RUNAWAY ROSE
Chapter Eighty-Four
August 30, 1917
A week later, Ruth convinced Jack and Rose to
join herself and Nathan at a society function. Rose was reluctant, remembering
the reception she had received when she first arrived in Philadelphia, but Ruth
coaxed and cajoled her until she finally agreed.
Jack was more interested in attending the
society function than Rose was. He had never been to such an event, and was
curious as to what went on at one. This society function was a charity gala to
support the war effort. Rose couldn’t help but think of Will Hutchison, so far
away in Europe, and was even more reluctant to attend, but she agreed to go
there with Jack. She, at least, was familiar with high society, and could act
as an intermediary between her worldly fiancé and the people he would meet.
Jack’s only experience with high society was the dinner he had attended with
Rose, Ruth, and Cal on the Titanic.
There would be a number of important people
present, including international representatives, so Ruth bullied her daughter
and soon-to-be son-in-law into shopping for proper clothing. Rose actually
enjoyed the shopping trip—she had forgotten how much fun it could be to shop
with her mother—but Jack stood around, bored, or settled onto the nearest bench
or chair to wait while they perused the selections. He, like many men, found
shopping dull. When she had finally selected a gown for the event, Rose
returned to where she had left Jack, only to find him dozing peacefully, his
feet sprawled out for anyone to trip over. His walking stick lay on the bench
beside him.
Rose woke Jack, and he reluctantly went with
her to select his own attire. He had worn formal clothing only twice in his
life—at the dinner on the Titanic and at his wedding to Amelia—and he still
disliked the stiff, hot tuxedo he was expected to wear. Such clothing, he
thought, did not belong at summer events. Ruth also purchased a gentleman’s
walking stick for him, insisting that he leave the intricately carved manzanita
walking stick at home when going to the charity gala. He and Rose both balked
at the idea, but when Ruth threatened to hide it, leaving him to limp all
night, he finally gave in.
On the night of the gala, Jack and Rose came
down the stairs together. Jack wore a simple black tuxedo with a white shirt
and leaned on the fancy walking stick, while Rose wore an elegant green satin
evening gown and had her hair neatly pinned up in a French twist. They looked
striking together, though Jack still grumbled about the hot formal attire and
Rose tugged irritably at her corset when she thought no one was looking.
They arrived at the gala in style in the
flashy Daimler-Benz that the Hockleys owned. The four guests emerged from the
car with the assistance of the driver, entering the reception hall of the
corporate building where the event was being held.
Rose wondered briefly how her mother had
gotten them in on such short notice—the event had obviously been planned for
months—but realized that Nathan Hockley’s money and influence could open a lot
of doors. Ruth beamed as she entered the room with her long-lost daughter in
tow. People nodded to Ruth and Nathan, some whispering amongst themselves when
they saw Rose. A few young women looked at Jack with interest, in spite of the
walking stick and limp, but he only had eyes for Rose. Rose recognized some of
her former classmates in the crowd, most of them now married and on the arms of
their spouses. The children, of course, had been left at home. They would be
bored, loud, and disruptive at such an event.
It was all bright and glittery, the people
elegantly dressed. Women sported a fantastic array of jewelry and seemed
determined to outdo each other in jewelry and clothing. None of them had
changed much since Rose had left them behind five years earlier.
In spite of the glamour of the scene, Rose
had to admit, if only to herself, that she would have preferred to spend the
evening alone with Jack. They would have had a quiet dinner, played with Rose’s
baby brother, of whom they were both becoming enamored, and finally retreated
to a single bedroom, unwatched by Ruth or Nathan, who insisted upon proper
conduct.
Rose sighed softly as they made their way
through the room, talking to people and accepting their polite greetings. Many
people were shocked to see Rose back, and more than a few were disapproving.
How could Ruth Hockley have accepted such an ungrateful child back into her
home? After all she had done for Rose, Rose had abandoned her. It was probably
Rose’s fault that Caledon Hockley had taken his own life—after all, there was
only so much a man could be expected to endure, and a faithless fiancée was
more than any man, especially a gentleman, should have to put up with.
Rose held her head high, but inside she was
seething. How could these people judge her without knowing what had really
happened? None of them had ever noticed the desperate situation she had been
in, anymore than any of them had really known Cal. If they had, they might not
be so quick to condemn—or maybe they would. High society was not known for
being forgiving.
Jack noticed her tension and squeezed her
hand reassuringly as they took their seats at one of the tables. "Are you
all right?" he whispered to her, pulling her chair out for her.
"Oh, Jack, it’s these people. I remember
again why I left. They’re such—such hypocrites. They put on a polite face, and
then whisper about you when they think you can’t hear them. They’re so locked
up in their own little world that they don’t recognize that things aren’t
perfect—even in their society. They judge without knowing the facts. It’s just
like I said on the Titanic—they’re floating around in a little champagne
bubble, thinking they’re gods, but they aren’t. They aren’t any better than
anyone else, and someday they’ll find that out."
Jack nodded. He had overheard a few of the
comments directed towards Rose, and had heard a few directed towards him. Some
people speculated as to whether he was the reason she had left Cal, or
whispered about them living in sin. One man had pulled him aside for a moment,
telling him to be careful—she might leave him just as she had left Cal, or as
she had left her husband. He hadn’t bothered to correct the man. He wondered
how they would react if he stood up and announced for all to hear what had
really happened—that he and Rose had met on the Titanic, that he was the one
she had tried to leave her fiancé for on the ship. She hadn’t left Cal because
of him—that had been Rose’s decision alone. Rose hadn’t left her husband—she
had buried him and gone on alone, and it had been many years before Jack and
Rose met again. He was tempted to do so, to put the wagging tongues to rest,
but he knew that Rose would be mortified, and wasn’t sure that anyone would
believe him, anyway.
"Don’t listen to them," he told
her. "You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Cal was the one who did
wrong—not you. Just hold your head high and ignore them, and if that doesn’t
work..." He smiled, remembering something she had told him. "Just
spit in their eyes."
In spite of her anger, Rose couldn’t help but
laugh at the thought of gossiping women running away, shrieking in horror, as
she spit on their elegantly made-up faces. She had told Jack the story of how
she had escaped Cal to come to his rescue on the Titanic, spitting in his face
and running away. She and Jack had both had a good laugh over that memory.
She smiled at him, slightly soothed.
"I’ll remember that," she whispered as the waiters began to serve the
food.
There were a number of people at their table who
she hadn’t met. Rose knew Jack and the Hockleys, of course, and she remembered
three people from when she was growing up. But there were also two businessmen
and their wives from New York City, one of whom Jack vaguely recognized, and a
diplomat from Mexico and his wife and grown daughter. Rose wondered at first if
they would be able to communicate, but all spoke fluent, if accented, English.
The diplomat’s daughter also spoke French, though it wasn’t particularly useful
at this gathering.
Rose joined in the conversation at first, but
she grew increasingly uncomfortable throughout the meal. The diplomat kept staring
at her as though trying to place her, although Rose was certain they had never
met before. He had never been to any of the gatherings she had attended as a
member of the upper class, and she had never met anyone of note in her brief
time in Mexico.
By the time dinner was over, Rose was glad to
escape onto the crowded dance floor with Jack. She felt better as part of a
crowd, where the elegantly attired foreigner couldn’t stare at her so oddly.
She and Jack moved slowly around the dance floor, much more slowly than they
had once danced, but at a high society function the slower, more staid type of
dancing was more acceptable anyway.
"Why did that man keep staring at
you?" Jack wanted to know as he slowly led her around the room.
"I don’t know. I’ve never met him before
in my life."
"Maybe he’s lusting after you."
"In front of his wife and daughter? I
doubt it. Besides, that wasn’t a lustful look he was giving me. Believe me, I
know the difference." She looked at the clock high on the wall. Three more
hours to go until the gala was over. "Let’s try to avoid him."
"Good idea," Jack began, but at
that moment the subject of their conversation interrupted them.
"May I cut in?" he asked, not waiting
for a reply. He quickly swept Rose away from Jack, Jack glowering at him the
whole time.
Rose maintained her calm façade, trying not
to show how uncomfortable she was. She looked around for an escape—Jack, her
mother, Nathan Hockley, even one of her old acquaintances. But the man was
determined to talk to her, and there was no slipping away.
"Rose Calvert, I presume?"
Rose’s heart rate sped up as she wondered how
he knew her name. Then she remembered that they had been introduced at dinner,
but for the life of her she couldn’t remember his name.
"I am Mrs. Calvert," she confirmed.
"I’m afraid I don’t remember your name, Señor."
He laughed lightly. "I see you speak a
little Spanish. My name is Felipe Ortiz, diplomat of Mexico."
Rose stared at him, wondering what he could
possibly want with her. He soon answered her question.
"Are you familiar with a man named Juan
Guerrero?"
Juan Guerrero? Rose thought. It can’t be the same man that I
killed in the desert. It just can’t. What would an important diplomat know
about a common bandit?
"I...I’m not certain," she told
him, struggling to stay calm. The urge to push him away and run was strong, but
she waited to hear what he had to say.
"Juan Guerrero was a notorious criminal
in Mexico, particularly in the northwestern part. He and his little group of
bandits are credited with a body count exceeding one hundred people. There may
be others we don’t know about. He was one of the most wanted men in
Mexico."
"That—that’s interesting, Señor, but why
are you telling me this?"
"Late in February, his little gang of
bandits showed up in one of the desert towns with his body in tow. He had been
shot cleanly and at close range through the heart. At first, they tried to take
credit for the killing, to earn the reward, but one among them told the truth.
A redheaded American woman whose plane they shot down in the desert killed
Guerrero. His story was investigated, of course. It did sound rather fantastic,
but the plane was found, as well as the remains of one of the passengers. There
was no sign of the woman, but a few news clippings and a letter were found in
the wreckage. One of the news clippings contained a photograph of the woman
beside the plane, and her name—Rose Calvert. Unless there is more than one Rose
Calvert with your features, it can be assumed that you were responsible. Using
the letter, investigators tracked you to a large ranch in California, but you
had left by then, and no one knew where you had gone. The case was quite
notorious, of course, so even those of us well outside the circles of law
enforcement heard about it."
Rose jerked away from him, her eyes wide. Her
worst nightmare had just come true—someone had tracked her down in connection
with Guerrero’s death. There might have been a reward for him, but she doubted
that a foreigner, who should never have been in Mexico in the first place,
would be allowed to get away with killing a Mexican citizen.
Her shoulders slumped in resignation for a
moment as she realized that she was at last getting her comeuppance. Her crime
had at last caught up to her. Maybe she should just allow herself to be
arrested, stand trial, and face whatever punishment she might be given.
A moment later, she changed her mind. If she
had been alone, she might have taken her punishment, but there was another
person to consider now. Her baby. She couldn’t give birth in some dark, filthy
prison. The baby would die there, as surely as her first baby had died—but it
would be all the worse, for it would have a chance to be born.
"Mrs. Calvert, I will contact the
authorities as soon as I can, so that—"
"No!" Rose’s exclamation sounded
above the voices and laughter and music. People stopped to stare at her.
"Stay away from me! It was self-defense! Do you understand?"
And without waiting for another word from Señor
Ortiz, she pushed her way through the crowd, her high heels clicking loudly on
the floor as she ran from the reception hall.