Chapter thirteen.

One couldn't determine a certain span of time when laid in the freezing beyond of a ship's cargo hold. This certainly wasn't Jack's rst encounter with stacks of mail, and hundreds of stacked luggage amongst him. He had never once been caught. Never once had another person checked the cargo hold when he and his companion had made their way from Boston to Florence in the summer of 1909. He had been a young and cocky adolescent, making his way in the world and believing that life on the other side of the Atlantic was going to answer his calling. Whilst Paris had never quite been what he had hoped to encounter; England had tilted his world upon its axis. That was the reason he was now resting his head upon someone's battered leather suitcase with two large stacks of mail either side of him, and he, the twenty year old, six-foot-two male, was cocooned around them attempting to go incognito. He had felt their stop at Queenstown, having heard the last of the loading into the cargo hold and then, they were o into the ocean to head across the Atlantic to America.

Thinking of home was strange. He had once been a hot-headed man but Jack had tried to stay out of trouble for years, since he had departed Wisconsin in the winter of 1907. The month which followed his parent's death he had brawled in the bars and ended up in sticu s with far too many pu y chested men to mention and despite the fact he was barely even fteen; he had never escaped with more than a bloody nose and a broken rib. The anger had stemmed from the loss of his mom and pops so young; how they were stolen from his life and he would remain alone for the rest of his life. After leaving town, he had walked away from ghts. He had seen many; living on the streets practically taught you not only to be tough, but to look after yourself. Now, the anger returned and it spiralled in Jack's belly. It was never to Rose…but for their entire situation. When their fates were just about to be their own, the wind had blown them apart.

Upon hearing the ship's whistle, Jack had turned to see the signalling but never saw the steam rising, or the anchor raised; he only saw her red hair atop the gangplank before she boarded the Augusta. In three seconds, he had thrust his rucksack across his shoulder and made ight for the

ship. An elderly woman's fall at the base of the loading bay for the cargo hold had caused a lull in the attention about the door and he was able to slip inside without being noticed.

The darkness had caused his eyes to blur at rst, but now, after some time aboard, he was able to see in the poorly dim lights which were situated across the back wall and across the front. It was cold, the smell was of sea life and battered leather until he had grown used to that as well. After cramming himself into various compartments over the years, his sole purpose had been for his own gains but it was only now that his focus was another. A woman.

The engines roared, the sounds completely deafening to the point where, when Jack nally was able to feel comfortable enough to seek an exit into the crew quarters, his ears were ringing severely loud.

He kept his face to the ground, nodding to the crew members when in passing, and then a looming third class sign ensured that he could breathe a sigh of relief. He was nally one step closer to some sort of civilisation. The

corridors were cramped, and swamped by passengers hurrying about to the centre of life aboard the ship.

''Do you have the time?'' He asked a woman, who was busy shepherding her large number of children to one side of the cramped and narrow corridor when she glanced at him oddly. A more mature lady bumped him from behind, and answered even though she wasn't addressed.

"She don't speak English, ower.'' She spoke in a broad Cockney accent. ''It's 'alf past eight, you wan'in the breaki? It's this way to' dinin' room, and I'll show ya the way in fact…'' Before Jack could answer, he was marched to the dining room and a bowl of porridge placed before him.

You could never turn down a good meal on the road; that was his lesson learned. So he ate, heartily whilst considering the entire contents of the third class dining room. No one watched him with curious eyes. No one challenged that he was stowing away. No one cared or noticed.

--

The rain hit the windows before sliding down causing a pool on the outside lip of the porthole and then dripping slowly away back to the sea in an endless cycle. Rose watched this repeatedly from the upholstered chair she had shifted to sit next to the window in her modest stateroom. She was exhausted, restless and needed a diversion from her silly mind. The sea wind was harsh, rattling the windows occasionally and startling her from the train of thoughts. She uncrossed her legs feeling the familiar discomfort in her stomach and hips; why did she feel scores older than her actual age? It wasn't just her body but her mind, too.

Rose's nerves were spread so thin that she was jumpy at even the slightest noise. Since that morning, the Augusta had left Queenstown and would be descending into the deeper waters of the Atlantic soon. In her trembling ngers, she held a copy of a Southampton newspaper and read the words of worry once more.

''An iceberg,'' she whispered, feeling cold through and through. The same coldness which had pierced her the morning previous when she had nally come to terms with the fact of her actions; she had left Jack behind. A permanent track of tears felt to be embedded within her

cheeks. The damned torment of being torn between one life and another tortured her. Could she truly have exchanged one life for the other, or had it all been just some silly, idiotic notion?

She had pictured a life; truly for the very rst time. Pictured everything so clearly and how the summer approaching would have changed her life. Gone would be the impeccably dressed ancée of a steel tycoon and she would have become the lover of an artist with a lifestyle the bohemians had created and he had adopted. It was the element of freedom which he had shown to her and the taste for it which she had enjoyed. But it was more than that; more than just what she felt for her time away from her family. It was the way that she felt for him. The way in which he made her feel as though she was a woman. His kiss had been delightful, and intoxicating and amazing in such a way that it had stopped her breathing and a ected every single bone, joint and ligament in her body turning them into uid.

There were seven days until she would set foot upon the dry land of America once more. Seven days of torture. But

in that duration, she had to transform her mind entirely and contort it back to the person she had been just six days before. How could one person a ect her in such a short length?

At the forefront of her mind though, as she held the newspaper within her hands was of absolute confusion. How could a ship, deemed to be unsinkable, sink just four days into its maiden voyage? Taking with it so many lives?

''Titanic - The Tragic Story.'' Rose read the headline aloud, as though hearing her own voice speaking the words written upon the Southampton Herald as though it was just a great ctional novel, might help it to settle into her brain. ''The world's greatest liner strikes an iceberg and sinks in less than three hours. Taking with it--'' she paused, coming across a picture of John Jacob Astor and his new bride wife Madeline, who was about Rose's age and was said to be in a very delicate condition. ''Taking with it over a thousand lives. John Jacob Astor is thought to be dead and his young wife was taken aboard a rescue ship, Carpathia.''

Afterwards, she skimmed across various notable faces, and their anticipated fate. All of whom she had met at one time or another, her mother had fawned over such high society and now, not even their money could save them. A single, solitary tear was suddenly running down her face for the rst time reading of the dreadful conditions.

''Hyperthermia, drowning…'' She read. ''Most third class were said to still be aboard as the ship went under…''

Jack, if he had been aboard the ship, would have not had one single chance of survival. Thank God for that much. Turning the page, there was a large printed list of names, some were accompanied by faces. She scanned the list and found the party in which she would have travelled with and found a picture of her mother, with Cal and herself at an event whilst in Italy just months before. A face which appeared to be very much like her own, but just another version.

''Mr. Caledon Hockley - survivor. Mrs. Ruth DeWitt Bukater - survivor. Miss. Rose DeWitt Bukater - survivor.''

Frowning, she realised that she was listed as a survivor of the disaster, even though she was never aboard the ship. It was then, she was aware of the situation; of course her mother and Cal would have never wished for the media to know that she was never aboard the Titanic. Suddenly, her mind was ablaze with strange thoughts. Had her mother or Cal stated to others that she was aboard the ship? Perhaps she su ered seasickness or a terrible headache so had stayed within the stateroom.

Suddenly, Rose's hands were clamouring about at the dark oak writing desk for a piece of paper amongst the writing materials, and she found a pot, ink and RMS Augusta stationary and began to write a note that she never believed she would.

Dear Mr. Caledon Hockley,

I am well and travelling home aboard the RMS Augusta. I shall arrive in New York City by April 21st. I have read of the Titanic disaster and can only hope that you are well and safe.

Pass my regards to my mother.

I shall look forward to re-joining you both soon.

Miss. Rose DeWitt Bukater.

Standing at the pursers o ce, Rose clutched the letter to her breast and felt how her heart was erratically clambering within her chest. This was her, going back to the life which she had detested all along. The life that she had run away from just days ago. Before there was a chance to change her mind, she stepped forward with her telegram message.

''Yes, ma'am?'' The gentleman behind the desk o ered her the at of his palm to take the letter.

''I should like this telegram delivering to Mr. Caledon Hockley in Pittsburgh.''

''Very well.''

She placed the envelope at in his hand. I

''Also, to the Waldorf Astoria in New York City.'' Rose added, thinking ahead, if her mother and Cal would dock in New York City on the rescue ship.

''Yes, of course.''

The steward seemed to linger, sensing that something else should be added. She was aware of her situation; a rst class woman travelling alone, wearing less than impeccable clothing in quite a number of sizes too large. Her hair wasn't quite neat enough. As others passed the pursers o ce, their eyes would sweep across her once and then, twice until her self conscious state caused her to wish to shrivel inwards. Oh, how she already missed the very unjudging people with whom she had met in Southampton. How they cared very little for hairstyles or clothing, only for earning their way and living life to the fullest.

''May I also request for each meal to have a tray fetched to my room, please? I am cabin forty two.'' Rose asked, quietly. ''I su er terrible seasickness,'' she added, just in case she needed to, ''in fact, I do not wish to be disturbed

unless it is for the meal trays or perhaps to be made aware of any impending danger.''

''Of course, miss, I shall deliver this right away.''

Rose nodded, satis ed with the stewards' help.

''May I also inquire after a library?''

Once given instructions which she only vaguely heard through a brain fog so dense that it was almost causing her to have a constant headache, she walked away but her mind was lled with one thing. The encounters she'd had with Jack. They were uniquely troubling; he didn't seem the person to meddle himself within other people's a airs and yet, he had with hers. He had saved her life from those young thugs; she was very much aware of how she wouldn't have survived so well in Southampton without him. The tenacious connections she had formed with him in comparison to the others in her life appealed the most. And yet Rose was his opposite in the most essential ways; a creature of domesticity, of following every single societal

rule going and he simply desired to travel to the ends of the earth.

At the docks, the morning before, she enquired after the most absurd thing. Children. As though they would have ever had a future past those days. Stupidly, in her own mind, she knew that above everything, she was mourning the loss of Jack. it felt as though there had been a death because she truly knew that she would never see him again.

Why had Jack Dawson appealed to her so very much? Was it simply a distraction because she wished to escape her loveless engagement? Looking downwards, to her nger, she was reminded that her engagement ring had been packed into the interiors of her suitcase days before and she had forgotten about it until that very second.

Rose paused mid step. Sleep wouldn't come to her so easily these next few nights and so, she found himself walking the long corridor on B Deck and made a decision to visit a quieter amenity. A place where she could nd relief to submerge herself into another place and world for the next few days.

Her mind would need to be somewhat blank in order for her to even lay her head upon the plush pillow of the bed.

It wasn't welcoming at all. Jack had told her that lying within a darkened corner of the earth, with his arm as a pillow and the blazing stars above him were always vastly more appealing than a bed. She had failed to see that at one point but now, it was an enticing thought. Enticing because she felt lonely, and needed to see the stars for company, perhaps.

Cal had once told her, when she felt lonely, that it should never be an issue; that she was never alone, and that once they had children, she would be pressing for time alone to simply read or put together a puzzle. Oh, how self-focused he was. Has the sinking changed him? She couldn't help but wonder that either. With time apart, maybe they could grow to have a little passion or even love could grow between them? At the very thought, her stomach turned and it wasn't from the ship's change of direction.

Pushing into the library, the interior was dark, and for a moment, Rose was blinded by the dearth of illumination of the chandelier overhead until she found the switch on the inside and dimmed it to a light glow.

''Goodness,'' she breathed as she went inside the library and writing rooms. They were situated aft, designed with

use of grey sycamore highlighted with the use of gold leaf and ivory. A large oak bookcase lined the left wall, full to the ceiling with books. A large white replace burned logs in a cosy area surrounded by nely upholstered divan couches in a golden colour and a chestnut red chair littered here and there. It wasn't small, but it wasn't large. The ship certainly wasn't as luxurious as the Mauretania, and not as speedy, but she wasn't opting for anything past comfort. And this space was just comfortable enough.

As her eyes adjusted to the softer light which spilled in from the re, she felt how her heart had started to pump just a little harder than usual. The silence was deafening. One couldn't hear the engines or feel anything other than an eerie longing.

The scents of parchments, old rusted books and wood lled her entirely and within a moment, she felt welcomed into the house of books. She went to the rst row, searching for a familiar title, running her ngers across sti , leather bound hardbacks. Gold lettering, black lettering, silver lettering…

Working her way to the nal row, she contemplated just which titles she had found herself familiar with and realised that she had not even been reading them.

With a nal sigh, she turned to the log burning in the re and started towards it, so slowly, that she felt completely mesmerised by the dancing ames. Oh, how she could have sat in the dim light, surrounded by books and looking into the grate for hours. People obviously used this amenity though, and people would come to tend to the re. There would be no space for her to be alone, aside from her stateroom.

Rose was also aware of the stirring she would cause by wandering freely about the ship, when she was supposed to be in New York City, after surviving the sinking of the Titanic. She was also, unchaperoned, without her engagement ring and her mind was so foggy that she would barely be able to respond to polite society in such a way.

No, the only possible way for her to get through this journey would have to be alone, with perhaps, one or two late night walks to the deck or library.

Just as she was about to actually focus on nding several books to keep her company for the duration of the voyage,

the most overwhelming urge to sob came across her and as though she had been hit in the stomach, she stumbled to the nearest couch and cried. Endlessly.