A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Fifty-Nine

Something was amiss at the Scott estate. Rose sensed it even as the taxi pulled into the drive and she caught a glimpse of the mansion through the thick foliage. It was well after midnight—she’d caught the last train from Grand Central—and all of the other houses along the waterfront were dark, but here lights blazed on every floor. There were two unfamiliar automobiles parked outside of the garage and two men stood in a huddle alongside one of them. One held a lantern to his face; it was Randolph, and with him Phillip, Marie's beau. What were they doing here at this hour? They'd probably wonder the same of her, Rose realized with a start, and she didn't have an excuse prepared.

She paid the driver and he assisted her with her suitcase. Randolph rushed over, worry lines etched into his brow. "Rose? It's good to see you, but you shouldn't be here. Not now."

"Why? What's the matter?" She glanced from him to Phillip, who nodded politely at her. He was a distinguished man of about forty, six feet tall and graying at the temples. Marie said he'd been the Griffiths family attorney for nearly five years before gathering the courage to call on her.

"Marie didn't tell you?" Randolph asked.

"No, I just..." Rose looked down at her suitcase, all too aware of how foolish she was in coming here. She still had a key, and had planned to use it to sneak into the basement, where she'd sleep in the playroom. Then she'd walk to the train station at dawn before the servants arrived. All the children except Josephine and Cecilia were away at school, and their father was keeping house in the apartment he'd bought for his mistress; Victoria and her two younger daughters were often in the house alone. No one would have known Rose was there.

"I just needed to get out of the city for a few days, is all." In the dead of night, with no advance notice. Right.

"Well, you can't stay in the main house. Perhaps there'll be room in the guest cottage, with the children gone."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I'll explain in the car," Phillip spoke for the first time. "I'm taking Sir to his grandmother's; I'll give you a ride back, too."

"I don't want to go back," Rose snapped, and quickly apologized. "It's been a long day. I'd really like to just get a good night's sleep. The guest house will be fine."

"I wouldn't advise it," Randolph warned. "Everyone in the house has been exposed to the contagion."

"Contagion?"

"Influenza. Young William was the first. His father and I just came back from Cambridge. So many of the students are ill."

The Spanish flu. This strain was far more deadly than the one Rose had had upon her arrival in New York; it had killed hundreds of thousands in less than a year. "My God," she whispered. "Is he all right?"

"He was recovering when we left. We had to see to...oh, here's Marie."

She was wearing her nurse's whites, Rose noted, and a strained expression on her face. Behind her on the pathway, Sir lugged a heavy knapsack. Marie wasn't surprised to see Rose, which wasn't a good sign; in fact, she appeared downright peeved.

"My mother phoned here not an hour ago looking for you. She got people from the theater ringing her doorbell. Where you going in such a hurry you couldn't say good-bye?"

Rose didn't respond.

"Ready to go, son?" Phillip greeted Sir, who mumbled a reply. He was thirteen now, had experienced a spurt in growth over the summer and was no longer the cheery extrovert that Rose had come to know. Tonight he wore a cap pulled low over his eyes and didn't acknowledge her.

"You coming, Rose?" Phillip asked her.

"No, thank you. You go ahead."

"Rose," Marie spoke sharply. "You don't want what Cecilia has. Go home."

Rose's heart sank. "Cecilia?"

"Doc Wells is upstairs with her now," Randolph said. "We're the only staff here. Bridie went home sick two days ago and we haven't heard from her since. I'm taking Josephine to visit with her aunt and uncle for a spell. You listen to Marie, Rose. It's out of our hands."

"I want to see her." The words were out of her mouth before she realized she was going to speak them.

Marie shook her head sadly. "She wouldn't even recognize you...Rose?"

She was running up the front walk. Marie followed, yelling something that Rose couldn't—or wouldn't—hear. She mounted the steps, passed through the stately porch columns and entered the vestibule, where she came to a respectful halt. It was deathly quiet, and disinfectant stung her nasal passages. She felt someone staring and saw Josephine in the doorway to the study, wearing a checkered pinafore over a frilly, long-sleeved dress. An avowed tomboy, she wore the outfit like a prison uniform. With a clarity that could only come from having helped raise the eleven-year-old, Rose knew she was trying to hide.

She stretched out her arms and Josephine flew into them, clinging to her former governess for dear life. Behind them Marie cleared her throat.

"Josie, did you say good-bye to your parents? Randolph's waiting for you, honey."

"I'm not going with him!" Josephine cried vehemently. "I want to go to Mama Yvette's with Sir."

"Your mama and daddy want you to go see your auntie and uncle," Marie said, as if repeating herself for the hundredth time.

Rose had broken away from Josephine and was making her way to the staircase. The child retreated into the study and slammed the door, the noise reverberating in the eerie silence that followed. Marie caught up with Rose and pressed a piece of cloth into her hand; it was a surgical mask. "Wear this, and for the Lord's sake, don't touch her."

Dr. Wells addressed the Scotts in a hospital whisper in the second floor hallway. William saw her first. "Rose? What are you doing here?"

Rose spoke through the mask, which she'd fastened securely over her nose and mouth. "I'm sorry...I wanted to see Cecilia."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that," the doctor said, moving swiftly to block her way. "This house is being quarantined. You shouldn't be in here."

"Let her in," Victoria interrupted. "She's been asking for you," she said to Rose.

"Mrs. Scott—"

"It's my house, dammit!"

Both her husband and the doctor backed away from her in confusion. "Go on in, Rose," Victoria urged. "Just don't get too close."

"Mrs. Scott—"

Rose nodded her thanks to Victoria. "I've had the flu before," she offered to a sputtering Dr. Wells before going into the room.

An emaciated doll lay in the child's bed, a bluish cast to her pallid skin. She was asleep, but as Rose approached the bed, the eyes fluttered open and fastened on her. Rose reached for her, remembered the warnings and withdrew her hand quickly, then just as quickly disregarded them and brushed tendrils of damp hair from the doll's cherubic face.

"Jack doesn't like it when you cry," Cecilia admonished. She was wheezing, the words coming out in gasps. Rose hadn't even realized she was crying. It wasn't until later that she noticed Cecilia's use of Jack's name.

"He says I'm gonna feel better soon." The green eyes, made dull from weakness, brightened suddenly.

"You will, sweetheart," Rose whispered.

"He wants me to tell you something." Cecilia grasped Rose's arm just above the wrist and tugged at it. Despite her fear, Rose lowered her ear to the little girl's mouth.

And Cecilia gave her Jack's message.

When Rose left, she could hear controlled weeping from the master bedroom. She hurried through the kitchen, where Randolph prepared tea for Dr. Wells, and bid them a preoccupied good evening. Marie had returned to her house, but Josephine waited for her in the back seat of Phillip's car. Rose's suitcase had been packed into the trunk. Sir got out and helped her climb onto the sideboard, and they were on their way to New York, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

*****

Cal paced the hospital corridor, his eyes wild, his suit a rumpled mess. He had the appearance of a man possessed. At one point his valet approached and offered him a glass of water; he impatiently shooed the man away.

His father lay inside a private room, unconscious and under constant watch by hospital staff after his second heart attack within twenty-four hours. He was not expected to last the night. Cal had rushed to New York from Pittsburgh, leaving his wife and daughter behind, to find him heavily sedated and mumbling incoherently.

"Excuse me, Mr. Hockley?" A masked and gloved nurse materialized at his side; Cal glowered at her, and on reflex she shrank backward, reminding him for a moment of Gracie, the little mouse.

"Mr. Hockley," she repeated, "I'll need you to wear this mask as a precaution. We have so many here come down with the flu—"

"My father doesn't have influenza, you imbecile!" he barked. He expected the woman to apologize, and slink away, as Gracie would have, but instead her face hardened. "It's your funeral, mister," she responded in cold New York fashion, and left.

Just as well. Cal was too wound up to tolerate anyone hovering around. Like his father's lady friend, that overly made-up tart who'd been his escort the previous night. Cal was on the verge of berating her for dragging Nathan to some silly play when he was obviously ailing, but then she'd asked him if he knew someone named Rose and everything he'd been about to say flew out the window.

His father claimed he'd seen Rose at the theater. Although the rational side of Cal suspected it was nothing more than a senile mind at work, another part of him, a part he'd tried to bury, felt a spark of hope. The hope that was renewed three years ago when the last investigator had phoned with a possible lead, then deflated when the rascal absconded with his money, never to be heard from again.

Nathan Hockley may have had a weak heart, but his mind was always strong.

Even so, Cal had to accept that with his new family and soon, inheritance of his father's fortune, he could ill afford to pursue a phantom. Besides, there were hundreds of people in attendance at that theater; how long would it take to track down any one of them, especially one who'd successfully eluded him for years and had more than likely changed her name?

It never occurred to him that Rose may have been on stage.

He suddenly pushed all thoughts of her aside when a doctor exited his father's room, his face grim.

*****

Black clouds gathered the morning of the funeral, though the storm wouldn't begin in earnest until much later. The Scotts had spent much of the previous three days in the parlor, where the furniture had been replaced by a tiny casket and several rows of hard folding chairs. It was as if the mourners required physical discomfort to add to their emotional pain.

William wore a constant look of bewilderment; though he remained dry-eyed and composed in public, Rose had heard him break down more than once when he thought he was alone. She'd offered to stay until after the funeral, mainly as a source of comfort for Josephine, who'd withdrawn into herself and barely even acknowledged Richard and Sir, her best friends.

Bridie was still recuperating and wasn't expected to return for a good month or more. Though she'd survived her bout with the Spanish flu, her husband Joseph was not so fortunate. He'd been buried earlier that week.

Marie chose to be alone with her grief, and closeted herself in the guest cottage.

It was Victoria, of course, who concerned Rose the most. Her eyes held a vacant glaze, the look of someone who was present in body only. At the gravesite she alternated between her husband's and her mother's shoulders, her dress hanging on her bony frame like a sack, and spoke to no one.

The Episcopalian minister read a final passage from the Bible and led them in prayer; afterward white roses were distributed and a processional began. Rose slipped her hand into Josephine's. The child looked old in her black dress, lace gloves, and bulky flowered hat; Rose would have given anything at that moment to see her smile.

They joined the line, and as Rose lay her flower atop the casket she heard sniffling at her rear. She glanced back in time to see Belinda, Cecilia's former nurse, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, letting vulnerability show for a rare instant.

On a hillside in the distance, two people watched, unseen. The young man's blue eyes trailed Rose until she climbed into an auto parked in the churchyard. Then he looked down at the little girl at his side and smiled. She beamed back at him and took his outstretched hand.

*****

Back at the mansion Victoria took to her bed immediately, and Lucy assumed the role of hostess, demonstrating for once an abundance of graciousness and charm...except to the servants. Rose had just finished off a plate of appetizers from the heaping buffet table: finger sandwiches, salmon croquettes, and stuffed mushrooms, when the self-appointed lady of the house approached.

"Have you seen Bill? He really should be here to greet the guests."

She was acting as though it was just another social function, but on some level Rose comprehended why; she had, after all, been raised as part of this culture. "I'll go look for him," she volunteered.

She knew exactly where Bill was and was only too happy to escape the cloying sadness of the house. The leaves had begun to turn and the crimsons and auburns and golds, with the mountains as a backdrop, painted a stunning picture. Rose would miss these woods.

Bill was hunched over on the stump, scribbling notes on a sheet of music. "You can't look at it yet. I'm not quite finished."

"Lucy wants you to come back to the house," Rose said gently. "Your parents—"

"I know. Just give me a few minutes, please. I need to...I need to finish a few more bars—" He stopped mid-sentence and finally looked at her. His face was ashen save the dark circles beneath his eyes, and thinner from the weight loss his illness caused. "My fault," he choked, and a single tear fell. "I was sick first."

Rose went to him, and he met her halfway, crushing her against him so tightly it nearly forced the air from her lungs. They stood together, sheet music fluttering at their feet, and cried for what seemed an eternity.

When she felt his lips in the hollow of her throat she didn't stop him; when he pressed them against hers she responded with an eagerness she couldn't control. They remained that way for a long time, forgetting where they were, and why...and then a thunderclap sounded like a warning. The sky had darkened and a gust of wind scattered Bill's work. They pulled apart abruptly.

"You won't tell India, will you?" he appealed, and suddenly he looked like a little boy to Rose, and she came crashing back to reality. "We haven't...been together yet."

"I won't say a word," she assured him. It would be the last they'd ever speak of the kiss.

After a moment's hesitation, she said, "We'd better get inside." They knelt to gather the papers, and at the top of one sheet Rose glimpsed a title.

"A Lady Named Rose," she read aloud, and looked quizzically at Bill.

"You weren't supposed to see it till it was finished," he accused, his face red.

"Can I hear you play it before I—" She caught herself. She knew what she was going to do now—Cecilia had told her what to do—but it wasn't part of her plan to tell anyone else. One day she'd just be gone.

But she couldn't hide anything from Bill. "Before you what? You're not running out on us, are you? Marie said you showed up with a suitcase in the middle of the night. What was that all about?"

"You'll know soon enough, I promise," Rose answered, and would say no more.

Chapter Sixty
Stories