Chapter Three

April 8th, 1922

Long Island, New York

The soft glow of early morning found its way through a sliver in the curtains. Rose felt as if she hadn't slept a wink. She had spent majority of the night tossing and turning like a fish out of water. The stress of her mother coming had hit her like a train at full force. The next seven days, Rose was convinced, were going to be worst of her life, surpassing even the darkest days in the wake of the Titanic. The shrill brassy cry of Cal's alarm clock had her stiffening. Rose faced away from her husband, watching the room slowly lighten around her. It wouldn't be long until the muted thuds of the nurses, nannies, and maids would be heard. And soon, Fern and Rhett would be awake, patiently awaiting their breakfast. Ruth's train was due a quarter to noon. Miss Mansfield suggested a nice early lunch on the veranda of the local tea house by the train station. Fern agreed if it meant she could have a cucumber finger sandwich. It was going to be a long day.

Behind her, Cal stirred in the bed, yawning widely and rubbing at his face. He glanced towards the back of Rose, his eyes following her wild curls that had been pulled into a loose ponytail. He knew she hadn't slept much. The month of April always brought a sense of depression upon Rose. And while he wanted to blame the other doings of the world, like the presence of Ruth, the bitter truth always plagued him. Since 1912, Cal's main priorities in life were his business and presenting himself as the man with the perfect life; a life he wanted everyone in his firm to desire. So far, he had been successful in his attempts on paper. He had a beautiful wife and two wonderful children. He was raising a man whom he believed would rule Wall Street with a tighter ship than Cal or even his father could attain. He owned a beautiful property settled right on the beach with its own private garden, swimming pool, and even a humidor. But there was always one nagging aspect to his perfect life: the fact his wife desired someone who he saw as useless as a sea urchin. No amounts of pondering during lunch or wondering as he fell asleep ever brought him closer to understanding why Rose felt the way she did. Cal liked to be the first and best in everything he did and it bothered him every single day of their ten year marriage that he couldn't fit that role in Rose's mind. She had so much to be grateful for, he thought. And she should have been kissing the very ground he walked on. But Cal wasn't a quitter, like he assumed of the bottom dwellers.

He reached for her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pressing himself against her. Rose stiffened and stirred at his touch, turning her face upwards to see him only inches from her. On top of the dreadful arrival of Ruth, Rose also had to contend with Cal as he did not go into the office on Saturday's and Sunday's. The family as a whole, including Miss Mansfield, would be taking Ruth to the tea house. She wasn't sure she would be able to force herself to drink tea or eat dainty little treats. All she'd be able to focus on was not purposefully shoving lemon wedges into her eyes. Cal gently ran his hands against the ruffled cotton of her nightgown.

"I know you have a lot on your mind," Cal's husky breath could be felt on her neck. Goosebumps puckered across her skin as her eyes stared towards the door. "But we're going to Tilly's… I know how much you love the baked salmon."

Rose was quiet for a few moments, feeling him brush against her. She tried to think of something to say. She pursed her lips as she searched her mind. "We're having a light lunch. Dinner shall be much more involved. Miss Mansfield insists on pork chops tonight."

"Pork chops, hm?" Cal arched his eyebrows as his cheek grazed her neck. Rose pursed her lips, swallowing the growing lump in her throat. "Perhaps some of your favored apple butter as a side, then?"

She forced a smile in the next moment, coolly removing herself from his grasp. She sat up on the side of the bed, reaching for her black silky robe that gleamed in the orange morning rays piercing through the curtains now. As she flung it over her shoulders, freeing her hair from the collar, she turned to Cal. "Maybe… we'll see. I'm off to take a bath before breakfast. Could you see to it that Miss Mansfield has coffee ready?"

"Yes, yes," Cal immediately shook away the abrupt loss of Rose's skin beneath him. He came to his side of the bed, grabbing his own robe. "Coffee will do us both good."

The bathroom was large. As wide and open as the sun room in the far wing of their estate. It glistened with all its porcelain features. The counter tops sparkled with their speckled marble surfaces. Rose could nearly see her reflection in the white tile beneath her feet that had gold leaf brushed between the crevices. In the corner of the room was the claw foot tub that sat beneath two large windows of mosaics portraying the local flowers of the coast. The reds, greens, and blues of the glass shaded the tub in a welcoming light. Rose seated herself on the edge, turning the water on. As it began to steam, she plugged the drain and watched the water bubble and fill. Casually, she drizzled some lavender extract into the water, watching the surface become sudsy and somewhat murky. Rose sighed and tilted her head up, closing her eyes, as the steam came across her face.

The feeling of steam coming across her skin always stirred something within her. It brought forth a rejuvenating feeling; one she associated with being young and a longing to be reckless and animated, her definition of truly being alive. The life she had captured now came off as lackluster when the sticky steam melted against her skin. She inhaled deeply the aroma of lavender and her stomach fluttered. As the water level rose, she couldn't see through the somewhat pastel purple surface. It reminded her of the Atlantic with its inky waves, so cold and ravenous. What was at their depths? Rose nearly found out. Part of her shivered at those memories but the other part was curious. What was beyond those waves that held their secrets so dear? She felt as if she had left her own behind in those coarse waters. And though the water many nights seemed foreboding, Rose trusted the ocean to keep her darkest thoughts private. It's where the true Rose rest, she was convinced. She had gone down with the ship with all her convictions, though the tantalizing thoughts and memories still lingered.

As she plunged into the water, simply discarding her nightgown and robe to the ground in a rumpled mess, her mind wandered away from the estate and far beyond the realms of Long Island. Recounting her steps, following the life she had taken- it was all so wrong, she thought. It was absolutely not what she wanted. Prior to the sailing on the Titanic, it had been the life she was resigned to. But ever since the glamorous and destructive sailing aboard the grandiose ship, her perception had been entirely altered. She knew there would never be another waking moment where she didn't think about that man. The one who gave her options, the moments of free speech; it was all still so unknown to her in that brief time they had, but it would resound with her for a lifetime. And though she cherished these lightning memories of their chats and frantic touchings, she would never understand how to truly live those fantasies out. She had never been given the chance to learn the ropes of free will, of total autonomy. And that's what frustrated her the most. How could she be doomed to have these discombobulated thoughts, these confusing longings, when she had never known the life before and only was graciously allowed to view the insides of it for mere hours? She wanted to blame him, but she couldn't… she loved him, simply put.

Though her marriage to Cal wasn't an entire living nightmare, with its small charms, it would never surmount to what she had experienced in the past. She hated to be that way. Never did Rose want to imagine herself as the hung-up housewife, yet here she was. Rose felt as if she was passively living through the days. In many ways, she felt as if she had been a failure to launch; to recognize what she wanted, what she was suited for until it was too late. How could he show her something she couldn't have? She was a spoiled brat, wasn't she? One that wanted everything presented to her. How dare he show her this life of endless possibilities, of happiness with your hair in the wind, bringing forth a sense of freedom. Rose tensed below the surface of the water, tilting her chin into the fragrance. If she laid ever so still, she could imagine she was soaking in the tub aboard the Titanic. Her mind would have been clouded with the congested thoughts of him, wondering who he was and why he cared. But Rose understood now. She took for granted the fragility of life in those times, but in the aftermath, she still struggled to understand it. Was he even real? Or had Rose imagined him to open her mind, to expand her realms of thinking; to make her truly understand the definition of life, whether she lived that way or not? Rose had wondered for years if she was mourning the loss of a real man or just simply the death of her own free will. Had she thought him up as a way to convince herself from not jumping? Had she gone that far?

A knock at the door had Rose jerking in the tub, sending ripples across the surface as she sank into the fragrant waters. "Mum, it's just me," Came a familiar British voice from the other side. "Coffee is ready and breakfast shall be served in ten minutes! Mr. Hockley hopes your soak has lasted long enough!"

"Yes, yes," Rose brought herself to the edge of the tub, feeling now the water was growing quite cold. The heat of her body was slowly slipping away as she gazed around the familiar bathroom. "I'll be there shortly. Just need to comb my hair.

"Yes, mum!"

/

Beneath the dainty white parasol, Rose still felt the beams of the fresh spring afternoon coming over her. Beside her, Fern walked closely, shielding her sensitive skin in the shade. Her wispy brown hair had been braided, beating against the nape of her neck. A satin green dress covered her skin with white stockings and black shoes. She seemed excited in her step, fantasizing about the approaching tea party. Rhett walked ahead in a crisp black suit, lacking a bow tie, beside his father. Cal occasionally cocked his heads to say things to him, but his voice never traveled to Rose. She could only imagine he was slipping snippets of Wall Street gimmicks to him despite only being six years old. Cal often treated him as if he was a grown man with his own finances to care for. Miss Mansfield walked to the right of Rose. Her ashen hair had also been styled in a braided pleat falling down her neck and she basked in the shade of the parasol as the group brushed through the growing throng of visitors with the approaching warm weather. Fern nearly skipped beside her mother, taking hold of the thin layer of tulle covering Rose's dark blue skirt. Rose, however, felt as if she was in a funeral march despite her rather chipper spring attire, accented by lacy white gloves peaking out beneath the three quarter length sleeves. The toots of horn reached their ears despite another block distancing them. Rose's insides constricted at the thought.

"So many visitors each year…" Miss Mansfield commented, tilting her shoulders to brush past a couple. "Makes you wonder why they never live here?"

"I suppose that takes away the fantasy of the moody nights," Rose managed to reply, keeping her eyes directed forward, following in Cal's slice through the crowd. "No matter where you live, it seems the task of daily life can make anything seem faint of luster."

"Oh, mum, that's not cheery to think," Miss Mansfield clucked her tongue, casting a glance towards the stoic side profile of Rose. "Can't every night in Long Island seem like a fantasy?"

"I like the way the crickets chirp," Fern offered, swinging her arms wildly enough to stir the satin bow on her back.

"Oh, yes, little one, they're much more harmonious than the little bungalow town I hail from."

"Can crickets have accents?" Fern arched her eyebrows.

Miss Mansfield chuckled at the question. "I suppose they sound different everywhere, love."

The steam of the train station waved across the sidewalk and the familiar smell of coal burned Rose's insides. She felt herself raveling up like a ball of yarn being exasperatedly tugged at. The smells of the train station always evoked a stirring in her stomach. Half of her was comforted by it, but at the same time, she wanted to vomit. The train station never procured who she wanted it to. Her heart drooped every time she watched the funnel of train passengers, as if that day would be different. As if, somehow, reality could become magically different. As the family ascended the stairs into the somewhat crowded station, Rose's eyes darted past all the strangers. Some were leaving. Some were just arriving. Couples locked in tight embraces, men knelt down to bade their children goodbye. Everybody on that platform had a story as they rushed around. Everyone except Rose. She felt as if she didn't matter as she heard the sifting of hot coals and the clunks of luggage against the cobblestone. Beside her, Fern gripped her mother's hand, bringing her back to the earth's surface.

"Look! There's Granny!" Fern exclaimed, pointing across the spacious and shaded area. Sure enough, it was Ruth. Rose's entire body was beginning to shrivel up inside her. She had to physically hold herself upright. Ruth hadn't visited since Christmas after Fern had turned two. Rose was convinced it had been the most peaceful years of her life. But now, an utter week of doom, exhaustion, and mental anguish awaited her. Ruth's two large olive green luggage crates had been neatly stacked for her beside the railing. She stood next them with her straight back and drawn shoulders. Her dainty gloved hands were folded in front of her slender, almost rigid, body. The years hadn't been too rough on Ruth, who had remarried a successful business man herself in 1915. She was wearing a dainty yellow floral dress with matching lace that drenched her sharp shoulders. Her hair was poised in it's usual up-do, as solid as concrete with all the hair products, unmoving in any type of wind. Her face conveyed almost a sense of impatience, as if she had been waiting far too long despite it being only four minutes since her departure from the train. The flash of Rose's red hair, however, through the crowd had her lifting her hand in greeting.

"There you are," Ruth said, as the family approached her. "I was beginning to suspect I had gotten off at the wrong station."

"Hello, mother," Rose said coolly. Though, inside, it felt like once again, she was screaming at the top of her lungs. "I'm sorry, were you waiting long?"

"No matter," Ruth shook her head. She then turned herself on the grandchildren. "Hello, you two. My, don't you both look so dashing."

Fern did a little spin, allowing her to skirt to balloon with air. "I'm wearing a new dress Momma bought me!"

"You look lovely," Ruth told her. Now, her hawking gaze came between Cal and Rose, who stood shoulder to shoulder. "I'm absolutely famished. I simply detest traveling during this time of the year. The cabins are so hot and are always crowded with crying babies."

"Well, you're in for a treat," Rose replied, doing her best to act chipper- as if seeing her mother was the greatest blessing. "We're taking you out for tea and treats at Tilly's, right on the water."

"Oh, good," Ruth tugged at the frilly cuffs of her gloves. "Caledon, I think between you and… I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Charlot-"

"Miss Mansfield," Rose interrupted. "We call her Miss Mansfield. She is the children's extraordinary nanny."

"Yes, yes," Ruth nodded. "I think between the two of you, my luggage should be manageable. I do hope this tea house has a check closet."

"It's quite top notch," Cal said, reaching for the brassy handle.

"Good, good, let's get a move on," Ruth said, reaching for Fern's hand who made no move to protest. "If I don't have something refreshing soon, I may lose my head."

/

Tilly's was a popular attraction for the locals of Long Island. It was based inside of an old house with charming Victorian aesthetic. It featured a large wrap around porch on two levels that had been expanded outward to make room for more diners. The wallpaper was very loud, a mustard yellow with black swirls to interpret as vines and tangled flowers. The carpet was a royal blue with intricate yellow designs flowing through it. Every rattan table was covered in white linens, pressed to perfection. Fern adored the way they folded their napkins, poised and triangular, a top the small appetizer plates that greeted each guest. Fresh flowers, arranged in beautiful blooms, sat in crystal vases on all the tables. The party of six opted for a porch table, in the shade, that sat just feet away from the crystal sands. The beach beyond the rails was populated that warm afternoon. The moment Ruth seated herself, she let out a long sigh, as if she was absolutely drained from her chaotic life. Fern snagged a daffodil from the flower arrangement and turned it in her hands before tucking it through the button hole on her brother's lunch coat. She giggled with delight, proclaiming him to be a true gentleman.

Rose unfurled her napkin, smoothing it across her lap. "How was your trip?"

"Oh, the same as usual," Ruth said, gawking around the veranda, impatiently awaiting the tea kettle to arrive. "They really must think of new means to get about this country. The trains are always so crowded. Even with my own personal cabin, I constantly heard people walking about outside my door and the walls are so thin, I felt I heard everyone's conversation. And no one talks about anything too interesting today, anyway."

"Mm, that's too bad," Rose commented, arranging her silverware as any means to distract herself. "We'll have to take a train to the memorial."

"That will be much easier," Ruth said. "But I'm surprised we aren't driving."

"Our estate only has one car," Rose replied. "On weekdays, Cal takes it to work."

"Caledon, surely you can make an excuse not to take it for us, right?" Ruth arched her eyebrows. Cal had been looking to the ocean, but stiffened beneath her gaze. It always amazed Rose, no matter how many times she had seen the very look herself. Her mother was not a force to reckoned with. Rose sometimes wished she had a mother who was much more conceding. But unfortunately, she was the daughter of a woman who took nothing less than the best and expected the same of those around her. However, Rose always found it quite humorous when Ruth's evident exasperation, her unwillingness to settle for what she considered less, was turned on other people- and how satisfying it was to see someone like Cal buckle beneath it.

He cleared his throat and pursed his lips, glancing to the waiter who now appeared with the tea kettles. Pensively, Cal ran his tongue over his lips and nodded. "I suppose I could catch the train to New York City that morning. There's one a quarter to eight, isn't there, sweet pea?"

"Mhm," Rose cast her eyes down, watching the honey infused tea swirl in her cup. "It's the same train I'd take Rhett on when we were visiting private schools."

"Alright," Cal nodded. "I'll take the train next week so you two can use the car."

"I'd knew you would do what's best," Ruth said with her straight shoulders and somewhat irksome smile.

"What can I bring you fine folks this lovely afternoon?" The waiter inquired, pulling a notepad from their apron.

"Do you mind if I order?" Ruth looked around the table. No one objected. "We'll have some cucumber sandwiches and, oh, the deviled eggs, add pimiento cheese. Shrimp tartlets sound divine, too. And perhaps some garlic and herb quiches… the small ones, please."

"Yes, ma'am," The waiter was quick to take notes and disappear among the diners on the veranda that warm afternoon.

"Excellent," Ruth said after sipping her tea. "I think this shall be a lovely visit."

Rose could only force a smile while her insides shriveled up beneath her skin, begging to be set free.