A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter One
It was a lovely spring morning, and sunlight
streamed through pale yellow curtains in a spacious girl's bedroom. Rose
stirred at the sound of the door opening, and a breakfast cart being wheeled
into the room.
"Good morning, Miss," Trudy, her
maid, greeted in the same pleasant tone she always used in the presence of her
employers. It baffled Rose how anyone could be so cheerful at such an early
hour.
"Your mother said you would be taking
breakfast in your room this morning," Trudy intoned, daintily setting a lace
doily in the center of a round table near the fireplace. As Rose watched, her
irritation at being awakened from such a sound rest turned to a sense of unease
she couldn't quite understand.
"Where is my mother, Trudy?" she
demanded. Her voice trembled.
Trudy continued arranging a place setting as
if nothing were wrong. "I don't know at the moment, Miss, but she did
leave instructions that with you not feeling well and your father unexpectedly
called away on business."
"My father???"
"Yes, Miss."
"But...my father's dead," Rose
sobbed.
Trudy finally stopped setting the table and
turned, and now Rose could see that her once pristine uniform had ripped in
several places, and her hair appeared disheveled. When she spoke, Rose's blood
ran cold.
"And so are we," she said.
Rose screamed.
She felt hands on her then, soft but firm,
and an unfamiliar voice--high, with an Irish lilt--in her ear. "There,
there, now, Miss Dawson, it's all right. Shh, hush now."
Rose first looked down, at the narrow bed in
which she lay; at her hospital gown, now damp with perspiration; then she
glanced around her environs, taking in the quiet forms in the other beds, some
staring back at her curiously; the sunlight glaring through dusty shades pulled
halfway closed and not the curtains of her bedroom in Philadelphia. Then she
finally brought herself to look at the nurse.
Except for the starched uniform and the neat
reddish brown bun piled atop her head, she didn't resemble Trudy in the least.
The young woman's eyes were a sparkling green and freckles dotted her nose. She
only looked Rose's age.
"Good morning," she sang. Rose,
still shaken, didn't reply, but the nurse went on yammering as if nothing were
out of the ordinary.
"I was beginning to think you would
sleep the day away," she scolded. "'Tis almost 11:00, y'know. Your
breakfast should be quite cold at this hour."
In response to Rose's questioning gaze, she
indicated a tray on the bedside table, which contained a simple wooden bowl
filled with a watery porridge-like concoction, a slice of toast, and a glass of
milk. Rose's stomach turned over at the prospect of touching any of it,
although she hadn't eaten since...since...
"What day is it?" she asked.
"Why, it's Sunday, Miss."
"What date?" Rose couldn't help showing
her impatience and the nurse looked startled at her tone.
"April 21st."
Almost one week. A whole week since the
sinking and Rose barely remembered any of it. How had she gotten here?
The nurse sensed the girl's confusion and
rushed to set her mind at ease. "You were brought in early yesterday
morning. A matron at the dormitory found you in bed with a fever. Influenza.
You were very lucky it didn't turn to pneumonia, y'know."
Lucky. Rose wondered how lucky this
chatterbox would think she was if she knew how she ended up in that shelter.
She suddenly had a vision of three big,
rugged men surrounding her in an alley, and shuddered.
"Yes, you had quite the night, you did,
but it looks like you passed the worst of it. The doctor wants to let you go
today." The nurse caught a frightened look crossing Rose's features.
"I'm sorry. Have you anyplace to go?"
Rose shook her head.
"Oh, dear. Well, I'll just have to help
you find one, then." She paused as another nurse entered the ward and
began tending to another patient. "I must get back to work." She
leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially to Rose, "They tattle on you
here."
For the first time since she lost Jack, Rose
smiled.
The nurse stood. "I know that it looks
dreadful, but please try to eat yer breakfast, Miss Dawson."
"Call me Rose."
"All right, Rose 'tis," the nurse
beamed. "My name is Margaret Mary Quinn, but everyone calls me Meg."
"Pleased to meet you." Even under
these most trying circumstances, Rose was ever mindful of her manners.
"Likewise. I'll go fetch your coat. I
put it with me own things, so's it wouldn't get stolen."
The coat! Rose had forgotten about it. She
suddenly felt an urgent need to know if the contents of its pockets were safe.