Welcome to my new story! I'm planning for this to be a three parter (three chapters long), so buckle in for something short but heavy. I hope you enjoy it! As always, let me know what you think.
(P.S. An update for A Second Chance will be coming soon, as will the sequel for Butterfly in a Glass Jar.)
Better Left Unsaid
By Lady Elena Dawson
Chapter One: Part 1
April 1915
Rose arrived in Philadelphia that lukewarm, mild day in the spring of 1915. Dressed in a simple green dress, hand-me-down coat, and worn heels, she watched as the train pulled into the station and the whistle drowned out any pleasant sounds of birds chirping, calling out to their loved ones. Not that Rose had spent much time listening to the beauty of nature recently, or the loving cries of spring creatures. As the loud brake jolted her ears, she scooted closer to the edge of her seat in preparation to leave as soon as the train stopped. After all, there was nothing holding her back any longer.
Stepping off of the train on a sturdy ankle, Rose peeked around from under the cream brimmed hat she was wearing and in which she had tucked her long, auburn curls. She had considered cutting them to a shoulder length before leaving, but had decided against it, given that her mother, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, could only handle so much of a shock. Seeing Rose after three years was going to be enough of a hit to Ruth's system, let alone if Rose also looked like the part of a rebel. Therefore, she'd kept herself as mirror-like to her old self as she could, though she couldn't hide the new batch of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks.
As presentable as Rose was, she was trembling inside. She shook all the way to the street, where she looked for the car that would take her to a place she'd once called home.
A man, standing up stiff-straight, was waiting for her and greeted her with a simple, "Miss." After being helped into the automobile (something Rose would have shook off if her shoulders didn't feel so weighty), she took another deep breath as she watched the train station start to move away from her, until it was nothing but a speck in the distance and she was surrounded by the cacophonic streets of Philadelphia once more.
As the car pulled up in front of the house, Rose's heart was pounding as if she was being chased by a crazed murderer. It was much larger than she remembered, despite living in it the majority of her life before resorting to poverty. She was better known to her friends as Rose Dawson, but here she was Rose DeWitt Bukater, a name she'd dragged through the mud three years ago before supposedly perishing and being mourned over an untimely death.
Oh, how the woman living inside was in for a heart attack.
Though Rose wasn't planning to surprise the woman at the door with her presence, sending a letter must have been just as much of a shock to her mother as showing up at the door would have been. Now here she was, standing at the door, ready for the shock of a lifetime, yet the reason she really came back was for anything but more shocks to the system.
"Miss DeWitt Bukater," the butler said as he opened the door, "welcome home."
Rose offered a cold smile while stepping in, single bag in hand. "My name is Rose Dawson now."
"Of course," he said, nodding in apology. "Would you like me to take your bag?"
"That's quite all right." She examined the foyer, which echoed with every word that she spoke. "Where is my mother?"
"She'll be down in a moment."
While waiting for her mother, Rose examined the frigid hall, decorated in a Victorian style that had once been at its prime. She remembered how, when she was little, she used to think of the room as dark and unwelcoming, everything but what a foyer should represent; but now, a morbid part of her appreciated the gothic style. Approaching a side table adorned with white and red roses, Rose slid a finger over the mahogany, not picking up a trace of dust. Pristine and gloomy. She had no doubts now that she was, indeed, home.
"Rose?" A voice, familiar yet foreign to her after so many years of forgetting, broke her out of her reverie. Ruth Dewitt Bukater stood at the top of the staircase, as straight and narrow as she'd always been, if not more so after suffering the tragedy they both went through. "I… I can't believe it's really you."
Rose watched as Ruth descended the steps, in awe of this flawed mistress of the household. Despite their issues in the past, Rose couldn't help but see what made Ruth so formidable. "Hello, Mother," she greeted her, keeping her distance as much as she could.
Face-to-face, Ruth seemed less like an ice monster and more like a meek woman. The broken glint in her blue eyes was new to Rose, something she hadn't seen before; but if she had to guess, then she'd say that it must have cracked when they survived the night of that terrible ordeal, when the great ship had plunged beneath the waves. Despite not seeing each other since then, Rose had nothing more to add to her greeting.
A weak smile crossed Ruth's lips, which were lightly dry from years of mourning. "Oh, my daughter," she said, lifting her arms up for an embrace. "Oh, my Rose…"
Rose accepted the hug in spite of her better judgement, which urged her to push herself away. "I know," Rose said instead, deciding to go down the solace route. "I'm finally home."
After a moment of awkward embracing, Ruth pulled away and dabbed at her moist eyes with the back of her hand. "Please, come sit," she said, gesturing to the sitting room.
Hesitant, Rose took a step back. "Actually, would you mind if I rest upstairs for a little while? The train was noisy, and I'm a bit tired."
The smile on Ruth's face betrayed her true feelings. "Yes, of course. You know where…?" She pointed up the steps, and Rose nodded. "Yes, we'll talk later then. I hope you rest well."
Once in her room, Rose couldn't help but notice, again, how big everything was, and how it was larger than the apartment she'd been living in before. Her room was exactly as she had left it; everything, from the placement of the furniture down to the brush on the vanity, was exactly where she'd last seen it. She could pretend, if she wanted to, that she was back in 1912, having returned from a trip abroad, no problem. But then she'd need to forget everything that had happened in the last three years, and that was never going to happen.
Collapsing on the bed, she closed her sore eyes and before too long, nodded off, for a sweet, split second forgetting why she'd returned here in the first place.
The apartment was smaller than anything Rose had lived in, even smaller than the suites she'd stayed in at hotels and on ships, but it made do for a newly reborn woman looking to make something novel of herself. She set down her bag, one that had been given to her by a kind first-class passenger while docking in New York, on the ratty sofa that took up the majority of the living space. Then she dumped her belongings out: a comb, bar of soap, toothbrush and shawl. None of them belonged to her until they were given by those whose hearts panged for her loss.
She had nothing. Everything had been eaten by the ocean, left to digest on the sandy floor. But now she had this little place, somewhere new to call a home, and it made her feel a little less heavy, and a little bit more grounded. As long as she had somewhere to be, somewhere to attach herself to, she could float around a little less. Her mind could stop drifting, and she could stop feeling sorrowful for even a momentary second.
To distract herself even more (and to avoid facing complete poverty on the street), she took on a job as a seamstress, a low-level position given her lack of experience. She'd tried her hand at fixing garments many times before behind her mother's back, though she wouldn't say her stitching was up to par with what a customer would look for. At least she wasn't starting from level zero (she thanked her late maid for helping her sneak around like that), but she was at the bottom nonetheless. She worked herself until the bones in her hands ached, until she could barely feel the needle between her fingers, then she returned home to fix herself a plain dinner and read a book. (Yet another item she was grateful to receive from the kindness of others.)
Many nights she went to bed hungry regardless of how much she worked, her stomach upset with her for its lack of sustenance. For a while, she beared through it, but she couldn't do it anymore. She then paired the seamstress job with an evening shift at a local bar. With that, her stomach stopped growling.
Often she was flirted with by the men ordering their drinks, but despite her lonesome status, she rebuffed all advances. Nothing could compare to the love she'd had once, but had lost at a premature state. Yes, once upon a time she'd lived in a whirlwind romance, but it'd died before its heart could grow to its full potential. Every night, before she went to bed, she held the dead thing in her hands, unbeating and cold.
For many months, that was the life she lived as the reborn Rose Dawson. For many months, she was all that she had–but not for long.
When Rose woke up, she thought she was seventeen again. Pushing herself up, she let her eyes adjust to the room around her, fixing on the white wood, gold-adorned armoire in the corner. As she yawned, she could have been convinced she was thrown back in time–if it wasn't for the dress she was wearing. It was a basic green, with a black sash she'd added herself when she was ill for a full week–nothing at all like the richly colored, elaborate dresses in the closet of her room.
Placing her feet on the frigid wooden floor, she remembered how the cold used to wake her up every morning before she had to shove herself out of her room to the parties and cotillions that awaited her that day. She had the option to move a carpet closer to the bedside, but she needed that jolt of energy just to put up with what she needed to do.
Fortunately for her, she had nothing she needed to do that day. She'd arrived completely unbaggaged, the only luggage being carried around the fact that she had to confront her mother after years apart. Along with that, she had to explain where she'd been for the past three years. She wasn't sure she could stomach that yet.
Heading downstairs, she felt the plushness of the carpet beneath her, and stopped on the last step to really soak in where she was. Before she could drift off from the softness between her toes, however, she was stopped by a voice close by. "Rose?" Ruth cried out. "Is that you, darling?"
Rose stepped off the stairs and went into the sitting room, where Ruth was drinking some tea with other light refreshments. "Yes," Rose said, choosing not to say much more yet. She needed to reel herself back in from the dream she'd had, to ground herself back in her present-day body rather than being seventeen.
Ruth smiled, though it appeared forceful whether she meant for it to come off that way or not. "Please, sit down."
Rose did as she was told, having rested well enough in her old room. Ruth offered her some tea, but Rose refused, finding her stomach was roiling. Any minute now…
"Rose…" Ruth started, causing Rose to shiver. "I know we haven't spoken in a while. And for the majority of the past three years, I was convinced you were dead. But I need to know what happened while you were gone." Her eyes watered, betraying her vulnerability. "Can you do that for me? Explain what happened to you?" Rose stayed silent, prompting Ruth to continue. "It's just been so long, I… I need to know why you chose to hide."
Why else was Rose there? She couldn't stay without explaining why she'd decided to rise from the dead. "Yes," Rose said, her mouth dry. "I can explain." She paused, moistening her lips with her tongue. "But I… I can only tell this story once." Please, no more than that, she thought, her heart constricting in her chest.
Rose sighed, collecting her breath. "I survived the sinking. I won't tell you more than that besides I took the name Rose Dawson, and that's how you and Cal never found me. After that, I stayed in New York…"