STARTING ANEW
Chapter Thirteen
Ruth Dewitt Bukater settled herself into the
dusty hard seat in the coach of the train that was taking her to New York City.
She looked disdainfully at the scene around her, certain she would not be able
to ignore the disgusting and yelling children, the stomach churning smells of
the food people had brought with them, or the black soot blowing in the window.
That she, Ruth Dewitt Bukater, has been reduced to such a level, was not only
humiliating, but unbelievable. And for her present situation, she blamed men.
Her living hell had begun this morning. After
the two Hockley men had left for a polo match, Nathan Hockley's personal
secretary had come to her room. He told her that since it now seemed impossible
after two and a half weeks that Rose would be found, they considered her dead.
With no marriage in the offing, the Hockleys
no longer had any room in their plans for Ruth. They wanted her out of their
home and out of Philadelphia. They did not want to risk the gossip or scandals,
if Ruth told of Cal's behavior the night Titanic sank or how he had been bested
by a third class passenger who had romanced away his fiancée. Ruth was handed
an envelope containing fifty dollars in cash and a railway coach ticket to New
York. Harrington, the secretary, told her that a cab would arrive for the
station in thirty minutes.
As she took the envelope, Ruth felt as if she
had been strangled. She had no choice but to comply. She had no other money of
her own, and she would not lower herself to go to any of her remaining friends.
As the train raced forward to New York, Ruth
thought of all the men who were responsible for where she was now. There was
her useless husband who had squandered away his generous inheritance on some
ridiculous expeditions to find treasure in the South American jungles. There
were the Hockleys, who had promised her everything last week and today sent her
away with nothing. She was angry with Harrington who had delivered the news,
and even Captain Smith who drove his ship right into an iceberg.
But of all the men responsible for her
present dilemma, she blamed most of all, that boy from steerage, Jack Dawson.
Dawson, a name that was poison on her lips.
How could Rose ever have entertained any thoughts of being near him? She had
seen the nude drawing he had done of Rose. She feared that more than posing for
a picture had gone on between them--things that made her shudder.
Had it not been for Jack Dawson being on
Titanic, Rose would still be securely engaged to Cal Hockley and wedding plans
would be going forward for that occasion on June 20th. But thanks to Dawson,
Rose had refused to get into two lifeboats, choosing instead to die with that
monster. Of course, he too had died with the rest of the third class, but still
she would have loved to insult him and bring the good-for-nothing to his knees.
Ruth fumbled in her purse for a piece of
paper. From the bottom she brought out a calling card that read:
Margaret Brown
1340 Pennsylvania Street
Denver, Colorado
On the back, was written a name, O.T. Woods,
the manager of the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Two days after the Carpathia had
arrived in New York, Ruth had run into Molly at the hotel. Cal was outside
arranging for a cab.
"Ruth, let me give you some
advice," said Molly. "I wouldn't trust these Hockley folks too much.
They're just a little too slick for me."
Ruth just gasped at Molly's brashness.
"Listen," Molly had continued,
"just in case things don't work out, get in touch with me. I'll help you
if I can. If I'm not here, Mr. Woods will know where to find me." She
pointed to the name on the back of calling card in her hand, before giving it to
Ruth.
Ruth huffily muttered that the last thing she
needed was help, but she took the card anyway.
Ruth now turned this little card over and
over in her hand. Being beholden to someone like Molly Brown seemed just a
little indecent. Yet, perhaps the assistance this outrageous woman would
provide for her might guarantee a roof over her head for awhile; at least until
some other opportunity presented itself. She would use Molly for whatever she
was worth.
Again she thought of Jack Dawson and how he
had brought her this low, having to rely on the vulgar Brown woman.
Ruth had been on the train for three hours
now. She felt sick from lack of food and exhaustion. She thought of Rose. The
thought of her only daughter gone forever in the wreckage of the Titanic, dead
because of that disgusting steerage boy made her ill as well. But she was
beyond tears.
She looked at her watch. The train had left
Philadelphia at 9:30 in the morning and was due to arrive in New York almost
any minute. It was almost one in the afternoon. Ruth reached up and took her
small valise from the brass shelf over her seat. This small valise contained
all she now owned in the world. Just thinking of how she had recently traveled
with trunks and trunks of gowns made her irate. Even though Titanic had sunk,
she and Rose would have been able to rebuild their lives with the Hockley
alliance. Every moment, her hatred for Jack Dawson grew. She was angry now that
he had died. Dying was too good for him. He should have lived and starved.
Ruth got off the car and walked tiredly into
the station. She hated mingling with these crowds of common people. A taxi was
out of the question. She would have to walk to the hotel. At the doorway of the
station, she asked a policeman for directions. "Which way is the Waldorf from
here?"
He pointed as he spoke, "Go left a half
a block to the corner and turn right. It's just another two blocks from
there."
Ruth didn't even bother to thank him. She
pursed her lips, gripped her bag tightly and headed in the direction of the
hotel.