Our Fates Are On The Wind

Chapter five

The room was odd in Rose's dark and delicate world, but the one which she had been thrust into, well, one supposed willingly allowed herself to enter, was now an enigma beyond knowledge. It was only then, the smallest details occurred to her, such as how would she be able to untie the lace of her corset or even reach the highest button, which was located at the base of her neck, for no person no matter how long their limbs were could reach it. How could she learn to mend a fire, turning to see the black ash, she realised that it would have to made from scratch and never in her life had she paid attention to when the maids came to tend to her own embers. This truly was a life complicated beyond her own means. She had been educated at the finest schools, attended the most prestigious finishing academy in France, travelled in utter luxury and read and understood the most brilliant novels and pieces of music and yet none of it had taught her basic life skills. How to keep warm. To make a sandwich. And, she had thrust herself into this very place without a second thought of anything further. When outside, with Jack, who felt very established in a world like this, she didn't feel as lousy or lost. Now, she would be alone for the remainder of her stay.

Rose glanced about the cluttered space which Jack had ushered her into. A brown chair, a brown clad bed and a decanter of what she assumed would be water. There was a divider with what she assumed to be a chamber pot behind it and a single wooden desk with a half clean mirror atop it. Stepping farther into the room, she considered the outcome of her choice in comparison to the no doubt beautiful stateroom in which her mother and fiancé would now be resting in. There still seemed to be a lack of guilt in her stomach, and instead it was a feeling of a dip, right in the middle of her belly when Jack had passed her in the narrow hall, brushing arms and she dismissed it at once. In a cracked piece of glass, she caught sight of herself truly for the first time and it was garish. Her dress was ruined, hanging from her shoulder, her face dirty and yet her engagement ring managed to stay there; sparkling a reminder that she was engaged still. Her outward appearance was starting to fade away. She lacked to identify the urchin child who stood metres away from her within the mirror and fading out at the edges. Trembles started in her stomach, her legs and her breathing were stalling. Stripping away her jewelled earrings, Rose pulled at the buttons at the base of her neck at the back, but she could barely reach.

''Damn!''

All she required was freedom from her corset. The looking glass upon the desk provided some remedy to her loosening the buttons but her fingers trembled so, she struggled. What use she was indeed, a woman who couldn't even undress herself. Pulling at the materials of her shoulders, then her corset it would not cease to stop clinging to her, almost as though each time she clutched it away from her it would return to wrap around her tighter than before. Claiming her. Pulling harder, the white material of the shoulder ripped, and came away, along with the necklace. In a heated flurry of screams, Rose stripped herself of whatever she could manage to without the aid of another. The pins of her hair dug into her scalp, twisted and tucking her fiery curls away like nails upon her head digging in and embedding themselves into her without drawing blood.

Left facing herself in the mirror, Rose was astonished. Her hair was dishevelled, hanging about her shoulders in unruly curls. Her once beautiful dress was torn away from her and somehow, she had managed to escape the entire garment where it lay at her feet in white and royal blue rags with buttons discarded about the floor. Oh, how this morning the majestic gown had hung upon the dresser at the Savoy, and as Trudy had slipped her into it, Cal had beamed with pride after a heated discussion in which she had suggested wearing black.

You cannot wear black on sailing day, sweetpea, it would bring us bad luck.

I felt like black.

Rose had felt as though she was been led to her execution. Perhaps, the mood had been more fitting. Mechanically, she had moved as Trudy had dressed her. Pinned her hair. Applied rouge and lipstick. Slipped her dainty, useless hands into fine silk gloves and then, placed a hat upon her head, one as large as the Titanic herself. Oh, she had looked like royalty; all eyes thrust upon the young woman about to become Caledon Hockley's bride. The woman who was charming, gracious and elegant. Now, she was stripped.