Come, Josephine

Chapter 33

1928
Mamma instinctively look Jack's hand as we approached the house. Her fingers intwined with his and he squeezed her hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the worried glances that he threw her way, each time turning his head a fraction to catch sight of her face. I too noticed that her skin was too pale, her cheeks without blush. Her eyes panned the grey face of the house in a troubled manner.
   I wondered about what she must be seeing. Jack and I could only see the house itself; the worn, surprisingly modest face, the small yard at the front, and the widows on each side of the door. Mamma must have been able to see a great deal more. Perhaps she saw only the contents of the house, or her mother sitting at her writing-desk. Perhaps it was not what she saw but what she could not possibly know. For the meagre abode in front of us was not the grand house she was raised in.
  She stopped, silent and grave. She did not move from where she stood, just short of the front gate, for a long while.
   "Rose?" Jack turned her to face him, studying her face with pained curiosity.
   "I can't do this. I can't go back in there."
   A sob broke from her. He pulled her in, his arms around her neck, shielding her from view. Her whole frame shook, her face hidden in his shirt. When she had stopped crying, he released her.
   She wiped her eyes and looked up at Jack. He eyes met his with unspoken words, perhaps a silent thank you. When she turned to me, I could see her entire expression had changed; her mouth showed the whisper of a smile, her eyes shadowed with laughter. The redness that rimmed her eyes were the only sign that she had been crying only a moment before.
Jack silently led us to the house, and knocked on the front door. A maid, thin and grey, answered the door.
"How can I help you, sir?" He voice was lilted with some sort of Celtic accent. Non-distinct, but prettily lifted in tune. She smoothed her skirt and smiled plainly.
"We're here to visit Mrs DeWitt Bukater," Jack said, peering around the door, "which room is she in?"
The maid seemed a little taken aback, staring at him wide-eyed, "Sir, my mistress is not accepting visitors at this time-"
"I'm sure my mother will want to see me," mamma snapped, "let me in."
"Yes ma'am," she curtsied, stepping back and showing them into a small, drab room just off the entryway, "my apologies. I'll let her know you're here."
Mamma gave a grim dismissal of a smile and the maid turned and left. Jack gave her a nod as she passed, his chin dipping from its unusually high position, his eyes following her with curiosity. He caught my eye, and grinned, "I have a feeling I drew her in Paris."
   I laughed, muffling the noise with my hand. Jack gave a boyish wink, returning to the free-spirit mamma had met. In an instant, I understood the truth; mamma, and her vicious wit and remarks, was simply putting on a facade. She was trying to protect herself from the realities she had had to face. Society, and it's pressures, had shaped her with its constricting embrace.
   Jack was different. While he was jovial by nature, had a similar front. While mamma became cold and withdrawn, Jack defused tension with anecdotes and tales. He held his chin high so that no one of Rose's prior rank would judge him harshly, and became confident with fear.
   Mamma was pacing the room, picking up ornaments and turning them in her hands. She examined each one carefully until she spotted one on the mantelpiece. She crossed the room, and was upon it at once. She picked it up, holding it tightly in her hands. She did not examine it. Instead, she slipped it into a pocket hidden in her skirt.
   She replaced it with a similar item from the windowsill, and turned back to Jack and I as if it hadn't happened. Suddenly, she pointed to a paining hanging on the wall, "see that?" She said, "this is why I first fell in love with art; see how it's use of colour is so unusual, Jack? The painting is of my father, so I'm naturally inclined to love the thing- but look, look at that use of blues and greys in the collar of his smoking jacket. Do you see?"
   The portrait was beautiful. It was a life-like portrayal of a man I had never met. His gaze was intimidating, his mouth twisted in a kind manner. The cracks around those piercing, greyed eyes revealed a jolly inclination.
   "What was he like?" Jack said.
   "He was... difficult. Wonderful. He was twenty or so years older than my mother- you can see in his portrait- and they were a similar match to Cal and I. He was never cruel, though. He was a little aloof, naturally, but I don't think he minded as much as he should have that I was a girl. He was disappointed, though- mother never let me forget that- but he loved me all the same. I loved him back," she swiped at her eyes, "he never would have let mother marry me off that way."
   Jack didn't offer to hug her the way he had before. He let her stand strong, held together by spite alone.
   The maid entered again, and mamma's face turned to stone, "My mistress is ready to receive you now, Miss DeWitt Bukater."
   "Mrs Dawson," she curtly replied, "thank you."
   Jack, ignoring the indication that mamma was supposed to go in alone, placed a hand on her shoulder. She kept walking with his steady reassurance, and I closely followed.
   The bedroom door loomed near, and mamma balked at the appearance of it. The maid opened it, revealing a four-poster bed, and Ruth herself.