MAKING LUCK
Chapter Two

Thursday, April 11, 1912
RMS Titanic

When Cal awoke the next morning, he remembered where he was and why he was still fully-dressed. He groaned and got to his feet, stretching and popping a few muscles. He heard some faint movement out of the room; it appeared that the others were up. Cal went into his private bathroom for his toilet and, after freshening up, changed clothes. He was feeling strangely optimistic…until he sensed an unfortunately familiar presence. He turned around from where he had been tying his tie and saw her sitting on his bed. He frowned. "I didn’t see you in the mirror."

"I don’t show up in mirrors. Cameras, either, for that matter." Ruthie shifted, but the bed showed no indications of it. "I won’t be long; I only dropped in to make sure you don’t try to run off when the ship stops at Queenstown."

Truthfully, Cal had forgotten about the stop in Ireland, but he wasn’t about to try and escape now. He had learned his lesson. He turned back to the mirror. "No, I’m staying."

"Good. But remember--you’re still being watched. A series of situations have been formed to prevent you from getting away at all costs. And any mention you make of me or the ship sinking or anything else no one here is supposed to know will go completely unheard. It will be as if you’ve never said anything at all." Ruthie vanished. Cal was starting to get used to it.

But as he finished dressing, he couldn’t help remembering her warnings. Would he truly go unheard if he tried to warn Captain Smith about the bergs? Would anyone be able to hear him? And what on earth was his purpose for reliving this nightmare if he was supposed to do precisely what he did last time? Cal mused on this as he left his stateroom. Rose’s maid, Trudy, stepped out from the promenade with a coffeepot in her hand. "Oh, Mr. Hockley! Miss Rose is having breakfast on the promenade, if you’d like to join her."

"Yes, of course," Cal said absentmindedly, heading towards the open door. Sure enough, Rose was sitting at the table, wrapped in her blue kimono and looking as lovely as ever. "Good morning, Sweetpea!"

Rose looked up with surprise and something almost resembling concern. "Cal! Are you feeling all right?"

"Never better, Sweetpea," he replied as he kissed her cheek. God, how he had missed her smell. He sat down opposite her and a steward promptly poured him some coffee. He remembered then that he was supposed to have been ill the night before. "All I needed was a nice, long sleep." He almost winced at the cheeriness in his words. "How did you sleep, Sweetpea?"

Rose’s eyes dropped back down to her tea. "Fine."

Cal glanced around. "Where is your mother?"

"She went to go dress. We didn’t think you were coming," Rose explained.

Cal noticed that she was almost finished. "How late did I sleep?"

Rose shrugged. "It was nine when Mother and I came to breakfast, and that was almost an hour ago, I think."

Ten o’clock. Whatever that blasted little specter had done was certainly powerful. As Cal ate his breakfast--Rose was only waiting around to be polite--and they made idle small-talk, Cal tried to remember if today was the day they met Dawson. He was determined to keep his precious Rose away from him at all costs; it would save her life in the end.

At 11:30, the Titanic came to a halt at Queenstown, Ireland, and the passengers boarded on more tenders. Only a few people disembarked there, and Cal was not one of them. Instead, he stood on the deck and stared at his last chance of escape. Ireland lay before him tantalizingly, inviting him to come ashore. But the reminder of Ruthie and her warnings was still sharp in Cal’s mind, and so he accompanied Rose and Ruth to a somewhat late luncheon with that loud American, Margaret Brown, the master architect of the ship, Thomas Andrews, and the owner of the ship, J. Bruce Ismay. The topic inevitably turned to the ship itself.

"She’s the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history," Ismay declared, looking illegally smug. "And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up!"

Andrews, ever the modest man, immediately broke in with, "Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay’s." Andrews’ voice took on an almost worshipful tone. "He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale and so luxurious in its appointments that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is." He knocked the table for added effect. "Willed into solid reality!"

Ismay chuckled in that annoying "hoo, hoo, hoo" manner. On Cal’s right, Rose began to light up a cigarette. He loved her, truly, but sometimes she could be such a pest…

Ruth leaned forward and said in a soft but nevertheless stern tone, "You know I don’t like that, Rose."

Rose blew a puff of smoke out in response.

Cal remembered that she had stormed off last time; he didn’t want to provoke that again. He leaned towards her. "Sweetpea, please don’t embarrass your mother. Why don’t you put that out?"

Rose’s smile was sweet but false. "You needn’t treat me like a child, darling," she hissed in a venomous whisper that no one else heard. She turned back to the group, boldly smoking her cigarette.

Cal took note of the waiter and glanced at the menu one more time before ordering. "We’ll both have the lamb, rare, with very little mint sauce."

The waiter nodded and swiftly left for the kitchens.

A thought occurred to Cal. "You like lamb, don’t you, Sweetpea?"

She gave him another falsely sweet smile. Dear Lord in Heaven, this was just like last time.

"You gonna cut her meat for her, too, there, Cal?" the Brown woman asked in her grating drawl. It made Cal shudder. "Hey…uh…who thought of the name Titanic? Was it you, Bruce?"

Ismay was now smirking so smugly that one would think he held the greatest secret possible and had no intention of sharing it. "Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size, and the size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength."

"Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay?" Rose asked innocently.

Oh, no. Cal knew what was coming…

"His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you," Rose said loftily.

If she weren’t Cal’s fiancée, he would be terribly amused. But as such, he was humiliated.

"What’s gotten into you?" Ruth hissed.

Rose smothered her cigarette and rose quickly. "Excuse me." Ismay rose in his chair, but she was gone before he could stand all the way. He sank back down. Cal was simmering.

"I do apologize," Ruth said, embarrassment evident in her voice.

"She’s a pistol, Cal. Hope you can handle her!" Mrs. Brown remarked. Boorish woman.

"Well, I may have to start minding what she reads from now on, won’t I, Mrs. Brown?" Cal fired back, aiming where he knew it hurt--at her feminism. Her frown at his subtle poke gave him enormous satisfaction. Well, someone needed to put the woman in her place.

"Freud—who is he? Is he a passenger?" Ismay asked uncomfortably. Cal couldn’t help noticing that he appeared self-conscious.

"Excuse me; I must go have a word with my fiancée." Cal got to his feet and followed Rose. Last time, he had been angry with her and she had walked off again. This time, perhaps he could turn the odds in his favor. He spotted her at the same place, her arms resting on the railing and her back to him. He touched her back gently. "Rose?"

She glared at him.

"Rose, what on earth was that back there?"

Rose turned back to where she had been staring. "It’s true."

Cal sighed exasperatedly. "It doesn’t matter if it’s true; you simply can’t say things like that to people as important as Bruce Ismay!"

"Why not?" Rose asked, eyes flashing defiantly.

Cal let out a growl. "Because, Rose, it simply isn’t done!"

Rose scoffed. "I’m going back inside. Going to enjoy that lamb you so kindly ordered for me." She turned on her heel and stalked away.

Cal let out another exasperated growl, gripping his hat tightly before going after her.

*****

Dinner that evening was taken with the crowd from before--Colonel Archibald Gracie, a rotund and jolly British man, Sir Cosmo and Lucille Lady Duff-Gordon, the latter of whom was one of the world’s most famous fashion designers, the Countess of Rothes and her cousin, Gladys Cherry, Benjamin Guggenheim--his mistress, Madame Aubert, was also aboard, but she took all her meals at the a la carte restaurant on B-Deck), the newlywed and pregnant Astors, and of course Margaret Brown, Thomas Andrews, and Bruce Ismay.

Everyone at the table expressed their concern for Cal’s absence the previous night and offered their pleasure at his recovery. Cal had missed these days, back when people dined in elegance and propriety was not to be overlooked. That had all died with the 20’s when drunk and ditzy became the style. Cal found himself thoroughly enjoying the conversation; he had truly belonged in this day and age. He hadn’t adjusted well to the societal changes in the years to come.

Sometime during the coffee and dessert course, when Ismay was going into another spiel about his ship--it was extraordinary, yes, but it was going to sink in a few days--Gladys Cherry asked how such tiny little propellers were supposed to push such an enormous ship.

"I was leaning far over to see the propellers…"

Cal stiffened and turned immediately to an admittedly bored-looking Rose. Was it tonight? Oh, no…

"Join me for a brandy, gentlemen?" Gracie asked, getting to his feet.

The men all agreed, naturally. Cal leaned down to talk to Rose. "Can I escort you back to the room?"

She nodded dully. "I suppose so."

Her despondency was, quite frankly, worrying Cal. How had he not noticed it before? No, he had noticed it before, but he hadn’t done anything about it. As he took her arm, Cal realized that there really wasn’t anything he could do about it. The only thing that had livened her up again was, well, him. Cal’s lip curled in disgust. He would not lose her to Dawson again. Which was precisely why he planned to keep her in the cabin instead of out on deck where she had met him.

As they came to the cabin and Rose began to fish in her little purse for the key, Cal leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. She froze for a moment before continuing her search for the key. He began to nuzzle her neck, trying to show her his more affectionate side. She hesitated before quickly pecking him on the cheek. Cal wrapped his arms around her waist from behind now, determined to reveal his intentions. "Rose, my darling," he whispered.

"Y-yes?" she asked in a shaky sort of voice.

"I hope you will come to me tonight."

Rose sucked in a breath of air. "Um…all right."

Cal smiled in deep satisfaction. So, he would save her from the boy after all. Perhaps that was his mission. Yes, that was it. No more of that damn Ruthie; it would be just him and Rose forevermore.

Friday, April 12, 1912

RMS Titanic

Cal was immensely pleased to find that the next morning was completely ghost-free. He actually whistled on his way to breakfast, which was once again taken on the promenade. Rose determinedly avoided his eye; she stared down at her tea and gave only monosyllabic responses when she was asked something. Cal knew that she would have been happier left alone and that she probably would be more open to him had he left her be, but he was doing this for her own good, really. She wouldn’t have to die this way.

Cal was in extremely high spirits all the rest of the day. After breakfast, he and Rose took a stroll around the decks--with Ruth chaperoning, of course--and talked about a number of things. He ordered all of Rose’s favorite things for lunch and was even civil to Mrs. Brown. After lunch, he took Rose on another walk--Ruth ever-present, naturally--and they discussed the wedding arrangements. Actually, Rose said almost nothing; Ruth seemed to dominate the conversation with only a little input from Cal.

"…but I don’t think we’ll have Mendelssohn’s wedding march; it’s much too hackneyed. No, I think Pachelbel’s Canon will be perfect. And I’ve chosen a very pale red for the bridesmaids; pink would just clash horribly with her cousin Lydia’s hair, and besides, it’s used at every wedding. Oh, and I’ve done away with the baby’s breath flowers; we’ll have lilies instead."

Cal nodded and smiled, but truthfully, his thoughts were on Rose. She looked none too happy with these arrangements; Cal remembered the fit Ruth had pitched when Rose announced she wanted lavender gowns. He would rectify the situation once they were back in the States.

Once they were back in the States…Cal wondered what that life would be like. After Titanic, he had mourned Rose for a few months before the pressure of the Hockley legacy was once again on him; he had married his mistress, Violet, in October. That marriage, like his first, had ended in divorce. And then there was Alexandra, only a year older than Rose was now when he married her. And all of those children…would he still have that many?

"Mr. Hockley?"

He jerked his attention back to an expectant Ruth and flashed a grin. "I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. DeWitt-Bukater; I became lost in my thoughts. Just imagining those fine Hockley children Rose and I will have!" This wasn’t far from the truth at all.

Ruth beamed. "Oh, yes; I’m sure they’ll be lovely!"

Rose remained silent, staring ahead of her with all the listlessness of a porcelain doll.

You’ll love me soon enough, Rose, Cal vowed to himself.

*****

Dinner was its usual affair of extravagance and easy companionship that night. The only person who did not seem to be enjoying herself was, predictably, Rose. She looked lost. Cal had to keep reminding himself that she would brighten up soon enough. No doubt it was close to that time of the month; women were always getting moody around then. She would love him. She would love him.

When the coffees and cakes had mostly been cleared away, Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon proposed a brandy and all the other gentlemen agreed, of course. Cal was in rather high spirits as he and Guggenheim discussed their financial affairs, which were, at the time, doing swimmingly, although the Sherman Anti-Trust Act was creating a few minor details; nothing they couldn’t weasel their way out of. The other gentlemen eventually turned the conversation towards other affairs, more specifically, Margaret Brown.

"Quite something, she is," Astor noted, chuckling a bit.

"I believe she is a crusader for women’s votes in the States?" Ismay ventured.

Several of the men gave little sighs and rolled their eyes.

"But suffragettes are rather radical, aren’t they?" Gracie asked keenly. "I mean to say, Maggie doesn’t seem like the type to make a demonstration or some such nonsense…"

"Mrs. Brown is more political than demonstrative," Guggenheim explained. "She encourages women to take places in the workforce and other such ludicrous ideas. Really, as if those factories aren’t egalitarian enough! Remember the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory?"

There were low murmurs in the affirmative and a muttered explanation to the few who didn’t remember.

"Women and machinery simply do not mix!" Gracie declared.

As the other men assented to this ("hear, hear!"), Cal felt as if time had slowed down. His vision blurred and his heart thudded slowly in his ears and his grin slipped and he began to tremble.

…women and machinery do not mix…

I was leaning far over to see the propellers…

Was that the way of it?

The boy’s a hero!

Perhaps you will join us for dinner tomorrow night…

Cal smothered his cigarette and plastered a smile on his face as he rose. "Gentlemen, would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Certainly," they responded, ever the genial men.

Cal forced himself to keep his pace steady, but it was excruciatingly difficult to do so. He entered the bathroom and, upon asking if anyone else was in there, locked the door. He paced frantically up and down for a few moments, his mind a harried mess. He hadn’t done anything to save Rose at all last night; tonight was the night she would meet Dawson. How could he not have realized that? And instead of saving her last night, he had probably only alienated her, pushing her further into the arms of that street rat. But perhaps he could save her. Yes, there was still time; perhaps he could find her before Dawson did. His mind set, he strode forward.

Only to be stopped by someone he had rather hoped he would never have to see again.

"Damn it!" he swore, nearly falling back a step in shock. "What are you doing here?"

"It’s empty. It doesn’t matter," Ruthie began.

"I don’t mean that!" Cal hissed. "I meant…what are you doing…at all?"

Ruthie sighed impatiently. "I’m stopping you from doing something stupid."

"I beg your pardon?" Cal asked incredulously. "I am attempting to save my fiancée from almost total ruin and death at the hands of a common piece of filth!"

Her eyes narrowed and Cal instantly knew he was in for it. He swallowed. "I only meant that, well…oh, God in Heaven, why am I defending myself to you? Look here, now, I’m only trying to rescue Rose—"

"But how do you know she’s in need of rescuing, hmm?" Ruthie challenged, crossing her arms.

Cal sputtered indignantly. "I…well, I’ve been here before, you know! I remember the first time—"

"You’re misunderstanding me, Cal," she interrupted, shaking her head. "How do you know?"

Cal was taken aback as he considered her words. His face paled. "Oh."

Ruthie nodded. "Oh is right. You can’t just barge out there and pull it off. No one came to alert you or anything. To everyone else’s mind, Rose is with the other ladies or retiring to her cabin. She would have no reason to be out there and you would certainly have no reason to be out there, either. It looks rather fishy from another standpoint, doesn’t it?"

Cal nodded mutely. "I…I see." He frowned. "But…but how am I supposed to stop her?"

Ruthie shook her head. "That’s just it--you can’t. You have to go back out there, pretend nothing’s wrong, and wait until someone comes to tell you that your fiancée was found being attacked by a steerage boy. Then you may show all the concern you want. But until then, you must act oblivious."

Cal wasn’t quite sure if he could handle acting oblivious. But he had to grudgingly admit that Ruthie was right; he couldn’t very well go out there if he wasn’t even supposed to know about it yet. Not even Rose knew that she would soon fall in love with Dawson. He nodded. "All right. I won’t go yet."

Ruthie gave a small smile and vanished. Cal unlocked the door and left, acting casual. He sat down to his cigar and brandy and tried to engage himself in the conversation about…well, actually, he didn’t know what it was about. He was grateful for the crewmember who nervously entered the room a few moments later. Cal tried very hard not to notice the lad until the man approached him. "Are you Mr. Hockley?"

"Yes, what is it?" Cal asked calmly. Inside, he was prepared to leap to his feet.

The lad licked his lips and leant down to murmur in his ear. "Your fiancée was found in…a….er…rather unpleasant situation, sir. A third class man tried to attack her, and well, we’ve apprehended the man, but we thought you ought to know…"

"Of course I should know!" Cal said angrily, leaping to his feet. He turned to the somewhat surprised men. "I’m afraid I must go; my fiancée is in some trouble."

"Shall I come with you, Cal?" Gracie asked, noting the crewmember.

This was how it had happened last time; it was only fitting it happened again. Cal nodded. "If you’d like. Lead the way," he added to the crewmember.

The poor lad was frightened, but he briskly led them to the stern of the ship, where Lovejoy was already supervising the proceedings. Rose was wrapped in a steamer blanket and sitting on a bench, looking thoroughly upset. Gracie stayed behind to try and comfort her while Cal marched right towards where the Master-at-Arms was handcuffing Dawson.

"What in God’s name were you doing to my fiancée?" he hissed, not wanting Rose to overhear and interrupt like last time. "How dare you? I could have you hanged for this, you know! As such, you’ll be lucky if you ever get out of jail!"

"Cal, please don’t be upset; I can explain everything!" Rose exclaimed, hurrying towards them and laying a restraining hand on Cal’s arm.

Oh, damn it. "Can you?" Cal asked.

"Well, you see..." Rose began, clearly unsure of herself. "I was…er…leaning over and I slipped!" She backtracked. "I was leaning far over to see the…um…"

"Propellers?" he suggested, rolling his eyes.

"Propellers! And I slipped! And I would have gone overboard, but Mr. Dawson here saved me. And almost went over himself." Rose was a very good little actress; he would give her that.

"You wanted to see the propellers?" Cal asked slowly.

Rose looked frightened for a moment, but she nodded resolutely.

"Like I said--women and machinery do not mix!" Gracie interjected, indicating Rose as if she were the very realest evidence of this statement.

"Was that the way of it?" the Master-at-Arms asked sternly.

Dawson and Rose exchanged glances before he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that was pretty much it."

"Well, the boy’s a hero, then! Good for you, son! Well done!" Gracie spoke up, breaking the disbelieving silence that had followed. "So it’s…uh…all’s well and back to our brandy, eh?" Gracie chuckled. Obviously, the man had consumed a tad too much of the drink that evening.

Cal noted that Rose was staring at Dawson as the Master-at-Arms released him; he would soon see to that. "Let’s get you inside; you must be freezing!" Cal said in as concerned a voice as he could, rubbing her arms and back.

"Uh…perhaps a little something for the boy?" Gracie suggested, jerking his head towards the blond.

Cal wanted to say, "Piss off," but he knew that wouldn’t go over very well. "Of course," he said reluctantly. "Ah…Mr. Lovejoy, I think a…" What was the amount last time? He had to up it to keep the two apart. "A fifty should do it."

"Oh, but Cal," Rose pleaded, "surely we can do something…"

"Well, what would you like, dearest?" Cal asked, his smile tightening. Please, God, no…

"Can’t Mr. Dawson join us for dinner?" Rose asked eagerly.

"Splendid idea! He can regale our group with his heroic tale!" Gracie declared. Wasn’t that exactly what Cal had said last time? Was there no end to this lunacy?

Cal’s smile was forced completely by now. "Why not?"

Rose beamed and Cal knew he was dangerously close to losing her.

Chapter Three
Stories