Hearts That Survive Part 28

He also knew who she was, and when their gazes locked she was not the one to look away.

He nodded. After all, when one sees trains go by several times a day with the name Beaumont on them, one takes notice of a person bearing that name. She was heiress to a fortune, and married to Craven Dowd, who had friends who ran in the same circles as he. And he was among the most prominent of obstetricians. He would be thinking that unless he wanted to be boarded onto a coal car on a train of inferior quality with a destination unknown, her word would not be disputed.

He deserved this after what he had done to her.

"I'll just make a note on the chart," he said as if he were getting ready to go off and ride a bicycle. He summoned her and Craven into his office and gave his report.

He began with her health, which by all indications was excellent. Bouts of nausea were common with this condition. And when he saw that Craven understood, he said, "Congratulations, Mr. Dowd. You're going to be a father."

Craven's lips parted as if he might be forming a question, something like, when can we expect this event? but anybody knew it took nine months to form a baby and they'd been married about a month and had only spent three days together before he left for Europe.

No words, but the tip of his tongue moistened his lips, and then they closed. If he thought back to the other wedding, he knew she and John were in full view of others, she in a wedding gown, and they had not had time to consummate their marriage.

The doctor, being adept at seeing inside a person, and observing that she and Craven did not jump up, embrace, and shout at the happy news of their becoming parents, gave an answer to an unasked question. "At this early stage I'm reluctant to predict an exact date of delivery." He continued with advice about vitamins, the instructions that would be given them, and when he would like to see her again.

Over my dead body was her first thought.

But that's exactly the place she thought they were heading in that suffocating little room.

The doctor did not look into her eyes again. Craven thanked him, shook his hand, and when she glanced back over her shoulder the doctor sat with pursed lips and furrowed brow, staring at his desk. He might be wondering how to keep that baby inside her for an additional month. He might even be able to manage that, considering his expertise.

When they walked to the car, Conners's face expressed concern and curiosity, but he wouldn't ask. Neither she nor Craven said anything on the way back. Each stared out their respective window. She knew he'd think it through before saying or doing anything. And then he'd act. And it would be done.

When they arrived home, he suggested they walk in the gardens while it was still light.

At least the servants wouldn't hear. "Let me freshen up a bit." Later, she would try to wash away that doctor's grandson's entire bicycle episode.

He was waiting out back when she walked out in her skirt and blouse, having removed the jacket.

They walked a while through the flowers and the shrubs that bordered the path, and the aroma was sweet. The sun shining through the branches and leaves of the trees on this warm summer day made diamonds on the path. That would change when the sun set and darkness came, bringing shadows.

"Let's sit," he said. They settled on a bench amid the flowers and with a view of the lake. She sat stiffly upright. He turned toward her.

His face was a mask. "I don't think I've ever been at such a loss for words."

She remembered that John had said he didn't know what to say and so he had written her a poem. Craven wasn't the poetic type. Then he said what she never expected to hear.

"I'm sorry." He apologized. "I thought I was careful enough. We didn't plan this." He scoffed, "That is not what I should say at a time like this. But . . . we didn't plan this." Just as quickly, his mood changed. Lifting his chin and looking toward the horizon, he spoke as if remembering what might have become his motto, "We can handle this."

We?

No, not she. For the moment and for seven more months she was at the mercy of men. Always her father. Now Craven. And the doctor.

His head turned, and he again focused on her. He emitted a low groan. "I don't mean to be insensitive." He took her hands in his. "This calls for champagne. We must celebrate. Give out cigars."

She felt he might be repeating what he'd heard somewhere. "Maybe you'd better wait until after the birth to give out cigars."

"Yes, yes, I think that's the way it's done. I can at least smoke one, can't I?"

"Could I stop you?"

"With a word," he said. "I only puff on them because it once seemed the thing to do. Now, I have you."

"Oh? I'm as valuable to you as a cigar?"

"Well, almost. And maybe when there's an addition, I won't need them at all. Seriously, though." His demeanor changed from the attempt at playfulness. She knew he was trying not to sound insensitive. "You're pleased?"

She would be as honest as she could. "Yes. And no. Like you said, we didn't plan this."

He laughed lightly. "That makes me feel a little better. I'm just surprised. Didn't expect this. Well." He laughed. "I guess we are expecting."

His brain, never far away, began to click in. He'd considered building a house, but she would need something permanent sooner than construction could be completed.

That sounded like the perfect answer to one problem. She would be settled in her own home when he discovered he must divorce her. She and her baby would stay, and Craven would be the one to leave.

For now, he moved on to more current matters. They would plan their reception and announce the good news. He wanted her safe and secure, to have made the acquaintance of his friends, and to be free of worry before he returned to Europe.

He said quickly, "Am I being a good father?"

She opened her mouth. No, she mustn't say "the best."

She was a mother, good or not.

Feigning a playful mood, she managed her best coy expression. "Adequate."

He grinned.

At dinner, Craven announced the news to the servants. They exhibited exuberant delight. The lighted candles danced merrily as dinner was served and champagne poured, and they made a toast in celebration.

Later that night the subject turned to other matters. After all, he'd been gone for weeks. Although she feared he might think she looked rather like a small whale, he didn't really seem to give a lot of thought to her stomach.

50.

And what if I don't?" Caroline said with a saucy turn of her head as if she was not only stubborn but had an inborn wild streak.

And what if I do?

Forming the right answer was not an easy thing to do when Armand's feelings were taking off like a runaway horse. But his emotional carriage had smashed into a tree before, and he'd tried to pick up the pieces and identify something from the wreckage. Then Armand decided nothing was salvageable, so he let it lie, went about handling his work in an organized way, and spent his evenings in solace on the lake with the fish and his nights in distressing, and pleasant, memories.

Let things be. The Lord had given him peace, acceptance. The wounds had healed, but scars remained, and he didn't need to chance the hurt again.

The blame lay with her for being such a kind, helpful person, so caring about the plight of others. She wanted to help, and when she saw the statistics she put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. He didn't know if he'd know what to do with a crying woman. She didn't cry. She said she'd help.

She jumped right into the midst of the suffering and pain. They began to work in the office together as he helped her spend her money to meet the needs of others.

She was so involved in the work, she didn't ask how his plans were going with the idea of a rental place for her and Bess. Now the needs of victims needed to be met, the burials made, the memorials observed.

Sometimes Bess joined them and a.s.sisted Mrs. Jessup, who was teaching her a few secretarial skills.

One day in the midst of a difficult project, Caroline said they should stop for a spot of tea. He agreed and stood. "Cafe?"

As they strolled to the nearby cafe, she asked, "Where do you sleep nights?"

He laughed lightly. "I have a few rooms above my office." He missed his house, but he had an experiment under way in his mind.

"You can't rent them?"

"I could."

He felt her eyes on him. "You'd rather just," she gestured with her hand, "donate them to needy people?"

That was easy to answer. He reached for the door of the cafe. "Yes."

After they were seated and had ordered sweets and tea, hers with a little cream, she again mentioned her grat.i.tude for his allowing them to stay in his apartment and that she knew it must be difficult for him to be confined to his office and a hotel bedroom.

"Not at all," he said.

The waitress brought the teas and sweets. She dawdled with the tea while it cooled and bit into the sweet, as did he. He was not surprised when she announced, "I will pay rent on the apartment until I find time to look at whatever places you find." She jested, "Or until you decide to evict us."

Not a chance, he might have said but swallowed it with his sweet and followed it with a drink of tea.

"But I will want to look at anything you find."

"Certainly."

She lifted the cup with her graceful hand. "I want to pay back rent."

"Good," he said. "And I'll donate it to the victims' families."

She gazed at him over the rim of her cup, and there seemed to be a little gleam of pleasure in her blue-speckled eyes, perhaps reflecting the color of her blouse.

The following morning, just as the sun rose and shone through the windows, she descended the stairs, walked across the lobby, and entered his office. She came right up to the desk, braced both hands on the edge, and leaned toward him.

"Guess what?"

He couldn't begin to do that.

"I'm giving you the morning off." He contemplated that. Yes, he worked for her. His handling of her finances and what she did with them was a business matter. Perhaps she had an errand. "I've planned an outing."

"Bess will be going with you?"

"Bess is straightening up the apartment before Lola comes to clean. Said she wouldn't dare let anyone see the clutter. And then she's going to the market. She does all the cooking." She waved a hand. "I don't cook."

The thought of whether or not Bess were going along didn't seem to disturb him.

Then he realized she didn't say she was taking the morning off, but rather that she was giving him the morning off. He leaned back, away from the faint scent-akin to a fragrance forgotten, now remembered.

"You know I'm determined to be an ordinary, independent person."

"You've made that clear." He wondered what else she considered ordinary other than donating a fortune to the less fortunate and speaking about where she might be of help when this need ended.

"Since we have the morning off, I thought you might teach me to drive."

That brought him out of his chair. "The car?"

"That black contraption that goes honk-honk instead of neigh."

He didn't bother to say that this did not fit into the definition of ordinary. There were maybe six cars in the entire city, most driven by men. The rest of the population drove horses.

About that time the thirty-one-year-old man inside him, whom he'd forgotten about, paid a visit. He said, without thinking, what Bess had said quite effectively, "Blimey! Let's go."

Why not?

The question lent itself to positive and negative answers.

Because this was the first time he'd seen her hair fastened back from her pretty face and falling in soft waves around her shoulders, and he knew it wasn't light brown but sun caressed and turned to . . . he didn't think a lot about colors but had heard the phrase "burnished gold." It seemed to fit.

Why not?

Because when she was behind the wheel, paying little attention to brakes, he was scared out of his wits, not only by seeing the danger of a horse and carriage ahead, but because the attorney in him, who'd taken a short nap, had now awakened and returned with his common sense.

While the man and the attorney argued and debated, he thought of a garden. The flower bed of his heart began to show new growth. Daisies pushed up and let their yellow petals sway in the wind. Sunflowers appeared and some could grow to be ten feet tall.

She grew on him.

But if a garden wasn't tended, wasn't watered, weeds took over and would choke out the potential blooms. Then you could walk by and tell yourself you're not a gardener anyway, you're an attorney. And she is a recent widow who has gone through one of the most devastating experiences a person could have. Perhaps that's why he thought of such possibilities, because they were impossible. The thoughts must flee.

So the attorney said about her driving, "Why not? Why not drive faster? Because you're not in the country. You can get six months in jail if you go over ten miles an hour here. In some towns it's eight and others six. You have to obey the law."

She scrunched her face. "How fast in the country?"

"Fifteen."

Her eyes grew big. "What about there?"

She turned down Young Street, headed toward Patriot's Point at the end. He said no again. "Cars are prohibited in there. Don't!" He grabbed her hand just as she was about to honk the horn. "That could scare the horse, wreck the carriage, kill the people. Now get back over on the left side of the road."

Her hand was flying all over the place. "You can be bossy."

He took a deep breath. "We should stop. Let me give you some instructions."

"I can drive while you instruct."