Hearts That Survive

by Yvonne Lehman

  "That's just it." He looked thoughtful. "There's no noise."

  He was right. She'd become accustomed to the hum that was as familiar as breathing. One didn't think about it. It made the ship move. Her mouth felt dry, and she needed to swallow. Had the ship stopped?

  William dismissed the uncomfortable moment with a lift of his hand. "Nothing to be concerned about." He headed for the door. "But I'll check it out."

  Caroline sat for a moment, listening to the silence. She could get undressed. However, she walked barefoot to the window and looked out, but saw nothing. And for lack of anything else to do, she slipped her feet into her shoes.

  She clasped her hands, felt her ring, and remembered Lydia had her wedding band. She and John were still in the reception room when Caroline left. They likely hadn't returned yet, but she might spy them in the hallway.

  On second thought, she wouldn't ask for the ring. Lydia could give it to her in the morning. There was no rush. But she might peek out and see if they were heading for their room. Or if William was returning.

  She mentally reprimanded herself for this indecision. What was wrong with her?

  She opened the door and saw a few passengers in the hallway, speaking in soft tones or not at all. Likely, they had left the reception and were just talking. Or they might have felt the vibration and were waiting for an explanation. Where was William? She didn't see him, but Bess hurried to her.

  Caroline stepped back, and Bess entered. Her maid's face was pale, and her voice thin. "I came to see if you needed anything?"

  Or know anything? First-class passengers would be informed of anything before other classes or servants. Earlier that evening, Caroline had told Bess she wouldn't need her after she'd dressed for the wedding. "But you could come on deck and see the wedding," she'd said.

  "No, ma'am. I won't be allowed," Bess had said flatly.

  "I'm allowing you." But she knew Bess wouldn't chance being shooed away like a moth coming to the light, considered a nuisance.

  Now that she was here, however, Caroline felt the sense of comfort she often felt around Bess. "I would like you to stay with me until William returns."

  Bess looked relieved. And as if she wanted to say something. Caroline decided to make it easier for her. "Is everything all right, Bess?"

  "I just wondered why the ship stopped. I overheard passengers say they're just changing course. Or something." She unclasped her hand. "Shall I lay out your night clothes?"

  "Not yet. Let's just sit."

  "Sit?"

  "The dressing table chair," Caroline said with a wave of her hand. She sat on the edge of the bed.

  Bess looked like she'd been sentenced to a jail cell. She wouldn't mind chatting with Bess the way she did with Lydia. But Bess had never been able to reciprocate. In spite of Caroline's attempts at being friendly, Bess remembered her place, and strictly kept it.

  "I know what," Bess said, standing, "let's see what you might wear tomorrow." She was heading for the wardrobe when the door opened and William entered.

  He and Caroline stared at each other. Finally he spoke. "Nothing to be alarmed about. The stewards said the ship struck a little ice." His laugh seemed forced. "Third-class passengers are out on their recreation area having snowball fights with the pieces." He shook his head as if he disapproved and took his timepiece from his vest pocket. "My word, it's almost midnight. Let's call it a night."

  He began to shed his formal coat, and Bess waited to hang it in the wardrobe when a knock sounded.

  William shrugged into the coat again and answered the door. A steward spoke in a level voice. "Everyone should put on life vests and come on deck."

  "Why?" William said. "I was just up there and nothing's happening. What's this about?"

  "The captain's orders, sir. Please hurry." The steward wasn't asking, he was demanding. He turned and almost collided with Craven, but quickly stepped aside.

  Craven entered the stateroom, holding his life vest. "Checking to make sure you were informed."

  "Did you check on Lydia and John?" Caroline asked.

  "Oh, yes," he said. "No answer to my knock." His shoulders rose, as did a speck of color in his face. Caroline knew he didn't like the idea of the two being in there and not answering. An instant passed, and he said lightly, "They're apparently still dancing the night away." He held up his life vest. "Maybe we can help each other into these things. A fine time to have a drill."

  "Is that what it is?" Caroline felt an easing of the twinge of fear that had begun to twist her insides.

  "Must be. Nobody's concerned about a problem. I didn't see Ismay or the captain on deck. On Sunday mornings, there's been a drill on every ship I've sailed on. But on this one," he scoffed, "they wait until midnight."

  "Why a practice drill for a ship that can't sink?" William said, and ordered Bess to get the life vests.

  She already had them in her arms.

  "Oh," he said. "Caroline will need her fur."

  Bess laid the vests on a chair and opened the wardrobe.

  "A drill," Caroline said. "That might take some time. Get a coat for yourself, Bess." Caroline stepped into the bathroom. Fortunately, she was still in her evening clothes, but she should at least, as William had said earlier, freshen up.

  22

  Shortly after midnight, Monday morning, April 15, 1912

  John never wanted to take his eyes from Lydia or his arm from around her as they walked along the deck. But Lydia stopped in her tracks. "John, look." He looked at the surprise on her face and could hardly believe the shocking sight even as she described it. "They're uncovering lifeboats."

  Immobilized, he searched for some explanation. The captain, Ismay, and Andrews appeared rather grim while talking to an abundance of officers. Passengers were questioning each other. Crew members seemed as uncomprehending as they.

  People were coming on deck wearing life vests. A steward spoke to him and Lydia rather harshly, "You need to put your life vests on. Captain's orders."

  "What's the problem?" he called as the steward passed, but he received no reply. John turned to Lydia. "I'll get our vests. Stay near the lifeboats and get in if they tell you."

  "No." She grasped his arm. "Not without you."

  Indecision wafted through John. Was this serious? Should he stay? Should he take her with him? In a crisis, one doesn't leave his loved one. Unless it's for her own good.

  Looking around as if the answer lay elsewhere, he spied Caroline and William. A passenger he hadn't met stayed near them. Then he saw that was not a bauble in her hair but a maid's cap.

  "What's happening?" Lydia looked from one to the other.

  "We're thinking it's a drill," Caroline said in a hopeful tone. "Ships always have them."

  "They would tell us if it were anything serious." William's voice sounded more hopeful than confident. "If there were a real emergency, we'd hear sirens, or whistles, or bells, or something."

  "I heard something earlier, faint but like—" Lydia searched for the proper words. "Like a muffled foghorn, I'd say." Her words sounded like a failed effort at bravery. "I've never really heard a fog horn."

  "Oh, that," William said. "It would have been when they hit a small iceberg. And like the captain said at dinner, the bergs would simply move out of the way." As if trying to console all who were staring at him, William said steerage passengers were playing with chunks of ice that had fallen on their deck.

  The Strauses made an appearance, looking fatigued, as if they'd just been awakened, and sat in chairs against the wall. The Astors went immediately to the captain.

  Craven approached, wearing a life vest, and John thought it a good time to make his exit. Craven had sailed many times and would understand the situation better than he. John wanted Lydia safe, regardless of who kept her that way.

  "I'll be right back," he said.

  Lydia's eyes pleaded. "Hurry."

  He sprinted away. On the way down the steps, he passed a passenger who said to another, "
There doesn't seem to be a problem except the ship has stopped moving."

  John thought so too, until he stumbled and reached for the railing to steady himself. Something about the stairs felt off. Perhaps it was his imagination and his hurry to get back to Lydia.

  Stewards and stewardesses were knocking on doors, and unlocking them when no one answered. Lydia's was unlocked. He entered her sitting room and on into the bedroom. He took her fur from the wardrobe and picked up her life vest, and the Bible from the bedside table.

  On the way back, the hall was blocked. A woman lay stretched out on the floor. A man knelt nearby and a stewardess was feeling the woman's neck. A young girl stood nearby holding a life vest. Then he realized that it was Phoebe.

  He hurried to them.

  S. J. looked up. "Mother," he said. "She fainted."

  "She's breathing," the stewardess said. "Let's see if she can sit up. Sir," she said to John, "could you wet a cloth with cold water?" She pointed to the stateroom next to them.

  What an upside-down world crossed John's mind. He didn't have time to think but was aware that before he was involved with the Beaumonts, he would comply with a request to get a cloth, or get one without being asked and think nothing of it.

  His life had changed to having others wait on him, particularly on this ship, when many times a day some worker asked if he or she could do anything for him. Now it was reversed again, and a crew member was asking a first-class passenger to perform a chore. He would find it amusing were things not so serious. Perhaps later he'd write a poem about how precarious life is.

  He returned quickly with the wet cloth.

  The stewardess propped Lady Lavinia against her, took the cloth, and pressed it against Lady Lavinia's face.

  "Should we take her to the hospital?" S. J. asked.

  "I'm sorry, none of the facilities are available now. Compartments have been shut off." She sounded distressed. "Everyone is ordered on deck, sir."

  S. J. scoffed helplessly, "She's in no condition to go on deck." He looked around. "Where's her maid?"

  Phoebe made no response when he glanced at her.

  "Should we take her back to her stateroom?"

  "No," the stewardess said. "We'll take her to the nearest room. I'll stay with her. She'll be fine soon."

  S. J. mumbled something like this being unheard of.

  John watched him look around helplessly. "Where's Henry?"

  Phoebe, in her nightclothes, began to cry. "I don't know. I was trying to help Grandmother." She looked petrified. "He had a fit about getting up and said he wanted to sleep. Nanny had to force the pillow away from him, and he . . . he was very cross."

  John touched S. J.'s shoulder. "I can go for him if you'd like."

  S. J. shook his head and talked it over aloud. "We'll get Mother into the stateroom, then I'll get Henry." He looked at his trembling, crying daughter, who was holding her life vest. "I would appreciate your taking Phoebe to the deck. We'll be along soon."

  "Yes," John thought that a good idea, if there were any good ideas in this mysterious situation. "I'll take her to Lydia. We'll keep her with us until you join us."

  "Thank you." His quick glance meant much more, something akin to hope in a confusing situation. This reminded John of the novel S. J. had talked about. He had an idea for a plot, but didn't yet know the ending.

  John found it difficult to fathom what was happening. He needed to be with Lydia. But S. J.'s difficulty was greater. His mother could not be treated in the ship's hospital. A doctor apparently couldn't be summoned. His son was missing, and now he had to put his daughter into the hands of someone she hardly knew.

  He liked children, but this wasn't exactly a time for everyday conversation. In the reception room he'd complimented her and thanked her for attending as flower girl.

  "Have you seen the Ancell trains?" he asked, hoping to divert her attention from passengers heading for the deck, some with heavy coats over nightclothes that showed beneath them. Some in slippers. That was a foolish thought. This young girl was quite astute. Aside from that, she wasn't blind.

  "I don't know if it was yours," she said, "but I did see one that puffs smoke and runs on a track."

  Her eyes lit up a little when she glanced up. Perhaps she too wanted anything to keep her mind from the quiet chaos around them. "What does Miss Lydia—?" She stopped her words. "I mean," and she actually wore a little playful look, "what does Mrs. Ancell like about your trains, since her father has real ones and yours are toys?" Likely this child had heard a comparison spoken of before.

  Mrs. Ancell. The name thrilled him. It was the first time anyone had said it since the captain had proclaimed it. In the reception room friends called her Lydia.

  He smiled down at Phoebe. Her question was similar to the one he'd asked himself when Craven Dowd approached him about the Beaumont Company having an interest in his toys.

  The child made no mention of the now-slanted staircase, but held onto the rail and ascended them awkwardly rather than in the graceful way she'd descended after the wedding. He tried to concentrate on her question. But he could hardly tell a child about his designs that he hadn't yet fully explained to the Beaumont Company. Finally, they stepped onto the promenade deck.

  Phoebe pointed. "There she is."

  23

  The band came on deck and began playing ragtime. Lydia could not imagine anything more ridiculous. Ragtime accompanying the chaos? Perhaps it was meant to assure the passengers this was nothing serious. She was trying to be brave. Some of the crew were having trouble with the boats. Passengers had been told to get into one, then told to get out again. Something about ropes being tangled.

  She tried to believe that Caroline was right, and this was only a drill. She tried to deny hearing Craven and William repeating what they heard others saying. The voices carried on the still cold night like some eerie foreboding.

  Surely she hadn't heard correctly when William rebutted someone's remark. "What?" he shouted. "Those compartments are watertight. You can't mean five of them are flooded."

  "No worry," someone replied. "The ship will stay afloat."

  Further down the deck an officer allowed a man to climb into a boat with a child while the officers at a boat near her group announced, "Women and children only."

  An officer took hold of Lydia's arm. She wrenched it away. "I can't go without my husband."

  Craven stepped up. "She's the one who had the big wedding and reception. She mustn't go alone."

  "You're the husband?"

  As if talking down to one beneath his station, Craven scoffed, "Not if I don't get on that boat with her."

  Molly, who had joined them and was talking to Caroline, spoke loudly, "I could go speechless on that one."

  The officer and crew must have heard. Or maybe it didn't matter. They were having to threaten some men who tried to get into the boats. One boat was being lowered to the water, and a man jumped into it. A woman screamed when he fell on her.

  "Look," Molly said. "There goes the president of the line. Brave man."

  Lydia understood Molly's cynical tone. Mr. Ismay walked past crew members and stepped into a boat without a glance at anyone.

  Craven had stepped back at the officer's warning. Now he was walking further down the deck. No one seemed to know where to focus or what to watch. But then a woman two boats away, holding a crying baby, pleaded, "My daughter. She's with the maid. I can't go without her."

  A little girl came running up the deck crying and calling for her mother.

  Craven stopped the child. Lydia and her group watched. Perhaps they were as surprised as she when he knelt in front of her and began to talk. He gestured toward the boat. The little girl quieted and nodded.

  Lydia was rather mesmerized with Craven's being so thoughtful as to notice a child in distress. He picked her up and walked to the boat. Accompanying the band were shouts and goodbyes and questions and talk and difficulty with boats.

  Craven approached the boat
and told the officer, "I can help row."

  The officer nodded. Craven stepped into the boat with the child, handed her to her mother, proceeded to keep everyone calm, and took hold of the oars. Lydia had heard officers ordering crew members into boats to help with rowing. But none had called to a first-class male passenger who likely had never rowed anything other than a canoe in his life.

  The boat began to be lowered. It moved down, out of sight, and the last glimpse she had of Craven was the determined set of his chin when he glanced her way, with a look of steel in his eyes that seemed to say he was indomitable.

  "There's John," Molly said, "and Phoebe."

  Phoebe came to Lydia and put her arms around her waist. Lydia held her close.

  "Come over here, and let's get you warm," Molly said. She wrapped Phoebe in the warmth of her coat.

  Caroline held Lydia's fur while John fastened the vest on her. Then he took the fur and placed it around her shoulders. Realizing she wasn't wearing gloves and her hands were freezing, she slipped them into the pockets. In one was her little beaded purse.

  She looked down as she started to bring the object out of the other pocket.

  "It's the Bible," John said. "It was on your nightstand, so I picked it up and slipped it in there."

  Ah, the irony. Some passengers had pieces of luggage with them. William held a briefcase. They probably were thinking it possible they'd be transferred to another ship while this one underwent repairs, if that were necessary.

  But this was John's way. It wouldn't occur to him to pick up her jewelry box.

  "You must get into the boat, ma'am," the officer commanded.

  Looking over, she saw that it held women and children only. But earlier he had asked Craven if he were her husband. She caught hold of John's sleeve. "He's my husband."