A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Twenty-Four
After enduring Teddy's drunken, exaggerated
tale of apprehending a mugger on Canal Street for the fifth time, Rose was
ready to go home and crawl into bed. Meg's wedding was an all-day affair, starting
with an enormous breakfast at dawn, followed by the final fitting of gowns; a
horse and buggy ride to the Catholic church where the hour-long Celtic mass was
held; and finally, another long buggy ride to the home of Gabriel's well-to-do
aunt and uncle in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn.
Gabriel's family had, in fact, planned and
financed most of the event, understanding that Meg couldn't afford to and had
no mother to assist her. Rose's first thought when the carriage pulled up to
the four-story brownstone with its well-maintained yard in the rear was how
fortunate Meg was to have married so well. She was instantly horrified at her
own snobbery--it was something her mother would have pointed out.
Now that first impression had worn off and
exhaustion was taking its place. But she would be spending the night at
Bridie's, and the O'Boyles showed no sign of wanting to leave. Rose wearily
watched as the dancers hired especially for the occasion began a lively jig.
Then she noticed that the bride and groom were headed toward her table.
Meg stumbled into Rose and wrapped her arms
tightly around her friend's neck, giggling like a twelve-year-old. "I'm so
sorry, Rosie. It's the damn mead." The mead was a honey wine that
supposedly promoted virility. All the guests had consumed a glass or two (along
with other spirits), and Meg, petite as she was, had gotten tipsy right away.
"It's all right," Rose said,
laughing. "You look stunning, Meg. And so do you, Gabriel." The
groom, resplendent in traditional regalia--including a family coat of
arms--only blushed.
Meg embraced her cousin, then reached up to
adjust a few stray wildflowers that were starting to fall from her hair. Rose
stood to help her.
"So, Teddy," Gabriel said. "Word
has it you were quite the hero yesterday."
Oh, no, not again.
"It was nothin', really. Just doing me
job."
"Aw, don't go bashful on us, boyo!"
Tommy Quinn swaggered over and draped an arm around his brother's shoulders.
"Chased the bugger eight city blocks, he did!"
"Eight blocks!"
"Well..." Teddy seemed embarrassed.
"Sure, and wasn't he twice Teddy's
size!"
Rose could stand the bragging no longer.
"Meg, come inside with me for a moment," she pleaded in a low voice.
"Your hair is coming undone."
"Well, if it ain't the college
gal!" Tommy cried, a bit too loudly. "Need any help with yer papers
lately?" He winked.
Rose flushed. For a year and a half, she'd
been terrified that the man would reveal her secret about the phony transcript.
"None at all," she responded, forcing her eyes to level with his.
"Rose has been thinking about a career
in politics," Meg joked. "Organizing marches for the right of women
to vote."
One of the other men at the table, another
Quinn cousin, guffawed. "Women in politics! Now there's a hoot if I ever
heard one."
"Aye, but Rosie's not running for
president," Tommy said. "Soon's she finishes up this college
business, she's gonna marry Teddy here and make 'im settle down."
"Can't marry someone till she says
yes." There was a mischievous glint in Teddy's eyes as he spoke.
Rose realized she was trapped. Everyone was
staring at her expectantly. Her peach silk bridesmaid gown, a little thin for
the season, suddenly felt too warm and constricting at the throat.
She was saved by the bell, literally. The
tinkling began at the table where Patrick Quinn and the groom's parents sat and
spread throughout the yard. The bells had been handed out to all the guests as
part of the tradition, and now they were signaling that it was time to cut the
cake. Without as much as a glance at Teddy, Rose followed Meg to the table
where the four-tier cake sat, layer upon layer of frothy sugar. The top layer,
decorated with the words "Margaret and Gabriel April 26, 1914," was
an Irish whiskey cake to be saved for the couple's first baby's christening.
The cake cutting tradition was followed by
another: the tossing of the bridal bouquet. Meg had already revealed to Rose
that she intended to throw it her way, so Rose decided this would be a good
time to make himself scarce. All eyes were on the bride and Rose was able to
make a smooth getaway through the kitchen entry.
But, to her dismay, she'd been followed. By
Teddy, of course.
"Where ya headed off to now, and by
yerself?"
"Please, Teddy, I have a headache. Can
you just leave me alone, just for one second?"
"Head hurts, eh? Hurts an awful lot
these days. Especially when I try to kiss you."
Rose stared at him. There was anger in his
face, and it was so unexpected it caused her heart to skip. "What on earth
is that supposed to mean?"
Teddy averted his eyes. "Don't you want
to get back to the party? Meg's about to throw the flowers."
"NO, Teddy, I don't want to go back out
there!"
"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?
You're in here hiding from me family and yourself a bridesmaid!" Teddy's
brogue was thickening, not a good sign, not a good sign at all, but Rose's
temper was rising to the surface too quickly for her to control it.
"No, Teddy, it's not them I'm hiding
from, it's you."
"Me!"
"Yes, you. You tried to trick me into
saying I'd marry you because you know I'd be too polite to turn you down and
humiliate you in front of your relatives!"
"Well, what else can a sorry bloke do
when his lass keeps dancing around the question?"
"And what's a sorry lass supposed to do
when she keeps saying she's not ready and the bloke won't accept it!"
Stalemate. The two stared each other down for
a moment while outside cheers and catcalls rose.
Finally Teddy broke the silence. "Are ya
coming outside, woman, or not?"
"I'm going back to school," Rose
said, and pushed past him.
She pulled Meg and Bridie aside and made her
excuses, wished the bridegroom well and asked his uncle to phone for a taxi
service. Bridie's husband Joseph was kind enough to accompany her to his
apartment so that she could retrieve her belongings and change clothes, then
for good measure rode the El with her to Grand Central Terminal to see her off
safely.
Rose didn't respond to Angelica's questioning
gaze when she entered their room, just hastened to bed. Before dawn the next
morning she awoke with tears drying on her cheeks--not over the argument but
over an already-forgotten dream.
She climbed from her bed, quietly dressed,
gathered a few items and tiptoed outside. On a bench underneath a gas lamp, she
drew a charcoal portrait of Jack at the bow, his eyes downcast so he was
unaware of the shadowy figure approaching him from behind, a figure in a
flowing gown and scarf, and a headful of curls tumbling wildly down her back.
Satisfied at last, Rose lit a cigarette, slid
the holder into her mouth and inhaled deeply, savoring the forbidden taste as
night turned into day.