Hearts That Survive (19 page)

L
ydia's hand covered her mouth as she slumped to the bed and gave a muffled cry. Oh, she was going to throw up. She rushed to the bathroom and lost all her dinner. She heaved until her stomach hurt.

She didn't know what worried her most. That she might lose her baby like Caroline had lost hers. Or that she wouldn't.

"Lydia?" Caroline's arm came around Lydia's shoulders. Bess wet a washcloth and pressed it against her forehead.

Following much heaving and gagging, she nodded. "I'm okay."

They led her to the bed and she sat on the edge. Bess wiped her face with the cool cloth. "It's not going to work." No, the surprise was on her. "I . . . I . . . please go."

"I don't think we should leave you."

"Please."

"All right. We'll check on you later."

She nodded and stood to prove she could and walked behind them to the door. Seeing the champagne cart, she rolled it into the hallway. There would be no celebration.

She closed the door and locked it. Maybe she wouldn't go out that door ever again. For what? Where? Why?

She slumped into the nearest armchair. Her head throbbed.

What would she do now? Moaning, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She felt every rap on the door in her head. Caroline must have found him or called him. She would not let him in.

He came through the bedroom.

"Lydia?"

She would not answer. She would not look.

"Caroline said you're sick."

"Just a headache."

He opened the door and brought in the cart. She heard pouring. "Here, have a sip of champagne."

She waved it away. The champagne had been meant for a celebration.

"You need something. Water? Caroline said you lost your dinner."

What might have been a laugh was a heave. "I lost something?" Her mouth tasted rank. She squinted, saw the glass, and took a small sip. "Order coffee, please."

He did, and a sandwich.

"You think it was something you ate?"

She moaned. "That's what came up."

"You seemed to be doing so well."

"I was." She moaned again. "I am." A sigh. "I will." She wanted to be left alone.

Maybe instead of being frightened by the idea of sailing, she should get on a ship and disappear like John did. She felt as numb as if she were still on that cold ocean. But she couldn't destroy herself because then she would be destroying a part of John too.

"How is Father?"

"About the same. I wired him today that you were well and went out with friends. He was pleased, but he needs to hear from you. This is hard on him."

On
him?

She moaned again. Suppose she did go to see him. And suppose her father died. She would need to stand in front of the board as the new owner.

Pregnant!

The wives would have great fun with that. All of London, in fact.

She lifted her hands, but they returned helplessly to her lap. "I don't know anything about running a business."

"I do," he said abruptly.

She shrugged.

"Lydia."

"I don't even have a home," she cried.

"I'm working on that."

The food came. As soon as the waiter left, she sighed. "All I do is eat and sleep and eat and try to sleep and eat."

"Don't throw it up, and you won't have to eat again tonight."

She didn't find the humor in that. But after a few bites of food and a few sips of coffee, the headache lessened and she began to feel human again.

"You've only been here two days."

That surprised her. "It seems like forever. I feel trapped. I don't know what to do."

"I do," he said.

She thought she'd heard that before. Yes, he did. But that wasn't her.

"And I know what you can do."

Go shopping again? She picked up her cup of hot coffee and brought it to her lips.

"Lydia."

Oh, she wanted him to go away. Everyone to go away. She wanted to go away.
What?
her exasperated breath said.

"We can get things set up for you the way they should be."

She took a sip and swallowed.

"Marry me."

That took a moment to absorb. She hadn't believed she could ever hear anything more shocking than she'd heard on that ship, from that deck, in that water, in those little boats. Amazing. But of course she had heard wrong. This was somehow mixed up with John and his proposal. All the worry and problems were causing her to lose her mind.

But this . . . person brought the desk chair over and sat in front of her. He said again, "Marry me."

No, that wasn't John. John had a tender voice, hopeful eyes, loving face, gentle touch, the look of one who needed her for his completion.

This one had the look of one who thought he was her hope, her answer, and the sound of his voice was somehow demanding. As though he was the answer to whatever beset her. But, most assuredly, she had misunderstood.

She'd better set her cup down before it ended up on the floor, broken. She did.

"Mar—?" Her voice failed.

She tried again, "How could you want to marry me? I just married John. When—three days ago?"

"I told you when I found out you were seeing him secretly that this was not the proper relationship for you. I warned you he wasn't right for you. I told him. Even up to the day he gave you that ring. You wouldn't listen."

"I love him."

The nodding of his head was not condescending, but more like agreement. "I know. Remember, I said he was different and that appealed to you. I understand you, Lydia. You're strong-willed. You're young and foolish."

The lift of her head seemed to change his attitude slightly. He shook his head and sighed. "That's not an insult. It's the way of things. I've been there. I've had my dalliances in my day. I found someone I thought was the woman for me, and that led to divorce. So I understand how everything can look like a fairy tale that leads to happily ever after."

Yes, she had thought that. It would have. With John.

"You and I. We could be like—" He shrugged then. "Caroline and William."

And what would that be? Caroline had seemed submissive to the more controlling and rather aloof William.

"I did catch the blue garter."

The garter that John took from her leg. She remembered his gentle touch. His tossing of the garter. And the applause when it struck Craven and he grabbed it. He'd been appalled.

Now he used it as a sign of what should happen.

She saw it as a sign of—

She needed to chew on that as well as on the sandwich.

Her thoughts went to why he would want to marry her. It would be to his personal advantage. Ensure his position. He could never face the fact that he was not the better man for her. It all had to do with position and pride.

And why might she marry him?

To keep her father alive. To keep the company from failing. To avoid scandal, although there might be talk initially. But that would end when someone else came along with a juicy topic whispered in drawing rooms and smoking rooms.

Marry him?

That could save her temporarily.

And when he knew she carried another man's child, what would happen?

Divorce.

But would he dare tell anyone he was not the father of his wife's baby?

Never in a million years.

And who really cared when she conceived? She would be a married woman when she gave birth to the child.

She and her child might be labeled by some. But not nearly the way they would if she were an unmarried mother, no matter how much money she had.

Marry him?

In the eyes of the world Craven was all and more than one should want. Handsome, wealthy, successful. She had sat there with vomit in her mouth and makeup washed off and her eyes swollen with tears. But he proposed.

That just proved it. He was very much in love—

—with the Beaumont Railroad Company.

She looked him in the eyes. "You say my marrying John was fantasy?" Her head moved from side to side. "I say this is insanity."

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.

T
he
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 the 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?