Hearts That Survive (23 page)

S
he was in a quandary again. No way could Mrs. Lydia Beaumont Dowd walk out that door alone and see a doctor. She couldn't ride the grounds without a groom or another servant keeping a respectable distance. If she said she needed to see a doctor for some other condition, Craven would be there the moment he returned home, wanting details. To let her go off alone, these servants would have to answer not only to Craven but also to the owners of this house. She liked them and they liked her, but they would not engage in some little game the way they might if she'd been a young girl going out with several friends, as she'd done with John.

She didn't know the area. Didn't know the doctors. And she couldn't just pop in somewhere and wait to be examined and told what she already knew.

And, too, it could be dangerous. She wasn't as well known in America, but her picture had been in all the papers twice already. She could be kidnapped.

Thinking it over, Lydia thought her only chance of any kind of obscurity in seeking medical attention would be to take a train to another city or state and use an assumed name. But that wouldn't work. She knew about security measures, which could be taken so that you didn't see your protector.

She couldn't contact any of the wives because she was supposed to be in seclusion recovering from her ordeal. Craven Dowd and she would announce when they'd appear in public or at a private party.

She considered contacting the New York clergyman's wife and asking about a doctor. But she might consider it her Christian duty to contact Mr. Dowd because Mrs. Dowd had lost her mind since she could even have a house call from any doctor of her choosing.

She was in a lovely prison. By the time she thought of going to Nova Scotia, confiding in Caroline, and getting her help, the time had come for Craven to return.

By the time Conners picked Craven up and brought him to the house that afternoon, Lydia felt literally sick and later lost the dinner Ethel had prepared.

Since Craven had eaten the same as she, they couldn't attribute it to the food. "You're so pale," Craven said, concerned. As if a replay of a former time, except that the faces and the setting were different, she sat herself on the bed. Regina patted her face with a cold cloth. As if he were a doctor, Craven questioned, "Have you been having problems?"

She shrugged and replied as if her answer might be inconsequential. "I'm late."

"You mean?"

She nodded. "It happened once before when I had the flu. Maybe I've caught something."

"She has seemed a little pale." Ethel said. "If it's something she's eating, I'll never forgive myself."

Regina straightened. "I saw her holding her stomach a little as if it might be bothering her."

She'd held her stomach to try to push it in, is what. She could honestly say, "I have felt a little—," she needed the right word. There it was. "Queasy lately."

"Ike!"

They all looked at Ethel who put her hand over her mouth. Amazing what one little squeal of "ike" could convey. The silence was palpable. Lydia reached for another cloth and held it on her forehead, partly covering her eyes lest she meet anyone's gaze. She peeked through her lashes.

Ethel stood squeezing the front of her apron. Regina held the washcloth as if her hands had become bread for a sandwich. The possibility lit the room as if the sun had entered. But Lydia knew about storms that could obscure the sun. This one would likely have a lot of hail in it too.

Craven commanded, "Get her in bed and take care of her." He paid no mind to the late hour. "I'll call the doctor."

He called Hoyt Graham and mentioned a few symptoms. They rang off, and Craven stood by the phone as if willing it to ring. It did. He lifted the receiver. "Craven Dowd here. Yes, thank you, Doctor." Pause. He gave the symptoms. Throwing up. Nausea. Discomfort in stomach. Another pause, and she guessed what the question was. He turned to Lydia. "How late are you?"

She thought for a couple seconds. She could be honest about that. "Since you've been gone."

Into the phone, Craven said, "Almost a month." His eyebrows rose slightly as if listening to an interesting discourse. After a few more answers about her having more color now, looking better, feeling better, he thanked the doctor and said he'd call if there were any further developments. Yes, that would be satisfactory.

Craven hung up. He explained what the doctor had said. "This could be a case of land sickness, common for some people after being at sea. The symptoms and the treatment are the same as for seasickness. But he wants to see us first thing in the morning."

He didn't want her to be walking around and chance falling or being sick again. "Get a good night's sleep." He would not disturb her and would sleep in another room. The trip had been tiring, and he might be restless besides. Regina and Ethel would watch over her during the night and awaken him at the slightest concern.

She tried to assure them she was better, and said they should go to their rooms. Craven made no comment when they looked his way for any further directive. He gave none. They would take turns watching her. He touched her lips with his fingers before retiring, and she said, "Thank you."

"You're entirely welcome."

At least she would make the acquaintance of a doctor who could give her baby the best available treatment.

Exhausted from the throwing up and aware she became tired more quickly than she used to, she welcomed the bed and slept or dozed all night. Each time her eyes peeked open, she saw either Ethel or Regina in the rocking chair dozing. A couple of times she felt a large, strong hand gently touch her forehead.

Early the next morning she was pleased to meet the kind, courteous, dignified doctor. However, after being led into the little examination room, she could not imagine he had instructed the nurse to behave in such a manner. Some of Lydia's friends in London had talked about the humiliation of the examination, but she was appalled.

How dare he!

But she was helpless, and had to put her feet in stirrups as if going to ride a horse, but that wasn't at all the intention. Even with her reluctance, she was pried and prodded and coaxed. When she was given no choice by the relentless twosome, she finally yielded and allowed the examination to begin. As he worked, the venerable doctor talked in a blasé tone about his grandchild learning to ride a bicycle.

The silly nurse pretended this was an everyday occurrence as he asked for an instrument and she handed it to him as casually as one might pass the time of day.

She did not scream much, and when he said, we'll just see what we have here, she could have said he already had. They left the room fully dressed while she lay draped in a stiff white sheet, her insides having been totally exposed as surely as if her brain had been examined and every thought revealed. After she dressed, the doctor returned, once again pretending to be a gentleman.

He smiled as if he'd discovered something that made him extremely happy and said that perhaps he should speak of his findings with her and Mr. Dowd together.

She thought not.

With renewed resolve, she decided that nothing she might say to him could be worse than what he did to her.

She smiled like a lady. "I want to hear it first."

"You appear quite healthy. Your symptoms are not unusual when this occurs," he said. "Mrs. Dowd, you are pregnant." He smiled but she felt it might be a tad forced. "I believe your and Mr. Dowd's picture was in the papers recently."

"Yes."

"Congratulations on your marriage." He pulled up a chair and sat at the small writing table, and then looked at his chart. He glanced at her. "Do you have any thoughts on when you might have conceived?"

The good doctor was most astute, and she began to feel considerably better. "Mr. Dowd and I were married a month ago. I might have conceived on my wedding night."

She knew that he knew she knew he knew better.

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.