Chapter two:
"New money."
Ruth DeWitt Bukater whispered aloud to her seventeen-year-old daughter, Rose, who fiddled uncomfortably with her diamond and pearl earrings as they approached the reception area from the elevators to continue to the dining room down the stairs.
Wearing a long cream dress, with black sash details and a single red rose at the centre of her chest accompanied by black elbow length gloves, Rose was aware of the Titanic's stop at Cherbourg; from her private balcony she had admired the towns harbour lights and felt a light longing for land though one had only been about the ship seven or so hours.
"Margaret Brown," Ruth quietened her voice as they passed a broad lady, shooing away a porter loudly. "Her husband struck gold someplace out west. Rumour has it she vacationed with the Astor's in Egypt." 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, or so I hear.'' Rose smiled to the woman who her mother was referring to, who seemed above all, a lady in command.
"Speaking of the Astor's, they've a private nurse with them and that young bride is awfully plump on the middle for a newlywed. I've heard she is in a family way; poor woman is your age."
Ruth, dripping in diamonds herself with her fiery curls piled high upon her head and a new powder pink gown made especially by a London modiste for the occasion came up for air once more, as when approaching the Dining Saloon, the faces of Society swarmed around in flocks like bees about honey.
"And the boy with Molly. I'd assume him to be her son, perhaps the youngest. Although I do believe him to be married now. Good gracious, the way he marched past us and without any need to even sway and allow a lady through. That very fact tells you everything, girl, about how peasants are raised without respect for those in higher stature."
If listening, Rose ceased immediately upon entering the centre of social grace. It was frightfully overwhelming, perhaps as much as her cotillion. The sight and smell of those about her all merged into one along with the clattering of the china, the smell of the fresh paints and the feel of plush new carpets beneath her feet. It was all so beautiful. So brand new.
The dining room was decorated in wooden panelling, painted white, and the floors were covered in blue linoleum tiles, featuring an elaborate red and yellow pattern. For even more atmosphere, the windows were lit from behind during the evening meals. Dinner was certainly an elegant affair. With the men in Dinner Suits and the women wearing the latest fashions and imported exotic perfumes and showing off their finest jewellery all while eating a feast fit for royalty. The Jacobean-inspired room had panelled walls and a strap work ceiling. The walls were made distinctive by painting them white. Beautiful leaded-glass windows covered the portholes giving the room the appearance of an elegant, land-based restaurant. At evening meals, lighting behind the windows furthered this illusion and created a lovely atmosphere. Without a doubt, the most artistic decorative ornaments in the room were the neoclassical caryatid-like pilasters interspersing the windows. They were topped with beautiful goddess heads, and in the corners a handsome Neptune. On the fluted block below the heads was centred a regal lion medallion. The lion held a swag drapery in his mouth which continued onto the pilaster portion. The pilaster was highly-ornamented with Arabesque/grotesque Renaissance motifs such as twin swans that mirrored each other around a central, fluted urn.
There were about a hundred tables, filled with any range from two to twelve people. In the centre, seated with Sir Cosmo and Lucille Lady Duff Gordan was Caledon Hockley, his handsome face beamed and his black hair were beautifully styled. His attire was flawless. His manners impeccable. As he caught sight of Rose DeWitt Bukater approaching with his soon to be mother-in-law, he stood promptly as society dictated and kissed her cheek delicately.
"Rose, my darling, how beautiful you look."
"Thank you, darling."
The smile which Rose produced didn't quite reach her eyes but she allowed him to seat her beside him and then helped her mother to sit as well.
"Good evening, Miss. Rose," Lucille held her red wine. "Your fiancé was just keeping us abreast of your travels across Europe. It sounds remarkable."
"Yes, it was quite something." Rose paused as a glass of red wine was poured by a steward over her shoulder. Cal was seated beside her once more, casting an admiring eye her way. It should have enabled her to feel delightful that her fiancé was taking such liberties to show his interest, which was genuine, but it was also unwanted. Ruth was engrossed in a conversation with Sir Cosmo over their circumstances of boarding earlier that day. "I was enthralled by the beauty of the galleries in Paris. They were quite wonderful."
"Oh, we go again with those mud puddles." Cal was teasing but he was displeased in one way. "I'm afraid my fiancée has terrible taste in art. I purchased several Degas and Picasso in Paris and yet to see the beauty in them."
The serving cart came, bringing the smell of meats which would be introduced on the various courses. The wine slipped down Rose's throat more easily than anticipated and the bubbles of hunger vanished.
"I am afraid that Cal and I differ in our opinion of art."
"I wouldn't worry yourself of such things, Miss." Sir Cosmo spoke up, apparently finished with her mother's chatter. "When you've a household to run, children to care for and galas to host, the smaller matters melt away."
"Quite right," Ruth agreed. "My daughter seems to believe that someday she may solve the world's hunger."
"Oh, my, well then perhaps focus on your studies."
"I'm through finishing school, ma'am."
"What a little thing like marriage shouldn't halt the refinement of one's mind. Skills such as Latin or the pianoforte need to be kept sharp. Do you do needlework?"
"Not often."
"My daughter like to read, I am afraid."
"Reading is a good past time, depending on the book."
Well actually I-'' Rose piped in but was stopped instantly by Cal.
''Brace yourself, I sense the start of another tirade of socialism, women's suffrage and other liberation from too much reading books of no substances.'' He placed his hand up, as though he was shushing a child.
''Well, it is not as though we are solving world hunger, is it?"
"Why would a lovely lady, so young, wish to cloud her head with this idea? You should not worry yourself with those notions which are out of your hands." Sir Cosmo nodded toward Cal. ''Your fiancé here should make more effort to keep you busy,'' he smirked in jest, ''perhaps, introducing to activities which one could participate in and also, keep the mind refined as my wife said. Our daughter continued to do ballet wonderfully well, she also sings and plays the violin.''
Rose nodded, politely, as Sir Cosmo listed the qualities which were apparently required to become a great wife. Yes, they were desired but were they actually needed to run a household and bear children, as if that was all a woman was required to do? Stifling a sigh, she returned to the quietness which allowed those about her to speak so freely, and she would open smile or nod or provide confirmation. Wasn't that being the ideal bride would do?
"I wish you would put as much effort into the colour of your bridesmaids' gown."
At the mention of the wedding, Rose picked up her fork and forced herself to consume some of the veal before her. It was salty, wonderfully textured but to her, it could have been mud upon her plate and she would have had as much interest.
"I thought it was yellow, or lilac." Cal asked Ruth
"Heavens no, that was Rose's childish idea to spite me."
"Ah, wedding preparation can we stressful." Lucille joined in and soon the table was ablaze with chatter of weddings, gowns and it all seemed to blur together with the remainder of people. She smiled mechanically when addressed, but her eyes were distant.
It was not twelve months before that Ruth had been aflutter with arranging Rose's own cotillion which had taken place just the August 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 entire Wardolf Astoria 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 death just three months previous, and then the absurdity of her debutante party. Rose was seventeen just a month later, and then she had met the man beside her; Caledon Hockley. A man destined to become her husband. A match made in society heaven. A match to save her family's name from slipping through mud. A match to a man who she was never going to be in love with.
Below her, Rose had felt the rumbling of the ship's engines. The Titanic would take her onwards to New York City, to the engagement gala which was to fast approaching. The rumbling would be soothing to some, but to her it carried a weight, burdening her ever heavy shoulder even more to the point of crumble. Rose lit a cigarette, hoping it would calm her impending hysterics at this moment. It was like planning her own execution, but now there are hundreds involved and to call it off would be a social disaster, despite her own emotional state. it would cause complete embarrassment for her mother as well as ruining her family.
''You know I don't like that, Rose.'' Ruth daintily leant forward and spoke quietly, but it was enough for the table 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, but of course, she was forbidden to.
''She knows.'' Cal took the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out instantly. ''Do you like your veal, sweetpea?''
Summoning the sweetest of smiles, Rose turned to her fiancé, and responded. ''Of course, darling.''
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 sat, 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. To her left, females gathered to discuss the current fashions, who wore what and why and then to her right, the gentleman discussed business affairs and massaged each other's egos. What was it about males and their incessant need to have the approval of others? How they were viewed by the outsiders? It was laughable really. She wanted to laugh but instead, she felt as though she was tumbling, from a great height, or perhaps she had thrown herself from a precipice. If one did jump; how long before she was noticed to be gone? If she stood, this very second and screamed at the top of her lungs into the crowds, would any chin even bother to raise? People were so embroiled in their own chatter. Their own little world. Their own petulant need to satisfy each other. A young girl who was sat drowning in her own thoughts, her own misery was sat, looking beautifully ornate within her gilded cage and ready to be presented to the next, like a prized canary... cattle at market...the prettiest bauble upon the tree.
Rose was worth nothing and yet, everything. Her marriage would be worth everything. 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.
At times, her mother was prone to theatrics, and apparently was her maternal grandmother as well. Ruth would nap due to the migraines, the heart palpitations and the nose bleeds from working herself into such a frenzy that medicine had been offered. One could only roll their eyes so many times before they became dizzy from it, as Rose had, as she listened fairly often to her mother rattle on and on of matters of such little importance, yet it seemed to be a matter of life and death; such as the colour of a bridesmaid gown or the bouquet of flowers which sat central in their sitting room.
''Yes, do visit me in New York, we shall discuss your wedding trousseau, Miss. Rose, and your honeymoon, too.'' Lucille's voice was piercing through the clinking of glasses and the band which was playing a lively tune in the far corner. ''Of course, I shall say no more of the honeymoon trousseau amongst the ears of your fine gentleman.'' Raising an eyebrow, in what Rose assumed to be a provocative jest, she could only smile and nod, as though entirely grateful to have naughty lingerie designed for the man who would be her husband.
''That I will, Mrs. Duff Gordan.''
''Oh, Rose, how wonderful.'' Ruth eyed her daughter, speaking quietly, ''to have Lucille be the designer of your gowns would be...''
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.
Was this the third or fourth course to be served?
The serving cart rattled towards them once more. Food piled high and yet, she had barely managed the soup and first course, and the second, she couldn't even recall what that had been or how many glasses of wine had passed her lips.
''I think I will retire, darling. I have a terrible headache and the exertions of the travel today have suddenly exhausted me.''
Sympathy lingered in Cal's eyes. ''Of course. I shall escort you back.''
''No, please, stay and enjoy the courses. It looks wonderful and I do not wish for you to miss it.''
Slowly, Rose placed her napkin upon her plate and stood, as did the rest of the table, as society dictated. Raising her chin, she addressed her peers.
''I am to return to the cabin. I am beyond fatigued with the excitement of today and do wish to feel rested to enjoy the remainder of the voyage.'' She almost believed her own words. The sound of her own voice was convincing. ''I do wish you all a very good evening.''
Nodding in return to the bids of goodnight which she received, Rose found her hand within Cal's, who kissed her bare knuckle. ''Shall I check on you when I return?''
''Oh, no, I shall be very well.''
''Allow, Mr. Lovejoy to escort you back. I don't wish for you to get lost.''
Rose had almost forgotten of Spicer Lovejoy. The man was Cal's valet and man of affairs; he was tall, gaunt cheeked and impassive with the gour of an undertaker. Offering an arm, silently to Rose, she allowed him to escort her from the dining room in absolute and utter silence. Sometimes, she felt like a child, been taken home after been caught in a place one had been forbidden to go. Sometimes, she was grateful for the silence. Tonight though, a tremble was building up inside. Rose was to be escorted to each and every place. Without an aid, she was frowned upon. Why must she be chaperoned to her cabin? Perhaps Cal knew just how much she felt like running and running and running...
Outwardly, Rose remained impasse. Quiet. Her arm through Mr. Lovejoy's and together, they elegantly navigated their way through the reception room, the elevator and back down the corridor to her B-Deck suite. When he had bid her goodnight, Rose had slammed the door behind causing the entire room to almost quake.
Her outward appearance was starting to fade away. Trembles started in her stomach, her legs and her breathing were stalling.
''Trudy.''
Through blurred eyes, she found the bedroom which she had chosen to occupy; the one which adjoined Cal's even though they were not yet married. The adjoining door would remain locked on Rose's side; that much she would ensure of.
''Trudy.''
Calling out to her lady's maid was pointless. Trudy would be abed by now, perhaps had been for hours. Stripping away the black satin gloves, Rose pulled at the buttons at the base of her neck at the back, but could barely reach.
''Trudy!''
Rose called louder. Perhaps another maid was about to assist. All she required was freedom from her corset. The looking glass upon the desk provided some remedy to her loosening the buttons but her fingers trembled so, she struggled. What use she was indeed, a woman who couldn't even undress herself. Pulling at the lace of her shoulders, then her corset it would not cease to stop clinging to her, almost as though each time she clutched it away from her it would return to wrap around her tighter than before. Claiming her. Pulling harder, the black lace of the shoulder ripped, and came away, along with the necklace. In a heated flurry of screams, Rose stripped herself of whatever she could manage to without the aid of another. The pins of her hair dug into her scalp, twisted and tucking her fiery curls away like nails upon her head digging in and embedding themselves into her without drawing blood.
Left facing herself in the mirror, Rose was astonished. Her hair was dishevelled, hanging about her shoulders in unruly curls. Her once beautiful dress was torn, with only two ripped sleeves hanging from her shoulders, revealing her entire décolleté and she was stripped of all jewellery aside from a bracelet which clung to her wrist. What would her mother think of her now? What would her father have thought?
Her reflection revealed a woman haunted. A woman restricted. A woman who no longer was recognisable to herself, although, she was barely past girlhood.
Suddenly, Rose was running. Across the B deck corridor, simultaneously hollow eyed and determined. She was crying, her cheeks streaked with tears. First class passengers were seldom prone to such emotional displays and an elder, strolling couple simply watched her pass. She had no need for manners, for excuses and continued to run, perhaps she would find freedom out in the air. Her legs carried her onwards, without a stitch of thought in her brain and as she crossed the deserted fantail, her breath hitched in an occasional sob which was suppressed down.
Rose slammed against the rail and there was no more ship. The only thing out ahead of her was black ocean. Gripping, the base of the stern flagpole, her hands went white. It was mesmerising to watch out into blackness with only the trail of foam left by the propellers. A strange sense of calm overwhelmed her, trespassing inside her mind and then, she climbed over the railing. Moving methodically to turn her body and get her heels on the white painted gunwale, her back to the railing facing out toward darkness. 6- feet below her the massive propellers were churning the Atlantic Ocean into white foam and a ghostly wake trailed off into the horizon...
Then, her vision cleared, she saw the drop into the cold, dark water of the Atlantic below. Rose contemplated what it would be like to drop the eighty or so feet into the darkness. She wondered how fast death would come to swallow her up. Jumping into the water would ensure that she was never found. She grabbed her bracelet, ripped it from her wrist, and threw it overboard into the darkness below. The piece was worth thousands and she knew it would never be recovered. If she stripped herself of every ounce of wealth then perhaps to Cal, to her mother, she would be utterly worthless. Maybe then the suffocation would end.
Maybe.
She leaned her arms out looking down, hypnotised at the vortex below her. Her dress and hair were lifted by the wind of the ship's movement. The only sound above the rush of water, is the flutter and snap of the 12-foot-long Union Jack flag above her.
And, then a voice.
''Don't do it.''