Hearts That Survive

by Yvonne Lehman

  Now as she stood looking out to sea, visualizing their destination of New York, she had to face reality.

  Her long fur coat covered her silk dress. Her kid-gloved hands held onto the steel railing. The bitter-cold air burned her face, and her warm breath created gray wisps, reminiscent of Craven's cigar smoke, when he wasn't making entertaining smoke circles.

  Only a moment ago she'd said to John, "Finish your dessert. I don't want any tonight. I need a breath of fresh air." That uneasiness in her stomach had nothing to do with seasickness.

  John and Craven slid back their chairs and stood when she pushed away from the table. She felt Craven's gaze but met John's eyes that questioned. Usually after dining, Craven joined other men in the smoking lounge. She and John would walk onto the deck, They would stand shoulder to shoulder. With his arm around her waist, he'd speak of the aesthetic beauty of the ocean and sky. She'd dream of her future life with him.

  She shivered now, looking out to where the sun had sunk into the horizon, analogous of her having sunk into the depth of yielding to temptation. A mistake seemed much worse when one was . . . caught. Only four weeks had passed. But she knew.

  She would be an outcast if others knew. The night they'd expressed their love physically, she'd never felt so fulfilled. But with passion sated, guilt entered. She felt violated. Not by John, but by her own weakness. A decent woman should say no, keep the relationship pure until marriage.

  Oh, she knew they both were at fault. But had she, more deliberately than she wanted to admit, lured him into the physical relationship because she was afraid of losing him? He wanted her father's blessing before marrying her. She doubted he would ever have it.

  It was a wondrous thing to be loved, but a fearsome thing to be tainted.

  For now, only she and John knew about their tainted love.

  She had thought she and John could face anything together.

  But anyone?

  Craven?

  Her father?

  Her father said she was all he had after they were both devastated by her mother's death from a deadly lung disease and a stillbirth. However, Lydia had had the best of tutors and nannies. She had been accompanied to the appropriate outings by Lady Grace Frazier, a middle-aged widow. Her father and Lady Grace became close companions, although he vowed he had neither time nor inclination to marry. His heart attack last year so frightened and weakened him, he'd made it clear that although Lydia would inherit the business, he was grooming Craven to run it.

  She'd surprised him by expressing a desire to learn more about the business and win the respect of the company's American executives. She suggested that John accompany them on the trip, since he could explain his designs better than Craven. Beaumont Company wanted his designs, and John wanted to be sure that he wanted to divulged those secrets to the company. The matter would be discussed and any agreements drawn up in a legal contract.

  "You may have a business head on you after all," her father said at her suggestion about John. He'd meant that as praise, so she smiled and thanked him.

  Although he and others often complimented her on having inherited her mother's beauty, Lydia thought her looks paled in comparison with her mother's loveliness and grace. She'd inherited her father's ambition and strong-mindedness rather than her mother's submissive attitudes, but he never acknowledged this. He did, however, occasionally admonish her to behave in a more ladylike fashion.

  Her father and Craven cultivated identical goals. One was ensuring that Beaumont Railroad Company continued to be number one in the world. Two was that Lydia become Mrs. Craven Dowd. And in that order.

  At one time she'd felt that marriage to Craven was her destiny. Her friends proclaimed it her good fortune. To be honest, however, rather than sitting in the plush coach of a noisy, smelly, smoke-puffing Beaumont train, she preferred flipping a switch, watching a little Ancell toy train huff and puff, its wheels turn, and its engine chug-chug along, as she laughed delightedly with John.

  Hearing footsteps, Lydia took a deep breath. The cold air in her throat made her feel as though she'd swallowed too large a bite of the French ice cream served at dinner.

  Before feeling his touch on her exposed wrist, she knew this wasn't John, but Craven. Like many women, she liked the aroma of his after-dinner cigars, offset by a slight fragrance of cologne. But she preferred John's light, fresh, faintly musky scent.

  "Lydia?"

  Turning her head, she glanced at him. "Where's John?"

  Craven's deep breath didn't seem to affect his throat. Likely, it was heated, as his face had been when she told him she couldn't see him anymore. "He's sitting at the table." His eyebrows lifted. "Writing."

  "That's what poets do." She glanced beyond his shoulder, hoping John would appear.

  "Lydia, there's something I want to make clear."

  Facing the ocean that reflected the star-spangled night, she was reminded of the spark in Craven's eyes earlier, when he'd kissed the back of her hand and said she looked lovely. John had smiled, as if he agreed.

  She'd requested they not sit with other passengers this night, but at a smaller, more intimate table. She'd planned to tell John after Craven left. But then she'd experienced that queasiness. She felt it now.

  "I want you to know," Craven said. "I understand why you wanted to take this trip."

  He couldn't.

  He mustn't. John would be ruined and in the process they both would face a worse fate than if she'd stayed in London.

  2

  Lydia faced Craven. "Well, I'm sure you do." She hoped he thought her voice shook from the cold and not from his intimidating manner, particularly since he'd voiced his adamant disapproval of her seeing John, and had kept saying, "What if your father knew?" as if he might tell him.

  "Aren't you the one who's been shouting the praises of this—" she looked out at the vast gray sea rather than into his eyes of the same color, that had a way of piercing her soul, "greatest ship ever built?"

  He lifted his hand and shook his head as if she should hush. She would not. "I told you and Father I need to make this trip. After all, he is ill."

  "I know." His words halted her. "You claimed it's a business matter." His tone was condescending. "But I know you wanted to be with John." He looked around, but unfortunately John wasn't approaching. "I understand that. You're young. He's different."

  "Different?" Her voice squeaked. For a long time she'd been in awe of Craven. Somewhere along the line, she'd grown up. Now he was trying to make her feel young. But, compared to his thirty-five years, twenty-one was young.

  She shifted her gaze to the silver hair at his temples, below the darker brown. He had a handsome face. Mischievous eyes that women said were flirtatious, in a complimentary way. He certainly fit the picture of a distinguished gentleman.

  "What I mean is, he's a nice boy."

  Boy?

  "And likeable. But he's a dreamer."

  Before Lydia could retort that they were on an acclaimed ship of dreams, he added, "And he's a toy-maker."

  Lydia refused to conceal her indignation. "That toy-making is what brought him to your attention, Craven. You brought it to my father and the board and gave John a place in the company so he could learn about it. Have you forgotten that?"

  "Of course not. We all recognize his ingenious designs and hope we can incorporate them into real trains."

  She knew Craven did not hold in high regard those who didn't come from old money, name, and prestige. She'd held some of that attitude before meeting John.

  She sighed. "You're telling me what I already know."

  "I guess what I'm trying to say, Lydia, is that you have every right to find out what and who you want in your life. In case this is just a phase, I want you to know I still care for you. I wish that, by the end of this voyage, you would know who is the better man."

  She gasped and glared at him, open-mouthed. He held up both hands and grinned, as if she were having a childish temper tantrum. He remained cal
m. "I know I'm not a better man than John in many ways. But keep in mind I'm, what, ten, twelve years older than he is? Who knows what kind of man he might be in ten years? What I'm saying is, I think long term, and I'm the better man for you."

  Lydia turned from him and looked down at her gloved hands grasping the railing, needing to hold onto something. "Thank you," she said softly. She'd enjoyed being escorted by Craven the last two years. They'd been noted in the society pages, the heiress and the president of the Beaumont Railroad Company. He'd been married and divorced and had had many women friends before her. But she could not condemn or judge, considering . . .

  And she knew he cared for her. But he'd never said "love" the way John had.

  "You will think about what I said?"

  Alienating a powerful man like Craven wouldn't be wise. She was the heiress, but he ran the business. She smiled at him. "I was just doing that."

  He gave a quick nod, lifted his regal chin, straightened his shoulders, turned, and strolled off in his confident way. Her father thought Craven the better man too. But the two of them judged a person more by his financial holdings than by his heart.

  She'd never known a dreamer before, nor a man who made her dream about just being near him. John had done well to come from so-called nothing to designing a popular line of toy trains. But she didn't care if he hadn't a penny to his name.

  Looking around, she nodded and spoke to those who strolled by. But where was John? Had he lost some of his eagerness to be with her?

  As much as she dreaded it, she must tell John about the lie, and the truth.

  Would he still love her?

  Instantly everything changed. She heard his steps, sensed his presence, breathed in his essence. Felt his warmth when his fingertips touched her cold cheek.

  John.

  Before she could find the words, he spoke in that delightfully excited, energetic way of his. Probably the way a child would react upon playing with the train John had designed. John was delighted with her.

  She'd loved it when she and John, along with her friends Elsie and Edward, had dressed like commoners and acted young and free. But being on this ship was life too. Although she had fallen in love with John when he wasn't dressed in a formal suit and white tie, her heart beat faster at the picture of male perfection. He was tall, dark-haired, lean, and quite elegant. She, in her silk and fur, felt they went right well together.

  "I'm sorry I took so long," he said. "I got caught up in writing a poem to you. May I read the beginning to see if you like it?"

  She nodded but dared not look into his deep blue eyes that made her feel as if the rest of the world had receded and only the two of them mattered.

  He read:

  As sunflowers turn to contemplate the sun,

  I turned to view your golden loveliness

  And loved, desired to care for, not possess:

  To cherish till our earthly days are done.

  His words halted. His hands moved to her shoulders as he turned her to face him. "Lydia. You're crying? Please forgive me."

  She could hardly see him through her tears. How could she respond to something as beautiful as having a poem written to her? Not now. Not this way.

  "I was so caught up in wanting you to know how much I love you. I know things haven't been right since—"

  She could stand it no longer.

  "John. I lied about making this trip for business reasons." She didn't know if it was only her head that shook or if she was trembling all over. "I am," her voice became a frigid whisper, "with child."

  His mouth opened, but no warm breath came out. His eyes stared. His hands fastened like a vise on her shoulders. John looked frozen.

  3

  John could hardly believe what Lydia had just said. He'd been thinking about the words he'd penned on paper. He'd begun the poem that first night after they boarded the Titanic, and had worked long and hard on the quatrain. Four lines.

  Now he tried to decipher the four words she spoke. I am with child.

  Nothing he might say or write could match that. There could be no higher honor for a man than to have the woman he loved carrying their baby.

  He looked at the paper he held in his hand. He might as well toss that so-called poem into the ocean. She held inside her . . . the world. A life. His offspring.

  He needed to say something. But he was not adept at speaking his deepest thoughts. They came from his mind to his fingers holding a pencil or pen, and onto paper. Orally, his sentences were like the tip of an iceberg, while in writing they expressed his depth. Even then, he felt lacking.

  She was turning from him. Physically, emotionally.

  What did she need from him? Joy? Apology? Should he blurt out he'd marry her now when he'd already said he wanted to win her father's blessing first?

  He must find a way to make her believe her father's blessing was now a concept that might as well be buried at the bottom of the sea. He and Lydia needed the blessing of their heavenly Father. And he needed to be a blessing to Lydia and their child.

  He grasped the cold, hard steel railing. "You know I love you."

  "Yes, John."

  His beloved stood as calm as the sea's surface. But beneath she teemed with life. The life of his child. His intake of breath was audible and brought her head around to look at him. He could hardly bear the wonder of it.

  His eyes closed for a long moment. When he opened them, he barely saw her.

  "John?" she whispered.

  "I'm so full of feeling. I must think."

  A sound, seeming to express displeasure, escaped her throat. "Can't you say anything about this? Something?" Her words were strangled. "You hate it? It's all right? Say . . . anything?"

  After a moment, he shook his head, dissatisfied with himself. "There's so much to say. In my own thoughts I'm a blundering idiot. Please. Will you give me time?"

  She turned from him again. "This takes time, you know."

  "Just tonight. Let's talk in the morning. We might breakfast together on our promenade deck."

  She nodded.

  "And, Lydia. Will you do something for me? Will you read Psalm 51 tonight?"

  "I can't."

  He groaned. Apparently that wasn't an acceptable request when the woman you love has just told you she's carrying your child.

  She glanced over. A hint of a grin tugged at her mouth. "I don't have a Bible with me."

  He dared a smile. "After we retire to our cabins, I'll knock on the door of your suite and lend you my Bible."

  She shook her head. "I'll have Marcella retrieve it from you."

  So much was said in a simple sentence. Their eyes met for less than an instant before they looked away, as if having to confirm that neither would behave improperly. They were careful with their words, with their actions. They planned their moves. That other night, they had not planned, otherwise it wouldn't have happened.

  "Shall we retire for the night?" It was early. But they had played at life too long, pretended all was well.

  She nodded and they strolled along the polished teak deck. He did not put his arm around her waist. They spoke casually to others standing by the railing or walking past them.

  Upon reaching their private promenade deck, neither offered the usual tender kiss. She opened the door to her sitting room. Marcella, in her white cap and apron over a black dress, walked into the sitting room and gave a brief nod.

  John said, "Good night." He went to his bedroom on the other side of Craven's. He hoped Craven would follow his normal routine and not seek him out. Since he'd locked his door it had remained so and he supposed Craven had locked it on the other side to ensure privacy. He picked up his Bible from the nightstand. When the light tap-tap sounded, he opened the door and handed the book to Marcella.

  Marcella took it, then made a small gesture of a curtsey. She turned away and John's focus fell upon the steward, who served several of the nearby suites.

  "Anything I can get for you, sir?" the steward aske
d.

  "No, thank you, George. I'm fine." John had not been accustomed to having anyone curtsey, nod, or constantly refer to him as "sir" before coming into the good graces of Cyril Beaumont. Such gestures made him uncomfortable. That was Lydia's world. The company's interest lay in the design of his toy trains. He could manage without the deference, and without first-class accommodations, fine as they were, but could not imagine life without Lydia.

  Reminding himself he had other matters to think about, he closed the door and sat at the desk. He took his notebook from the top drawer of the nightstand, and the fountain pen and poem from his pocket.

  He prefaced his intentions with closed eyes and a prayer. At the "amen" his eyes opened and his gaze moved to the window that would have been a porthole in a lesser ship. All ships were lesser to this hotel on water. Or perhaps a better description was a palace afloat.

  John could imagine how one might become overwhelmed by such luxury. He shook aside those thoughts. Despite the lighted cabin, the medium blue sky was visibly aglow with brilliant starlight. That disappeared as he stared into the distance where his creativity existed.

  His fountain pen became an instrument of emotion and feeling. Words poured from his heart and soul. He prayed for God to give him the proper way to make his poem a work of skill and beauty, not just idle thoughts, so that it would express exactly what he meant. He continued with the English adaptation of the Italian sonnet form. This too would be a quatrain to attest the genuineness of his love for Lydia and their child.

  After a couple hours spent composing several drafts, he had the next four lines. He opened the desk drawer and took out a piece of White Star stationery and meticulously copied the first quatrain he'd read to Lydia on the promenade deck and added the second quatrain.

  Perhaps morning would bring fresh thoughts, but this was his best for the moment. He tucked the sonnet into the notebook and closed it. He couldn't follow his routine of reading the scripture before turning off the light. His intent to lie in the dark and think of Psalm 51 was halted by an unbidden verse.