A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Fifty-Eight

"Rose!" Hugh thundered. He jumped to his feet and wrapped her in a paternal—and suffocating—embrace. "How are you, darling? We heard about your loss and we're all so sorry. Did you get the flowers?"

Rose shook her head, and shot a puzzled glance at Miss Yvette, who was puffing away on her pipe. Her landlady shrugged.

"You didn't? That idiot Giles! Well, we've all been so worried, and I thought I'd pay a call on you; you're so hard to reach way up here. And your landlady's been so kind as to share some of her meat patties with me. They were de-licious, yes sir!"

Rose looked at Miss Yvette again. She'd have to find out later what was in those meat patties.

"Rosie," Hugh went on, "as you may have guessed I didn't just come here to shoot the breeze. You probably heard that my last production was unfortunately canceled this spring due to a drop in ticket sales. Now I believe—as does Henri Marceau—that one of the reasons for this failure was your absence."

Who does he think he is, blaming me for his flop? Rose fumed, but before she could open her mouth, he hastened to add, "Not that you could help what happened, dear. But I was thinking—and lovely Miss Yvette here is in complete agreement with me—I was thinking that the best thing for you to do right now is to jump right back into acting feet-first.

"Thus, I come to the point." He guided Rose over to the sofa. Miss Yvette excused herself and returned from the kitchen with more meat patties, a tea kettle, and two bone china cups on a serving platter she reserved for special occasions, then disappeared.

Hugh and Henri were collaborating on A Faerie Tale, a comedic modern-day Cinderella story in which the heroine is a poor Irish immigrant who falls for the owner of the mansion where she works as a maid. It was a limited engagement, Hugh explained between mouthfuls of meat patty, meaning that it would only run for six weeks, but if attendance was strong, there was a possibility its run would be extended.

"It's a smaller cast and a bigger venue," he promised, "so you'd have your own dressing room. Rehearsals begin next week." He was finally silent, waiting for Rose to thank him for his generosity, but she said nothing. "Honey, I know this is short notice, but it's an opportunity of a lifetime! As a matter of fact, I had another actress in mind—one who was born in Ireland—but she has been somewhat difficult, and when Henri suggested you, I thought it was a brilliant idea."

Sure, you did. He probably refused to work with anyone else. Rose remarked, "You're not concerned you're giving him too much clout?"

Hugh missed the sarcasm in her tone. "Rose, my dear, we both only want to hire the best. So are you on board?"

In the end it wasn't anything Hugh said that persuaded her, but thoughts of sore feet and arms, of intoxicated customers who insulted her, and of one very jealous co-worker. Rose gave notice at Smokey's that very night and paid Meg a visit the next day. She needed someone with whom to practice her Irish brogue.

*****

Ashley McNaughton, Rose's up-and-coming co-star, leaned over and yelled in her ear, "I've never seen so many diamonds in my life! Is that the mayor?"

The mayor and his wife were indeed in attendance, as were numerous other luminaries, all of them on their feet for the final curtain call. It was, as far as everyone knew, curtains for A Faerie Tale, but insiders predicted that at tonight's cast party Hugh would announce that the show's run had been extended, despite the theater's financial difficulties. It had proven a critical and box-office success after the first few performances—with one Rose Dawson singled out for special mention—and the favorable word of mouth guaranteed them a full house night after night.

"I can see it now," Ashley was saying, his boyish face alight with enthusiasm. "We'll be stars, Rose...Rose?"

Her face had abruptly drained of color, the smile faded. Her eyes, fixated somewhere in the middle section, widened like a trapped animal's, and without warning she took off running backstage, nearly bowling Ashley over in the process. He followed, calling her name, but she ignored him.

Heart racing, she locked herself inside her dressing room and squeezed into a corner, wrapping her arms around her body as if she were freezing.

She should have known someone from her past would come to one of her shows. It was inevitable; her parents had known virtually everyone worth knowing in New York, hadn't they?

But Nathan Hockley didn't live in New York.

An urgent knock sounded at the door. "Rose, are you all right in there?" Ashley cried.

What was he doing here? Mr. Hockley was the most austere man she'd ever known; he never indulged in such frivolity as staged entertainment. He was probably in New York on Hockley Steel business, and someone dragged him here.

Could that someone be Cal?

"Rose?" Hugh's assistant Giles called impatiently. "Come now, this is not the time for one of your mood swings."

Her stomach churned. Rose stumbled to the trash can and vomited.

"I'm going to get the keys." Rose could hear impatient footsteps scurrying away from the door, and then silence. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and sank into a chair before the dressing table, daring a glance at her reflection in the mirror. In the glare of the lights, her face was a fright mask. A single tear escaped and coursed its way down her cheek; she wiped it away with a trembling finger.

She hadn't seen Cal with his father—only a silver-haired woman she didn't recognize. Cal's mother died when he was in his teens. Perhaps the old man had finally decided to re-enter the social scene, but that was neither here nor there; the fact remained that he'd seen her and the look on his face was unmistakable.

It was the look of a man who'd seen a ghost.

Footsteps approached. Rose jumped from the chair, eyes darting around the small room in search of a safe hiding place. There was a knock, but it wasn't Giles; it was softer, more polite. Good God, how had he gotten backstage?

"Rose?" A woman, not Hockley. "Rose, honey, it's Daphne. Please open the door."

Rose tried to speak and all that came out was a croak. She cleared her throat and managed to call out, "Are you alone?"

"Am I...well, yes."

Rose unlocked the door and Daphne bustled in. "Talk about a grand exit. You didn't' t even stick around for the flowers. Who do you think you are, Cinder—" She gasped. "Good gracious, Rose, you look terrible! Are you ill?"

Rose turned away from her and began tidying up the room, discreetly stuffing her essentials into her reticule so that Daphne wouldn't be able to tell she was packing up to go home. There was the cast party that evening, and she was expected to be there.

"I have been feeling a little under the weather," she offered as an excuse.

Daphne wrinkled her nose. "Heavens, what is that smell?" She followed the scent, discovering the trash can, and studied Rose with some consternation. "Oh, my, you're more than a little sick, aren't you?" She pressed a hand to Rose's forehead like an anxious mother and held it there for a few seconds, frowning. "Well, you don't feel warm, but that doesn't mean anything. They say the Spanish flu can sneak up on you..."

"Daphne," Rose entreated her, "please don't tell anyone, but I really must go home right now."

"Home? I think you should see a doctor. There's an epidemic going around, in case you haven't heard. My physician has an office on Park Avenue. If I phone him at home, he should be able to meet us there." She started for the door, and Rose grabbed her arm.

"No, please!" A look of alarm crossed Daphne's face; Rose released her grip. "I feel better, really. I just need to go home and get some rest." She retrieved her shawl from the wardrobe. "Give Henri my regrets about tonight."

"But—"

"Don't worry about me. I'm sure I'll be fine in the morning." Rose hesitated. "Thank you, Daphne, for everything."

She bolted out the back exit without waiting for a response.

*****

It took some time, but Giles finally located the dressing room keys in Hugh's cluttered desk. His Eminence was nowhere to be found, of course. Probably still onstage, puffing out his chest like a blowfish and accepting all the credit for everyone else's hard work. He'd started out his career as an actor and had perfected the art of false modesty. It was loyal employees like Giles who slaved behind the scenes and made him look good.

Giles couldn't quite comprehend the man's obvious affection for Rose, the little prima donna. Granted, she was talented—damned talented—but there was a cloud of mystery surrounding her, and just taking off whenever she felt the urge...well, that was just not done. He'd assumed that when Hugh cast her as the lead this time around she'd learned a little professionalism, and until tonight she'd been wonderful. He sighed. Oh, well, maybe Hugh had learned his lesson.

There was a commotion nearby and a stagehand rushed up to him, breathless. "A gent in the audience just had some kind of seizure. They're bringing him backstage so he can lie down."

Giles could see the man now, elderly and dour-faced, leaning on two members of the crew for support. Uncertain of where to put him, they finally left him on a sofa that had been used as a prop in the show, where he half-sat, half-lay, clutching at his chest. His wife or whoever she was dithered about, wringing her hands and looking utterly helpless.

"Please...I must...find my son," the old man gasped.

A doctor had been located in the house and was making his way backstage. Giles ordered someone to fetch a blanket for the patient, who noted instantly that he was the one in charge and gestured to him.

"Where is Rose...the lead actress...she came back here?"

"Nathan," his companion cautioned, "please lie down. Your heart—"

"I have to tell Cal...he was right. Rose...is alive."

Very much so, Giles thought, intrigued by the man's interest in their star. Perhaps she was a missing heiress and here was her long-lost father. Maybe there'd be a reward in the offering. Giles chuckled at his overactive imagination, but the smile on his face died when he encountered a stricken Daphne Marceau outside Rose's dressing room.

*****

Rose slipped into the brownstone, silent as a prowler and pleased to find both the second and third floors dark. A light shone underneath the door to Miss Yvette's private sitting room in the rear of the house, but the record player was turned up high and at this hour, the landlady was probably snoozing in her rocking chair. Mr. Latham was most likely asleep too, Hosiah had mentioned a UNIA function, and Robert had taken a lady friend out for a night on the town. Which left Winston, and Rose had no idea where he'd gone or when he'd return, so she had to move fast. No time for sentimentality.

She packed a few of her most treasured belongings into a suitcase, along with some warm dresses and wraps, and a wool coat. It was still warm now, at the end of September, but who knew what temperatures awaited her where she was headed?

Wherever that may be.

Tonight she would just travel as far from New York as her legs would carry her, someplace where she could lay her head for just one night, which was all she needed to plan her future. Because she couldn't stay with anyone she knew in the city. Maybe Cal had wed by now and wouldn't want to see her again. Or maybe news of her resurrection would send him into a rage and he'd come tearing into the city, seeking revenge for his humiliation.

Either way, he was no longer her primary concern. Once people found out that Rose Dawson, Broadway's newest darling, was really Rose DeWitt Bukater, lost aboard the Titanic six years ago, she'd become a media oddity, and her entire life would be laid open to ridicule. All of the friends she'd cultivated would know she'd lied to them, and she'd be left alone.

Chapter Fifty-Nine
Stories