THE EDUCATION OF ROSE DAWSON: PART I
Chapter Thirteen

Commemoration

After sitting through part of the services and observing, with interest, how the SA conducted them, Rose ventured out on her own again. It was Sunday, April twenty-first. Mark Twain, one of her literary heroes, died exactly two years ago in Connecticut, but his funeral was held in New York. Rose and Miss Howard had passed by the site of the funeral, the Brick Presbyterian Church in Midtown, two days earlier.

Now Rose wanted to tour all three of Twain’s New York City residences, which she could not do when she was a Bukater, to pay him her respects. Two of the homes were not far from the shelter–at 14 West 10^th Street and 21 Fifth Avenue. But the third one was way up in the Riverdale section of The Bronx. She planned to go north to The Bronx first before returning south to the Manhattan homes.

Rose had two options to reach Twain’s home in The Bronx, as explained to her by the SA. The first was to take the subway at Union Square all the way to the last stop in The Bronx, and then transfer to a trolley, if one was available, that would take her as close to the home as possible before she would alight and walk the rest of the way. The second option was to take the subway as far north as 42^nd Street, where she would return to Grand Central Palace to catch a New York Central train that stopped at Riverdale on its way upstate. This way was more expensive, but also more convenient, as its station was a short walk from the home. She chose the latter option.

She descended into the Interborough Rapid Transit (IRT) subway station at Union Square for her first taste of the subway. She was caught off-guard by the even louder rumble of a train pulling into the station, as the relatively confined space of an underground station prevented much of the sound from dissipating, but she adapted. She alighted at the 42^nd Street station and walked over to the New York Central terminal at Grand Central Palace to buy a ticket for the 10:30 AM train, which was leaving in five minutes. She hurried to board her train and still managed to grab a window seat. On her way to The Bronx, she reminisced about how Twain helped shape her life.

Rose first became interested in Twain’s work when she turned twelve, or during the last few years she was tutored at home before she enrolled in a finishing school for wealthy girls to prepare for her entrance into society. She had to be careful because her tutors and governesses had restricted her reading choices. For the last forty years of his life, Twain was, save for some notable controversies, arguably the most popular writer in the U.S., and was even well-regarded in English-speaking societies abroad. He was just too well-known for most people to have never heard of him or his work, and his star was at its peak just as a young, wealthy Philadelphia girl with a taste for adventure began to broaden her horizons in this world. Inevitably, his name and reputation found their way to Rose.

Twain was always better at depicting male characters than he was in depicting female characters, but Rose did not mind. She enjoyed many of his male characters and their sense of freedom and exploration, which contrasted nicely with the stiff demeanor of most of the men she encountered in her upper class life. That was why she was attracted to Jack.

Ruth, however, strongly disapproved of Twain’s populist rhetoric and considered his works to be unsuitable for society women, while her husband largely kept quiet about it and even approved when he found that Rose had smuggled home a few of Twain’s books, which she had bought with her allowance money. Rose enlisted Trudy as an accomplice, arranging to meet her at the rear entrance to the Bukater House so that Trudy could hide the books inside the laundry she brought indoors after it had dried. Then Rose would go back to the front entrance and enter the house from there. Ruth would usually wait near the door demanding an explanation for her tardiness, and Rose would have an alibi prepared, which she used to stall for time as Trudy took the books upstairs and hid them under Rose’s bed.

In time, Rose collected over a score of Twain’s books and many more of his short stories. This forced her to become very creative in finding hiding spaces for all of them, and she was again assisted by Trudy and her father, who stored three of them among his books in his den, a place Ruth normally would not disturb. But once her father passed away and left behind a pile of debt, Ruth, desperate to sell off as many family possessions as possible to prevent losing the house, discovered the books in the den and angrily tossed them into the fireplace without even trying to find how much they would have fetched. "At least they will help keep us warm this winter," she told a very distraught Rose, who tearfully watched all three books turn into ashes until she could watch no more.

As it turned out, the winter of 1911-1912 was not that cold. Ruth had planned to throw out those Twain books regardless of the weather. Rose still had the books in her room, but desiring to help alleviate her family’s debt problem, she sold half of them, some for substantial amounts, and then presented the proceeds to her mother, explaining that they represented what she had saved from her allowance over the years. Because she needed the money, Ruth did not question how Rose had saved so much of it. Most of the remaining books and short stories Rose donated to the libraries of the University of Pennsylvania and Temple University, both of which were more than happy to receive a donation from a family as prominent as that of the Bukaters. Her sole condition was that the name of the donor be kept anonymous for ten years lest her mother realize the extent of her Twain collection. As for the name of the family member whose name would be revealed inside each donated book starting in 1922, it was none other than Mrs. R.T. Bukater! This was Rose’s impish way of getting back at her mother, even if she had to wait a decade for it to bear fruit.

Rose held on to three of Twain’s books, which she easily kept hidden from Ruth: A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today, which he co-authored with Charles Dudley Warner. Although many believed Huckleberry Finn to be Twain’s masterpiece, Rose’s favorite book was The Gilded Age, largely because it featured a character, Ruth Bolton, whom she found to be remarkably similar to herself and, after Mr. Word had mentioned her, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. The most obvious similarity was that their first and last names shared the same initials. I wonder if Miss Bolton’s middle name started with a "D". Like Rose, Ruth Bolton hailed from an affluent Philadelphia family. Both had an overbearing mother and a more tolerant father. Like Rose, Ruth Bolton had a dream, which, in her case, was to become a physician. But unlike Rose, Ruth Bolton was eventually allowed, even by her mother, to pursue it. This made a huge impression on Rose, who imagined Ruth Bolton to be the older sister she never had. If a fictional character could make her life count, then why could she not do the same? That was why she sought to keep her copy of The Gilded Age no matter what. Ironically, Ruth Bolton was actually created by Warner, even though he and Twain reviewed the entire draft and approved each other’s writing prior to publication. As far as she was concerned, The Gilded Age was Twain’s best, albeit joint, work, but for one flaw. Why, gentlemen, did you have to name my favorite character after my mother?

After Rose was introduced to society not long after her father’s death, luck seemed to have returned to the Bukaters. Nathan Hockley, the Pittsburgh steel tycoon whose fortune dwarfed that of the Bukaters even when times were flush for the latter, came calling with his only son, Caledon. The two had become enamored with the young and pretty red-haired maiden making her societal debut, and were determined to become acquainted with her and her family. They did not know about the Bukaters’ financial troubles because Ruth, sensing the perfect union between Cal and her daughter in the making, skillfully depicted the Bukater Estate as one that was worthy of the Hockleys’ generosity. Father and son were not averse to spending freely, but they never gave something for nothing. Even if the Hockleys were unaware of the Bukaters’ fiscal straits, they knew that their estate continued to grieve for its patriarch, the death of whom resulted in a loss of influence in Philadelphia’s social circles for which even Ruth’s iron will could not compensate fully. That was what she wanted back, and that was what the Hockleys could offer–for a price.

The price turned out to be Rose’s hand in marriage to Cal. Ruth quickly accepted without even consulting her daughter. Rose, who still had not completely overcome the loss of her father and most of her Twain works, was annoyed at not having a say in her future. Thoughts of joining her father in the netherworld began to surface, although they were not serious at first. Rose kept her feelings suppressed, as she was taught to do at finishing school, and always tried to maintain a positive appearance. When Cal visited, Rose always had to make time for him, but this was tolerable as long as Cal behaved like a gentleman, which he did during their courtship and even after their engagement. Things began to change after he announced a trip to Europe as a birthday gift for Rose. There, they also shopped for the latest fashions for the wedding. That was when Cal began to decide for her what she could wear and eat. The biggest blow prior to their sailing on Titanic came when he discovered her three Twain books while digging through her luggage one night out of curiosity. Rose had secretly taken them along to provide herself with some company. Although Cal did not sound angry when he confronted her about her choice of literature, he was clearly in control. Rose never saw her Twain books again.

Cal, however, did try to soften the blow by letting Rose choose some paintings during their stopover in Paris, and she promptly selected works by Degas, Monet, and Picasso. It was April 5, 1912 – her 17^th birthday – and Cal and Ruth granted her a rare moment of freedom to “paint the town” as long as she did not drink, smoke, shop for reading materials not approved by them beforehand, or engage in any other activity that was considered below her class. So Rose used this brief respite to secretly light up in her hotel bathroom while Trudy served as a lookout. But this small act of defiance and the paintings could not fully compensate for the loss of her Twain books, and she remained miserable for the remainder of the vacation, which proceeded to Amiens, Calais, across the English Channel to Dover, followed by three days in London, and finally to Southampton, where they would all board Titanic for the trip back to the U.S. They would have remained in Britain longer, but Rose’s unhappiness and the chance to be a part of Titanic’s initial sailing convinced them that it was time to go home. But first, Cal had to solicit his father’s help to persuade J.P. Morgan to rent his allotted cabins aboard the ship to them for just this trip. Other cabins in First Class were available, but Cal wanted the best.

Rose did not forget about the Twain books, though. To mourn and protest their loss, she wanted to wear black on sailing day to board the brand new Titanic. But Cal insisted that she wear the white suit with pinstripes, and he was supported by Ruth. So Rose grudgingly donned the stuffy outfit and struggled up the gangplank to board the world’s largest "slave ship" that would return her to America, where her new life as a married woman beckoned. Thus, as Titanic prepared to make its maiden voyage, Rose was about to make her final voyage as a maiden. On board, she became bored without her books, but Cal discouraged her from perusing the First Class Lounge’s miniature library because he feared she would fill her head with provocative thoughts unbefitting of a lady. His vise was already tightening around her even before they exchanged vows.

Rose felt trapped. The Twain books were the lone sources of meaning to what was otherwise an unrewarding vacation. Her thoughts of suicide became stronger. She had lost the will to live, especially after the two most influential men in her life up to that time had died–Twain in 1910 and her father in 1911–and the last of her Twain memorabilia were gone. How congruent it would be for her to join them in 1912. During dinner on April twelfth, as those around her chatted mindlessly, she resolved to kill herself. Originally, she thought it a good, but tasteless, idea to wait nine more days so that she could die on the second anniversary of Twain’s death, but the lure of a quick death was too great to resist. That would show them! Rose prepared to make what was then the biggest decision of her life, and what figured to be her last. In a way, she was selfish, not thinking about the consequences of her imminent action, like how Cal would treat her mother if he found out the truth. But, at the time, she did not care.

Enter Jack. He pulled her back from the brink by injecting new purpose into her life. His works of art reminded Rose of Twain’s writings. Both were unorthodox and insightful. She was again reminded of Twain when she saw the shooting star on the night of April thirteenth, as she and Jack walked on the boat deck of Titanic after the steerage party. As Twain’s devoted fans knew, he was born on the year Halley’s Comet passed the Earth, and died the next time the comet came calling–seventy-five years later. Jack’s father had told him that every time a shooting star appeared it signified a soul going to Heaven.

That star was for you, Jack–and for all the other victims, too. May you all rest in peace. But before you do so, Jack, please do me a favor. Send my regards to Mr. Clemens. Maybe you can ask him about the dining experience at Delmonico’s!

Rose was glad she did not jump on that night. Considering how long it took many people to die two nights later after they touched the freezing water, she knew she would have gone the same way, and there would be no flotsam to climb on to await rescue. Worst of all, she would never have met Jack.

For the third straight year, however, Jack’s death continued a string of deaths of the men Rose cared about the most. It would have been easy for her to seethe over the unfairness of it all–good men like Twain, Jack, and her father dying, usually before their time, while unimaginable bastards like Cal got to live–but if God was just, as Commander Booth said, then people like Cal would get their due.

*****

Some forty minutes and fifteen miles later, the train pulled into the Riverdale station, and Rose got off. Twain’s Riverdale home was located at a place called Wave Hill, a twenty-eight-acre estate overlooking the Hudson River and the Palisades on the other side. Rose did not have to walk far from the station to find the home. It was probably the most beautiful property in the area, making visitors forget that they were still in the city. The main house itself was almost seventy years old. Twain lived here from 1901-1903, and other famous guests included Charles Darwin and, when he was a boy, Theodore Roosevelt. After Twain moved out, the owner spruced up the estate by planting trees and other flora to make the place blend in with its surroundings. Rose was not the only one who planned to commemorate Twain’s death, as a few fellow fans had already arrived and left bouquets of flowers wherever they could, which the owner had kindly let them do. She felt guilty for having forgotten to bring some of her own flowers, but she made no apologies for the breathtaking scenery afforded by Wave Hill.

(L) Wave Hill; (R) The Palisades

As the estate was still private property, Rose could not go all the way to its edge to gain a better view of the scenery. Neither was she ready to face so much water since she disembarked from the Carpathia. It was already very panoramic from a distance, and she was happy to leave it at that. What was more, the air here was clean and most of the sounds were natural. Rose could see why this was a good place for Twain’s wife, Livy, to recuperate from the rigors of city life. It had a curative effect on her already, despite the presence of a large body of water nearby. She had not experienced something this beautiful since she "flew" on the bow of Titanic with Jack as the sun began to set on April fourteenth–exactly a week earlier.

Jack, you would have loved this place. It would have done your artistic skills justice. I would have taken you here had you made it to New York. Rose was fantasizing again, and such a thought made her emotional. Her eyes became moist, but she kept the tears from falling. Still, she had to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Are you all right there, young lady?" asked a voice to her right. A well-dressed, middle-aged woman stood there looking at her with concern. She must have come to observe the anniversary of Twain’s death as well.

"I…I am fine, thank you," replied Rose.

"Good, then. I’m sure you’re also here to pay your respects to a great man who passed away two years ago on this date. It’s easy to be overcome by that."

Actually, I was overcome by someone else’s passing much more recently. "Yes, it is. Did you ever meet Mr. Clemens?" Rose asked the woman.

"Yes, I have," the woman answered proudly. "I was a guest at his seventieth birthday party almost seven years ago."

"At Delmonico’s."

The woman, amazed that Rose knew the location of Twain’s birthday celebration, stared at her. "Yes, that’s right. Have you ever dined at Delmonico’s, miss?"

I certainly have. "No, but I have passed by there, and I always kept abreast of news about Mr. Clemens during the last few years of his life. I attended his funeral two years ago."

"I was there, too. I don’t remember seeing you, but the crowd was so large on that day that it seemed half of New York showed up to send Mr. Clemens to Heaven." The two chuckled at this hyperbole.

"So, why do you like Mr. Clemens?" asked Rose.

"I grew up along the Hudson, and always had an attraction to rivers. Mr. Clemens wrote about them in vivid detail in a number of his writings. Especially Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and Life on the Mississippi."

"I see. But what do you think about his rants against the rich?" asked Rose, who could tell that the woman was a member of the upper class.

"Believe it or not, I agree with many of them. I don’t think he was against wealth in itself, since he was a rich man, and he always tried to make more money by investing in novel contraptions, many of which failed. What he was against was how some people gained and used their wealth."

"You are probably right," said Rose. "I like Mr. Clemens because he knew how to read people. His witticisms on life are very perceptive. He has also been to many places in this country and around the world–places I would like to visit in the future."

The woman smiled. "I enjoyed hearing his witticisms during the dinner at Delmonico’s. It’s easy to like the man." She signaled to another woman who was probably her servant to come over. "I packed a lunch. Would you care to join me for a picnic, Miss…"

"Dawson. Rose Dawson. I would be honored to join you."

The woman’s eyebrows arched. "Rose. What a lovely name. I’m Sara Clifton James Dearborn, but you can just call me Mrs. Dearborn." They shook hands.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dearborn. Are you here by yourself today?"

"Yes, I am, aside from Maria, my servant. My husband is away on a family-related matter."

They went over to a clear patch of grass adjacent to the house, and were followed by Maria, who carried a blanket and a picnic basket. She neatly unfolded the blanket, laid it out on the grass, and placed the basket on top of it. Then she retreated a respectful distance so that Rose and Mrs. Dearborn could dine and talk in private.

"I know the owner of the estate," explained Mrs. Dearborn. "He granted me this privilege to dine al fresco–as long as I clean up!" She opened the basket and took out a club sandwich that had already been cut into four pieces, along with a vacuum flask, two small plates, and two cups. She handed Rose half of the club sandwich on a plate, opened the flask, and poured tea into both cups, one of which she offered to Rose.

"Thank you very much," said Rose after taking a bite from the sandwich. "This is quite good."

"I’m glad you like it, Miss Dawson. I wouldn’t have been able to finish it by myself."

"Do you live in this area?"

"No, I actually live a little north of here–in Tarrytown, to be exact."

"I have never been there. Are you and your husband originally from New York?"

"I am, but he’s from Pennsylvania. We met through a mutual friend. Once he saw how beautiful this part of the Hudson was, he fell in love with it and moved here. That way, he can wake up to a majestic view every morning and still be reasonably close to New York City and not too far from Philadelphia."

Philadelphia. A former neighbor. "Yes, the Hudson is magnificent here, Mrs. Dearborn. It is a fine sanctuary from the city." A boat sailing north on the Hudson caught her attention and gave her mixed feelings. On one hand, it was a nostalgic reminder of a simpler time, but it was also a less pleasant reminder of a more recent event involving a water-going vessel. So she turned her thoughts to something else. "The Palisades are also beautiful at this time of the year."

"Yes, they are, but they almost succumbed to quarrying operations during the last century before some concerned citizens organized to protect them."

"That would have been terrible."

"Yes, it would have been. This area is rich in history. Did you know that George Washington escaped across the Hudson just north of here to New Jersey after he lost New York to the British during our war for independence? If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to make that famous crossing of the Delaware later on and we would have lost the war."

"I did not know that," admitted Rose, who had been listening politely. "I have little knowledge of war." Mr. McKenzie told me what little I know. "But I am sure Mr. Washington hated to leave this area because it must have been just as scenic then as it is now."

"Yes, I’m sure he was. Another turning point in the war occurred close to where I live. That’s where Major André was caught with plans from Benedict Arnold to surrender West Point to the British. If that had happened, the British would have cut the colonies in two, just as they tried to do at Saratoga way up north a few years before that. Our independence might have been won somewhere else, but the cause was saved right here in New York, and, more specifically, along the length of the Hudson!" Mrs. Dearborn practically stammered. Then she realized she had been too fervent. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to sermonize."

Benedict Arnold. Wasn’t he that traitor? Mother told me about him. His wife came from one of Philadelphia’s most prominent families. "That is all right," reassured Rose, as she disengaged from her reflection. "I see how much the Hudson means to you."

"It’s a part of me," said Mrs. Dearborn, who beamed with satisfaction as she scanned the length of the Hudson within her view. "This is a great river. Not as long as Mr. Clemens’ Mississippi, but just as important." Then she turned back to Rose. "Was I boring you with that brief history lesson, Miss Dawson?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Dearborn. It was very enlightening. You certainly know a lot about history."

"Thank you. My ancestors have lived in New York for generations, so we’ve seen it change," said Mrs. Dearborn. Nevertheless, she soon switched subjects. "I’m curious, Miss Dawson. Are you related to the Boston Dawsons?"

Rose smiled. Colonel Astor had asked Jack the same question aboard Titanic, and Jack quickly came back with a clever answer that Astor pretended to understand. She thought about giving the same answer to Mrs. Dearborn, but refrained from doing so lest Mrs. Dearborn query her about life in Wisconsin, to where she had never been. "No, I am from New Jersey – just outside of Philadelphia. I used to take many trips into the City of Brotherly Love. Now I live in Manhattan." If she asks me about New Jersey, I would at least know enough about it to give some plausible answers.

"So you’re practically a Philadelphia native. I have to join my husband there on Wednesday. I stayed behind to pay tribute to Mr. Clemens today. What a small world we live in, Miss Dawson. We’re both admirers of Mr. Clemens and we both have a connection to Philadelphia." She stopped and sighed. "This may sound bizarre, but I’m observing the anniversary of the death of someone I met only once today, and I’ll be attending the funeral for someone I’ve met only once on Thursday. This time it’s for a distant relative."

The mention of a funeral immediately made Rose uncomfortable, but curious as well. "I am sorry to hear that."

"You don’t have to be. I know I shouldn’t say this to someone I just met, but my husband and I never forged a bond with our late relative and her family because our contact was so limited over the years. The mother of the deceased is his cousin, and her father is the brother of my husband’s mother. From what I know, brother and sister did not get along, and they went their separate ways after their parents died. Since then, my husband has only seen his cousin twice and her daughter just once, back when she was very little. Now the daughter is dead, and the way she died was so tragic that we have to help console her mother, even if we’re almost strangers to each other."

"So how did the daughter…die?"

"I’m sure you heard about the Titanic sinking, Miss Dawson. It happened less than a week ago and has been in the papers ever since. The daughter was a passenger on the ship."

Rose froze from eating her sandwich. Given Mrs. Dearborn’s status, her dead relative was most likely a First Class passenger. Could that person be someone Rose knew or at least knew of? "Yes, Mrs. Dearborn. I heard about the tragedy. Everyone has." Not only did I hear about it; I survived it.

"What makes her death even more tragic was that she was to be married on May first," said Mrs. Dearborn. "Now, there will be a funeral in place of the wedding."

May first? That was the proposed date for my wedding. Rose’s pulse quickened and her sense of unease intensified, but so did her interest in Mrs. Dearborn’s story. "So, how old was she?"

Mrs. Dearborn finished her tea before replying. "According to my husband, the daughter had turned seventeen less than three weeks ago."

Rose slowed down her chewing. That was when I turned seventeen. Could she be talking about…no, it cannot be. She looked at Mrs. Dearborn a little more carefully and nervously, but was almost tempted to cover her face.

"Her mother was looking forward to this wedding, given that her father had died last year and left the family’s standing diminished," continued Mrs. Dearborn. "They were in luck. A very wealthy man from one of Pennsylvania’s richest families had come calling, and they became engaged. They sent out as many invitations as they could–even to family and friends they hadn’t seen in ages–because they wanted to make this the biggest wedding of the decade. That’s how we got one." She shook her head. "I wish I could have met the would-be bride again before she left this world. She died far too young. The one time I saw her, she was as pretty as a doll, but that was fourteen years ago. I don’t have a recent picture of her, but I’m sure she grew into a beautiful, young lady. Her name certainly suggested it."

Rose became perversely inquisitive. "What was her name?"

"Remember that I said you have a lovely name, Miss Dawson? She had that name, too."

Rose turned pale and nearly dropped her tea cup. Oh, my goodness…

"Oh, no. Miss Dawson, please forgive me. I shouldn’t have mentioned that." Mrs. Dearborn took Rose’s hand to comfort her, but Rose seemed more dazed than would normally be expected of a stranger learning about a personal tragedy. "Is something else wrong?"

Rose slowly tried to calm herself down before offering a simple, well-honed response. "Y-your story brought back bad memories for me. I-I lost a member of my family not long ago."

"Oh, I’m extremely sorry, Miss Dawson! I didn’t realize that you’re still in mourning. You should have stopped me sooner."

"Yes, perhaps I should have," said Rose, as she gradually regained her composure. She took a curious look at Mrs. Dearborn. Have I met you before? Then she realized that she had best leave lest she inadvertently give herself away. "I think I have a train to catch, Mrs. Dearborn." She placed the empty cup on the picnic basket and got up. "Thank you for the conversation and lunch, and I apologize for having to leave in such a hurry." She could barely keep herself from shaking as she said it.

"I regret that you have to leave so soon, Miss Dawson," said Mrs. Dearborn remorsefully as she shook Rose’s hand before Rose dashed off. "It was nice meeting you."

*****

Rose walked as quickly as she could back to the Riverdale station, her heart palpitating. The chance meeting with Mrs. Dearborn was enlightening, and then some. Now she was paranoid. What if Cal or one of his henchmen was lurking around? What if Mrs. Dearborn herself was one of his agents? Rose nervously bought a return ticket to Manhattan and kept looking in both directions as she waited impatiently on the platform for the train. After what seemed like an eternity, it came, and she scrutinized the car she boarded very carefully. It was half full, and it seemed as if every passenger, along with the conductor who checked her ticket, was a spy.

Slowly, but surely, she calmed down as the train crossed over into Manhattan. The relative Mrs. Dearborn talked about was more–much more–than someone she knew or knew of; she was that relative! She was positive that Mrs. Dearborn was one of her distant kin on her mother’s side. Had Rose remained in her former life, she would have also likely survived the sinking, and she would have met the Dearborns at her wedding.

She thought about Mrs. Dearborn’s words: "What a small world we live in, Miss Dawson." It was a small world, perhaps too small for her comfort. Although she was glad to have met Mrs. Dearborn, she was afraid that Mrs. Dearborn would recognize her if she were shown a more recent picture of her at or after the funeral. If Cal was convinced that she was still alive, he could use the extensive resources at his command to seek her out. But she already expected that when she decided to run off with Jack, and she was willing to take that risk.

"I wish I could have met the would-be bride again before she left this world. She died far too young." Rose, however, took some satisfaction in being able to fulfill Mrs. Dearborn’s wish and even learn a little about her own family’s history, which her mother was reluctant to discuss. She wondered if the source of friction between her maternal grandfather and the mother of Mrs. Dearborn’s husband was his profiteering ways during the Civil War, as she recounted to Jack and Angus during their dinner on board Titanic.

Rose was grateful, however, that the Dearborns elected to offer their condolences to her mother for losing her daughter. Please do what you can to ease my mother’s pain, Mrs. Dearborn. I will very much appreciate that.

Then Rose turned bitter again. Mother, by now I hope you will realize that I cannot return to you. If you had chosen me over Cal’s money, I would still be by your side, despite the arrogance of your behavior. When you said a woman’s choices are never easy, my heart went out to you because that was the most touching thing you had said in a long time. But true to your character, you found a way to revert back to your old condescending self! I know you still worry about me, and I still love you, but if I had not died from the sinking, I would have died from being married to a man who only treats me as a lifeless jewel. Would you still admire Cal if you knew what he tried to do to me and Jack on the ship? Or would you have blamed me for his crimes?

I do not wish to see you become a seamstress, Mother, because I know how hard it is for a rich person to accept a loss of position in society and actually work with her hands to survive. I do not know what I can do now to help you except hope that Mrs. Brown and Mr. and Mrs. Dearborn can assist you enough so that you will not lose the home. If Cal has any honor left, he would provide you with something, too. You were always good with money; that is why you wanted more. If only Father had allowed you to make more of the family’s financial decisions. But he never trusted you entirely because you were such a miser–wanting money for money’s sake. You never saw anything beyond money, and you essentially sold me–your only child–to the Hockleys after Father died. If he were alive today, he would never have approved of my engagement to Cal because he would not have liked the man. Perhaps it would serve you right if you receive no monetary compensation for all this, but then again, maybe you should be given the money so that you can decide if that is what really matters in life! Rose's eyes became moist again, but that was all they became. She was not so devastated as to start a downpour on a train. She was still happy to ride in one, since it was one of her favorite modes of transportation. In any case, she was glad to have given her mother a mental lecture, even if her mother did not know that she was still alive.

Chapter Fourteen
Stories