When Cal woke up, they were gone. Except for his throbbing head and the candlestick laying on his chest, there was no sign either of them had ever been there. When he saw Matilda at the train station a few days later, she acted as if she didn't know him. He tried to speak to her, but she just stared at him blankly. Eventually, he gave up. As the countryside rolled by, he told himself it wasn't her after all, but another girl who just happened to look like her. He tried a few more times to find Jack and Rose, but they might as well have dropped off the earth for all the luck he had. Sometimes he wondered if there wasn't an unspoken conspiracy against him.
Ruth knew nothing of his tip from Matilda or his mission to retrieve Rose. When he announced his plan to stop the search, she just nodded.
"Yes. Perhaps that will be the best thing," she said, feeling as if a cold hand were on her throat. It was a miracle she even got the words out. He said something else, she didn't know what—she couldn't hear anything but the blood pounding in her ears—and left for the last time. Mary found her later that night, still sitting at the table with the tea things out.
"Ma'am?" She laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. It was the first time she had ever touched her, and for a moment she was shocked to discover that Ruth was, in fact, a solid person. She resisted the urge to pinch her. "Are you all right?"
Ruth stared at her blankly. "Yes," she said finally. She gestured toward the table. "Clear this away."
"Is that all, ma'am?" Mary asked when she was finished.
Ruth nodded. "You may go."
After a quick curtsy, Mary hurried from the room. In the kitchen, she discovered the staff engrossed in a new round of gossip. They were sure Ruth had lost her mind which, they all swore, was no surprise to anyone. Mary listened to the stories, some decades old and most likely untrue or so exaggerated the truth had long been lost, and wondered which of them would be the first to go. The money was gone. They all knew that, had known all along, in fact.
The firings didn't start for another few weeks. It was slow at first, a housemaid here, a groundskeeper there. As people began to disappear, so did objects. Ruth stretched her possessions as far as she could, selling them only when she had to. She started with her husband's things. When those were gone, she moved on to the small pieces of furniture, some of it a century or two old, before finally starting on the artwork and knickknacks. As her supply dwindled, she was forced to ransack her own drawers, pulling out pieces of jewelry she hadn't seen in years. There were brooches she had only worn once and then tossed aside, rings that didn't fit, that had never fit, but she kept them anyway and forced them onto her fingers when the occasion called for it. There was a drawer full of pearls, ropes and ropes of them. Her jewelry alone could have kept a family of five fed for a dozen years, but it would never be enough to keep her comfortable.
Rose's things were the next to go or, at least, that was the plan, but when she opened the door and stepped inside, she felt the cold hand on her throat again. It was immaculate. The bed was perfectly made; there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. To someone who didn't know better, it would appear as though Rose were about to come home any minute.
Except she wasn't. She was never coming back.
Ruth rifled through the drawers of her vanity table. She found her jewelry almost immediately. It was meticulously arranged in a small, velvet-lined box. She paused for a moment. The pieces were breathtaking; how could anyone not want them? The pieces Cal had given her were the best.
Ruth shook her head. "Stupid girl."
She sold Rose's jewelry slowly, piece by piece. She didn't admit it, even to herself, but part of her wanted a reason to keep going into Rose's room. Finally, when there was only one piece left, she gave the rest of the drawers a second look. To her surprise, she discovered a small book. If reading a person's private thoughts was supposed to bring a new understanding—and in some cases even sympathy for—that person, then Ruth must have done something wrong, because reading Rose's diary only confirmed her belief that Rose was foolish and selfish.
"How could she think she loved him?" she asked disgustedly. She closed the book. "How could she be so—to give up everything—and for—" She tucked the book under her arm.
When Mary came into the sitting room to announce dinner was being served, Ruth was standing in front of a roaring fire.
She never saw Rose again. No one ever did. Eventually, her name stopped being mentioned and she became more myth than reality, the debutante who disappeared on the eve of her wedding to a dashing millionaire. She was a cautionary tale told to young girls, a warning of what could happen if they talked to strange men.
"She's miserable now," their mothers and aunts said. "If she's even still alive."
Rose would have laughed had she known the stories that were told about her. For, of course, she was very much alive and decidedly not miserable. She and Jack had left Pennsylvania and never looked back. They drifted across the country, traveling only when the mood struck them. When winter hit, they settled in Chicago to wait for the snow to thaw. Other than one incident during which Jack was chased down the street by a blonde woman who just wanted to touch him once, an incident which he decided it would be best if he kept to himself, their life was peaceful. Jack got a job tending bar, and Rose found a position teaching French to young girls whose mothers were determined to see them marry well.
In the spring, they moved on, and by July they had their feet in the Pacific Ocean. "It's so warm!" Rose cried happily, throwing her arms out. She turned to Jack. "It really is as wonderful here as you said." He grinned. "We haven't even gotten to our plans yet."
"Scared?"
Rose shook her head. She pressed her hands against his. His arms tightened around her middle. "I'm riding like a man!" she said with a laugh.
"And next you're gonna have to learn to chew tobacco like a man," he teased.
"I already learned that in finishing school."
"They left out spitting, but covered tobacco chewing?"
"They only offered advanced courses."
Jack kissed her cheek. "What about roller coaster riding?"
"I don't believe they ever offered that course."
"Couldn't have been a very good school, then."
"It wasn't." She looked at him over her shoulder. "Thank you," she said softly. She leaned back and kissed him. It was dark when they finally came up for air.
Jack slid off the horse. His hands tingled as he helped Rose climb down. "Look," she said, pointing at the sky.
"It's a shooting star," he said. He slipped an arm around her waist. "Make a wish."
"I already got my wish."
"Me, too."
The End.