Hearts That Survive (28 page)

"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.

A
fter 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 leave 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.

She'd gone into labor on the fifteenth and her little Beau came December sixteenth, nine months and two days after he was conceived. Her friends who came to congratulate and celebrate believed him to be a month early.

Craven set sail as soon as possible after being wired, and arrived on the twenty-second. She was sitting in a rocking chair holding Beau when Craven quietly slipped through the doorway. Myrna rose from her rocking chair and busied herself at the crib. Craven could handle a railroad company over two continents but appeared ill at ease in the nursery. Beau was asleep. She stopped rocking.

Craven kissed her forehead, then straightened. She watched his eyes studying the child. His gaze focused on the white fuzz on Beau's head. Did he suspect? No, of course not. John's hair was brown. Hers was blonde. Craven would want his son to have his dark hair, his perfect face.

His expression showed no joy. He said, "I'm sorry, Lydia." She caught her breath. Somehow he knew. And then suddenly she knew: this was about her father.

He spoke quickly, "Arrangements are being made for your father. You and I have something here we must concentrate on." He looked at Beau again. "He has your hair. Otherwise he looks like . . . a baby?"

Her laugh was nervous. But he was right. Who could tell at this age who he looked like? But she saw John. Craven put his finger in the palm of the baby's hand, and Beau's little hand grasped it. That's what John would do. Accept everyone.

"He's a good size," Craven said with a hint of pride.

"Healthy. The doctor says he's a wonder."

"Mmm. Wonder how many wonders he's delivered."

"All of them, I suppose."

"Quite true. With one difference. This is Beaumont Keefe Dowd." Yes, that would make him a wonder of the world. "I should hold him."

She thought that a good decision. He was careful about Myrna putting Beau in his arms. But he did well. And he smiled.

John would have cried.

Beau did not cry when he opened his eyes but studied this man right back, though he could not keep his eyes open very long. Craven sat in the other chair and rocked. "I think he likes me." He seemed fascinated watching the movement of little eyes covered by eyelids fringed by long lashes and the little mouth that puckered. "He's trying to talk." The baby's nostrils moved as he took in a deep breath, and then he settled back into a relaxed pose. "No, maybe he's just breathing."

After a long moment he said, "I won't be handing out cigars. In fact, I'll give them up. This child doesn't need to breathe something like that."

Lydia wondered where this person had come from. This was not the Craven she knew. He said then, "What a Christmas present." He looked over at her as if she'd done something marvelous. "A family Christmas."

She had thought her father might spend Christmas with them. He wouldn't. But the following day she was made aware that he had given them their presents. She inherited the business and although she doubted anyone questioned Craven's business acumen at Beaumont, his total control would be undisputed, he being the owner's husband.

He behaved as if he were a permanent fixture in their lives without any reason to be otherwise. Then, she supposed, he might as well stay around for a while.

At least until he noticed who her son really looked like.

I
f we were to get serious," Armand said, soon after his blasphemous display in church that thrilled her so, "would you prefer not to live in a house where another woman has lived?"

She felt at home in his house. "Our memories, Armand, are in our hearts, not in wood and fabric and gold." She held out her hand, exposing her rings. "The good ones should stay with us no matter where we are. This house, or another, won't determine what you and I are to each other."

"I thought you'd say that, but I needed to know. So, I have a proposition."

She tilted her head, waiting.

"We have long winters here and can be snowed in at times. Your work in the office has slowed, and I know you want to do things."

She couldn't imagine where this was headed.

"I'd like you to consider redecorating the house."

"Yes, I could do that for you."

"In your style. What you like. How you think the house should look."

He had told her much about Ami. She had been from a middle-class family. Caroline knew now it had been Ami, and not Armand, who had decorated in the middle-class style. Ami likely hadn't known a great deal about decorating. But they wouldn't have cared.

"Yes, I would love to do that." She wasn't sure if she should add,
for you, for me, for us.
But already the wheels of her mind were turning. She'd contact Lydia. They could discuss this together. She wouldn't achieve anything near what Lydia described as her home, but it would be the kind of place that reflected much of who she and Armand were. Not pretentious, but elegant and welcoming.

Winter came early in November, and snow lay on the ground at the beginning of December. This slowed down any furniture deliveries. Darkness came early, and she'd look out the window and see lights on in the lake house and smoke curling from the chimney.

Armand and Willard went out into the woods and brought a huge Christmas tree for the house and a smaller one for the lakeside cottage. There were two things she wanted to do before Christmas.

The first, she needed to do at the office. She made a list of items. Logged them into the ledger. Wrote the tribute she knew better than anyone else, in memory of William Chadwick, a fine man who lost his life in the tragedy. What's in the heart is what mattered, but the rings she wore represented William.

She took the rings off her finger and laid them in a little box. She had no one to pass them down to and if she ever had children, they would not be a part of William. These would be kept in the room reserved for items to be put in a museum. A memory. She sealed the box and marked the appropriate number on it.

"I'll take these up," she said to Jarvis. She needed to do it all. And while in the room, she shed a few tears. She could do that now. Not hold it in. Let go.

That done, she could focus on her second task. Armand sat in his office not looking at her. She marched right in, and he looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "Guess what?"

He did not look at her bare finger on the hand holding the edge of the desk. He looked everywhere else. She didn't think he would say,
you took off your rings.
And he didn't. "I'm inviting you to Christmas dinner," she said. "I'm going to make Rappie Pie."