A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! You guys are really great and keep me going:o) Sorry for the delay in this chapter. It's been a busy couple of weeks with finals and what not, but expect the next update sooner!

With trembling hands, Rose bit her lip and read the letter again, slower this time, as if it was a figment of her imagination. She could not even begin to comprehend the meaning behind Cal's letter:

My dearest Rose,

I can imagine your surprise and hesitation upon receiving this letter from me, but fear not, I intend you no harm. These few days spend onboard the Carpathia have allotted me the time to deeply think about my life, my intentions towards you and of my sins during our engagement and of our voyage together on the Titanic. I have not written this to demand your sympathy, but to apologize to you once again, and perhaps explain my sentiments in more depth before we dock tonight.

I have never been one to show any emotion over trial matters, having been brought up partly by a cold and ruthless father who frowned upon such things. However, because of this, my character has suffered as well, and from a kind and amorous adolescent I have grown up into a spoiled and arrogant man. Because of this, my relationships with my family, business associates, and most importantly, you, have suffered. Patience was never a virtue I could endure, Rose, and neither was jealousy.

When I witnessed you and Jack together on the boat deck, I knew instantly that a better man had won something I had longed to- your adoration, respect, and love. Immediately, I realized what a fool I had been during our engagement, and how my cruel actions towards you and my wealth could never buy for me what you saw in penniless Jack Dawson those few short days you both spent together. Perhaps if I had appreciated your very existence I would have been able to have with you what I saw in you and Jack that night. I envied you deeply, for you were experiencing something that I had been striving for day after day- the ability to allow yourself to feel emotion; to love. And now, it seems, it is too late.

Alas, I am getting off the topic of what I wrote this letter for. My actions on the Titanic were foolish and hateful, and in turn I hurt the one person I desperately wanted, but never allowed myself, to care for. You have my sincerest apologies, Rose, for now I am realizing that I have been hiding behind a façade for the past few years. I have merely been a shell of the man I used to be, and instead of loving you, I blamed you and whoever else crossed my path. Again, I am sorry.

I know no amount of apologizing can correct the way I have treated you, Jack, or anyone, but I do want to ask your forgiveness. I will not beg, but I hope one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me and allow us to become friends once again. I hope you will allow yourself to witness the Caledon Hockley you should have experienced from the beginning-one that genuinely cared for himself and the well being of others, not what he could buy or threaten with his money. I did love you, Rose, and I hoped to build a prosperous life with you—one filled with adventure, laughter, love, and many beautiful children.

Again, I seem to be forgetting myself. Forgive me. As I promised you from our previous engagement on the boat deck, I informed your mother of your "death", and she in turn has found solace in the arms of Margaret Brown. I long to bring myself to speak of all of this to you in person, but I cannot face the disappointment and hatred that burns in your eyes for me, so I will hand this letter to a crew member in hopes that it will reach you in time.

I know you are mourning deeply from the loss of Jack, but please, do not dwell on his death forever. It will do you no good, I know from personal experience, but that is another story for another time and place. Remember the memories you both shared, if only for a brief period of time. He will be watching over you for eternity.

As for me, Rose, I do not know where or what my life will hold upon my return to Philadelphia and Pittsburg. I hope that I am able to start over as a changed man, but it is unfortunate that it took such a tragic event as this one to correct myself.

I wish you a happy and prosperous life, filled with the joy and passion you incorporated into your every day and desperately tried to impose in mine. I'll be enclosing my forwarding address at the bottom of this letter in hopes that one day, you will write me. Perhaps our paths will cross again someday, but this time, for the better.

Yours,

Cal

She was baffled by his kindness; an emotion he had rarely showed her over the course of their engagement. He spoke of things in such a way that Rose did not know if she should laugh or cry at his selflessness in the letter. All feelings aside, one questioned remained, and for that Rose was afraid of the answer. Could Cal be trusted? His actions towards her on the Titanic and in Europe proved otherwise. She thought back to the numerous times where he had lost his temper with her and said many terrible and hurtful things. She thought of his jealously; how he framed Jack the night of the sinking and nearly killed them both as he chased them through the sinking ship. Could he really change, as it claimed in his letter to her? And why exactly was her writing her a letter, after all that had happened? Was he trying to trap her into coming back to him, so he could have his prize back and win his selfish game? And if she went back on her own, would she be able to leave freely again?

So many questions had been raised in Rose's mind that she was afraid of the outcome. Here she was, standing in the middle of a street corner in the great city of New York, with ten dollars in her pocket and no plans to speak of. She had made simple plans with Jack; to ride the rollercoaster until she puked; to drink cheap beer and ride horses in the surf like a man. To spit like a man. And one day in the near future she hoped to accomplish those things. California sounded tempting as the perfect place to start anew, but Rose knew she would not be able to go with Cal's letter weighing so heavily on her mind.

It was an instantaneous decision, and one that Rose knew she could end up regretting. She would be on the first train in the morning, heading west to Pittsburg, and she would give Cal his chance to apologize for his actions, once and for all. Then, she could continue on to California and start her life over—the way she truly wanted it to be.

She hated to admit that he was the only potential friend she had left, if she could even consider him that.

Cal was slow to rise the next morning. After the terrible meeting with his father he had gone to dinner, a meal that he had suffered through, for her had nothing to share, nothing of meaning to regale them all with. The only bright spot in the whole meal had been when his mother had announced over the bread pudding that his younger sister was expecting her first child.

"Caledon, while you were away on business last week Mary wrote me. She and Richard are expecting a child in the winter. Isn't that wonderful? You're going to be an uncle! She regrets that you cannot join us in Boston over the next two weeks."

Cal had nodded and managed a small smile. "You'll have to give her my congratulations, then. I'm sure she'll be in Pittsburg before the summer has come and gone." His baby sister, how he adored her! They had always been close, especially after the summer Peter died. Peter had been the oldest, the leader, and a heart defect had taken him away with very little warning. He shuddered to think of it. Peter would have made an excellent business leader and would have become the man Cal always wished he could be, but never would.

And Mary. She was so young, only having just turned twenty-one, and he remembered the past year fondly. Richard Millern had been a family friend; the son of a prestigious Congressman, and he and Mary had met through mutual friends in the summer of 1910. Cal remembered affectionately how Mary had come to him before his parents and had enthusiastically told him how Richard had asked for her hand in marriage. They married in the spring of 1911, and it was at their wedding reception that he had first laid eyes on Rose.

Now, nearly a year later, he would have never imagined the uproar she would have caused him. He had gone through nearly an entire bottle of whiskey last night, and after stumbling around the grounds until the early hours of the morning, he had somehow made it back upstairs to his bedroom and had passed out in a drunken stupor. Now he was paying for it with an equally atrocious hangover to match.

He slowly made his way out of his four poster bed, tossing back the linen sheets and comforter in a huff. With uneasy steps he managed to slide on his maroon housecoat and slippers and stepped out of his bedroom and into the foyer. He needed a cup of tea and toast; anything to settle his stomach.

The mansion was unusually quiet, and as he passed the grandfather clock near the stairs, it began chiming eleven. Cal couldn't remember the last time he had ever slept so late; not even in his Harvard days. As he made his way down the stairs, the pounding migraine began to set in, and for once in his life he wished that he lived in a simpler house and that the kitchen wasn't such a far distance.

His parents had left for Boston early that morning to spend two weeks vacation with Mary and her husband, which meant that for those two weeks, the Philadelphia and Pittsburg branches of Hockley Steel would be in his control. Rising this late meant that he would be getting a late start. There were ledgers to fill and wires from the foreman to check, but right now his intention was breakfast, and then he would begin to take the day as it came at him.

He was nearly outside of the kitchen and has just passed the library when he caught sight of the housekeeper, Marion, at the far end of the corridor, dusting the bookcases. She was a middle aged woman, heavyset and wore a kind smile. She had kept the house in order for over ten years now, and he had come to respect her, not only as a servant, but as a friend.

"Good morning, Mr. Hockley. Can I get you anything this morning?"

"No, thank you," he replied sullenly, rubbing at his temples. "I'll be fine on my own."

"Very well, sir." She nodded curtly and continued about her business, while Cal finally entered the kitchen. It took him several moments to locate the porcelain tea cups, for he rarely entered the kitchen. He was accustomed to having his meals served in the dining room and anything else brought to him by servants. His father would be appalled if he had found him down here, but for once, he was master of the household, and could go about as he pleased.

Several minutes later he poured the steaming water from the teapot into the teacups and added the tea bag. He slumped against the servant's table and rested his head in his hands, lifting the cup to his lips every so often.

The next thing he knew, he felt a pair of warm hands resting gently on his shoulders. He sat up groggily, eyes darting around the kitchen suspiciously. He caught sight of Marion, hands folded neatly together above her apron now, and she nodded at him.

"My apologies for waking you, Mr. Hockley, but you have a visitor."

Cal scoffed at this and rubbed at his temples once again. Had he fallen asleep? "At this ungodly hour?"

"It is one in the afternoon, sir," Marion pointed out tempestuously. "Shall I show her to the library?"

"She?" he questioned, standing to his feet now. The tea, now lukewarm, tasted stale to him now, and he set it on the table in frustration. "Did she give her name? I can't possibly see her or anyone right now in my state. I'm not even dressed. Get her name, and have her come back tomorrow." The arrogant, son of a bitch was coming back out of him now, and in full force.

"Might I say, sir…that you would want to see her." Marion grew pale at the last sentence, and gripped the edge of the chair.

Cal's eyes grew large in his head, and he urged her to sit down in his place. "Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"I…think I have."

"Preposterous! Who is the woman? I will take care of this immediately." He whirled around and headed for the door.

"Mr. Hockley! I swear it, I saw her with my own eyes. She's…Rose DeWitt-Bukater."

Rose had managed to navigate her way to the train station by the first light of dawn, and luckily enough, she did not have to wait long for the first train headed west. She paid for a third class ticket and slept until the train stopped just outside of Philadelphia. She had to admit, it was a strange feeling to travel alone, for she had long gotten used to traveling with, at the very least, several servants. It was very freeing to have the opportunity to sit back and take in her surroundings without being scolded on proper manners or having to follow a set schedule.

She arrived in Pittsburg just after noon, and disembarked shortly after. It was then that the real challenge of her journey presented itself. Rose had no idea how or where the Hockley mansion was located. It seemed downright silly, as she had been there several times, yet she had always traveled with chauffeurs that knew the streets of Pittsburg and Philadelphia very well.

Rose had managed to locate one of the street vendors, and they had been kind enough to give her directions, although it had not come easy.

The older man continued pushing on his cart of wares as they spoke, eyeing her with distaste. "It's about a mile in that there direction." He pointed to the east and took of his cap, wiping off the sweat that had accumulated on his bald head. "Can't imagine what business you might have there, though."

"I'm visiting an old friend, thank you very much," she replied stoutly.

The walk had taken less than an hour, once Rose had gotten her bearings. She vaguely recognized some of the landmarks that she often passed en route to the mansion, although this time, there was no carriage or Renault to bring her to her destination.

Her feet ached as she reached the top of the hill and sloping drive of the mansion came into view. The lawn was perfectly landscaped, and it brought her back to another memory as she climbed; a memory of her first meeting with Cal, before there was any talk of marriage.

It was all her mother could talk about for weeks. The wedding of Mary Hockley and Robert Millern was gossiped to be the event of the season, ranked even higher than the many debutante balls, including Rose's own, which was to take place several weeks later. The invitation had arrived weeks before, and even in mourning, Ruth was adamant on attending. She remembered remaining sullen that morning as she was dressed by her servants, and throughout the church service she barely spoke, much to her mother's distaste.

The reception was lively, and the only joy that she allowed herself to feel that day was towards her two closest friends, Sarah and Anna. It wasn't until much later that she was first introduced to Cal, and to Rose, the meeting had been unpleasant and brief. She was courteous towards him, and accepted his sympathy over her father's untimely death, and danced with him once or twice. Ruth had been elated, and the Hockley's name had been the first on her list of debutante invitations.

"He's a good match for you, Rose. He can provide for not only you, but for us. God knows the situation your father left us in when he died."

In a way, she had been right.

She shook herself out of her reverie as the gates to the Hockley mansion grew near; the large iron "H" gleaming in the mid afternoon sun. She slipped through the gates unnoticed and continued up the drive, wringing her hands together nervously. Was she making the right decision?

A part of Rose felt as if she was betraying Jack and all they had stood for together by seeking out the enemy. She wanted so badly to turn away and run to Santa Monica and forget all about Cal and her previous life. If she closed her eyes just enough, she could almost picture it, as Jack had left no detail out.

Curiosity kept her rooted to the porch and lifted her hand to pull the doorbell. The door creaked open almost instantly, as if it had been expecting her all along, and Rose found herself face to face with Marion, the Hockley's housekeeper.

Marion gasped at the sight of Rose, her hand immediately flying up to cover her gaping mouth. "Miss DeWitt-Bukater?"

Rose nodded slowly, wanting to correct her regarding her recently changed surname, but the poor woman seemed to be in enough shock already. How could she blame her? She fathomed she would react the same way if a woman that she had known to be presumed dead had shown up at her home, as well.

"How can this be?" she practically whispered. "You're not…you can't be…"

"I need to speak with Cal immediately," Rose pressed on, ignoring Marion's actions. "It is urgent."

Marion stood stunned, yet managed a small nod. "Yes. He'll be just a moment." She nearly closed the door in Rose's face but remembered herself at the last moment. "Please, step into the foyer."

"Thank you," Rose replied quietly. She watched as Marion disappeared down the hall, glancing back over her shoulder every so often. Several moments later, she heard loud voices, and then footsteps. Glancing upward, she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and took a deep breath. She shut her eyes briefly to clear her conscience. She could do this. She would ask her questions, and then be on her way.

"Rose?"

Her blue eyes shot open, and she came face to face with Cal.