesses. It's making her feel crazy— crazier than she's already been made to feel in her grief.
Cal had found her aboard the Carpathia. Of course he had. He had been monitoring every lifeboat and passenger that boarded, watching like a hawk. She hadn't even found solid footing yet when he had grabbed her by the arm, rushing her off to the infirmary, all niceties and faked worry. Of course, the first thing he had done had been to take back his coat, pulling out that cursed necklace and a wad of cash that she hadn't even known were there. He had visibly calmed after retrieving it but the sight of the jewel had made rose feel like her own heart was encased in ice, frozen as blue as that diamond as once again the realization that Jack was gone, taken below those waves, hit her once again.
As her thoughts stray to Jack the ringing gets louder, and she has to fight to keep from clasping her hands over her ears, instead moving to continue pinning her hair, Sarah coming behind her to fix the back.
"Should we call for a doctor?" The girl asks, concerned, and Rose frowns. No, that wouldn't do. Cal had made it clear that Rose's wellbeing wasn't a priority— as long as she could put on the charade of being the docile, submissive, and subservient fiancé she had played at being since he had found her again.
Looking at herself in the mirror she's satisfied that Cal will at least be appeased by her looks. Everything she has on is far too heavy and far too jewel encrusted for her own taste, and her makeup too severe, but nowadays she needed the makeup just to appear healthy. The bags under her eyes had grown too dark and noticeable for lack of sleep, her cheeks too hollow for loss of appetite. Nobody seemed willing to acknowledge that she was letting herself waste away, least of all herself.
"Well Jack," she whispers to herself as she stands, ready to make her way downstairs, "I told you I wanted to be an actress. This isn't what I meant, but I sure am getting the practice."
As she reaches for the switch on the wall to turn them out, the lights flicker. An odd thing, she thinks fleetingly, but perhaps it's windy outside.
— — — —
As Rose enters the parlor where Cal, her mother, and a few guests she hadn't been bothered to make herself acquainted with are milling about, drinks in hand waiting for the meal to be announced, her fiancé's eyes are on her immediately, as if trying to judge how she's about to behave for the evening. At least, she thinks, she has that upper hand— she is still able to frighten Cal into thinking she's about to misbehave wildly and embarrass him again, not that she had since the ship. Still though, there's a mild satisfaction for her in the idea.
"Sweetpea," he greets her, holding out his arm towards her until she's close enough that he's able to clasp a hand over her shoulder posessively. "This will be of interest to you. Mr. Jennings here has assured me that the insurance claim on those finger paintings of yours that were lost has finally gone through."
She controls her face, not letting her emotions surface— the latent anger simmering within her and the sadness at the thought of those paintings and the memories he has just dredged up. "Oh." Is all she says.
"I thought they were a waste of money from the get-go," says Cal to the man who must apparently be his insurance agent, "But Rose insisted. Perhaps," he says barking a laugh, "I should listen to her when it comes to art in the future. Those paintings are worth far more at the bottom of the ocean than they would have been in this parlor. It's a real shame that the last artist she discovered sank along with his work, but her eye for talent does seem to be a bit damning."
"Now, Mr. Hockley," her mother starts in a warning tone. Something that surprises Rose a bit, as if her mother is disapproving of Cal's jibe.
Cal is goading her— testing her, and she knows it as well as he does. He is fully aware how even the mention of art may set her towards melancholy, let alone his inference towards Jack, and he's trying to see if she can keep her composure in front of the guests. Tests like these have become somewhat of a past-time for Cal as he continues to find ever more cruel ways to tear her down, and through it she has been surprised to find her mother showing somewhat of a protective side. As the wedding draws closer, his tests are becoming more frequent and pointed, the prospect of her behavior in front of his family is an obvious worry of his.
While Cal hasn't lashed out physically since they were aboard that ship, he is still punishing her. Still punishing her for Jack, as if his death isn't punishment enough. He delights in lording his position and her infidelity over her head— the very prospect that not only her livelihood but also her reputation lies in his hands and that her avenues of escape have been exhausted— has become Cal's favorite past-time, and she knows that she's helpless to do anything about it.
— — —
The dinner passes in a blur, Rose tuned out to the conversation as usual. That sinking and empty feeling within her has returned and she feels more like a caged animal than ever.
As they make their way up the stairs to retire Cal's hand catches her arm before she can retreat back to her room. She turns and looks at him tiredly, in no mood for more of his games and tests.
"Next time I'll expect you to be a bit more amenable to company, Rose. You barely spoke."
She meets his eye, gauging how far she can allow her temper to push his. "I was taught that if I have nothing nice to say its best to keep quiet," she tells him, watching in abject fascination as the muscles in his jaw twitch as he bites back a retort.
"And what is it you'd like to say to me so badly that you couldn't say out loud?" Asks Cal, his eyebrow raising. Stepping in closer to her she feels her skin crawl as his arms come around her, his chin resting on her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her hair. "Whatever it is," he says in her ear, his tone sending a shock of fear down her spine, "You know it doesn't matter. There's nothing you can do— nowhere you can go. You and your mother wouldn't survive a day on the streets."
She attempts to shrug him off and finally, he lets her, as he continues with his thoughts. "You know," he tells her, his hand catching in a fallen curl, "sometimes I picture you like that, for fun. What you'd look like out there penniless, without everything I've given you— the jewels and the finery. You can barely take care of yourself here, I don't know how you expected to live out there with him. He couldn't have given you anything, except for maybe a disease or two."
"He gave me love," she tells Cal, "Which is more than you've ever been capable of."
"Love," he scoffs. "A stupid notion. You act like a school girl, no wonder you fell for his tricks. I hate to break it to you, sweet pea, but love doesn't exist. That gutter rat was street wise. He knew just what to say to get up your skirt just like any other naive whore and you fell right for it. That's all he wanted, guaranteed. The minute a prettier trick came along he would have left you cold, hungry, and alone."
Rose wants so badly to argue. She knows that it will do no good— that Cal will only continue to tear at her holes, but the rage she feels— the blind fury— is almost consuming, as if its not her own. Biting her tongue, fists clenched, she's about to respond when the ringing in her ears meets an unbearable pitch and she has to grab hold of her head. The last thing she remembers before darkness had set in is seeing a painting behind Cal crash forcefully to the ground, the frame smashing loudly. Her last fleeting thought— she had never liked that painting anyway. Cal's taste in art truly is awful.