Hearts That Survive Part 33

"Must be the reflection of the gra.s.s."

"Ahhh," he said, looking up into the sunshine as if the most wonderful, amazing thing was a speck of green.

Laughing, hand in hand, they advanced along the vast green lawn, and she joined him in his morning song.

Armand did not sing the solo on Sunday morning. After the choir sang, a prayer was said while they bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Caroline felt a nudge, and there he was without his robe and she scooted over. He sat beside her on the pew.

Everyone stood to sing the final hymn before the sermon. Armand had the songbook opened to the right spot before the choir director said, "Please turn to page 75," and the organist began. Caroline opened her mouth to sing, but it got stuck. Armand ran his finger along the bottom of the words, "I love thee, I love thee, I love thee" and covered up the words "my Lord."

She thought, my Lord, what's he doing? He kept on for all four verses. But he didn't finger-underline any words except the I love thee ones and the phrase how much my actions will show.

She didn't think that exactly proper and it certainly wasn't ordinary and it might even be blasphemous and what would people think? They sat and to keep him from doing anything like that again she held his hand between them. She didn't know what the sermon was about, but from the way she felt, it must have been divine.

58.

Lydia's getting a letter from Caroline was like getting a present on a special occasion. Oh, Caroline would laugh about that when she saw the present Lydia's father gave her and Craven. But his present satisfied the aesthetic senses, as Craven had said. The letter touched her heart in a way no residence could.

She'd reveled in the letter all morning. Following her afternoon nap, she began to write. Craven walked into her upstairs sitting room. She laid aside her Sheaffer pen and lifted her face to his. "Home already," she said. His first priority, after her, was his presence in the New York office while keeping abreast of happenings in London.

Other days and evenings were filled with discussion of plans for the house, the baby, going out, having friends in. She hardly had time to think.

"I was able to leave earlier than usual." He began caressing her shoulders. "How was your day?"

"Wonderful." She held the letter up to him.

"Ah, a letter from her always cheers you." He sat on the loveseat in front of the window to read. He chuckled. "Doesn't surprise me. I thought they might just hit it off."

"We're both reading between the lines," Lydia warned. "But with Caroline living in his house and working in his office, something's going on."

"Caroline's a special person," he mused. She was glad he liked her. "I suspect Armand is too, although I don't know a lot about his personal life. He had a rough time. His wife-" He seemed to lose his train of thought. "She died quite young."

"Caroline didn't mention that." Lydia was about to ask how she died, but Craven began to discuss Armand's father.

"His father came from a long line of shipping. Quite successful. After the accident that killed his parents, Armand sold the business and became an attorney. He's quite a wealthy man but lives modestly."

"Caroline invited us to visit."

"That's out of the question for now. I have to get Robertson settled into the London office. But after the first of the year, that changes."

Yes, it had been arranged so he would be in New York permanently since everyone, except her and the doctor, expected the baby to be born in mid-January.

He handed the letter back to her. "Continue your writing, and give her my regards. I want to arrange for a nurse to be with you while I'm gone. And you might consider a downstairs bedroom. Don't want you falling down the stairs."

"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 f.a.n.n.y out the door.

She was, however, a middle-aged, gray-haired widow with an att.i.tude 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 a.s.sured him. And herself. She'd done all this for the baby. Caroline had lost three babies. She must not lose . . . her baby.

59.

After 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 s.a.d.i.s.t and kept saying the worst would soon be over. Finally, she heard a l.u.s.ty 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 ac.u.men 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.