THE EDUCATION OF ROSE DAWSON: PART I
Chapter Three

Obligation

Rose awoke the next morning as sunlight entered the corridor through the translucent curtains of a window. It was her first morning as Rose Dawson, and admittedly, it felt strange. Back in Philadelphia, she would awaken to breakfast in bed, which was brought in by Trudy, who would also help her fix her hair and dress. None of these things existed now, and what of Trudy? Forgotten in Rose’s sorrow over Jack’s death was the possible loss of her loyal maid, who had served the Bukaters since before Rose entered finishing school. Trudy was not much older than she, and now her young life may have gone the same way as Jack’s. It pained Rose just to think about this unwelcome prospect.

But Rose’s new life as a plebeian brought with it a few advantages. No longer would she need someone to strap on her corset because she would never wear one again. No longer would she hobble around in a skirt named for such a constraint, as she did when she was courted by Cal and her mother insisted that she wear something to "accommodate" him. Accommodate his job of keeping me close by? She had already ditched the corset during her last night on Titanic, and any hobble skirt she owned was either in Philadelphia or at the bottom of the Atlantic. Her body never felt freer.

Her hair was a slightly more complicated matter. While she no longer intended to spend almost an hour fixing it every morning, neither was she ready to try the simple "bob" hairstyle that had debuted a few years earlier in France. She still adored her auburn curls, which she inherited from her mother, and which were admired by almost everyone who came across them, especially her father. Change the hairstyle to make it less Edwardian, yes, but cut off most of it, no. Shortening it a little to make it more manageable was a viable compromise, and for that, Rose needed a cutting tool.

Rose got up from bed and examined Cal’s jacket, which she had wrapped herself around during her sleep. She emptied its pockets of their contents. Out came the Heart of the Ocean, the money clip containing two hundred dollars, the earrings, and something she had missed: a letter that a male passenger had entrusted to her as Titanic was sinking. He must have anticipated being barred from boarding a lifeboat, and had hastily handed it to any adjacent woman who he thought would be allowed onto one. That woman turned out to be Rose, who was waiting next to him with Jack.

"Would you please get this to my wife in Des Moines, Iowa?"

The letter was to be delivered to his wife in Des Moines, Iowa. Rose had uncomprehendingly accepted the letter from him before Cal caught up with her and Jack and put the jacket on her. Almost spontaneously, she slipped the letter into one of its pockets, and had forgotten about it until now. It was creased and barely legible because much of the ink had run off and smeared the paper before it began to disintegrate from exposure to freezing saltwater. Yet it managed to stay in the jacket. Amazing. This little piece of paper survived.

The man who gave it to her, a husband and perhaps father as well, probably did not.

Cal, your jacket must be the safest place in the world. If you only knew how many things it has protected.

If only it had room for one more "thing".

I wish Jack could have fitted inside one of the pockets.

Rose’s attention returned to the letter. She could barely make out the words on it and wanted to throw it out, but was reminded of her promises to Jack and Angus. What is one more promise to a man? But Iowa? When will I go there, and how will I find his wife if I do? The only thing Rose knew about the man’s wife, from his description, was that she was fifty, but looked more like thirty-five. Unfortunately, she did not even glance at what was written beforehand so as to learn a name or address. She sighed. Sir, why can’t your wife live in New York or California?

The half-faded name on the upper left-hand corner, which appeared to be "Lil," probably belonged to the man’s wife. The name on the bottom, presumably the man’s, was even harder to read, but Rose’s good eye for penmanship allowed her to make a solid guess of it: "Lew". It was clear that husband and wife addressed each other by the shortened versions of their names, which was a common practice. But what about their unabridged forms?

The message contained in the letter was brief, as it could only be given the circumstances. Rose had to strain her eyes to interpret it. "Have run into a bit of trouble at sea, will be home late" was the best she could make of it. That was surely an understatement, although Rose had to admire the man’s buoyancy in the face of impending doom.

She recalled his facial expressions as he handed her the letter. He tried hard to appear upbeat, but it was impossible for him to conceal entirely the mounting terror inside him as order aboard the ship began to break down. I took his letter, so I should deliver it to his wife. The crumpled piece of paper might have seemed worthless, but it was a priceless connection between husband and wife, just as the Heart of the Ocean was one of Rose’s priceless connections to Jack. Neither could be sold or discarded.

Rose, why do you always get yourself into these fixes?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Cadet Hill coming around to check on her and Miss Howard. "Good morning, Miss Dawson," she said as she saw Rose quickly cover up the contents from the jacket with her blanket. "Sorry, but am I interrupting?"

"Not at all, Miss Hill. And good morning to you, too."

"I’ve brought more clothes for both of you. I hope they’re the right size."

"Thank you, Miss Hill." Rose climbed down from her bed to examine the clothes, confident that no one would disturb the contents under her blanket. Cadet Hill handed her a cotton shirtwaist, a muslin skirt, a petticoat, a sweater that looked a little moth-eaten, a pair of low-heeled boots, and an undergarment that appeared to be an older version of the Büstenhalter she had worn into the shelter. Rose could feel that this one was slightly boned and closed in the front rather than the back. Its straps were thicker and the sides were elastic, which should help reduce strain on its wearer’s shoulders and torso. She had seen similar items in a few fashion magazines and some Paris boutiques when she toured France, where it was called a soutien-gorge, or brassière, the latter of which was its more popular name in the U.S. Since the brassière itself was still a new concept in women’s underwear, whoever donated it must have owned many copies of it or had progressed to something (a Büstenhalter, perhaps) that afforded even greater comfort and more freedom of movement.

Rose’s donated brassière

"Some of them were left by wealthy donors, and all have been washed and disinfected," said Cadet Hill. "I hope they fit you." She smiled at Rose. "I assume you haven’t had breakfast yet. I can bring you down to the dining hall after you’ve washed up."

"I do appreciate that, Miss Hill," said Rose.

"All right, Miss Dawson," said Cadet Hill, checking to see if Miss Howard was awake. "I’ll come back for you later. But do you need to wash the clothes you arrived in?"

Rose had not considered this issue. She still owned some expensive apparel, notably her dress, pumps, and, of course, Cal’s jacket. They apparently had not commanded anyone’s attention yet because of more pressing concerns for the time being. Besides, her clothes, including Cal’s jacket, were not exactly in prime condition after their exposure to the elements. "I could use another pair of clean underwear, Miss Hill," she replied as she took her undergarments out of the locker and handed them to Cadet Hill. "My apologies for presenting them to you like this. As for the rest, please let me think about them."

"You don’t have to hurry, Miss Dawson. And don’t worry about the state of your laundry. I’ve handled worse. They shall be washed, disinfected, and dried for you. When you’ve made up your mind about the rest, please tell me."

"Thank you again, Miss Hill." As Cadet Hill went upstairs, Rose looked over her wardrobe. What will I keep? The pumps she could do without; they were uncomfortable anyway. The dress she had to keep. It was a reminder of the love she had for not one, but two, men–Jack and her father, who bought it for her over the objections of her mother, who detested its prominent lavender color. It was one of her father’s last gifts to her before he died. But can it be washed? Well, the memories are what matter the most.

Rose brought Cal’s jacket with her as she went to the washroom to brush her teeth and shower. After doing so, she checked herself in the mirror again and decided to not let her hair hang loose, which she had been doing since Sunday. As she got dressed, she put the four items back into the jacket and elected to wear it to breakfast. I will risk looking ridiculous until I find a safer place for the valuables. She put it on, as well as the pair of shoes Cadet Hill had given her.

Cadet Hill returned and gave her a curious look. "I see you have a special attachment to that jacket, Miss Dawson," she inquired politely.

Rose had a simple answer prepared. "I was wearing this during the sinking. It’s like a good luck charm, and I do not want to lose it."

"Understood, Miss Dawson. Everyone will need time to recover from such a tragedy, but at the same time, they need to retain something as a memento of what they endured. If you need anything else, just ask. We’ve been receiving donations of clothing by the cartload."

"Have you any hair ribbons by the cartload, Miss Hill?" Rose smirked at her own question.

"Probably not, but I think we have some available. Many of our previous guests have left something behind when they leave, including hair ribbons. I’ll see if I can locate a few for you, Miss Dawson."

"That would be wonderful," said Rose. "A pair of scissors to trim my hair would also be nice."

"I’ll see what we have." Cadet Hill returned downstairs to look for the items Rose requested.

Miss Howard began to stir in her bed. "Miss Dawson," she yawned as she opened her eyes for the first time. "You’re up early today."

"Good morning, Miss Howard. Did I awaken you?"

"Yes, but I ought to get up anyhow," said Miss Howard drowsily. "Are you going to breakfast?"

"Yes, but I am waiting for Miss Hill to come back with some hair ribbons and scissors for me."

"Are you cutting your hair? It’s so beautiful."

"Thank you, Miss Howard, but it is also an impediment if it’s too long. I only want to take off a little bit."

Cadet Hill returned with three hair ribbons of different colors and a pair of scissors, which Rose examined approvingly. "Would you like me to help you trim your hair, Miss Dawson? It may be too hard for you to reach in some places."

"I would appreciate that, Miss Hill." Cadet Hill led Rose back to the washroom, seated her in front of a mirror, and, with Rose watching, cut off about two inches from her flowing mane, which remained very long. She pulled back most of the remainder and rolled the end into a large bun before tying it with two of the ribbons. When she was finished, she went outside to bring back a smaller mirror so Rose could see her new look.

"You look beautiful, Miss Dawson."

Rose studied her appearance for a minute before deciding that she was happy with it. Tying her hair into a bun was a lot faster than transforming herself into the Gibson Girl almost every day. "Yes, I do, thanks to you." She gave Cadet Hill a hug. Now she was ready for breakfast.

Seeing that Miss Howard had just awakened, Cadet Hill told her that she would take Rose down to the dining hall first and then come back for her after she washed up.

They arrived at the shelter’s dining hall, where other guests were already eating. The food was being served by young women, all of whom were probably guests themselves. A few gave Rose an extended stare, but most were more concerned about their work or filling their stomachs than with a woman in an unkempt men’s jacket. Cadet Hill showed Rose where breakfast was being served, and then returned upstairs to attend to Miss Howard. When members of the kitchen crew came out with plates and bowls of hot food, Rose insisted on helping them set the dishes on the tables, almost burning her soft, delicate hands in the process. She soon forgot about this near accident after the aroma of the food filled the air and made everyone in the dining hall even hungrier. Then she helped serve the food to those sitting near her before serving herself.

At last, she sat down to eat. She was getting used to being in the company of the proletariat, having already been introduced to their world during the steerage party and meals on Titanic. The food was certainly not First Class fare, nor was it even on par with the two Third Class meals she enjoyed with Jack and Angus on Titanic. But there was something behind this meal that was lacking in the other two, even if those were eaten in Jack’s presence. It was called heart, and that meant a lot.

Chapter Four
Stories