Hearts That Survive Part 24

43.

George poured champagne into flutes. Afraid to lift the gla.s.s 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 naivete 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 gla.s.s, 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 ma.s.s 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 fiance's handsome one. He had nice lips. They met hers, and she allowed their movement 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 t.i.tanic event, a private ceremony will be held.

An announcement of a marriage celebration will be made at a more appropriate time.

"Let me see it again," Caroline said. She studied the picture and squinted. "I can't quite make it out, but that looks like an engagement ring on her finger."

Bess looked again. "But if it's true, didn't it have to happen yesterday? How could it be in the paper so soon?"

"They do that, Bess. You know, we've seen some of the papers that were printed before we were even on the Carpathia. Some of the reporting was false, but it was still there. For events like that, and this, they'd stop the presses to report it. And this is the mid-morning paper."

Bess glanced at the clock. "It's almost noon, and she hasn't called. You don't suppose-? Oh, shut my mouth!" She slapped her hand over her mouth.

Caroline laughed. "It's true. Even in Southampton, I saw the tension between the two men. I suspected something."

Bess nodded. "I suspected she was his prisoner."

"You can be funny, Bess." But Bess didn't laugh.

"Do you think she's on the rebound? I mean, isn't it a little soon?"

Caroline thought for a moment. "Yes, but that's the kind of marriage that would have happened if she hadn't met John. And the t.i.tanic tragedy can't be measured in days or hours or minutes. It was another lifetime. We have to forget."

"I'd like to." Bess returned to her chair. "I'm glad she has someone if that's what she really wants."

"Oh, I doubt it is right now." Caroline moved away from pillows she'd propped herself against and swung her legs off the side of the bed. "But she must wonder what else would be in store for her. A love like hers and John's doesn't come along every day."

"Maybe I shouldn't say this, but do you think a lot of it has to do with her being so rich?" She said "rich" as if it were a dirty word.

Caroline shrugged. "Who knows? But the likes of Craven Dowd could turn the head of any woman. I mean, a princess, a countess, a rich widow."

Bess seemed taken aback and Caroline laughed. "No, not me. In earlier days, perhaps. But I don't really care to be involved with a man again. If I were it would have to be for-"

"You can't mean for money. You have that," Bess teased. "You don't mean love?"