When they settled down from laughing at her expense, she said, "I've been thinking about something."
He leaned back and held up his hands. "You want me to get the speed limit increased."
"Now, that's better than the idea I had."
"Sorry. I can't do anything about that one."
"Perhaps you can with this one." She hardly knew how to speak of it. "I don't know how to analyze myself. But I know I've been trained to be proper all my life. And then, crossing that ocean changed everything. I've rebelled and tried to be an ordinary person. But I failed at that."
She couldn't go on if he didn't take this seriously, but his nod encouraged her to continue. "I thought I should observe a year's mourning period for William. But that wouldn't change what is or isn't in my heart. And I don't need to wonder what people think. I'd like to see a little more of the world. I'm going to start—" How should she phrase it? Yes, "Stepping out. I mean, I am not an aged woman. What do you think?"
He looked tense. "Well, being a man who isn't exactly aged either, I can understand what you're saying. And since you asked, I'll tell you what I've observed."
She nodded.
"You'll never be an ordinary woman. You're a tremendously wealthy woman. That's who you are. You can be an influence on women of means. The Lord has blessed you that way, so don't try to be like everyone else. You have beauty, and brains, and depth, and goodness. And—"
He sounded agitated and appeared rather disgusted.
Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him. He stared back and colored. "I've said too much. I should leave. Thanks for supper, Bess."
His shoes padded through the house. The front door openeed and closed.
"What was that about?"
Bess sighed. "I've heard the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Must be something I cooked."
Almost as soon as she heard the car door slam and thought he was leaving, the front door opened again. Then he stood over her, his unruly curls awry. "One more thing. Since you're working in my office and we're traveling together, but you'll be stepping out, might I ask—" He looked like a child asking for a cookie, "with whom?"
"Youm?"
And so they did. On some Saturdays. He showed her the city, and the bays; and the four of them visited Peggy's Cove, where Willard lived; fed worms to the fish from the boat; went to church on Sunday and he sang to the Lord. He cooked once a week and she ate, and they played cribbage or bridge or whist.
Stepping out was fun, and Caroline felt as though she'd begun to live again. Then, to top it off, the attorney in California reported all appeared well with Phoebe and Henry.
Caroline wrote to Phoebe. The day she got a letter from Phoebe, she thought her heart would burst. She rushed into Armand's office and told him about it.
"Phoebe says she likes it there. The Freemans are fun, and they're going to have a baby. School's starting back soon, and she's continuing her piano lessons." The next part hurt Caroline's heart. She read it the way Phoebe wrote it.
Henry has nightmares. I hold him until he goes back to sleep. He's a little brat and won't let anyone play with his Meccano set. But I love him.
Caroline dropped into the chair and held the letter to her heart. "I fell in love with those children." She almost said something about the wedding. But that was best forgotten. That was Lydia's life. No, her past. "Mary Freeman is going to have a baby. Lydia is going to have a baby. Seems the whole world is."
"I think that's the idea," he said. Then he straightened. "You love children so much. So I assume, if I'm not being too personal, either you or William were unable—"
"Why no." That surprised her. "Why did you think that?"
"Because you said you were married at age nineteen and—"
"Let's talk about it on the train." She wanted to be near home. On the train, along with the rumble and huffing and chugs and occasional whistles, she told him about her good marriage with William and the joy of pregnancy. "I never carried one to term. Three months was the longest."
"I'm so sorry." He told her about his marriage with Ami. His face darkened. "She had a terrible time. The baby was stillborn." She felt his suffering when he said, "It was torture for Ami emotionally and physically. She died two days later. Then, it was torture for me."
When they reached the station, she let him drive.
"Have you thought of adoption?" he asked.
She felt uneasy. "Yes, and particularly concerning Phoebe and Henry. But I would love to have children of my own."
"I couldn't bear to chance my wife going through what Ami did."
She felt a chill and hugged her arms. "I intend to try. I'm young."
His face looked like the foreboding cloud, coming closer. "I wouldn't mind adopting."
They were at a stalemate. She wanted children. He did not want to chance a wife dying in childbirth.
The car stopped in front of the house. Caroline looked at the clouds. Lightning could strike. The rain could pour. She must hurry inside. Or walk through it.
"Armand, are you sorry you had that short time with Ami?"
His answer was quick as a wink. "Of course not."
"You would do it again, knowing?"
His grip was tight on the steering wheel, and his face was set toward the clouds' teardrops on the windshield. He spoke as if to himself. "It's better to live a short while with someone you love than deny yourself because you fear the other person will suffer or die."
"Yes, as you taught me that I shouldn't fear getting into a boat just because a ship sank." She opened the car door. As if he had just noticed, he said, "It's raining."
She stepped out into it and bent to look at him. "Someone implied I should try walking through it."
She shut the door. And walked.
He didn't call that evening nor had they mentioned an outing for Saturday. She awoke early, saw the morning fog and thought she'd try it. The thicket of trees was barely visible but served as a landmark.
She thought she'd bumped into a tree but this was softer than a tree and the branches steadied her and there was no lifejacket between them. But the fog, like enveloping arms, held them fast and the voice in the trees whispered don't be afraid and the fingers like a caressing mist touched their faces and the warm breath hovered like a vapor. When their cold lips had been warmed, considerably so, the fog was dissipating.
They walked from the trees and into the sunlight and turned to each other. Caroline removed her hand from his just long enough to caress the curls over his forehead but did not push them aside. She liked them there.
He had gold in his gaze, and he said with a sense of wonder, "You have a hint of green in your eyes."
"Must be the reflection of the grass."
"Ahhh," he said, looking up into the sunshine as if the most wonderful, amazing thing was a speck of green.
Laughing, hand in hand, they advanced along the vast green lawn, and she joined him in his morning song.
Armand did not sing the solo on Sunday morning. After the choir sang, a prayer was said while they bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Caroline felt a nudge, and there he was without his robe and she scooted over. He sat beside her on the pew.
Everyone stood to sing the final hymn before the sermon. Armand had the songbook opened to the right spot before the choir director said, "Please turn to page 75," and the organist began. Caroline opened her mouth to sing, but it got stuck. Armand ran his finger along the bottom of the words, "I love thee, I love thee, I love thee" and covered up the words "my Lord."
She thought, my Lord, what's he doing? He kept on for all four verses. But he didn't finger-underline any words except the I love thee ones and the phrase how much my actions will show.
She didn't think that exactly proper and it certainly wasn't ordinary and it might even be blasphemous and what would people think? They sat and to keep him from doing anything like that again she held his hand between them. She didn't know what the sermon was about, but from the way sh
e felt, it must have been divine.
58
Lydia's getting a letter from Caroline was like getting a present on a special occasion. Oh, Caroline would laugh about that when she saw the present Lydia's father gave her and Craven. But his present satisfied the aesthetic senses, as Craven had said. The letter touched her heart in a way no residence could.
She'd reveled in the letter all morning. Following her afternoon nap, she began to write. Craven walked into her upstairs sitting room. She laid aside her Sheaffer pen and lifted her face to his. "Home already," she said. His first priority, after her, was his presence in the New York office while keeping abreast of happenings in London.
Other days and evenings were filled with discussion of plans for the house, the baby, going out, having friends in. She hardly had time to think.
"I was able to leave earlier than usual." He began caressing her shoulders. "How was your day?"
"Wonderful." She held the letter up to him.
"Ah, a letter from her always cheers you." He sat on the loveseat in front of the window to read. He chuckled. "Doesn't surprise me. I thought they might just hit it off."
"We're both reading between the lines," Lydia warned. "But with Caroline living in his house and working in his office, something's going on."
"Caroline's a special person," he mused. She was glad he liked her. "I suspect Armand is too, although I don't know a lot about his personal life. He had a rough time. His wife—" He seemed to lose his train of thought. "She died quite young."
"Caroline didn't mention that." Lydia was about to ask how she died, but Craven began to discuss Armand's father.
"His father came from a long line of shipping. Quite successful. After the accident that killed his parents, Armand sold the business and became an attorney. He's quite a wealthy man but lives modestly."
"Caroline invited us to visit."
"That's out of the question for now. I have to get Robertson settled into the London office. But after the first of the year, that changes."
Yes, it had been arranged so he would be in New York permanently since everyone, except her and the doctor, expected the baby to be born in mid-January.
He handed the letter back to her. "Continue your writing, and give her my regards. I want to arrange for a nurse to be with you while I'm gone. And you might consider a downstairs bedroom. Don't want you falling down the stairs."
"I manage the stairs just fine, thank you. And this baby is kicking up a storm, so why shouldn't I? Besides, anybody knows exercise is good for you."
"You had that light-headed spell in Long Island."
"That's early symptoms. Long gone."
"You will have a nurse. And you will obey me on this." His gaze was playful, but she knew he was serious.
"Don't I always obey you?"
"Yes." He lightly touched her lips. "You do." Sometimes she wondered if he ever thought about this not being the way he'd planned his life. It was active for them both, as was the little life inside her.
But that would end, he often said, after the first of the year.
She knew it would end before this year was out. Then he would be—out. But for now she had a letter to write. Eager to tell Caroline everything, she picked up the pen.
My dearest Caroline,
Your letter refreshed me so, better than these cool breezes we're experiencing now that fall rid us of those terribly hot summer days. The swimming pool has been a great relief. Thank you for the invitation, and we so regret not being able to visit anytime soon.
Lydia looked at the letter again. Caroline had asked about her father.
The news of our marriage and his first grandchild so delighted my father he recovered enough to go to the office, conduct business, and give us a present of any house we desired to purchase. His recovery meant Craven remained in New York long enough for us to find a house. But the doctor informed Craven that father isn't as well as he thinks. The good news had stimulated him.
Lydia stopped the flow of the pen. She didn't need to write about Craven being concerned about her father not having the stamina he used to have and that his medication might be adversely affecting his decisions. She should write the good news.
She would tell her about the house. At least touch on the highlights.
Upon walking into this house, we both knew right away it is perfect for now. We could readily see the truth of the realtor's praise for the outstanding architecture and genteel elegance of this mansion. It's located in the Upper East Side in the borough of Manhattan and is bounded by the East River and Fifth Avenue Central Park!
The house came completely furnished and is quite suitable, but we plan to redecorate after the baby is born. The only room we're changing and furnishing now is the nursery.
She decided not to go into detail about that. Caroline would rejoice for her, but Lydia didn't want to rant on and on and make her sad.
Why don't you and your, ahem, landlord visit with us? And Bess, of course. Either when Craven's here or away would be fine.
Yes, that would be perfect. Caroline could be there when the baby was born. She already knew Caroline was someone to cling to when her life fell apart.
For now, however, all was well, and she told Caroline so.
We are well.
Your loving friend,
Lydia
P. S. Craven sends his regards.
The following morning the nurse sent by her doctor arrived for the interview. Lydia had already decided if she were the one who had been in that little room during that first examination, she would simply kick her fanny out the door.
She was, however, a middle-aged, gray-haired widow with an attitude concerning her expectations of a mother-to-be. Myrna might be someone to quarrel with for a change, so she hired her. She would occupy the bedroom next to Lydia's.
One evening Craven came home to find her writing down possible baby names. He became interested and sat beside her. "Who gets to decide, me or you?"
"I'll decide the first name and you decide the middle name. And the last name is a given."
"I should hope." He laughed.
Oh my, her remark had gone right over her head until he said that. "And if I don't like the name you choose, I'll change it."
"Exactly," she said and grinned.
"Beatrice," he read. "Your mother's name."
"If she's a girl, we might name her Beatrice Beaumont Dowd."
"You didn't let me decide that middle name," he said playfully, then grinned. "But I like it."
She was well aware of that. "And I could add Bella to her name. Bella-Beatrice Beaumont Dowd. I can call her Bella."
They laughed together.
"And if he's a boy, his first name should be Beaumont—" She shrugged. "You choose the middle."
He didn't see any he liked. "What about Keefe after my father? Beaumont Keefe Dowd."
"I like it." She returned his smile. "I can call him Beau. Oh, that's beautiful."
"So say the French." He paused. "As you are, Lydia."
She cupped her stomach, not quite as large as those of some of her friends had been at this stage, but like a stuffed cushion. "Like this?"
"Yes. And it rather surprises me. I never thought I'd be fascinated by the look of a mother-to-be. You're as beautiful as ever. Perhaps more."
"Thank you." She had come to take his compliments for granted. But he said it in such a tender way. Perhaps he was beginning to feel like a father.
She had this life today, and it was good. Feeling a jolt, she grabbed her stomach. Craven acted as startled as she. "Just a hard kick," she assured him. And herself. She'd done all this for the baby. Caroline had lost three babies. She must not lose . . . her baby.
59
After Craven's trip with Robertson, neither Lydia nor Craven expected him to sail again to London. But on the same day she had an appointment with the doctor, they heard the news that her father had been taken to the hospital.
"He's going to ask if he should leav
e me," Lydia told the doctor. "If all is well with me and the baby, there should not be a reason he can't be with my father."
Sitting across from her and Craven in his office, the doctor gave his report. "Healthy mother. Healthy baby. Some babies come early, some late, but your wife should have a normal delivery. The only problem I've encountered," he said and laughed lightly, "is with the father."
Lydia felt her eyes widen at the doctor's quick glance at her. Oops! She might have just given him something else to think about. Of course he couldn't have meant anything by it, and Craven said, "I know. I'm overreacting."
In the car he said, "I've told your father I'm bringing him here for a visit and he's willing. The ship's hospital can handle this for a few days, and his own doctor may come."
She would like to see her father. She had pleased him. She'd settled down with the man of his choice, and he wanted to see his grandchild. The plan was for them to arrive a week or so before Christmas.
"I'll be back in time for this event."
No, he wouldn't.
And one night the cramping became so persistent that Lydia buzzed for Myrna, who said she wasn't going to lose her baby, she was going to have it.
Then she was glad Craven wasn't there because if he were and said, "You can handle it," she would kill him, if she survived. The doctor was obviously a sadist and kept saying the worst would soon be over. Finally, she heard a lusty cry and wanted to hold the miracle created by her and . . . the maker of toy trains.
When she held him in her arms, nothing else mattered. She fed him. He was her Beau. Her beau as in beautiful. Her beau as in boyfriend. She would not stand by and watch a nurse care for her baby. The nurse could stand by.
Hearts That Survive Page 25