MAKING LUCK
Chapter One

Wednesday, April 10, 1912
South Western Hotel
Southampton, England

Cal groaned. Someone was knocking at the door and he wanted them to stop.

Now.

He groaned again and shifted. Something didn’t feel right; perhaps it was the fact that someone wouldn’t let him sleep.

"Go away," he muttered.

He heard voices in the next room. At least the knocking had stopped. After a moment, he heard a door shut and someone open his own door. "Mr. Hockley?"

Cal groaned again. "What?" he snapped. The voice sounded familiar, but he was much too tired to place it.

"It’s time to get up now. Mrs. and Miss DeWitt Bukater are already eating breakfast."

Cal scoffed. "Really, that’s quite ridiculous…" He sat up and realized just what was wrong.

He was supposed to be dead.

But he wasn’t.

And what’s worse, he seemed to be in a time and place he had already been in; surely that wasn’t good? He recognized the hotel room vaguely, and its furnishings indicated an Edwardian style. And, by God, was that Lovejoy standing in his room? That was impossible. And Mrs. and Miss…no. Surely not. This was really quite ludicrous. Surely…surely he was only imagining this? Perhaps this was an aftereffect of…of death? Yes, that would be it. This was a nightmare of sorts, a sort of punishment for his sins on earth. His family should be marching in any moment.

"Are you quite all right, sir?" Lovejoy asked, an eyebrow cocked.

Cal glanced at him exasperatedly. "Perfectly," he snarled.

Lovejoy paused for a beat. "Will you be needing any assistance?"

Did the man not get it?

"I’ll be fine, Lovejoy," Cal snarled, throwing off his covers.

Lovejoy bowed his head. "Of course, sir." As he swished out of the room--Lovejoy had always seemed to swish wherever he went--Cal wondered how he had ever forgotten how disturbingly annoying that man was. He had always meant to have a word with his father about him, but nothing could very well be done after Lovejoy went down on the Titanic. Speaking of which…surely…surely not?

"Lovejoy!" he barked.

The man swished into the room promptly. "Yes, sir?"

"What’s on the agenda for today?" Cal asked, pacing up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He was trying to jog his mind into working again, trying to think clearly.

"We…board the ship at 11:30. Sir." Lovejoy was staring at Cal as if he had never seen anything quite like him.

"I know that!" Cal spat, trying to cover up his dread. "I only meant that…when are the damned cabs getting here? And what time is it now?"

Lovejoy seemed to physically relax now that he knew his charge was in possession of all of his faculties. "The cabs are coming at a quarter past eleven, sir, and it is now…" He consulted his pocket watch. "A few minutes past nine."

"Very good." Cal stopped pacing and released his hands. "Lovejoy, do be sure that everything is packed and ready to go." He remembered last time; it was a wonder they had made the ship on time.

"Of course, sir." Lovejoy bowed his head and swished out of the room.

Cal began to undress, contemplating the situation. So. He wasn’t dead at all, it appeared; instead, it would seem that he had been thrown back into April 10, 1912. But why? That had been the most traumatic night in his life; why was he expected to do it over again? Unless…his face paled. Unless he was in some twisted purgatory and this was his penance—to relive the Titanic forever and ever. Surely God wouldn’t be so cruel?

As he put on the suit that had been laid out for him, he assessed his options. Well, there was nothing much to be done at this point, was there? He could always stay here, though. Perhaps he could convince Rose and Ruth that maiden voyages were bad luck?

"That won’t work, you know."

Cal nearly tore out a button as he took notice of a young girl in blonde pigtails. She was sitting in midair, cross-legged, her elbows resting on her knees and her face resting on the palms of her hands. She carried an almost bored aura, as if she would rather be anywhere right now than watching Cal dress. He would rather she be anywhere, too.

"I…who the hell are you?" he sputtered.

The girl sighed. "Oh, no one important. You don’t need to know who I am. But you do need to listen to me. You can’t stay in Southampton. You have to get on the Titanic today. It’s the only way."

"What’s the only way?" Cal demanded.

The girl sighed again. "Please don’t question me; it’s not for you to know yet. That’s up to Him."

"Who’s him?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "God. He’s the only high order there is, you know. ‘Course, if you’d attended church wholeheartedly instead of doing it for propriety’s sake, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?"

"You’re not an angel sent from God," Cal stated confidently. "You’re much too cheeky."

The girl straightened up, her arms resting in her lap. "Caledon Hockley, I have been sent here by the Lord Almighty and I will not leave, nor can you leave, until you swear to get on that ship."

Cal was quiet for a moment. "Well…all right. But…why am I here again? Can you tell me that, at least?"

The girl stared at him for a moment. "You are here to redeem yourself for what happened seventeen years ago."

"It’s not my fault the damn ship sank!"

"Of course it isn’t," the girl said impatiently. "But you weren’t completely innocent then, you know."

There was a knock on the door. Both Cal’s and the girl’s heads whipped towards it.

"I have to go," the girl said quickly, her legs falling off of, well, whatever was supporting them, and she stood up, still hovering. "I’ll be back. I have to. But don’t make a scene; try not to change anything from last time."

Before Cal could say or do anything else, she was gone. Just like that. Spicer Lovejoy opened the door and came through, closing it behind him. He took in the sight of a somewhat rattled Cal, his shirt partially unbuttoned. "Do you need assistance, sir?"

"Of course not," Cal spat, once he could form the words. He reached for his buttons and did his best to steady his fumbling hands. "Is my breakfast ready?"

"Waiting for you right now," Lovejoy assured him.

"Good." Cal finished dressing--he had forgotten how much styles had changed in the past almost twenty years--and strolled briskly out of his room, pushing his black hair back as he did so. He would need to slick it down later, but right now, he was admittedly eager to see Rose.

And there she was. His angel, his queen, his divine goddess. She was still in a pale yellow dressing gown and her hair was tumbling down her shoulders, unbound by its usual pins and adornments, but he still thought her lovely. She was demurely sipping from her tea, her eyes lowered. He wanted so badly for her to look up at him. Ruth was prattling away across the table from her, looking almost laughably prim and proper even in her own satin dressing gown.

"Ah…Mr. Hockley!" Ruth greeted, her voice rising girlishly. She had always been enamored of him; it was a shame Rose hadn’t felt the same way.

"Morning, Ruth. Morning, Sweetpea!" he greeted, awarding Rose with a dazzling smile. She returned the gesture half-heartedly before lowering her eyes again and stirring her tea. He pretended not to notice as he sat down and began eating. "Did you ladies sleep well last night?"

"Oh, perfectly," Ruth assured him. "And how did you sleep, Mr. Hockley?"

Cal was starting to remember why he’d dropped Ruth so quickly after the Carpathia docked. "Oh, adequately enough," he said with his signature smile. "And how are you this morning, Sweetpea?" He turned to Rose; he could care less how Ruth felt.

She shrugged. "I’m all right. But I still don’t see why we couldn’t eat downstairs with everyone else."

"Well, it’s so crowded down there, you know," Ruth said soothingly. "Mr. Hockley wanted to avoid the clamor; didn’t you?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Cal had forgotten about that.

The rest of breakfast was extremely uneventful, filled only with Ruth’s senseless chatter. No wonder Rose had jumped back on the Titanic that night; Cal would, too, if Ruth was his mother. When he could take it no longer, he excused himself and went to see about the final preparations. By 11:15, all was ready except for Rose.

"What on earth could be taking her so long?" Cal asked impatiently, tapping his cane as they waited.

"I haven’t the faintest," Ruth huffed. "Oh, honestly, that girl!"

The door to Rose’s suite opened then and revealed the normally fashionable seventeen-year-old swathed in black. Cal’s mouth fell open; he had forgotten about that.

"Rose…" Ruth hissed, cheeks flushing in humiliation.

"Sweetpea," Cal said in a singsong voice, stepping forward and trying not to clench his teeth. "I think you ought to go change into something…happier."

"Why?" Rose asked dully.

Cal stepped forward again and resisted the urge to grab her arm; that was not the way to win her. "It’s not lucky on sailing day, especially on a maiden voyage. Please go change, darling."

Rose’s eyes showed a flash of defiance before she sighed and turned back into her room.

"And do hurry! We don’t want to miss the ship!" Cal called after her as a frantic Trudy closed the door.

"I do apologize; I simply can’t imagine what’s gotten into her!" Ruth said, flustered.

Cal made no response; he gritted his teeth and glanced at his pocket watch. Twenty minutes later, Rose finally exited her room again, this time in her pinstripe suit and a wide purple hat.

"It’s about time," Ruth hissed in Rose’s ear.

"Let’s hurry, ladies." Cal ushered them out the door, into the lifts, and into the idling cabs outside. Everything was taken care of; they had only to board the ship now. By the time they got there, they were some of the last people to board. Cal had forgotten that he had booked passage at the last minute; therefore, they had to enter along with all the steerage filth instead of the first class terminal.

As the door opened, Cal couldn’t help but stare in awe at the great titan before them. He whistled. She truly was a beauty. It was such a shame that she would never reach New York with all the pomp and circumstance that she deserved.

"I don’t see what all the fuss is about," Rose said with cool appraisal. "It doesn’t look any bigger than the Mauretania."

Cal scoffed good-naturedly; oh, what a little imp she was! What was it he had said again? "You can scoff at some things, Rose, but not the Titanic! She’s over a hundred feet longer than the Mauretania and much more luxurious! She’s equipped with squash courts, a Parisian café, even Turkish baths!" Well, that was close enough. He turned to hand Ruth out of the car. "Mind your step," he warned, gesturing to a puddle with his cane.

"So, this is the ship they say is unsinkable," Ruth observed, impressed.

"So they say," Cal agreed. A moment later, he felt a porter tap him on the shoulder and blather something about luggage and a main terminal. Cal put a five in the man’s pocket. "I put my faith in you, good sir. Now, Lovejoy will direct you…" Cal moved on as Lovejoy went to give instructions to the porter. "We’d better hurry, ladies."

A man careened into Cal, chasing after two boys.

"Steady!" Cal cried.

"Sorry, squire!" the man said in a Cockney accent before racing off.

Cal stared in disgust. "Steerage swine. Apparently missed his annual bath."

"Honestly, Cal, if you weren't forever booking everything at the last instant, we could have gone through the terminal instead of running along the dock like some squalid immigrant family," Ruth said with a tinkling sort of laugh.

"All part of my charm, Ruth. At any rate, it was my darling fiancée’s beauty rituals which made us late," Cal said with a definite tense note in his voice.

"You told me to change," Rose reminded him.

"I couldn’t let you wear black on sailing day, Sweetpea. It’s bad luck," Cal reminded her as sweetly as he could. He had to keep her this time.

"I felt like black," Rose responded without conviction.

"Here I've pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, in her most luxurious suites...and you act as if you're going to your execution!" Cal paled for a moment; oh, the irony of it all. But he wouldn’t let her die again. Not while he could help it.

Cal knew the way to their suites; being on the ship again brought old memories back to life.

"My, you certainly know your way around, Mr. Hockley!" Ruth exclaimed as she, Rose, Lovejoy, Trudy, and that other maid—what was her name? Oh, yes, Dinah—scurried to keep up with him.

"It’s not that difficult, really," Cal lied. "Oh, here we are."

Servants scampered in and out of the room, unloading luggage and arranging everything just so. Cal shed his jacket and poured himself a glass of wine, watching the proceedings. Secretly, he was fascinated; he had yet to encounter a room that rivaled this suite. But nothing was supposed to impress Caledon Hockley, let alone fascinate him, and so he kept up the façade he was expected to. He leaned against the doorframe and watched Rose unpack all of those paintings. They would become famous in the years to come, but no one was to know that now. "Those mud puddles were certainly a waste of money. You’re glad I love you so much, Rose."

Rose refused to meet his eyes. "You’re wrong. About them being a waste of money. They’re fascinating. Like being inside a dream or something. There’s truth but no logic."

"What’s the artist’s name, ma’am?" Trudy asked softly.

"Something Picasso," Rose replied, arranging a Degas.

Cal snorted to himself; that man would become filthy rich off of his paintings, and here Cal had said he’d never amount to a thing. He spotted the safe being wheeled in. "Ah…put it in there." He motioned towards his room with his glass. His eye caught Rose going into her room with Trudy behind her, but something told him not to follow her like last time. He wandered back out onto the promenade.

"You were right not to follow her."

Cal nearly dropped the glass as he whirled around and saw the blonde girl again. She was sitting cross-legged in the air again, elbows on knees and chin in hands and a bored expression on her face.

"You again?"

She nodded and gave one of her little sighs. "Yes." She glanced around her. "Nice room."

"Thank you." He said it by reflex. Cal cleared his throat; just what did one say to a girl sent from God? "Would you…like a drink?" he asked, holding up the glass.

She looked at him ruefully, dropping her hands from her chin. "How can I when I’m a ghost?" She smoothed the creases in her dress; Cal didn’t know ghosts could have wrinkles. "Besides, I’m only fourteen."

Cal opened his mouth to say something when he decided against it. "So…have you anything else to tell me? Or are you finished with cryptic instructions?"

The girl gave him a cool glare. "I don’t like you, Mr. Hockley. Not one bit. My reasons for that are my own. But while I’m here, you have to listen to me. I’m here to guide you, like it or not."

"Then guide me!" Cal said frustratedly. "Guide me off of this damn ship!"

The girl looked sad then. "I can’t," she said quietly.

"Then why are you here?" Cal bellowed.

The girl let one leg dangle. "You’ll see. But not now. This is only the first day of the voyage."

Cal heard voices out in the lounge. The girl appeared to stand up. But before she could move, Cal held up a hand. "Wait."

She paused.

"What is your name?"

The girl hesitated. "Ruthie. But don’t expect me to come every time you call." And with that, she was gone.

"Mr. Hockley?" Lovejoy swished onto the promenade. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course it is," Cal said briskly. "Why wouldn’t it be?"

"I could’ve sworn I heard talking…" Lovejoy said in a lower tone, glancing around suspiciously.

Cal laughed falsely. "Oh, just talking to myself. It’s damned good luck of us to get these suites, wouldn’t you say?"

"Indeed; it was extremely fortunate that Mr. Morgan offered them," Lovejoy agreed easily.

Morgan? Ah…yes. Now he remembered. These suites had been reserved for J.P. Morgan, but he decided against it at the last minute and offered them to Cal. These were the days, when Cal rubbed elbows with the world’s finest. And speaking of the world’s finest, Cal bumped into a fair number of them over the course of the afternoon. He knew more were still to come when they stopped in Cherbourg, and that’s when the plan came to him. He had agreed to get on this blasted ship, but the girl, Ruthie, had never said anything about when he could disembark.

As the ship came into sight of the port, Cal began to throw some of his things in a suitcase. Perhaps he could convince Rose to come with him; then they could find another ship out of Cherbourg as soon as possible and live. And then Rose would be so grateful to him for taking her off of that ship when she found out it sank, and she would love him—

"I really wouldn’t advise that if I were you."

Cal dropped his shirts. "Damn it!" He whirled around and spotted Ruthie sitting on his dresser, looking bored again. "Why are you torturing me?"

"Well, that’s rather the point of this whole affair, isn’t it?" She sighed. "Mr. Hockley, your antics might be amusing to some, but I wasn’t sent here to act as your nanny. If you can’t stay on the ship, I’ll have to lock you in your room, which I’m sure would be extremely humiliating for you."

His mouth opened and closed several times in shock. "You…you wouldn’t dare!"

Ruthie crossed her arms. "I think you’ll find I would. Now, which is it going to be? Can you behave like a good little boy, or shall I lock you in?"

Cal clenched his teeth. "You little…I…oh, damn it all!" He tried to make a run for it, but suddenly Ruthie was before him and he ran through her, feeling as if he had just run through the Atlantic water. He halted and bent at the waist, gripping his knees and panting.

"I can see we’ll do things the difficult way." Ruthie waved a hand and he heard a distinctive click. "There."

Cal glanced around, realizing he truly was trapped. Unless…

"That won’t work."

He gaped at the ghost. She shrugged and twirled a dirty lock of blonde hair around her finger. "I’m not leaving until the tenders are gone and you have no way of getting off this ship, so don’t even think about shouting for help." She tilted her head. "In fact, I think it’s best you just go lie down."

Cal felt a powerful force pushing him to the bed. The harder he fought, the more force he felt against him. Against his will, he lay down on the bed. His jaw held fast; he was trapped. With horrified eyes, he watched as the little blonde girl transformed into a mirror image of himself. The door clicked open, but he couldn’t move. She disappeared through it; a moment later, Cal heard his own voice saying, "I’m terribly sorry, ladies, but I’m afraid I’m feeling rather ill tonight. I don’t think I will be able to join you for dinner."

"Darling, are you all right?" Rose’s voice asked.

"Just a little headache, Sweetpea; nothing for you to worry about," Cal’s voice assured her.

"Well, if you’re sure…" Ruth’s voice hesitated.

"Go on; I’ll be fine tomorrow," Cal’s voice promised.

"Do you need anything, Mr. Hockley?" Lovejoy’s voice asked as the rustle of dresses indicated movement. The door opened and closed; the women had gone.

"Just rest. Go on and have your supper."

"If you’re certain…"

"Positive."

Ruthie-Cal reappeared in the doorway just as the main door opened and closed. Cal was alone in his stateroom now. She trembled for a moment and then returned to her normal figure. "I really am sorry for all of this," she apologized, "but you really can’t leave." She floated up a few feet and crossed her legs, resting her elbows on them again. The sight irked Cal.

"Can’t you leave?" he snapped.

She gave a small little sigh. "Not until the tenders are gone."

"Then I beg you to be kind enough not to stare at me."

Something like a smile flitted across her face for a moment before she obligingly turned and faced the wall. A few moments of silence elapsed before Cal cleared his throat. "What precisely is so important about me staying here?"

Ruthie began to play with one of the dirty pink ribbons in her hair. "Well, if I was allowed to tell you, I would’ve done it already, wouldn’t I?"

Cal huffed childishly. "Well, how am I supposed to know what to do if you won’t tell me?"

Ruthie shrugged indifferently. "You’ll know."

Cal scoffed. "Why were you sent to me, then?" He paused. "You didn’t go down, did you?"

She shook her head dolefully. "No. But I am dead."

Cal was quiet for a moment. "How?"

She tensed--or so he thought; he wasn’t sure if ghosts could really tense. "A fire. It was years ago."

So that explained why she was so dirty; it was soot all over her. But something still wasn’t adding up. Cal frowned. "But why you—"

"It’s none of your business," she interrupted coolly.

Cal huffed. "If you’re going to be so cryptic and you won’t leave, can’t you at least put me to sleep or something?"

Ruthie looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding. "Yes." She rose--or something like it--and came towards him. She waved her hand and Cal knew no more.

Chapter Two
Stories