An Endless Parade.
Part two – Marie's Cotillion
September 1911.
''Someone should have told her that she looks like death in white,'' Ruth DeWitt Bukater whispered aloud to her seventeen-year-old daughter, Rose, who played uncomfortably with her diamond and pearl earrings. ''Oh, do stop with that, Rose.''
Rose was aware of the dance which was happening, but only half. Her attentions were waning, for this had to have been the fourth cotillion she had attended in less than two months. It was the same dinner-dance formal affair where the new girl was outed to society to finally be either crowed over or pulled to pieces like a bird discarded by a cat. Sighing inwards, she played with the lace of her white glove instead.
''Who? Cousin Marie or Aunt Sylvia?'' Both the sixteen-year-old cousin and her father's sister were wearing white. Whilst it was traditional for the debutante to wear white, it wasn't for the mother of the one introduced.
"Sylvia Preston," Ruth quietened her voice as they passed the broad lady, shooing away a waiter away loudly who carried a tray of sparkling champagne. "Her husband should have quietly informed her that a woman of her age or size should not wear something so unforgiving, at least not to a formal gathering such as this and with the papers present. " Incredibly, her mother nodded an acknowledgement as they passed the woman who was the focus of her mother's gossip and then she quickly returned as soon as they were out of earshot. ''She is crass, rude and above all, she is the largest gossip so never tell her anything personal or it would be about the town before you know it and across the pond as well, do you know she has relatives in both London and Paris?'' Rose smiled to the woman who her mother was referring to, who seemed pleasant enough, but her mother continued. "I hear poor Mrs. Parsons told Mrs. Preston that her husband was cavorting with the governess and the next thing it was across the town in London. Could you imagine?"
"No."
"Speaking of the Preston's, I do hear that Uncle Morgan finds himself in financial dire straits. I shouldn't say how much but forty-five thousand is a high number."
Ruth, dripping in diamonds herself with her fiery curls piled high upon her head and a new powder pink gown made especially by a New York modiste for the occasion came up for air once more, as when approaching the dining tables, the faces of Society swarmed around in flocks like bees about honey to the newly introduced young Marie Preston, who was tall, slender and with the dark colourings of her father, wasn't at all like the Bukater's. Still, Rose sympathised with the girl, having been just turned seventeen herself when introduced to Philadelphia Society and whilst her mother had relished the role, Rose had hated every single second. It was pretentious and boring.
''That is unfortunate.'' Rose replied, finding how little she cared but kept up with her mother conversations.
''Yes, how lucky we are that you courting Cal has been well received by all.''
''Yes, how they must care so gratefully of us.'' Again, Ruth failed to identify the humour of her daughter. The ballroom, in the Louis XIV style, had been described as the "pièce de résistance" of the hotel, measuring 65 feet by 95 feet and 40 feet and was three stories in height. It had a capacity to seat 700 at banquets and 1,200 at concerts, and featured tints of ivory-grey and cream in its design.
''With so many heavy debts, one wishes to know how they can afford such a staggering affair to introduce their only child. Perhaps they hope she will find a husband quickly, due to their advancing ages and piling failures.''
''Mother, one would hardly call them ancient.''
''No? I say fifty-five in years is. Lord knows why she waited until she was almost forty to have a child.''
Rose glanced out at the crowds of hundreds, feeling her suffering and suppression starting early. Ignoring her mother's comments, she exhaled slowly and felt how her corset seemed to dig exceedingly tighter into her guts. Almost clawing...
Her own dress was extravagant even to Rose but it was paid for by Cal and there hadn't been a suitable event to wear it to until this very one. Knowing that eyes were upon her as she walked, her skirts swishing across the floor in her heavily flush pink attire was embarrassing.
''Oh, look, there is Mr and Mrs Astor, should we give our regards?''
''Of course, they are here, is it not his establishment?''
The Waldorf–Astoria originated as two hotels, built side by side by feuding relatives on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, New York City. Built in 1893 and expanded in 1897, The Astoria Hotel opened in 1897 on the southwest corner of Fifth Avenue and 34th Street, next door to the Waldorf. It was designed in the German Renaissance style by Hardenbergh, at a height of about 270 feet with 16 stories, 25 public rooms and 550 guest rooms. The hotel was also influential in advancing the status of women, who were admitted singly without escorts. particularly in making it appealing to women as a venue for social events, or just to be seen in the Peacock Alley. The combined hotel was the first to do away with a ladies-only parlour and provided women with a place to play billiards and ping-pong. It was the first New York hotel to allocate an entire room for afternoon tea. The teas began in the Waldorf Garden with attendance eventually being so large, both the Empire Room and at times, the Rose Room, had to be opened during the hours of four and six pm to accommodate the number of guests. Men were admitted to the teas only if they were in the company of a woman. The combined hotel, after merging in 1897, had 1,300 bedrooms and 178 bathrooms, making it the largest hotel in the world at the time. With a telephone in every room and first-class room service, the hotel featured numerous Turkish and Russian baths for the gentlemen of the day to relax in. Many of the floors were arranged as separate hotels to further the comfort of the guests. Each of these floors had its own team of assistants—clerks, maids, page boys, waiters—as well as telephone and dumbwaiter service, and refrigerators.
The main corridor was nicknamed "Peacock Alley" by the New York press. The corridor and foyer were treated with pilasters and columns of Sienna marble and a colour scheme on the walls and ceilings of salmon-pink, with cream-colour and pale-green. The capitals of the columns and pilasters were gilded of solid brass or lacquered. The main corridor ran the entire length of the building from east to west. To the left of it was the Astor Dining Room, fronting on Fifth Ave. The panels of silk hangings were of rose pompadour, and a series of Charles Yardley Turner mural paintings filled arches and panels at the south end of the room. On the right of the main corridor was the Garden Court of Palms, rising three stories to a dome-like roof of amber glass above the floor. This, too, was used as a dining room. It was decorated in the Italian style, finished in grey, terracotta and Pavonazzo marble.[65] On the 34th Street side of the corridor was the cafe, finished in English oak in the style of the German Renaissance, with Flemish decoration.
On the hotel's top floor was the roof-garden, enclosed on all sides by glass, with a glass roof over. It was furnished with rattan chairs and lounges in pale-green and pink, hung across with gauzy fabric. On the roof on the 34th Street side was the grand promenade, on solid footing high in the air, with a band stand, fountains, and trellises of columns. At the northeast and northwest corners of the roof garden were towers, with spiral stairways within, leading up to the copper covered roofs of the pavilions, which were 250 feet above the sidewalk. The palm gardens, used as cafes, rose to a height of two and three stories respectively and were roofed-over with domes of tinted glass. Balconies at the various floor levels opened on to these courts to overlook them. The materials used were cream-coloured brick and terracotta, and were Italian Renaissance in style.
Ruth had marvelled at the sight of the grandeur upon her first time sashaying down Peacock Alley flanked by three stewards and her daughter, who was completely oblivious to everything beneath her large, albeit fashionable travelling hat.
''Your hotel is a wonder, Mr. Astor, how could you not invite us here sooner?''
''Mrs. DeWitt Bukater, you are kind to say, but this is a hotel, one needs no invite to come and take some respite. Are you familiar with the young lady?'' Mr. Astor asked in reference to the debutante.
''My daughter's cousin, the only daughter of my late husband's sister, yes. Truly a magnificent party.''
''Yes, it has been. One could only recall-…''
Suddenly, her mother and Mr. Astor were ablaze with chatter of business, gowns and it all seemed to blur together with the remainder of people. She smiled mechanically when addressed, but her eyes were distant. The whole town had turned out and it felt as though there was not one closed mouth in the room.
It was not twelve months before that Ruth had been aflutter with arranging Rose's own cotillion which had taken place just the April previous. Wearing a white ball gown, littered with pearls and beautiful embroidery along with white satin gloves, Rose had been presented by her mother to all members of their peer at court and high society. Two hundred people had attended. The entirety of Philadelphia society had been littered with celebrations and dancing into the night and then, at the centre of it all was a girl who had dealt with her father's illness just weeks previous, and then the absurdity of her debutante party.
Rose lit a cigarette, hoping it would calm her impending hysterics at this moment. It was like attending an execution, although perhaps there would be more liveliness there.
''You know I don't like that, Rose.'' Ruth daintily leant forward and spoke quietly, but it was enough for the Astor's to hear. She glanced around like a scolded child as the eyes of society were thrust upon her. The room was a cloud of smoke as other indulged whilst dining, or dancing, but of course, she was forbidden to. Glancing to Mr. Astor it was apparent that he didn't give a fig of her cigarette.
''Forgive me, mother, I shall find a place to dispose of it.''
That was the easiest and most difficult course to take. Cal and her mother would be so easily dismissed with the feigned smile, the nodding of the head to ensure that she was partaking within the conversations but as Rose stood, ramrod straight, with her corset squeezing out what felt like the last inches of her breath, she was faced with the same narrow people, the mindless chatter. Rose was worth nothing and yet, everything. Her marriage would be worth everything. If, Cal ever proposed to her. She did assume that he wouldn't but if, it would afford her mother the best which life would offer; her fine things wouldn't be sold at auction and the debts left by her father would be paid. Ruth DeWitt Bukater would be able to show her face at all the society calendar events throughout the year and Rose would accompany her, draped on the arm of Caledon Hockley. Arrogance was a word invented for him, and his father. Both were cut from the same high-end cloth and would be treat as though royalty, therefore so would she. There would be no freedom. No room to breathe. Nothing for Rose to have for herself. No reading books. No participating in the women's rights movement. No visiting the art galleries of her choosing. Nothing.
Mechanically responding for another few seconds, Rose's eyes felt heavy. Her body felt as though it needed to sag. The air was heavy. Her lungs tight. It was a dream-like state, to watch through blurred vision the spectaculars of the room, the important people contained within it and then her, almost at the centre, with the need to run. To just...run. She was stifled and lethargic.
''You better quickly dispose of that and return.''
With the cigarette still placed between her fingers, in a crowd of what felt like thousands, Rose rushed for the closest exit, which was out onto the Waldorf Gardens which appeared to be littered with white chairs, lace trimmings and set for what appeared to be tea all under a dainty canopy. Was there no exit from the ballroom?
Peeking from beneath the canopy, Rose was aware of the brilliance of the moon tonight, and as she absentmindedly placed the cigarette between her lips, she grasped the ends of her ball gown, showing more than just above the ankles, almost to the knees—stockings and all, but she took off into a slight run out into some kind of wilderness. Or as wild as one could get with manmade woven plants and the likes. The only real thing was the moon, the air, the stairs above her and -
''You shouldn't be out here alone.''
Rose stopped in her tracks, almost losing the cigarette from her mouth as she reached a gate which led out towards pure darkness and at the end was a waiter.
That waiter.
Rose's stomach fell a thousand feet.
''Ladies are allowed to be unattended here, have you not heard of such things?''
''I have, but that meant indoors and not outside, unchaperoned.''
She came to him, lowering her skirts as she noticed him cast his eye across her ankles and she felt the heat rush to her cheeks. That was the improper part it it.
''Do you follow me to these events?''
He laughed. It was silky. Beautiful. Boyish. The smile which accompanied it, beneath moonlight was heavenly. Finding her tongue, she continued to lash him.
''I can only assume it to be true, for when I venture away from the crowds, I seem to see you.''
Adjusting her eyes in the new flame of the lights, he stepped closer to her, out of a shadow. He was tall, lean and handsome. Rose pressed her hand to her heaving chest where she suddenly was breathing in over time.
''I have seen you a few times since you last acknowledged me, at the yacht party, the christening last week and then a birthday party for Mr. Astor's niece. I thought you were avoiding me.'' Knowing that it was a jest, she was still riled.
''Avoiding you, I don't even know you.'' Rose tried to even her breathing. ''Who are you?''
Her firm voice startled him. It wasn't as soft as a summers breeze as he had imagined it would always be. It was shrill and unkind. He parted his lips but nothing came out at all.
''I said, who are you?'' She demanded, louder. ''And why are you always lurking where I go?''
She was not a delicate flower as he had initially thought.
''I'm Jack. Jack Dawson.'' His voice was soft as though he was trying to soothe a crying child. ''And I work for the Astor's as you know.
''That was all I did know. I never saw you at the other events.''
''No, you wouldn't, you were on the arm of that penguin.''
''I beg your pardon?''
''Your fiancé isn't he, Hockley something.''
''Oh, no, he most certainly isn't my fiancé, or anything of the sort.''
Jack nodded, reaching into his pants' pocket and pulling out a cigarette, he lit it in a sensual way. She leaned against the wall, in the most unladylike ways, watching as he walked around her, smoking his cigarette. A cloud of smoke surrounded him as it then blew away into the nights air. Was it the way it smelled about her or how intoxicatingly handsome he looked under the moonlight? Her own cigarette had faded someplace in the light winds, completely uncared for.
He remained quiet for a few seconds before hooking his fingers through his pockets. He really was something. He almost took her breath away, and in those few seconds, she forgot she had just left her mother indoors with the intention to return right away. His eyes shone in the darkness and she knew that they were going to be a beautiful colour in day light. Perhaps a light blue?
With a smile, he cocked his head to the side, and the smile was knowing. "That right, huh? I thought he must be a great guy."
''He is. I think. He knows what he wants.''
''And what about what you want, huh?'' He stunned her; she was about to respond when he continued. "I know what you want," he told her, so sure of himself. Why were men always so damned sure?
Rose laughed, biting her lip and lowering her lashes before glancing back up at him, seeing that his face was deadly serious. It was as though he was a ghostly apparition of some sort and yet, here he was when she blinked several more times. He was still smoking that cigarette, flicking the ash into the air about him. He breathed out the smoke; the proof that he was a living and breathing being.
"What right do you have to tell me what I want?''
''Because you wouldn't be out here, talking to poor guy if you didn't.''
''Very well. What do I want?" she asked in a mocking tone with a playful grin. This should be interesting. ''Perhaps you should enlighten me, seems as though you know me so very well.''
"You want an all-consuming love, with passion and maybe even little danger. That's why you're out here," he said softly, his voice wrapping its way around her as though it was spoken in a poetic and beautiful manner. ''You want somebody to shake you to your very core. You won't find that horse shit in there with those slippery leeches."
Rose's dry lips parted; a watery ring formed within her eyes. It was true. She wanted to feel as though she would be completely loved, but first she needed to know her self-more than anything. Who was she? Yes, she was seventeen and some were married and mothers by her age. Jack's face was completely devout of anything other than confidence that he was indeed correct. She laughed aloud, almost hysterically.
''You're crazy.''
''I have been told that more than fifty times, Miss, and it is true. I like to live each day as though it is my last because you never should take life for granted.'' His response shook her as he came closer. "So, what do you want?" he asked, again. This time he expected her to answer his question. She exhaled slowly. He was almost like therapy, and in a strange way, she knew that this was the beginning of the change in her.
Rose hesitated in her reply and didn't know how to admit to a stranger that he knew her better than the man who was intent to marry her did.
'I-I wish I could tell you.''
''You can tell me.''
Their eyes met and for the strangest second, she felt herself falling into the crazy stare. He was so intoxicating, overwhelming and so intense. Not even long talks with Cal had prepared her for a conversation with this stranger.
"Whatever you want, go and get it, or tell me, when you have figured it out," he breathed out his smoke. He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out. She watched how perfect he was. So tall and masculine, but yet he appeared so innocent with the way his hair fell into his eyes. ''You never know what can happen to anybody the next day. If you want something, you have to take every chance what comes at you. You make your own happiness.''
Rose listened intently as he softly spoke to her. She felt as though the air was sucked from her lungs, as if the world around her was spinning so fast and he was the only clarity gained. Glancing around, she saw it seemed to be darker than it had been before. Everything was so-different.
"I have to go." He turned to walk away, and in that moment, her heart sank. She panicked for a moment and needed to think of a way for him to stay, or at least to see him again. He was so mysterious and that seemed to attract her but before, he turned. ''What's your name?''
A long pause followed.
''Rose. Rose DeWitt Bukater.''
''I might have to get you to write that down for me one day.''
And then, she laughed.