Hearts That Survive (22 page)

I
n the few days she had been in Nova Scotia, Caroline had developed a better opinion of Armand Bettencourt and a lesser one of herself. She wasn't sure what a cozy little home should be, but this so-called apartment gave her a much better impression than her initial concept of something over first- floor law offices. Any stuffy old hotel, or even an elegant new one, could not match the comfort and privacy of this dwelling. And it had its own inside or outside entry.

Nicely furnished, the decor was still definitely masculine, especially with that swordfish hanging over the fireplace. The colors were dark too, like the coloring of its owner, who gave her the impression of an outdoorsman instead of a man behind a desk, which was where he seemed to be whenever she and Bess decided to take a stroll or have a bite to eat in that little café.

Having just finished a cup of tea that Bess said they must have before leaving, she crossed the living room, which had been renovated from two bedrooms. Standing at the long row of windows with heavy burgundy drapes fastened at the sides, she looked down at the tree-lined street.

She preferred not to think about the chore ahead, and instead let her thoughts return to the day she'd been, if not rude, condescending to the kindly Armand Bettencourt.

When they'd left the train station that day, she and Bess rode in the back seat of the car. Mr. Bettencourt rode in front with the driver he introduced as Willard Oak, who seemed to think the road was curved instead of straight.

But his looking into the rearview mirror or turning his head could account for his erratic driving. Mr. Bettencourt kept his face forward, and since this was the only car on the road, he must be watching out for horse and carriage traffic. And the car did travel more slowly than a horse.

Willard Oak's mouth was anything but slow. Within a matter of minutes she knew almost nothing about Armand Bettencourt but a lot about Willard Oak. He was a fisherman by trade, didn't normally drive for people, the main reason being that Armand's was one of the few cars in Halifax. He was good at building and fixing things even if he did say so himself. In fact, he'd helped with Armand's apartment.

Armand?

His driver called him by his first name? She glanced at Armand, but he didn't react to anything. In her circles a driver wore a uniform, was basically ignored, and didn't start conversations. She had been informal much of the time with her servants, but at her instigation.

She found Willard rather entertaining. And if she was going to be an ordinary person, she might be getting her first lesson. She half expected he'd invite her to go fishing.

Looking over, she saw that Bess had an amused look on her face and seemed to be enjoying Willard's loquaciousness immensely.

"Just to let you know, Mrs. Chadwick." At least he didn't use her first name. She thought Armand hadn't told it to him. "Anywhere you want to go, I'll take you. Any time Armand lets me use his car, that is. He said we could."

"Thank you, Willard."

"Yes, ma'am. We all want to do what we can."

She was accustomed to helping others with their needs. The tables had turned. This seemed strange, being on the receiving end of things.

Quite soon, the car stopped in front of a big, two-story brick building. Willard took one bag and Mr. Bettencourt the other, which indicated to her they assumed she would stay. She and Bess followed them inside, where a middle-aged woman, Mrs. Jessup, sat behind a desk and assured them she was there to help in any way.

Caroline and Bess followed the men up the staircase, and Willard set down the bag he carried and reminded them he was available. Armand or Mrs. Jessup knew how to reach him.

She said, "Thank you," and Bess said, "Thank you, Willard. You have been most helpful."

He smiled and sprinted down the steps.

Caroline looked at Bess, wondering what in the world had come over her. There was nothing wrong with her speaking to Willard, but she usually remained quiet as if in what she called "her place." Perhaps she considered herself and Willard in the same place.

On the landing was a table against the wall, where a vase of flowers sat beneath a painting she'd seen as a child in church. Little children gathered around the shepherd and one sat on his knee. She looked away quickly as Mr. Bettencourt pointed out the rooms on the left.

"There are guests in the rooms temporarily," he said and she quickened at the word "temporarily," knowing that meant they were here for the same reason as she, and it was not for independence.

"But this is the apartment where you can have privacy." He unlocked the door, opened it, stood aside, and invited them in. That's when she saw the spacious, inviting living room, which included a large table along one wall and a bookshelf along another as well as furniture on a large burgundy-patterned wool rug. She and Bess could even sleep on the couches facing each other. If she didn't look at the swordfish.

He took them across the room to a door. Outside was a small porch with a solid banister and steps leading down to the ground. "Another entrance," he said. "More private than going through the office lobby. If you stay, feel free to use either."

"And back here should be Lola," he said with a trace of a smile on his otherwise somber face. A wife? This would never do. She wanted to make new friends but wasn't quite ready to live with them.

As they entered the kitchen, she detected the scent of something chocolate and breathed more deeply of it, thinking she would prefer it on her tongue. A small table with two chairs sat to one side beneath a window that was next to the porch. At a window opposite them stood a gray-haired woman who turned from the kitchen sink and dried her hands on a towel. She wore a skirt the color of her hair and a white blouse, covered by a black apron.

"Lola Logan." She gave a smile in a pleasant face. "I'm the sometimes housekeeper and try to keep this place clean, but you know how men are." Then she said, "Sorry," and Caroline thought she probably knew she no longer had her man.

"I'm not a cook," Lola Logan said, "but I'm fixing a few things you might like."

Mr. Bettencourt introduced her and Bess, then said to Lola in a warning tone, "I'll be back." He proceeded to show them the bedrooms, which were joined by a bathroom.

These bedrooms didn't have the feminine touch either but appeared so inviting she would like to stretch out across one of the beds. She suddenly felt fatigued. But she had a little apology to make.

"Mr. Bettencourt. This is more than adequate. Much more inviting than a hotel room. Since we'll be staying in your home and working together, perhaps we should be on a firstname basis. I'm Caroline and she's Bess."

His smile replaced the concern on his face, and if she'd known that would happen she might have said her first name sooner.

"Armand," he said. "Please know I'm at your service. Many of us don't know what to do at a time like this." He gave her keys to the inside and outside entry.

"You're doing fine, Armand," she said in her sweetest tone.

His dark eyes seemed to grow a tad larger beneath those rather heavy eyebrows. He turned and walked back into the kitchen.

"Oh, no, you don't. Not without one of these brownies I slaved over all day." Lola held out the plate. He took a bite. "Good as yours?"

"Much better," he said.

"Ladies?" Lola said.

Caroline reached for one, so Bess did too.

"Delicious," she exclaimed, and Bess said, "Mmmm."

"I'll put your bags in the bedrooms," Armand said. She noticed a tiny chocolate crumb at the corner of his mouth and then wondered what in the world her brownie hand was doing in the air like that. She quickly stuck a bite into her mouth.

Armand left, and Lola said she'd be back in a couple days to see if anything needed to be cleaned, and she left.

Caroline looked at Bess. "I guess we're on our own?"

"Looks that way. Nice little apartment."

Caroline reached for another brownie. Looking into the cabinets and refrigerator, she saw an ample supply of basic food, but wouldn't know what to do with it. Bess would.

"You know," she mused, "Sometimes you can just be refreshed by other people's goodness."

"I was thinking that," Bess said, examining the knobs on the electric stove. "He would take time off from a job that probably doesn't pay much, just to drive us a few blocks from the station."

Caroline stared at her back. Friend or maid, she might just keep Bess around for the element of surprise.

For a couple of days they enjoyed the privacy of the cozy rooms, became familiar with the people in Armand's firm, and strolled around the area. One day Armand took them to a small restaurant and another time to Patriot's Point and gave them a little history lesson.

They were doing just fine, until the third day. The phone rang, and they both stared at it. Finally, Bess picked up the receiver.

"Hello, Miss Hotchkins speaking." She turned from Caroline. "Yes." A few seconds later she nodded as if the caller could see her. "I understand. We'll be there." She didn't say thank you. She must not have liked what the caller had to say.

Caroline braced herself.

Bess replaced the receiver and swallowed before saying, "Armand can take us to the—" she paused and moistened her lips. "To the Mayflower Curling Rink whenever we are ready."

Caroline's hands rose up and rubbed each other. She nodded. Bess said they should have a cup of tea first, turned, and hurried toward the kitchen, but not before Caroline saw the color drain from her face.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Caroline reprimanded herself for being insensitive. Whatever happened to the woman who tried to think of others? Anyone would be affected by that tragedy. But she'd been thinking of her own losses and did not think of Bess having lost anyone.

She went into the kitchen, where Bess was pouring the tea. They both sat at the table. Bess had said the curling rink, and they knew this was the morgue.

She realized that Bess had lost someone too. She'd been in the employ of William Chadwick for five years. People became attached, despite class differences. "You don't have to go," Caroline said.

She didn't know if Bess's reply was because she had lost William too, or because she was was Caroline's maid, or because she was her friend. Perhaps all. But she knew Bess meant it when she blinked her eyes and said resolutely, "Yes, I do have to go."

A
rmand had met Craven Dowd several years ago. The Beaumont Railroad Company and the Bettencourt Shipping Lines had business dealings, and Armand's father had hosted a dinner for executives at his country estate. Armand joined them for dinner and on his dad's yacht, but wasn't in on business discussions. He was acquainted with Dowd and found him to be a congenial, interesting person.

His dad called Dowd the youngest but brightest executive he'd ever come across. Said he was a no-nonsense kind of fellow, but fair. Armand hadn't thought much about him one way or another, still being in law school at the time, and still having Ami in his life.

Having seen the article about Dowd being a
Titanic
hero, Armand called and asked how he and others in his area could help. Armand was reminded of his father saying Craven Dowd never forgot a thing when Dowd asked if he were pleased with how his law practice had developed.

Armand got the impression Dowd already knew, maybe because he had investigated whether he could ever use him if a need arose in Halifax. They rang off on good terms. A few days later Dowd called and asked if Armand would handle Mrs. Chadwick's finances while she was in Halifax.

"Can you tell me a little about her so I have an idea what to expect?"

He should have known Dowd wouldn't say anything as simple as someone being a brown-eyed brunette, short, tall, or middle-aged. He could visualize her as he described her.

"She's not the kind you'd notice in a crowd," he said. "But she grows on you. So don't expect her to stand out." He said she had a habit, when she was frustrated. Instead of raising her voice she gestured with her right hand as if making it speak for her.

"When you get to know her, you'll notice her eyes are a mystery, bluish, brownish, and when she's extremely happy there's a green cast to them."

Armand couldn't hold back his laughter on that. Dowd, joking?

He said, "She's pretty," in an offhand manner as if she wasn't extremely so. "But the main thing is she looks soft."

"Soft?"

"Yes. She has a soft way about her that makes you comfortable. Her voice is soft, which might be the reason she talks with her hand."

"Her age?"

"Mid-twenties."

He dared not ask any more and wondered how in the world that was supposed to help him recognize Mrs. Chadwick. Maybe Dowd's brilliant brain was too much for Armand's small one.

When passengers alighted from the train, everybody had a distinguishing look about them like short, tall, brunette, outlandish hat, no hat, and whoa!

Everything Dowd had said stood right there, wearing a dark gray suit with the edge of the skirt flirting with her ankles, and a pert little gray hat on her head, with her light brown hair rolled beneath it. She stood perfectly still, talking to another woman. He could not hear her voice but as her mouth moved, she gestured with her graceful right hand.

That meant she was frustrated.

He couldn't see her eyes but sincerely doubted there was a speck of green in them. And she looked soft.

He learned quickly that soft didn't mean acquiescent. She was trying very hard.

She and Bess had been in his apartment several days now, and he related well with them. Today was different.

He'd called and told Bess that Caroline might come and identify her husband.

As much as he had dreaded this day, he wanted—needed —to be of assistance. Telling someone you know how they feel is a caring thing to do, and perhaps you do know, but it doesn't take away the pain. So he didn't say it. He just kept driving the McKay Roadster until they arrived at the curling rink.

He supposed the news articles and reports about the terrible tragedy would never stop. They even reported how victims were identified, and some descriptions could make one ill. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of bodies floating on the ocean, while just one body, or two, could make you lose your reason for living. They became numbers and items in little bags. Rosary beads identified a person. Shoes, clothing labels, lapel pins, fountain pens, waiter's uniforms. On and on it went.

He accompanied the women into the room, where William Chadwick's identification was presented to Caroline. The cuff links had been a gift from her, and she named the store where they were purchased. The number on the key was the number of their stateroom. Yes, he had a scar on his right forearm that he'd received as a child, after a fall.

Yes, she needed to see him.

Armand remained outside while Caroline and Bess entered the back room. They returned looking like walking statues. They weren't speaking. They weren't touching. He understood that too. Sometimes you know that if you're touched, you'll break.

She still looked soft, and you wished you could hold her and take away the suffering. The two women looked brave, and when they stepped outside the building each took a deep breath as though the fresh air would make a difference. But he knew about tears being frozen inside, unable to fall, and a heart that could turn to stone.

What could one say? Caroline looked toward the sky. "It's a lovely day. I'll walk back."

"May I walk with you?"

"Do you want Bess to drive your—"

"Blimey!" Bess squealed. "The only way I'll drive a contraption like that is if you hook a horse up to it."

They actually laughed. All three of them.

As if they dared not look back at the curling rink, they ducked into a small café for coffee.

Armand watched Caroline remove her gloves as if they were soiled, although he didn't think she would have touched anything back there. But it had touched her, whether or not she let it show. She lowered her hands to her lap and ordered coffee with cream.

After a long moment she said, "They said I need to make arrangements." Her hand came up. "I hadn't thought of that."

He knew this had to be discussed and that the financial part of the arrangements would involve him. "Some are having their loved ones returned to their home. Others are being buried here. A place has been set aside for the
Titanic
victims, and later on there will be a memorial service."

"I suppose that's what I should do." She glanced at Bess, who nodded and said, "Since you don't want to return to London, it might be best to bury him here."

"Are there," Caroline began tentatively, "a lot to be buried here?"

"Yes. Plans for three cemeteries are already being made."

"So many," she mused.

"Yes, not only here, but in New York and Southampton." He stopped speaking. He should not say more than necessary.

The waitress came with the coffee. Caroline stirred in cream. "I thought seeing him would make it seem real." She gestured. "It didn't. I know it, but I didn't see only William just now. I could still see those hundreds on the ocean. All those who were not saved."

"What is worse," he said, "is if their souls were not saved."

She gasped. Her hand moved to the small, round gray buttons at the front of her jacket.

"I'm sorry. I didn't say that well."

She and Bess stared at the cups.

Armand could kick himself. Caroline had been through an unthinkable ordeal and had just identified her husband as a victim. Now he had made her think about the possibility of her husband being in a worse place than the morgue.

But another thought came. No, he should shoot himself if he made no mention of one's soul. And he knew, how well he knew, that in times of death one thinks more deeply about eternal matters. The number of church attendees had doubled since that tragedy. Special services were held, and not just on Sunday. When people realize they are not in ultimate control of their own lives, they seek someone who is.

After they had sipped their coffee in silence for a while, Armand thinking it best he not speak, Caroline said, "I've almost finished what I came here for. Now I need to start thinking about what to do, where to go."

Craven Dowd had been right in saying she grows on you. Sort of like an unexpected little lavender violet in a decayed bed of yesterday's flowers.

He picked up his cup and looked over the rim at her speckled eyes. He had an idea. He'd like to do it, but wasn't sure he could.

But he had a very strong feeling the time was now or never.