Hearts That Survive (3 page)

J
ohn could hardly believe what Lydia had just said. He'd been thinking about the words he'd penned on paper. He'd begun the poem that first night after they boarded the
Titanic,
and had worked long and hard on the quatrain. Four lines.

Now he tried to decipher the four words she spoke.
I am with child.

Nothing he might say or write could match that. There could be no higher honor for a man than to have the woman he loved carrying their baby.

He looked at the paper he held in his hand. He might as well toss that so-called poem into the ocean. She held inside her . . . the world. A life. His offspring.

He needed to say something. But he was not adept at speaking his deepest thoughts. They came from his mind to his fingers holding a pencil or pen, and onto paper. Orally, his sentences were like the tip of an iceberg, while in writing they expressed his depth. Even then, he felt lacking.

She was turning from him. Physically, emotionally.

What did she need from him? Joy? Apology? Should he blurt out he'd marry her now when he'd already said he wanted to win her father's blessing first?

He must find a way to make her believe her father's blessing was now a concept that might as well be buried at the bottom of the sea. He and Lydia needed the blessing of their heavenly Father. And he needed to be a blessing to Lydia and their child.

He grasped the cold, hard steel railing. "You know I love you."

"Yes, John."

His beloved stood as calm as the sea's surface. But beneath she teemed with life. The life of his child. His intake of breath was audible and brought her head around to look at him. He could hardly bear the wonder of it.

His eyes closed for a long moment. When he opened them, he barely saw her.

"John?" she whispered.

"I'm so full of feeling. I must think."

A sound, seeming to express displeasure, escaped her throat. "Can't you say anything about this? Something?" Her words were strangled. "You hate it? It's all right? Say . . . anything?"

After a moment, he shook his head, dissatisfied with himself. "There's so much to say. In my own thoughts I'm a blundering idiot. Please. Will you give me time?"

She turned from him again. "This takes time, you know."

"Just tonight. Let's talk in the morning. We might breakfast together on our promenade deck."

She nodded.

"And, Lydia. Will you do something for me? Will you read Psalm 51 tonight?"

"I can't."

He groaned. Apparently that wasn't an acceptable request when the woman you love has just told you she's carrying your child.

She glanced over. A hint of a grin tugged at her mouth. "I don't have a Bible with me."

He dared a smile. "After we retire to our cabins, I'll knock on the door of your suite and lend you my Bible."

She shook her head. "I'll have Marcella retrieve it from you."

So much was said in a simple sentence. Their eyes met for less than an instant before they looked away, as if having to confirm that neither would behave improperly. They were careful with their words, with their actions. They planned their moves. That other night, they had not planned, otherwise it wouldn't have happened.

"Shall we retire for the night?" It was early. But they had played at life too long, pretended all was well.

She nodded and they strolled along the polished teak deck. He did not put his arm around her waist. They spoke casually to others standing by the railing or walking past them.

Upon reaching their private promenade deck, neither offered the usual tender kiss. She opened the door to her sitting room. Marcella, in her white cap and apron over a black dress, walked into the sitting room and gave a brief nod.

John said, "Good night." He went to his bedroom on the other side of Craven's. He hoped Craven would follow his normal routine and not seek him out. Since he'd locked his door it had remained so and he supposed Craven had locked it on the other side to ensure privacy. He picked up his Bible from the nightstand. When the light tap-tap sounded, he opened the door and handed the book to Marcella.

Marcella took it, then made a small gesture of a curtsey. She turned away and John's focus fell upon the steward, who served several of the nearby suites.

"Anything I can get for you, sir?" the steward asked.

"No, thank you, George. I'm fine." John had not been accustomed to having anyone curtsey, nod, or constantly refer to him as "sir" before coming into the good graces of Cyril Beaumont. Such gestures made him uncomfortable. That was Lydia's world. The company's interest lay in the design of his toy trains. He could manage without the deference, and without first-class accommodations, fine as they were, but could not imagine life without Lydia.

Reminding himself he had other matters to think about, he closed the door and sat at the desk. He took his notebook from the top drawer of the nightstand, and the fountain pen and poem from his pocket.

He prefaced his intentions with closed eyes and a prayer. At the "amen" his eyes opened and his gaze moved to the window that would have been a porthole in a lesser ship. All ships were lesser to this hotel on water. Or perhaps a better description was a palace afloat.

John could imagine how one might become overwhelmed by such luxury. He shook aside those thoughts. Despite the lighted cabin, the medium blue sky was visibly aglow with brilliant starlight. That disappeared as he stared into the distance where his creativity existed.

His fountain pen became an instrument of emotion and feeling. Words poured from his heart and soul. He prayed for God to give him the proper way to make his poem a work of skill and beauty, not just idle thoughts, so that it would express exactly what he meant. He continued with the English adaptation of the Italian sonnet form. This too would be a quatrain to attest the genuineness of his love for Lydia and their child.

After a couple hours spent composing several drafts, he had the next four lines. He opened the desk drawer and took out a piece of White Star stationery and meticulously copied the first quatrain he'd read to Lydia on the promenade deck and added the second quatrain.

Perhaps morning would bring fresh thoughts, but this was his best for the moment. He tucked the sonnet into the notebook and closed it. He couldn't follow his routine of reading the scripture before turning off the light. His intent to lie in the dark and think of Psalm 51 was halted by an unbidden verse.

"Faith without works is dead."

Words too, without works, were dead.

A burden swept through him. He needed to bring this work of poetry to life. He must not only tell Lydia about the depth of his love.

He must not only avow his love, he must show it.

With a start, he rose from the chair. His mind formed a plan as clear as sunlight. He hastened from the room, praying it wasn't too late.

L
ydia was dressed long before the ship's bugler passed along the deck announcing meal call. She'd had Marcella ask the steward to bring breakfast for two to her private deck.

John had told the steward to have Lydia order for him. Not knowing what he liked for breakfast, she smiled, thinking of all the things she would learn about him. Looking at the menu gave her a ravenous appetite. She ordered baked apples, grilled sausage, tomato omelets, Vienna rolls, buckwheat cakes, and Narbonne honey. "Oh," she said, "get the grilled ham too. He may not like sausage."

Feeling a chill, she considered turning on the heater in the sitting room and opening the door. But that would be much too cozy. She longed to return to the carefree days when she and John sneaked away to enjoy each other's company. Everything was light and gay and they laughed at the most minute happening.

They'd only meant to talk more seriously the night she had pulled the fur-trimmed hood close around her face lest she be seen. She'd reveled in being so naughty as to visit a man's apartment. Since then, she had been a person divided. Now she was a person responsible for another life, and she trembled at the thought.

Marcella had not been able to keep a sly little smile from her lips ever since Lydia mentioned breakfast for two on the deck. Now, while her maid set the table and the steward placed the food on the sideboard, Lydia looked out the windows and faced another beautiful day.

"The air is cooler this morning than last, miss, but quite pleasant." The steward's weather report mimicked yesterday's.

"Marcella," Lydia said, "I need the Bible brought in from the bedroom."

"Yes, miss." She headed for the bedroom.

Lydia glanced at George. Was she trying too hard to make others think everything was fine and she was simply going to have a Bible study with someone? My goodness, would she ever be able to think properly again? Marcella and George were the hired help.

But already John had an influence on her. John was the dearest, smartest, most creative, kindest person she'd ever known. Money and background had not made him so. And what had money and background done for her? She'd begun to see even the hired help as people. Of course, she'd known that, but now she knew it in a different way.

"Anything else I can do for you, miss?" George said.

"No, that will be all. Thank you."

He nodded, put his hands on the handle of the food cart, and rolled it from the room. Marcella brought the Bible, and Lydia placed it on the corner of the breakfast table. When the light tap sounded, Marcella opened the door and John walked in.

Last night she'd been anxious over what John's reaction might be, so confused by learning that love was not only simple and beautiful but could also be filled with problems. Now all she wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and tell him never to let her go, and to make her believe everything was fine and they would live like the ending of a fairy tale, happily ever after.

Ach! If she were such a vixen, she would not be so troubled by it all. And John had not shown much of a reaction last night. In fact, he'd been speechless. Now, he looked at her with loving eyes, then walked over to the sideboard. He lifted a couple of silver covers. "My, this is quite a spread."

Lydia joined him, deciding she could serve herself. "It all looks so good."

They filled their plates and took them to the table. John sat opposite her. Marcella poured their coffee.

Lydia glanced up at her. "You may leave, Marcella. Take as long as you like."

"Thank you, miss." Her glance moved from Lydia to John, and pink tinged her cheeks. She turned, placed the coffeepot on the sidebar, and hastily left, closing the door softly behind her.

"I hope Craven doesn't pop in," Lydia said.

John shook his head. "I already informed him we wouldn't be joining him this morning. He said he intended to take a turn in the gym."

Lydia sat with her back to the windows and the ocean view, but she could see the soft blue of the sky in John's eyes.

He offered a brief prayer of thanks for the food and asked that it give them health.

After the "amen" Lydia buttered a Vienna roll, wondering if the uneasiness she felt was a touch of seasickness, or the dreaded morning sickness she'd heard about, or her concern over how John would express what was on his mind. The aroma of the breakfast however, became overwhelmingly appetizing. She had eaten little dinner last night, had no snack later, felt tired after reading Psalm 51, and fell asleep contemplating its meaning. Now she felt quite ravenous. She must try the buckwheat cake with a tad of honey.

John took a couple gulps of coffee and returned the cup to its saucer. He told her about his past and the events of the Prodigal Son sermon that had caused him to confront his sins of having yielded to a less than exemplary kind of life during his college years. He'd asked the Lord's forgiveness and had learned of God's great love. "Something like that is what I thought you might find in Psalm 51."

She nodded, now trying the tomato omelet. Surely she had heard the psalm read before. She supposed it hadn't concerned her, because she had never before felt she had sinned or gone against her upbringing or dishonored her father or herself.

"We need to get this behind us, Lydia. Get rid of the negative and focus on the positive."

Get rid?
Oh, what did he mean? They could not change what was. Or is. Closing her eyes, she shook her head and swallowed her bite of food.

"Lydia." His voice was soft. "Give me your hands."

She opened her eyes and looked at the outstretched palms of his hands on the table. "Let's ask God's forgiveness."

"Let me take a sip of coffee first."

He sighed. "Maybe my idea of combining breakfast and talk wasn't a good idea."

"Oh, yes," she said. "Otherwise, I would faint from starvation."

His gaze turned thoughtful but patient while she took a couple sips of coffee. "I'm ready now. I really am." She set down her cup and placed her hands in his.

His gentle pressure was like a sweet caress. "Forgive me, Lydia, for disrespecting you."

"You didn't disrespect me, John. There was no coercion."

He appeared to accept that. "But I did disrespect God's law." He bowed his head. "Almighty God, who sees our hearts, who knows our every thought, our every breath. We have brought a blight upon our love. Forgive us." He paused.

"Thank you that you forgive us the moment we ask. You really forgave us when Jesus died on the cross. We only need to repent and ask. We are starting over now, with you as our guide, and we ask Thy blessing upon our lives. Amen."

"Amen," Lydia said tentatively and barely managed not to grab her fork and behave like some hungry little urchin who'd never had a speck of learning.

"Look out there," he said. "The ocean and sky have met and the horizon reaches into infinity. That's where our sin is now."

She turned, squinted, and put her hands over her eyes as if she couldn't see that far.

"That's right. We'll never be able to see it again. God said he would cast our sins into the deepest sea and remember them no more. We're clean, Lydia. We start anew now."

She nodded. She wanted to believe that. If she did not have every indication a child was growing in her, if she hadn't missed her monthly time, if she didn't have that churning in her stomach even before shipping out to sea, then guilt likely would not have lain upon her so heavily. "I don't want you to think we have to get married."

They were talking about this so calmly. And how could she be eating at a time like this? But the aroma beckoned and that's what breakfast was for, even if John hadn't touched his.

As if reading her mind, he laid his napkin on his lap, lifted his fork and took a bite of eggs. Oh, the aroma wafted right to her. If he didn't hurry and eat his wonderfully seasoned sausage, she would.

He swallowed and shook his head. That loving look came into his eyes, bluer than the ocean, bluer than the sky. "I don't want you to think I'd marry you because I have to." He glanced toward the deck beyond the private one. "I'm well aware there's a man out there who wants you as his wife. He's made that clear to you, me, your father, and possibly anyone with whom he comes in contact."

A terrible dread settled over her. "Are you saying—?"

"Oh, my, no," he almost shouted. His eyes and voice held distress. "Maybe this will speak for me." He reached into his pocket and brought out the poem. "I need to read it myself because—"

"Quit explaining and read it, John."

She let her teeth toy with her lower lip to keep from smiling—maybe laughing. In showing his trains, he became an excited child and confident man. When showing his poetry, which was his heart, he became self-conscious. She loved that about him.

He took a deep breath. "You remember the first lines?"

She'd been so concerned about how to tell him she hadn't really absorbed the poem but thought it was something about her hair being like sunshine.

"Of course you don't." Color rose to his face.

"Read it all, John."

He read:

As sunflowers turn to contemplate the sun,

I turned to view your golden loveliness

And loved, desired to care for, not possess:

To cherish 'til our earthly days are done.

He glanced at her and she nodded for him to continue. "It isn't finished, but these are the new lines."

But then desire for pleasure we should shun

Crept in: Brief bliss brought shame with each
caress.

Though we have sinned, I love you none the less,

But more, yet more, 'til life's last thread is spun.

She could only whisper through her closed throat, "Again."

With shaky breath he read it again.

Finally she found her voice. "I've never heard anything so beautiful. I don't know of anything you could ever give me that would mean more."

"Except . . ." He held up a finger, and his lips turned into a grin.

She did not feel the guilt—she felt the joy. She nodded and placed her hand on her stomach. "Yes, except."