March 1912

As a white wing dove descended on a cloudless day, fluttering about Notre Dame, flaunting its freedom. She watched it with both curiosity and envy. It wasn't its flight which sixteen-year old Rose DeWitt Bukater necessarily was jealous of, more its ability to simply fly off into the clouds without a need to please another being at all. The difference being the fact that she was unable to even take a step or two, without another by her side was starting to feel as though she was drowning. Or thrust into the River Seine at a great force with a tonne of bricks tied to her. The more that she tried to swim for her freedom, the more she was pulled under by the lot of them. Eventually, it was inevitable that she would go under.

Completely surrounded by the glittering waters of the River Seine, the rigidness of her Italian designed dress allowed very little movement. Her corset restraining the last ounces of breath out of her. She was trapped. Like an insect in amber. Drowning…slowly. The suffocation had begun many months before. Perhaps before the engagement, maybe even prior to that…

It was difficult to recall a moment when Caledon Hockley hadn't been in her life.

Perhaps it was because her father had still been alive and his passing had gone hand in hand with her introduction to Mr. Hockley just a mere day or two later. The lapping over of events occurred seamlessly and suddenly, one was aware of the mounting debts presented to her mother and that the course of the Dewitt Bukater family's destiny was suddenly within her own feeble hands on the day of her massively attended and ridiculously expensive cotillion.

As soon as the diamond engagement ring from Cartier's in Paris was transferred to the hotel in New York City the night that she, her mother, Ruth, and the Hockley's were ringing in the New Year of 1912, that was the night she became engaged to be married. The cheers of those present were deafening, and the pops of the champagne corks were almost as loud as the fireworks which had come later in the evening as the clock had approached midnight. Rose had smiled, mechanically, as though she was slowly moving through her life and in a strange vision, she almost floated up out of her own body to witness the young woman who was chattering amongst the rich, the famous and the socialites. Who had a handsome and wealthy fiance to her left, accepting congratulations and snippets of wedding advice. In the far corner, Rose had caught eye with Madeleine Astor, who had just months before caused quite the scandal by marrying John Jacob Astor; a man twenty-nine years her senior and they had shared a smile. Madeleine's, however, reached her eyes. She was a woman in love with her husband and that was quite obvious for the entire room to see. Turning back to Caledon Hockley; she found the many qualities of which many found to be attractive in a husband. A great head of head, deep and dark eyes, a smile which lured many women to weakened knees. He was polite, although there was a slight arrogance but that had never shone through quite enough to displease Rose. She found him to be a handsome man. Initially, she had been flattered by his affections but now though, it felt to be stifling. A romantic trip to Europe followed just two months ago; visiting the likes of Italy, Greece, Spain and then onto France. Paris was the place where Rose would be the most excited to see with her own eyes after spending hours pouring through artistic books and submerging herself into learning about the beautiful bohemian lifestyle which she had become so increasingly attracted to.

''Peasants.'' Cal had muttered, as they had passed Montmatre and the cobbled streets were lined with the penniless but free folk who wished for nothing more than to live the life which they were given. On the edge.

''Cal, must you speak so ill of them?''

''I forget your idiotic love affair with the bohemians. Perhaps a day in the life of them would fetch you back to me.'' Cal sat opposite her in the rickety carriage, as the wheels struggled across the uneven pavement. ''Even the transportation is terrible.'' He clutched onto his chest, fiddling with his beautifully fitted bow tie.

''Well, I happen to find them fascinating.'' Rose raised her chin, and found herself watching out of the small carriage window at the world away from the one which she lived in. This must have been a market day of some kind due to the amount of people crowding the ways. Stalls were filled with fruit and vegetables. Cheese and wine. Bread and meat. Public houses set back behind them, with folk taking in several ales before the hour reached midday. Children played with sticks and hoops, shouting in several languages as they conversed together. It was such a stark contrast to her own way of life.

''Yes, like the art you required me to purchase for such a ridiculous amount."

Rose turned her concentration back to her fiance. His arrogance was a completely separate entity now. How she tolerated him at the slightest of times was puzzling to even her. There was a place within her own mind which she had developed and she visited more often than not, and on most days. It was a sanctuary filled with everything but the suppression of life. It was a haven in which she existed. In which she thought her own thoughts and was never silenced.

''There is a stark difference between our tastes in art, darling.''

''Staggeringly so. A few thousand Francs difference.''

''Well, they are statement pieces. Work to be appreciated.'' Rose defended her taste.

''Sweetpea, there was a dancer, some flowers and some strange, abstract men who appear to be nothing more than drawn by a child. I fail to even know the artists name.''

''Something Picasso.''

''You fail to know yourself.''

Rose went quiet and tried to allow the rickety carriage to not cause her to cast up her accounts all over the expensive fine interiors.

''I prefer the subject to be right there on the canvas.'' Cal told her, his eyes burning through her. Rose, trying her hardest to listen, smiled. ''Not decorated with abstract or lines and ill technique. These French artists appear to be painting under the influence of some horrific liquor.''

''Oh? Give me an example of such work you should find exemplary.''

''I don't have time to recall names.'' Cal retorted, his eyes on the visions outside of their carriage.

''Art is about expression.''

''Yes, and to be paid high amounts of money to create a beautiful piece of work. One has to paint with a straight eye otherwise you have what appears to be those mud puddles you purchased yesterday.''

There was never a right strategy. Never a correct opinion. Never, in any way, would Rose ever be anything other than a woman. If that.

''Yes, well, I appreciate the fine work of the artists. I do not understand that whilst you don't like it, you could at least appreciate the work which they have created.''

Cal laughed, as though he would at a child's silly joke. ''Of course, sweetpea.''

They fell silent then, with the occasional smile which she sent his way after he commented rudely of the attire worn by the schoolmaster and the children standing outside of the school, or the driving of the coachman.

Oh, Paris. It should have been filled with stolen kisses in the back squab of a carriage, with candlelit dinners full of laughter and romance. They should have visited the galleries and museums, drinking in the works and the textiles, even with her mother acting as a razor sharp chaperone, they should have been able to steal a moment or two to exchange a peck, a longing look of some sort. In truth, there was always some place to be…a place with a time. A motive. A meaning. Business was the topic of choice most days with Cal amongst his peers. He would introduce Rose as his fiancee and then, she would accept congratulations before fading into the backdrop as though she was simply part of the furniture. At the ladies dinners, she would exchange pleasantries in her perfect French, her perfect Spanish and when the time called for entertainment during their refreshments, she would play a tune on the pianoforte and occasionally sing something bland at her mother's request.

The days grew endless…tiring….numbing. Each and every city seemed to be the same as the one before. The delicacies were no different. The wine was just as tasteless. Rose witnessed every landmark through the window of a carriage or a hotel, before she was swept inside to attend another gala, and be introduced to more members of society.

Now, though, on one of the finer days, Rose simply watched that white winged dove fluttering about, in and out of the highly esteemed church's decorative roof. High above, far higher than she could ever go, the bird went before it was completely out of her sight. It was compelling to watch it fly away and within her stomach, she felt a knot that tightened within an instant and she almost vomited right there and then. The wedding was coming closer. The next church which she visited would no doubt be in Pennsylvania where she would join Caledon Hockley at the altar in just six weeks time. It felt surreal to think of herself as a wife when she had just finished finishing school. Everything was a blur about her.

''Does the interior if the church not impress you, sweetpea?'' Cal came to her side, with a knowing eye. ''You spent all this time reading on such history of Paris and now you stand outside like an excluded boy from the schoolroom.''

Peeking from beneath a large beige and yellow hat, Rose feigned a smile towards him.''One can only see so many high ceilings and paintings of our Lord before they become dangerously dull, darling.''

Cal held out his arm to her, and she rested her own gloved hands within the crook of his shoulder. His arm was firm, but not solid buried beneath the layers of finely designed suits and his hat was in his hand at his left side before he placed it back upon his head as her mother, forty-two year old Ruth DeWitt Bukater emerged from the church, speaking engrossingly with the priest. Her cream hat, trimmed with lace was a stark contrast to the red hair which was buried beneath it. Her mother spoke animatedly on all subjects and in one, calm moment, Rose almost envied that ability. Why was she born into such a prominent family and yet, failed to have been equipped with the emotive tools to deal with it? Where did this deep melancolia come from? There had never been a time where she felt truly happy, but when her father had been alive, times had been almost normal. Almost.

''You have been very blase about this entire trip, do tell me that you have enjoyed it?'' Cal walked her to the left side, where they admired the view of the Seine. Or rather, she watched the river, flowing freely and how she almost wished to jump into the water and allow it to claim her.

''Of course.'' Rose found his eyes to be most dark beneath his grey hat. ''It has been fascinating if nothing else. I just feel the pre-wedding jitters, as I am sure that you do.''

''That is normal.''

Rose nodded. ''Indeed. I feel the excitement gets too much at times, though.'' Mother is overbearing and we are marrying for the wrong reasons, she wished to add but instead, he led her further towards a quieter place with Notre Dame just behind them. It was a beautiful morning for a handsome, engaged couple to take a stroll but as he led her onwards, she followed, because there was nowhere else for her to go. As she glanced up once more, she saw the dove had truly flown away. Would it ever return? No. If she was gifted with wings to fly away, would she stay in one place for long periods? Absolutely not.

''I feel the anticipation, too, sweetpea.'' Cal was low, his eyes burning into her and in one, small way, she wished that she could truly reciprocate his feelings. There had to be some tenderness within her towards him, didn't there? ''But not long before we become man and wife. We can start a family, wouldn't you enjoy that?''

Suddenly, her hat, dress and throat were on fire. Her eyes were burning with the stinging of tears. Oh, how she felt to be nothing more than a uterus. One didn't have the slightest idea of how to even procreate, not much beyond the small chatter she had caught from the servants and then, the biology books she had read in finishing school about primates and how they mated and became impregnated with their young. Is that how Cal saw her?

''Darling, I am just on the edge of seventeen.'' Rose managed, when the feeling that a massive lump of dry cotton in her throat seemed to have been easier to swallow.

''Yes, tomorrow is your birthday, don't think that I have forgotten.'' Cal was pleased that he had remembered. ''We shall celebrate, don't worry, sweetpea.''

''But…is seventeen not to young to think of becoming a mother?''

''A lot of women I know are married and mothers by that age. Some younger. Darling, age isn't a definition.'' Cal turned to see Ruth had finished speaking with the priest, and was starting towards them. ''My father should like grand-children before he departs this Earth and I would like to become a father.''

''You're almost thirty, darling.'' Rose allowed Cal to lead her back towards her mother, where they would soon be making yet more plans without her input.

''A good age to become a father, indeed.''

''Yes, indeed.'' Rose agreed, taking one final longing glance at the Seine. How long before she could drown?

Cal slowed their pace, obvious that there was more to be said on the matter. ''My mother died when I was very young. My father is becoming more tiresome and weary. I fear he may not have long left, my Rose.''

''I am sorry to hear that you think that way,'' Rose told him, truthfully. The times she had met Nathan Hockley, whilst a sharp and tactful man, he was grey and withering whereas he had once been a strong and powerful rower in his spare time. A man who had attended Harvard. A man who had created a steel empire.

''Father was forty-six when I was born and due to becoming a father later than sooner, he hasn't had as long on this Earth as I would have liked. I can barely recall my mother as she was in her late thirties when she had me. I want our children to know their father. To not see me as an old man from the day that they are born. My father has had grey hair as long as I can recall.''

In those brief seconds, Rose pulled upon Cal's arm to a stop and as close as she could get beneath the hat, she leant forward to place a single kiss upon his cheek. In those rare times, he did bare just a little deeper part of himself to her. Even though his entire thought process on children, did not involve her carrying a child so young in her life, did not involve any thoughts of her at all, she could rationalise his reasons why and in that, she found some tenderness. Pleased with her affection towards him, Cal continued their walk back to Notre Dame.

''Children should occupy you, too. You spend far too much time with your nose in books of God knows what quality and dreaming of becoming an artist or something or other,'' Cal pulled his brows together, as though he was somewhat concerned. ''With three or four children to entertain, that should eliminate any of those childish notions away and you can concentrate on better use of your time. Maybe charity work with your mother.''

That knot in her stomach deepened again. Pulled tighter. Stronger. Indeed, she was just a vessel to carry his children.

''Yes, of course.''

By the time they reached her mother, the priest was deep in conversation. In moments, Rose was just part of the background once more as the topics turned to everything which Rose despised. She stood, almost growing roots to the pavement with her gloved hand clutching onto her fiance's arm.

High above, she heard the fluttering of wings once more and as she dipped her gaze beneath her hat, she found that the dove had returned with a mate, hovering just above them all as though it was continuing to flaunt freedom.

God, she was envious. The two white birds fluttering, about, flirting and dipping in unison before they settled upon a beam high almost out of sight with their heads rubbing downwards together as though they were long lost loves.

Suddenly, there was a tune within her head, one which she had heard on Broadway just before they had come to Europe. Something about Josephine…

Exhaling, slowly, she turned back to the conversation in hand and expertly nodded, smiled and mechanically moved when addressed. She felt like she was part of a play. A play of her life where she was the actress centrestage. The role of a melancholy girl, trapped in a world which she was never going to be free from. What was the use in even dreaming anymore?

Come Josephine in my flying machine.

Going up she goes! Up she goes!

Balance yourself like a bird on a beam.

In the air she goes! There she goes!

Up, up, a little bit higher.

Oh! My! The moon is on fire

Come Josephine in my flying machine.

Going up, all on, Goodbye!

As the fluttering sounded again, Rose watched as the two doves flew away, once more. Right towards the sun. Freedom beckoned them.

The knot within her stomach tightened once more as though she knew that it would be the final time as their witness.

The next day, Rose turned seventeen years old. As a present, she had opened a golden envelope containing tickets aboard the Titanic. They would be staying in the Millionaire's Suite. They would set sail from Southampton in just over two weeks' time.

As celebrations continued around her, Rose dutifully played the role of the 'loving fiancee' once more. The actress knew the part that she was born to play, so very well even though inside, she was screaming so loud her lungs might burst.

She had found a solstice though as she lit a cigarette quietly and allowed the smoke to take her away to a daydream somehow and in her mind, she started singing those familiar words…

Come Josephine…