Chapter Eight

April 1, 1912

Rose picked at her breakfast, unable to squelch the queasiness that had plagued her every morning for the past two and a half weeks. She felt tired all the time, and sick and listless in the mornings, but neither her mother nor Cal had noticed. If they did, they would undoubtedly reprimand her for overeating at dinner the night before—she made up for her lack of appetite in the morning by eating ravenously at dinner, something no proper lady did. Only Trudy had noticed, and she could do nothing. A maid did not give advice to the lady she served, no matter how sorely that advice was needed. Rose didn't know what was wrong, and wished that she could talk to someone about it, but there was no one.

Cal looked across the table at her, watching as she nibbled cautiously on a piece of toast. He had come to her bed again the night before, as he had almost every night on this trip, in spite of her objections. Rose had come up with every excuse she could think of—she had a headache, she was too tired, it was her time of month—but only the last excuse had put him off. She wished that she could use that excuse more often, but Cal undoubtedly knew how women's bodies worked, and would slap her for lying to him. It hadn't really been her time of month when she had made that excuse, either, and she wondered what she would do when it really happened.

At least it didn't hurt anymore, Rose thought glumly, staring at the fried eggs before her. It had only been painful the first time, but she still detested Cal's nightly visits to her bed. He considered it to be her payment for all the expensive things he had bought her, for the lavish trip, for the marriage they would enter into soon after returning home.

The whole trip had been an endless shopping spree, with Cal and Ruth selecting clothing and jewelry for Rose's trousseau, along with an exquisite French wedding gown. The problem, as far as Rose was concerned, was that she had never been given any say in the matter. It never mattered what she wanted, what she thought would be suitable—Ruth and Cal made all of those decisions for her—even though she was the one who was paying for it every night. Ruth, too, had purchased a lavish new wardrobe, although she had just spent a great deal of money for new clothes in the United States. But, of course, it wouldn't do to wear old clothes on a trip on the most luxurious ship in the world. Rose couldn't forget that, even if she wanted to. It was her duty to make sure that her mother was able to continue the lifestyle she was accustomed to, no matter what the cost.

There had been other amusements, of course. Many of the elite were enjoying a season in Europe, so there had been countless parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches, always with the same crowd, always with the same stultifying conversation, until Rose was ready to run screaming through the streets. But where could she run to? They had visited the great cities of Europe—Paris, Madrid, Rome, Berlin, London—but she had been given very few chances to see any of the famous sights. It had been the thought of those sights, of seeing something new and exciting, that had allowed her to tolerate the trip and Cal's smothering, controlling affections, but even those pleasures had been denied her. She had seen the Eiffel Tower and some of the great palaces and estates, but aside from that, Ruth and Cal were uninterested in exploring, and would never allow her to go about on her own.

And always, always, there was Cal. Ruth beamed with pride when she saw Rose on Cal's arm, and Cal showed her off at every event as though she were a prize racehorse. Except for when she went shopping with her mother, or when the men retreated to smoke, drink brandy, and discuss business and politics—something she, as a female, was supposed to have no knowledge of or interest in—he was at her side, or nearby, watching her constantly, his gaze never missing the slightest transgression, real or imagined. She was his fiancée, soon to be his wife, and he would tolerate no misbehavior from her, no flirting with other men or doing anything the least bit unladylike.

Slowly but surely, Ruth and Cal were suffocating her, putting out the fire inside her. She did her best to appear happy, to appear the devoted daughter and fiancée, but inside she had begun to retreat from them, finding small ways to defy them, to wipe the self-satisfied smiles from their faces. All of the expensive clothes, the lavish trappings of the society she had grown up in, and which her mother was determined to remain a part of, meant nothing to her. Day by day, she felt her world closing in around her, smothering her, and no one noticed or cared, too wrapped up in themselves and their own social climbing to give the slightest notice to an unhappy debutante.

In ten days, they would be setting out for home on the maiden voyage of the world's most luxurious ship, the Titanic. The thought gave her no pleasure. She would return home with the same people that she had seen in Europe, enduring more of the same mindless conversation and dull parties—and when they reached home, she would marry Cal and be bound to him forever.

It was the life that had been chosen for her, that had been set out for her from the day she was born, and there was no way of escaping it.

None at all.