Hearts That Survive Part 36

She saw it happening in that eternal second. There wasn't time to make a joke or make a sound or get busy with something else. He spoke it. And it became fact.

She saw the acc.u.mulation of years become a single truth.

Not jumbled. But clear. Obvious.

Her insistence upon sailing to America for business reasons but never showing an interest in the business afterward.

The mild seasickness.

The a.s.sociation with John although he was not of their cla.s.s.

The hurried marriage just to walk down a grand staircase.

The nausea at Long Island like that she'd had on the ship.

The baby born early.

Beau being nothing like him.

He had no heir.

He did not blink. He did not move. "Holy G.o.d," he breathed, and it sounded like a whispered scream.

She knew it was not profanity.

Of course, he never needed to use unseemly words. He was like a Roman emperor. Thumbs up. Thumbs down. It's done.

Nor was it the misuse of G.o.d's name. Craven made it clear he wouldn't tolerate ignorant, uncouth expressions from anyone with whom he did business or socialized.

Many times she had dreamed, had thought about those who went down in that freezing water, breathing for the last time, taking one last breath, choking with pain.

That was happening now. On dry land. Her life. Her marriage. Her son. Her husband. Going . . . sliding down . . . gone . . . never to have life again.

The t.i.tanic had taken two and a half hours to sink.

The life they'd built together was taking a fraction of a second.

He looked as if his lifelong motto of "I can handle it" had been violated and confiscated.

Since he was immobile, she managed to tear her eyes from his, turn, and leave the room.

66.

Lydia sat in the library below the staircase, with the door open to see if he came down the stairs. Suppose he didn't. Suppose he went to bed. Then what would she do? Go into another bedroom. Or, suppose this was the one thing he couldn't handle. Would he do something drastic?

Just when her fear rose to the point she thought of returning upstairs, he descended the staircase. He carried a suitcase. He did not look her way. His heavy footsteps crossed the foyer. The front door opened. It closed.

What now? What was he going to do?

Would he have a one-night fling to punish her? Stay with her and take a mistress?

He'd know that would lead to divorce. Never would she live with a man, him in another bedroom, and have a mistress somewhere. And divorce would involve money. Oh, he had his own, to be sure. He controlled the purse. But she, being owner of Beaumont Railroad Company, had the purse strings. She could pull them at any time, leaving him only a small fortune.

And the great Craven Dowd ask for alimony?

Never. That would be below his dignity.

If he decided on divorce, what would he tell his friends? What would the headlines, not just on the society page, tell the world? That he couldn't hold on to a woman, acclaimed by others to be very beautiful, and that he was so obtuse as to lose the lifestyle bought him by the Beaumont fortune?

She didn't intend to file for divorce and be put into a position to answer why.

So, what was he going to do? was far from a trite question.

He called four days later and said he would be home for dinner at seven o'clock. Please inform the cook to prepare his favorite meal. Please have Beau spend the night with a friend.

Could he not even bear to look at Beau?

Lydia tried to prepare herself for the inevitable, but she had no idea what it would be. She took a long, relaxing bubble bath; washed her hair and let the curls do as they pleased styling her hair the way he liked it; and wore a blue-his favorite color-c.o.c.ktail dress he'd picked out for her at a fashion show. If he'd taken a mistress, he could see what he would be losing.

When he came home around six, he went straight upstairs, not even looking toward the library, where she sat with a book on her lap.

Was he packing?

Thirty minutes later, he came down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen. She went out the French side doors and walked around looking at, but not really seeing, the blooms in the flowerbeds.

What was he doing in the kitchen? Maybe he was putting poison in the food and would declare he wasn't hungry.

She walked along the path to the back of the house. How anyone knew where she was, she didn't know, but the cook came to the door and said dinner was ready.

For the end to an eighteen-year journey they would dine in the formal dining room.

Normally, she would not sit at the far end. Tonight she opted for that. Why not do it the way it was done in the movies Beau watched? Neither of them spoke, but he pulled out the chair for her. She sat, and he strolled to the opposite end of the long table.

The cook brought coffee.

Coffee?

Wine was a staple at dinner, whether or not anyone wanted it. He would have requested coffee.

Tonight wasn't even worth a gla.s.s of wine?

Might they not toast the demise of their marriage?

Perhaps the poison was in her coffee.

That's what she was thinking when the cook said, "Ma'am," and set her plate in front of her.

Perfect. Delectable. He could eat? Well, she could eat.

The longer they sat there, eating as if nothing was wrong, the more heated she became and partly because he looked so cool.

What did he think? Go away for four days and come home as though nothing had happened?

Then it occurred to her. He might have manipulated things and placed everything in his name and would leave her with nothing. He knew how to get things done.

She would not live in silence, pretending. This could have been talked over days ago.

She looked over at him, distinguished, calm, as if all were well with the world.

She made sure her voice sounded bland. "What are you . . . we . . . going to do?"

Without a moment's hesitation he said, "What husbands and wives do."

He was cutting his meat with a sharp knife. Was he thinking of her throat?

She wondered what that meant.

Perhaps just live together, go through the motions. She knew many who did, in spite of affairs, family problems, incompatibility.

Did he for a moment think they'd live in the same house but not share the same bedroom? Go through the motions of marriage, pretend for the world?

If so, he could think again.

Champagne was brought in and poured into flutes, reminding her of Long Island and the night he proposed and gave her the engagement ring. So they would toast to the farewell, as they had toasted to their beginning.

He lifted his gla.s.s.

She did not, but said, "No dessert?"

Expressionless, his long-lashed, steely gray eyes bore into hers.

Oh.

She drank her champagne.

67.

All the way upstairs, she told herself she would endure whatever. She deserved some kind of punishment for taking away his pride, his son. But he'd punish her with his own body? How could any man use his body as a weapon?

But if that was his intention, she would endure it.

He removed her clothing, one piece at a time, slowly, not even touching her skin. What kind of preliminary to punishment was this? To humiliate her? Her body did not humiliate her. And he was well aware of how she looked.

He led her to the bed, and she lay as if out by the pool, lazing on a summer's day. Forced herself to think. She would endure.

She was a survivor.

Even if it were some brutal attack, she would live through it. He was not a stranger. He was her husband of eighteen years.

She closed her eyes and heard the music in the background. They'd had champagne. They must have music. Wasn't that the way to celebrate any event, beginnings and endings?

So, he would not apply for divorce but give her a reason to do so.

Force.

And what court would ever believe that a husband of eighteen years had forced his wife? Even servants could testify they'd had a lovely dinner together with champagne and music.

And she could never live with a man who forced her.

Was this just his way of saying a final farewell?

Yes, she would endure.

And she would survive.

And she would divorce him.

First thing in the morning she would contact an attorney. Not his. Not theirs. She would find her own. In the meantime . . .

She . . . endured.

The following morning she felt him slip out of bed. She waited, still, until a light tap sounded on the door. She drew in a breath but didn't answer.

"Ma'am," Myrna said tentatively, and she turned in bed, expelling a breath of relief. She did not want to face Craven.

"Sorry if I woke you."

"No, no. That's fine." It really was. She propped herself up in bed.

"Mr. Dowd had to leave early. He said you might like juice and coffee before you came down for breakfast."

Yes, she did.

What was he up to? Seeing the attorney already? Having had his goodbye celebration with a satisfying of his culinary and physical appet.i.tes, he would leave her with her thoughts.

Her thoughts were jumbled. She reached for the gla.s.s and drank. The fresh orange juice felt good and cool and refreshing in her mouth and sliding down her throat. She leaned back and closed her eyes, savoring the feeling.