Rose DeWitt Bukater stared out the foggy window of Cal’s house. She was in the room that she was supposed to share with him. Once again, Rose felt trapped. The world of overdressed, high society masters of the universe was overwhelming her.
“Miss?” Rose did not answer the call of Cal’s maid. Her mind was somewhere else, wishing, hoping, and dreaming a dream that would never come true. “Miss, Mr. Hockley would like you to come down to dinner. He says that it is unhealthy for you not to eat and your mother says it is not ladylike to stare out the window.”
“She does not understand. None of them do.”
“Would you like to talk about it, Miss?” Rose thought about this question for a moment before a smile appeared on her face.
“Yes. I would love to talk to you about it…but you must swear on your life that you will not mention this to anyone, especially not Cal and Mother.”
“Yes, Miss. I swear it.”
Rose turned to face the maid, who gave her a gentle smile. Rose returned it. “It’s Rose. I would like you to call me Rose. I would also like you to tell me your name.”
“My name is Emma.”
“That’s a nice name.”
“Thank you.”
“I met a man aboard the Titanic, a very artistic, kind, loving man who made me fall out of love with Cal—not that you could call our relationship loving—but I fell in love with this man even though we only knew each other for three days. He died when the Titanic sank and I have not stopped thinking about him since. Jack Dawson was his name.”
“Really? Well, I share his last name. Emma Dawson.”
“D-D-Dawson?” Rose asked, wide-eyed, giving Emma a disbelieving look.
“Yes.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chippewa Falls.”
“Are you married?”
“I was once. He was a wonderful man, but he died in a fire—horrible, just horrible. I had a son, also. He was the most wonderful boy, but I do not know if he survived the fire.” Emma looked sadly at the ground. Then a smile appeared on her face and she looked back up. “What am I talking about? My son is still alive. I saw him at the park when I was on my way to the store. He was drawing. He really enjoys drawing—“
“Are you sure he was your son?”
“Positive. I talked to him and asked for his name. Jack Dawson. I am absolutely sure it was him—outgoing, adventurous, loves to draw—it was definitely him.”
“How long ago was your meeting?”
“About five minutes ago.”
“You must come with me,” Rose said desperately.
Emma looked shocked. “But Miss, I’m not to leave unless I’m going shopping.”
“You’re leaving on my order. My word should be good enough for that bastard, and call me Rose,” Rose told Emma as they walked out the front door and towards the park Emma had seen Jack in. They dodged the cars and horses of New York as they passed street after street until they reached the park. There sat Jack on one of the benches, drawing and glancing up every few seconds to record what he saw.