As if a string suddenly pulled him up, he stood, towering over her. His steel-gray eyes stared down at her as if to say so much for that. He'd been thoroughly rebuffed. The nostrils of his exquisite nose flared ever so slightly. He was miffed. One of the world's most eligible bachelors, even a Titanic hero now, had proposed and was told he was insane. Where were the reporters when you needed them?
Just as his face and foot appeared to favor the door, she said, "Craven."
He stood still but continued to stare at the door as if he, too, were wooden. Polished wood, mind you.
"A girl likes to think things over. Do you suppose it might be more fitting if you were to ask, rather than demand?"
Was that a flash of disbelief when his glance swept her way? Maybe he would learn she could use shock tactics as well as he.
She saw it then, because she'd learned to look for it. That little twitch right at the corner of his mouth. His nod was as slight as the breath that lifted his shoulders.
Without another word or glance he walked out the door.
She needed a sip of champagne for this. It felt rather celebratory on her tongue and in her throat.
42
The Titanic tragedy for Lydia was like the stroke of midnight for Cinderella who lost her glass slipper and her coach turned into a pumpkin. She had danced with her prince before that midnight hour. But her prince would not arrive on his white horse.
The following day, Lydia began her new life. He wasn't the same prince. But he was charming. And this one came with a black limousine.
Craven suggested they begin the proceeding to acquire a marriage license just in case a proposal was accepted. Wearing the dove-gray suit, shortly after complying with his suggestion, she rode with him to the station. Earlier, he'd informed Caroline that Lydia wouldn't be available and casually mentioned to Lydia that she might bring along her blue silk dress. "Or there are places where you might shop, if you prefer."
They boarded a Beaumont train, she with her bag holding the blue dress, a small makeup kit, and a few personal items. His was a much larger bag.
She was the only passenger in the private coach. Looking past the burgundy velvet curtain fastened with gold cord, she saw people for a moment, and then they were left behind. The train whizzed through the countryside.
She only had to sit and enjoy the ride. But unlike her fantasy of thinking something could last ever after, she knew there could be a wreck at any moment. In the meantime, the soot had been washed away, and she would not return to the fireplace with a scarf on her head and a broom in her hand. Do you know who you are, Lydia? Yes, a princess on the way to becoming queen.
The picturesque landscape of crops and green countryside and farmhouses changed. "The Gold Coast," Craven said, as mansions emerged.
She became interested in the picture of the history of America he painted as he talked about the King's Highway and the route George Washington had traveled more than a century ago in a horse-drawn carriage. "The president," Craven said, "had the intention of thanking the Long Island supporters for helping win the American Revolution."
"I know so little about American history," she said. "It's fascinating."
He nodded, looking pleased, and she was aware they had a civil conversation going on. "Those early founders started something that has grown to be recognized as the greatest nation in the world. The land of opportunity. And beauty."
Large estates and wonderful views came into sight. Some homes looked like castles, but they were not as stuffy as the big stone mansion where she'd lived with her father.
They were met at the station by a car and driven to a large estate. "Craven, I'm not up to visiting." This was the only objectionable thing so far.
"I'm aware of that, Lydia."
A servant took their bags inside. Craven gestured toward the perfectly groomed lawn, which stretched to a lake. "There are forty acres here. Trails that can be walked, stables, servants' quarters."
At her glance at him, he grimaced. "I know it's not half the size of your father's. And not as opulent as those you're accustomed to visiting. It has only thirty rooms, but I'd like you to see it."
He really didn't need to apologize for someone else's home. She could honestly say, "No, and it's not as large as that castle you pointed out."
"That was the Gould Castle, the design influenced by the Kilkenny Castle in Ireland. This one," he had a doubtful look, "is a Tudor Manor."
She recognized the style. "It's lovely."
"Shall we?" They walked to the entry.
A butler stood at the door and a maid inside the foyer. "Good to see you again, Mr. Dowd."
"And you, Conners."
Before Craven could introduce her, Conners said, "Welcome, Miss Beaumont." He turned his head toward the maid. "This is Regina. She can attend to your every need."
"Thank you." Lydia knew the servants wouldn't ask questions other than how they might be of service.
"I've visited here a few times," Craven said as they walked through the foyer, decorated quite nicely, airy, with fresh flowers in a tall urn beneath an oil painting near the staircase. "It belongs to the Grahams, parents of Hoyt Graham, a friend of mine, a board member."
She looked around. "Where are they?"
"In the Greek Isles for the summer." He led her through the living room, the music room, the spacious formal dining room, and an informal dining room that could serve as a romantic setting for two people just enjoying dinner and each other.
"I could live in this room," she said when they walked into the library, where books lined the walls. There was a comfortable-looking couch and chairs, particularly the big chair one might crawl into and feel protected. "What a place to sit and read all about American history. Or romance novels."
He was trying to please her. And she was as pleased as she could be, under the circumstances. They ascended the less than grand but nice staircase to the landing. Regina stood at a bedroom door. "This is your room, miss. Yours is the usual, Mr. Dowd."
She looked around at Craven, standing as if awaiting her assessment of the elegantly furnished room. "How long are we staying?"
The indentation appeared at his mouth. "You'll see."
He was very good at planning what to do and where to go, as she had discovered when he'd escorted her in London and Paris. He may not be different in the manner of some people, but she was getting the impression he might have in mind a honeymoon before the wedding proposal.
For now, however, she was along for the ride. And that's what they did after selecting riding clothes kept on hand for guests. They rode the trails through the woods, where a squirrel ran up a tree and birds chirped from treetops, and over the land, and by the lake. The fresh air, and the wind blowing her hair out of its restricting pins, felt liberating.
Rather than exhaustion she felt exhilaration and a mild sense of anticipation about what might follow his saying, "Time is flying. Perhaps we should dress for dinner."
When she descended the stairs in the blue dress, her hair pinned back except for the few impossible curls, he was waiting, dressed in a formal dark-blue suit that made his eyes look almost the same color instead of their natural gray. He extended his arm and led her into the dining room. The romantic one.
A lace tablecloth covered the round table, and a crystal chandelier glowed with just enough light for an intimate setting, enhanced with candlelight throughout the room. Music was piped in from somewhere. He seated her and then sat across from her.
The entrée George served on gold-trimmed china plates was fish topped with roasted almonds. Craven was very familiar with George. He was old enough to be her father, but obviously capable in his position. When she complimented the food, he credited his wife, Ethel, who was in the kitchen.
This was all so perfect. Was Craven trying to tell her what life would be like with him? She already knew what that would be. She'd heard the phrase, money can't buy happiness. No, but it could help keep one's mind off the unhappiness. Give t
he impression all is well. But you never know when out of the darkness . . . when . . . an iceberg . . .
With a shake of her head, she looked at her fork and saw it stranded halfway between the plate and her mouth. The music played on. The band had played on the ship.
She laid down her fork, touched the side of the plate, and George came. "Anything else, Miss Beaumont?"
"No. Thank you. It was delicious." She was glad she'd eaten most of it.
She didn't have to do this. Occasionally, she thought she might know who she was. Not only her father, but she too, had hundreds of people to do her bidding.
And Craven Dowd was one of them.
At that thought she lifted her chin, and her gaze, from the empty spot where her plate had been. Her eyes met his. As if he had received the thought, he lowered his eyelids to half-mast, glanced over at George, and made a gesture of pushing the plate aside. George came over for it.
Craven gazed at her again, seeming a tad uncomfortable as if he thought she might say no.
Might she?
43
George poured champagne into flutes. Afraid to lift the glass lest it shatter, she thought of other flutes raised in celebration. An orchestra had played in a reception room. Hundreds had danced. She'd laughed and smiled and joked and kissed her husband, and she'd been young and gay.
Now she sat demurely, while elderly George poured champagne. She was no longer a girl, but a woman old enough for the man across from her. He was wise, intelligent, thoughtful, and knew how to treat a woman. He should, being thirty-five years old—a middle-aged man.
He nodded to George, who left the room. She knew Craven Dowd could woo her, placate her, indulge her, but no way under heaven would he kneel. Not even her father had enough money for that. She didn't want that. It would be a mockery. A mockery she would be unable to abide.
He took a small box, dark blue, from his pocket and opened the lid. Of course it wouldn't be a diamond. That would be too much like John's. The ring sat in light blue satin. Craven explained that the sapphire had half-moon-shaped diamonds around the jewel, as if she couldn't see that. It was set in platinum.
The ring was so beautiful it could be the envy of any woman. She remembered asking John how he knew her ring size. She almost scoffed now at her naiveté in questioning how Craven would know the size. Her ring size was on the records of many London, and at least one Paris jewelry store. Her father, or Craven, only needed to ask someone to find out the information, and it would be done.
Her throat felt scratchy, but she feared picking up the flute, so she cleared her throat. She didn't look to see if Craven took a sip, but she thought she heard him swallow.
"Lydia."
She heard herself swallow.
"Will you become my wife?" The voice was deep, resonant, serious, and perfectly modulated with the soft music in the dimly lit, romantic room. "Marry me?"
Her mind could not think of the words to say. I do? I don't? She looked at her naked finger but could not lift her hand. Her other hand was on her lap near her stomach. Not wanting to appear trembly, she let her hand slide over the fine lacy tablecloth and away from her.
His hands lifted hers, and the sapphire-diamond platinum ring slipped so easily in place it seemed to give the impression it was the better ring. Should she say thank you? "It's . . . it's . . . breathtaking."
He gently squeezed her hand, and they both gazed at it as if wondering what it might do. He picked up his glass, so she did too. "To us," he said.
"Yes," she replied and touched the edge of his flute with hers.
They celebrated with a sip of champagne.
Then there was applause. Looking around, she saw George the waiter, Ethel the cook, Regina the maid, and Conners the butler. George held something. He came over with Craven's luggage.
Craven unfastened it and stood as he brought out a huge mass of white. She caught her breath when he took her hand, and she stood. He wrapped a long white fur coat around her shoulders. "Your engagement present." He motioned for George to take away the bag.
"I have nothing for you."
A minute shift of his eyes to hers—yes, his were a deep bluegray tonight—sent a message of denial. She didn't know if it meant her, or the company, but he had refuted her statement.
"This is beautiful. Thank you." She moved her hands along the soft, luxurious fur.
"This will please your father. I know he would like a picture. Is that all right?"
She didn't have to glance at the doorway to know a photographer was there. He posed them against a blank wall with Craven's arm at the back of her waist. She knew what to do and held the fur close in front with her hand, exposing the ring. They smiled at the appropriate time.
Their engagement was not sealed with a kiss but a photograph. "I suppose this will be in the papers too?"
"As soon as the newspaper can print it but maybe not on the front page."
She nodded, knowing the reason. Headlines still jumped out from every newspaper about the tragedy. But the engagement would be reported, if only in the society columns. Somehow, that seemed important. It all had to be official.
"When do we leave?" she asked.
"Whenever you're ready."
Darkness shrouded the windows.
"When does the train leave?"
He looked surprised. "When you and I are aboard."
"Should we change?"
He shook his head. "No reason. And I like the feel of the fur." His hand moved along the side of the coat against her arm.
"I do too," she answered. "I truly love it."
Love.
She seemed to be taking up the habit of erratic breathing. But shouldn't "love" be mentioned at an engagement? She picked up the flute, lifted it, and said, "To the coat."
He laughed and joined in with the toast.
Later on the train, with darkness outside and no reason to have lighting inside, they sat with the fur between them, her arm on the inside, his on the outside. She made another statement that surprised him after he said they should have the ceremony as soon as possible.
One might think he was five weeks pregnant or something. "Why the rush?"
"I'm sorry I didn't explain," he said. "I thought you understood. The reason for this trip was to introduce the Ancell design to the American executives. I travel here several times a year, but my primary responsibilities are in Europe."
She shifted toward him. "I will not cross that ocean again."
"I know that. It's one of the reasons I took you to the Long Island house to discover if it suited you. They've offered us the house for the summer. That gives us time to make more permanent arrangements."
"When will you leave?"
"As soon as I know you'll be taken care of. The servants at the house will stay. You could begin making the acquaintance of the wives. Look at real estate. Have Caroline visit."
That was a good thought. Caroline would love such a pleasant place.
"I need to be in Europe. Your father's concern right now is his health. But of course, you could change your mind and go with me."
"No." That was out of the question. "So you will spend the majority of your time in Europe and I will live in America?"
Occasional light from somewhere outside silhouetted his fine profile. After a long moment he said, "That's the arrangement. For a while."
She relaxed against the plush seat. Of course. Her father, or she someday, could change his primary responsibilities and place of residence. No matter who might be let go.
When he took her back to the hotel suite and entered the living room and closed the door, she allowed his arms to go around her as he embraced the fur. When he lifted her chin with his finger, she remembered when the touch of his fingers on her lips made them feel as if they had been kissed.
But that was before John.
Now, John had left her.
Now, she lifted her face to her fiancé's handsome one. He had nice lips. They met hers, and she allowed their mo
vement against hers.
He moved away. Looking deep into her eyes, he said, "I really want this, Lydia."
He said goodnight and left.
She stared at the door. He wanted . . . what?
While she readied for bed, she glanced at the adjoining door. As during the other nights, she had no need to lock it. He wouldn't come in. He would behave like a gentleman toward his intended.
And he had intended.
In the darkness she touched the ring.
She couldn't have the ever after.
And she cried about that.
But she could have the now.
And she cried about that.
This really was insane.
But it was also the only thing that made any sense.
He would give her everything he thought a woman should want. He would make her feel adored. She would be happy.
For a few weeks.
Until he returned from Europe and had a wife who had begun to show.
44
Caroline screamed and meant to set her cup in the saucer on the bedside table. It leaned on the edge, causing some to slosh out before she righted it.
Bess quickly set her cup on the table, jumped up, and rushed over to her. "What?" She looked at the cup. "Did you burn yourself?"
"No." She looked to see if any had spilled on her clothes or the bed. It hadn't. "I've lost my mind. I'm reading and seeing something that isn't there."
Caroline shoved the paper over to Bess and tapped it.
Bess gasped. She read it aloud as if she could not believe it.
MISS LYDIA BEAUMONT, HEIRESS
TO THE RAILROAD FORTUNE, AND
MR. CRAVEN DOWD, PRESIDENT OF
THE COMPANY, ARE ENGAGED
TO BE MARRIED
Out of respect for those grieving over the tragic
Titanic event, a private ceremony will be held.
An announcement of a marriage celebration
Hearts That Survive Page 18