Hearts That Survive Part 29

She could kill them both. She slowed and moved up and down the roads. Fortunately, there was little traffic. "These machines aren't called devil-wagons for no reason." He tried to keep his voice calm. "They don't have horse sense. If you see anyone walking or standing in the streets, sound the horn while you approach. But not at a horse."

Fearful she might drive into the offices instead of around them to the carriage drive, he told her to park at the curb. Upon entering the lobby, she turned her excited eyes and flushed face to him. Before she could say whatever was on her mind, Mrs. Jessup called to her.

"Caroline. You have a telegram."

She looked concerned, so he stayed nearby. "My friend, Lydia." She looked at him. "Oh, you know Craven. They married shortly after the . . . incident. They've moved into a house in Manhattan and-"

Her voice trembled. "They're going to have a baby." Her expression looked pained. "That's so wonderful. She's getting on with her life." She turned from him quickly. "I must write to her right away."

He would contact Craven Dowd with his own congratulations, since Craven had asked him to handle the financial affairs of Caroline Chadwick. He would let him know he continued to be of service to her as needed. He almost laughed. Minus any information about the driving lesson.

Armand watched Caroline ascend the stairs with her hand to her face. Perhaps she thought she wasn't getting on with her life.

The following day he took her and Bess to see his plan.

The women seemed to enjoy the short train ride, particularly when they neared Bedford, and they praised the beautiful scenery. Many times he'd walked the several miles from the station to his home simply because he enjoyed it, and he would sing and praise the Lord and feel the peace and be thankful for his blessings.

Today, he rented a carriage and provided them with a view of the lake, stands of trees, and the rolling green landscape. Upon seeing the house, Caroline said, "It reminds me of Lydia's description of the Long Island place."

They alighted at the front of the house. Caroline walked up the steps and onto the porch. She placed her hand on the banister and turned to him.

"This is the place you found to rent?"

She shook her head as if to say it wouldn't do, but she hadn't even seen the inside yet. He glanced at Bess, who looked as puzzled as he felt.

"It's one of the most peaceful-looking and beautiful places I've ever seen." But she reprimanded him, "I told you I wanted to live like an ordinary person."

"This belongs to an ordinary person."

Her eyes questioned. She looked at Bess, whose eyebrows rose.

They both stared at him. He felt color rise in his face, then took a set of keys from his pocket and held them up. Caroline said, "You don't mean . . . you?"

He must have looked guilty, so he gave a little nod. She said what she should not have ever, ever said, in a saucy tone, "Armand Bettencourt. There is nothing ordinary about you. I think you are quite extraordinary."

51.

Caroline adored it. Every room, every nook, every cranny. It was peaceful, serene, and cozy, yet elegant and had everything one could desire. She could hardly fathom this being his home.

It occurred to her that if Armand were an ordinary person, Craven Dowd would probably never have heard of him. Who was this man? He led them into a kitchen that was a cook's dream and motioned for them to sit at the small table positioneed beneath the window.

Bess looked as stunned as Caroline felt. They sat. He proceeded to pour water into a percolator.

"You rent this out?" She watched him reach into a cabinet and bring out a bag of coffee and then dip some out into a little metal holder.

"This is the first time." He put all the pieces into the pot, set it on the electric stove burner, and turned a k.n.o.b. Was that ordinary? She didn't know how to make coffee. She only knew how to drink it.

He leaned against the island. "This is my main residence. The apartment is for convenience and bad weather." He lifted a shoulder. "Or whim."

Whim? Who was this man?

"My parents owned the home that is now my law office. They built this house several years ago." He brushed back the curls that had fallen over his forehead, and his dark eyes surveyed the kitchen. "Both were pa.s.sed down to me when they were killed. And-"

His face clouded. The coffee made noises, and the liquid danced around in a little gla.s.s bulb on top. He took three cups and saucers from a cabinet and set them on a countertop near the stove. He opened the refrigerator and declared there was no cream. "Sorry. Sugar?"

She and Bess said "Yes, please." Even as the pot continued to perk, he poured the coffee. She wondered what he'd been about to say after and. He brought their coffee to the table and returned to the island. There were two chairs at the table. Who were they for?

He could have brought in one of the dining room chairs, but he seemed uncomfortable, as if he might run rather than sit. He began to talk about the lake house and mentioned his boat, which he liked to take out on the water to fish.

"You take fish out on the water?"

He laughed. "No. The fish are in the water. I catch them. Trick them into eating a worm and they're snagged."

"You caught the swordfish?"

"Yes." He grinned. "But not in that lake." He set his cup down. "Well, ladies, shall we take a look at the backyard?"

They went outside, and the first thing she noticed was a patch of weeds and vines that appeared to have taken over a perfect spot for a flower garden. But her gaze moved beyond it to the green lawn and the serene landscape.

She would love a home like this but couldn't allow it. "Armand, you've given up your apartment. Now you offer your home. There's no way I can accept."

Bess walked over to the weeds. Armand glanced at her and back at Caroline. "Tell me, Caroline. Why do you help the families of the t.i.tanic victims? Why did you help those children you talked about? You mentioned an orphanage in London where you volunteered. Why?"

Her hand gestured. "You know why I help. They need someone."

"Exactly," he said.

She glanced at Bess, who pulled a weed and began tying the stem in knots, as if she were not listening. "So you'll do this because . . . because . . . " She scoffed, "Armand. I am not needy."

His slow, "I am," was almost imperceptible. His eyelids covered his brown eyes as his shoe scuffed at the ground. The silence grew. Neither had anything more to say.

He moved to the back door and held it open. Bess tossed away her knotted weed.

On the return trip she hardly knew what anyone talked about, including herself. Her thoughts were pressing. She helped the needy for two reasons. They needed her. She needed to be needed.

She understood the need to be needed.

But why would he need to do this?

Why and how did he need her?

His office was closed when they returned. He unlocked the door and went inside. At the top of the stairs, before he turned toward the rooms on the left, she said, "Armand."

He stopped, but his focus was on the floor. "I will rent the house on one condition."

His deep, sad eyes said he would suffer through whatever she had to say. "And that is?"

"I will let you become homeless only if the speed limit in that country place is at least fifteen miles per hour."

She didn't know the tune he was humming as he turned and walked to a room, but it sounded happy.

"I can't go to that house with you," Bess said as soon as she closed the door of the apartment.

Caroline almost fell onto the couch. "What do you mean? Of course you can. I can't go alone."

Bess appeared to be in as much pain as Armand had before she said they would rent the house. He needed her? She needed Bess. "Can't we be friends, Bess?"

"You're not thinking straight, Caroline." She dropped to the edge of the opposite couch. "I need a job so I can support myself. Goodness knows, I'm not crossing that ocean again. And if I can't be your maid, I'll have to find employment." She sat at attention. "That's the truth of it."

n.o.body was making any sense tonight. "Bess, you buy the groceries. Cook the meals."

Bess scoffed, "I have to eat. Now, we can be friends if that's what you want. But I can't let you pay me for that. I have to find real employment, not just take your money."

This was quite awkward. "Bess. I want to learn to take care of myself. Not have to depend on a maid, or anyone else."

"Begging your pardon, Caroline Chadwick." She became huffy. "We all depend on each other. But I don't take charity if I can help it."

Caroline had to admit she was not ready for independence. She could maybe cook coffee after having watched what Armand did. Bess remained quiet while Caroline thought. Then an idea dawned.

"Miss Hotchkins," she said in a formal tone, and Bess raised her brows.

"You've been in my employ for a number of years, but I no longer need a maid."

Bess folded her hands on her lap and lowered her gaze to them.

"However, I'm thinking of moving into a house where I need to employ a cook and housekeeper."

Shoulders often spoke volumes. "And someone who can weed flower beds." Bess now had her lower lip almost inside her mouth. "Do you know anyone who might be interested in that position?"

"Yes, Mrs. Chadwick, ma'am, I do." That woman could change moods like one turning a radio dial from a terrible report to sweet music. She had apparently acquired another dose of confidence, and looked Caroline straight in the eyes. "And when you decide you no longer want her in your employ and you can take care of yourself, just tell her so."

Caroline suspected that might take a while, perhaps the rest of her life. Bess said the hour was late and bid her good night. When Bess disappeared from the room, Caroline realized she'd never asked her why she hadn't married. Was it because she had to make a living?

She was rather surprised at her next thought. Armand Bettencourt was young, early thirties at the most. He was quite appealing in many ways. And why did a dark sadness sometimes creep into his eyes?

More than that, she needed to know why he said he was needy. How could she, who couldn't even take care of herself, be the kind of person Armand Bettencourt could depend on when he was the one helping her with her finances and a place to live?

Again she wondered, because she needed to be needed, why would he need . . . her?

52.

Caroline felt content at the country home. Bess had no need to learn secretarial skills now. She stayed home to take care of the house and gardens.

Home. The thought felt nice.

A couple of days a week Caroline and Armand took the rented carriage to the station. She held the reins a few times, and Armand laughed. "Safer than in the McKay."

She punched his arm. He was quite muscular. He should be, spending as much time working on that lake house as he did in his office.

"And when do we get the car over here?"

"No, no. You said if the speed limit was fifteen, which it is. I made no car promise."

"But you smiled like it was the greatest idea ever." She squinted at him. "Like you're doing now."

He laughed. "Looks can be deceiving."

She didn't always care for obviously true statements, not when they made her think of herself. She was content, but always present was that threatening dark spot inside.

They took the Beaumont train into Halifax and talked as friends, which they surely were, although the situation seemed rather odd. He was in her employ, and yet she was dependent on him for the rental house. If she were ever going to find out what he needed from her, perhaps being a little personal might be a good start.

The opportunity came the day the first burials took place. William's was one of them. Armand went with her and Bess, as did people from the surrounding area. They dressed in black. She wore a new hat with a veil that shielded her eyes. She felt Armand's eyes on her as if he thought she'd cry. She didn't. Neither did Bess. But that little dark spot acted up, and for a while she felt she was slipping into depression the same way the t.i.tanic had slipped into the ocean.

Armand must think her heartless. She would speak of William. "We had a good marriage," she said one morning on the train.

His head turned quickly toward her. "Good?" She saw the reflection of his face when it turned toward the window. His eyes were sad.

Maybe Armand was wondering what a good marriage was. He hadn't opened up about his personal life, and she wouldn't pry.

One day had been particularly depressing, understandably so due to all the morbid things they were dealing with. Friends and relatives came to the office, having been told they could receive financial help throughout the city, including the Bettencourt offices. There was talk of t.i.tanic items being found in the ocean or swept onto sh.o.r.e, including a deck chair. She wondered who might have sat in it.

As if sensing her distress, Armand suggested they go for a ride. He drove. She was startled when the car stopped. A beagle came loping down the road, his legs bending like a prancing show horse's. But his shrill yelping sounded painful. He stopped beside the car, whining.

Strips of hair were missing from his body and at one place across his head. "We must help him."

Armand said, "I'm sure you must."

She opened the door. The dog cowered, uncertain of her intentions. "Come, doggie. I'll help you."

He whined, stepped back, and yelped. All of a sudden, he jumped into the car.

"Bravo!" He licked her hand and settled on her feet while Armand gave her a wide-eyed look and then started the car.

Bess looked pleased when they brought the dog home in a big canvas bag with his raw feet bandaged. After a few days, Caroline realized how he soothed them just by needing them.

Several days later, Caroline sat on the porch in a rocking chair. As the beagle lazed near her, she saw a figure appear out of the fog from the direction of the lake house.