The Shakespeare company left Denver on October twelfth and headed for San Francisco, arriving on October fourteenth. Their stay in San Francisco was to be the longest of any city that year—over two months, with the company scheduled to split up for a month starting December eighteenth and reuniting in St. Louis on January eighteenth.
San Francisco was one of the nation’s newer major cities, having only been established as a large city for about sixty-four years, and its newness was still visible. In addition, it had been partially burned several times in the early years, and partially destroyed by the earthquake some seven years earlier.
The theater that the troupe was to perform in had been built about two years after the earthquake and still maintained its aura of newness. It was still bright and well cared for, not weathered and well used as some of the theaters that members of the troupe were accustomed to.
The only problem they found was that there were only two dressing rooms. The theater had originally been designed with community productions in mind, and no one had thought of the possibility that large numbers of professionals, with their higher expectations, would be using it, and it was the first time the Shakespeare troupe had been in San Francisco. The dressing rooms were large enough, and for the most part the stars didn’t object to sharing with others, but the sheer number of people, combined with the natural tension brought about by stage fright, sometimes made the close quarters uncomfortable.
Rose didn’t usually mind sharing space with others, but facing a new audience on a new stage made her nervous, and having to deal with Marietta immediately before the show didn’t help. Marietta had taken to taunting Rose over her break-up with Richard—which had actually been amiable enough; there had been no professional problems between them after they went their separate ways. Marietta, however, still resented Rose’s presence, and often went out of her way to antagonize her.
Rose frequently had to restrain herself from responding to Marietta’s taunts, knowing that responding would only make things worse. Marietta was looking for a reaction, and on the occasions when Rose lost her temper and snapped back, she was pleased, and quickly came up with more ways to bedevil Rose. Evelyn commented that what Marietta needed was a good kick in the backside, but Rose resisted the desire to lash out at her nemesis. Marietta would undoubtedly find a way to make it appear that Rose had unjustifiably attacked her.
Once the plays were in production and she had grown accustomed to the new stage, Rose took the time to try to find her old friend Deborah Hill. She wasn’t sure where to look for her, since she hadn’t heard from her in over seven years, but she wanted to find out what had happened to her. It was possible that the Hills were no longer living in San Francisco, or that Deborah had married or left the area, or that she had died, but Rose wanted to find out for sure what had happened, if she could.
One Monday late in October—her day off—Rose made her way to a local library that had a collection of city directories going back several years. After searching through several of them, as well as a stack of old newspapers, Rose discovered that the Hills had left San Francisco in May of 1906 and returned just the year before in August of 1912. She didn’t know where they’d been in the meantime, but she did find an address.
That afternoon, Rose took the trolley to one of the richer sections of San Francisco. She was a bit nervous about seeing them; she hadn’t seen either Deborah or her family since 1905, and she hadn’t even set foot in an upper class neighborhood since she had left home in 1912.
Rose strolled slowly through the streets of expensive houses, searching for the Hills’ home. She had dressed in her best clothes—one of the silk day dresses she had taken when she left Philadelphia—but she knew that she wouldn’t quite fit in. The dress was out of style, somewhat worn, and Rose had taken out the seams a little so that it could be worn without a corset. Wearing a corset onstage was bad enough; she wasn’t going to squeeze herself into one of the torturous undergarments on her time off.
She finally found the Hill mansion, a large, three-story building with freshly painted woodwork. A gardener was out front, working in a beautifully laid out flower garden. He glanced at her as she walked up to the front door, then went back to pruning some rosebushes.
Rose rang the doorbell and waited until a short, heavy-set woman in a maid’s uniform came to the door. "Can I help you?" the housekeeper asked, eyeing Rose’s worn dress and sturdy shoes.
"Is Mr. or Mrs. Hill home, or Deborah?" she asked, trying to act in the manner of members of the upper class.
"Mrs. Hill is at home," the housekeeper replied. "Mr. Hill is at the office, and Miss Deborah was married in September and lives two blocks from here. May I say who’s calling?"
So Deborah was still around. "Tell Mrs. Hill that Rose DeWitt Bukater is here." It felt odd, using her old name, but Mrs. Hill probably wouldn’t recognize Rose Dawson.
The housekeeper closed the door, leaving Rose waiting outside. She sat down on a bench near the door, giving her tired feet a rest. A few minutes later, the housekeeper returned and beckoned to her.
"Mrs. Hill will see you now."
Rose followed her into the house. The interior of the mansion was cheerfully decorated, with portraits, paintings, and photographs gracing several walls. Rose recognized one painting by Degas, and another by Picasso. Apparently the Hills thought more of his work than Cal had.
Mrs. Hill was sitting in a chair in the parlor, sewing some intricate beadwork onto a gown. Rose smiled, remembering how Deborah’s mother had made a hobby out of sewing and designing clothes when she and Deborah had been children. Each girl had sported some beautifully made dresses, courtesy of Belinda Hill’s favorite activity.
Mrs. Hill set her work aside as Rose entered the room, coming to greet her. She looked at her for a moment, taking in Rose’s worn clothing, her mind already going over ways to improve the old dress, and noticing the changes in Rose’s appearance in eight years.
"Rosie D. Bukater!" she exclaimed, using the name that many of the children in the neighborhood in Philadelphia had used when the Hills had lived there. "I never expected to see you here! You still look about the same, though I don’t think those matching dresses I made for you and Deborah before we left would still fit either of you."
Rose blushed at Mrs. Hill’s assessment. Although she was still easily recognizable, even after eight years, she was now considerably taller than she had been at ten, and she no longer looked like a child.
"You haven’t changed much either, Mrs. Hill."
"You’re just being nice," she told her, waving a hand.
It’s true, though, Rose thought. Belinda Hill still looked much the same as she had eight years earlier, although now, at forty-five, she had a few fine lines around her eyes and two dramatic streaks of silver in her upswept brown hair. She had always been a striking, unconventionally beautiful woman, and that hadn’t changed.
"So, Rose, what are you doing in San Francisco?"
Rose hesitated a moment, then decided that it was best to just tell the truth. "I’m an actress with a traveling theater troupe. We do Shakespeare."
"You always did have a dramatic flair," Mrs. Hill commented, gesturing to her to sit down. "Is your family in San Francisco?"
Rose shook her head. "No. My father passed away about three years ago, and my mother is still living in Philadelphia." At least, she hoped so.
"I’m sorry to hear about your father. How is your mother doing?"
Again, Rose hesitated. "I’m not really sure. I haven’t seen her in almost a year and a half."
"A year and a half?"
"I left home to become an actress, and Mother...didn’t care for that decision."
"No, I guess she wouldn’t. As I recall, she had very definite ideas about what was appropriate and what wasn’t."
Rose wondered for a moment why Mrs. Hill hadn’t commented on Rose’s leaving Cal at the altar, but then recalled that she had never been particularly interested in the society columns, which she considered a waste of time. Such diverse subjects as women’s suffrage, finance, and fashion interested her, but gossip did not.
"So little Rosie is now an actress! What role do you play?"
"I’m a leading lady in three Shakespeare plays—As You Like It, Hamlet, and King Lear."
"A leading lady! Congratulations. What theater are you performing at?"
"The Moore Theater. Are you familiar with it?"
"Yes. We financed several productions there. It’s good to bring culture to the masses."
Rose raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.
"Which play is showing Saturday?"
"King Lear."
Mrs. Hill thought for a moment. "We have company Saturday afternoon, but I’m sure we could be there Saturday night."
"The play starts at eight."
"Are there still tickets available?"
"Yes. If you hurry."
"Well, then, if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll call Mr. Hill at his office and ask him to purchase four tickets for Saturday’s performance."
Rose sat quietly while Mrs. Hill went to make her call. Deborah’s mother hadn’t changed much over the years. She was still open and friendly, but somewhat snobbish when dealing with those less fortunate than herself. Still, she wasn’t a bad person, and had done a great deal of good charity work back in Philadelphia. She had undoubtedly done the same in San Francisco and wherever else she had been.
Mrs. Hill returned to the parlor. "He’s sent his secretary to purchase the tickets," she told Rose. "We’ll both be there, and so will Deborah and her husband."
"How is Deborah? I haven’t heard from her since April of 1906."
"She hasn’t contacted you at all? I thought surely she would have."
"No."
Mrs. Hill shook her head. "That’s odd, because you two were the best of friends. Still, she had a rough time of it after the earthquake, and maybe that’s why she never contacted you."
"What happened?"
"We were living in a lovely brick house when the earthquake struck. The brick, of course, crumbled, and the house fell in. Mr. Hill and I escaped unscathed, but Deborah wasn’t so lucky. She injured her back badly and hasn’t been able to walk since. We searched for a cure for years, but never found one. The doctors say that you can’t cure a broken back. She can feel a little bit in her toes, but that’s all. She can’t walk at all."
"That’s terrible!" Rose exclaimed, feeling horrible about what had happened to her friend. No wonder Deborah had never contacted her.
"We took her from doctor to doctor, trying to find a cure, but nothing ever worked. Finally, she declared that if took her to one more charlatan with special medicines, diets, and exercises, she was going to run away from home, then cried because she couldn’t run. We finally resigned ourselves to the fact that she wasn’t going to get better—it took us longer than it took her. She’s in a wheelchair now, and gets around very well. Her legs don’t work, but her arms are strong."
"Your housekeeper said that she’s married."
"Yes. She was married early in September, about six weeks ago, to a fine young man. He doesn’t care that she can’t walk, and he’s even had elevators installed in their house so that she could get up and down stairs without being carried. A happier pair I’ve never seen. I may have grandchildren yet."
"I’d like to visit her."
"She lives just two blocks from here, in a lovely house with vines growing up the sides. A bit eccentric, but it makes her happy. In fact, I was going to visit with her this afternoon, around three o’clock. Would you like to come along?"
"Will she want to see me?"
"I’m sure she will. She’s not nearly so self-conscious now as she was just after the earthquake. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you."