Hearts That Survive (4 page)

N
ow I have two of you to love," John said, grateful they could focus less on the sin and more on the miracle of life. They could sit and eat breakfast together and have a conversation about the most important things in life. She took a forkful of baked apples and, while chewing, began buttering her second roll.

He washed down his sausage with a gulp of coffee. "I'm glad you like the poem." Realizing he was pointing the fork at her, he lowered it and focused on the Bible. "But I certainly cannot hold a candle to King David. He's the greatest poet that ever put pen to paper."

"Greater than Shakespeare?" She bit into the roll.

"Shakespeare's pen was indeed mightier than the sword, as the saying goes, but not greater than the pen of David, whose writings have God at the center."

Chewing, she gave him a tolerant glance and laid the roll on the bread plate. "John, I'm not completely ignorant of the scriptures. I believe in forgiveness and in God's love." She looked down, then up again. "But there are also consequences. David and Bathsheba's child— Oh, John. You know what happened to it."

For a moment, John could not draw in a breath. The child had died because of their sin. Such a thought was horrifying. He and Lydia wished the events hadn't happened as they had. Now he thought she felt as he did. Both wanted this child of theirs.

He took a swallow of coffee to dislodge what was stuck in his throat. "Yes, King David sinned. He was a human being who yielded to temptation."

"And he paid the price."

"But he was forgiven. And good came from it. He penned Psalm 51. If David had not sinned, we would not have the words that have reached the world since they were written and will continue as long as there is life on earth. I daresay his words are sung in heaven."

Sensing her uncertainty, he hastened to add, "Fortunately, I'm not a warrior king whom God has called to be an example to the world. I'm just a poor poet."

"You're not poor, John. But I don't care if you don't have a cent."

"If I hadn't a cent, you'd never have known me. But anyway, I'm poor compared with the other first-class passengers. I only have these accommodations because your father's company made the reservations."

"But you don't care."

He toyed with a spoon for a moment, then clasped his hands on his lap. "I care in the sense that my having had some success with my trains brought me to your father's attention. More importantly, to yours. And I want to be a success. Frankly, I'd rather be a success as a poet than a toy-train maker. My trains and I are considered minor compared with the first-class passengers, and with your father's real trains."

"Considered," she said. "But real trains only take people from one destination to another. Your trains bring joy and happiness and dreams of going to all sorts of places. And my father is impressed with your designs."

"Thank you. That's your opinion because you love me."

"Yes, I do, John. When I am around you, it's like the rest of the world goes away. And that's fine with me."

He leaned toward her. "Someone mentioned that our relationship might well be a passing fancy for you. I'm a different kind of person from what you're accustomed to."

Seeing her sigh, turn her head, and tighten her lips, he knew she thought Craven would have been the one with that bit of wisdom. And she would be right. Craven made no secret of wanting Lydia for himself. In the meantime, he tolerated John, although trying to brainwash him into thinking he was not worthy or not mature enough for Lydia. John often thought so himself.

Lydia was remarkable. She hadn't given in to Craven but had been determined to continue her education. She'd followed her heart about John instead of society's unwritten rule that she choose someone of equal background. Few had the wealth of Cyril Beaumont.

But he'd lingered too long. What more could he say? He might quote Othello from Shakespeare's tragedy.
When . . . you shall . . . speak of me . . . speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.

Pushing his plate away from him, he reminded himself he must not quote others. He should adhere to the advice in Longfellow's poem "The Courtship of Miles Standish," that said, "
Speak for yourself, John."

First, he couldn't resist saying, "I do believe you are eating for two."

Her mouth opened, her gaze fell upon the third roll she held in her hand. She covered her mouth with the other hand and laughed. Ah, it was good to hear that laughter. At least he was learning how to make her happy. Keep her pregnant and give her food.

"I'm a pig this morning," she said.

Good. The mood was lighter. Now was the time not just for words but for action, to show Lydia his love.

O
h."

Lydia laid down her fork and placed her hand against her heart. John pushed away from the table and stood. Her ravenous appetite must have disgusted him. She started to question, but he said the strangest thing.

"Don't move." He knelt on one knee in front of her and took her hands in his.

"Lydia. Love of my life. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

He reached into the pocket of his morning coat and brought out a small black box, which he opened to expose a diamond ring sparkling in a bed of lush blue velvet. "I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?"

She stared and finally stuttered. "Where . . . when . . . did you get this?"

"Last night. There's an American jeweler aboard. You know, Mr. Claude Deeman."

Of course she knew. Every woman should have a Deeman jewel. "I couldn't ask for anything better. But the size? How?" Her gaze darted from the ring to his face, which had paled.

"We have a few mutual friends."

"Elsie?"

His raised eyebrows indicated she'd guessed.

"The night we went to the carnival with her and Edward." She gasped, remembering. John and Edward had insisted they get those cheap little rings and pretend the two couples were engaged. How silly they had been, making Lydia and Elsie swap rings while the men decided which one they should wear.

"You and she wore the same size," he said. "She was in on it, too, and gave me her ring so I would know your size. I've kept it with me, waiting for the right moment."

The carnival night preceded the night they had spent together. "You wanted to marry me way back then?"

"From the moment I met you."

He removed the ring from the blue velvet and held the yellow gold band between his fingers.

A question hung in the air. Not when, or how, or what, or why. But, will you?

She extended her trembling hand. "Yes, John. I'll marry you. I love you."

He slipped the ring on her finger. She stared at the ring, remembering the times she'd looked at her mother's ring, the one her father said would be hers when she married, either to wear or to keep.

But she knew her father would not give it to her if she didn't marry a man of his choice. John was here, and a manifestation of his love was on her finger. If a choice had to be made, she'd rather have John's ring, even if it were the carnival one in her jewelry box. Someday perhaps she could give her mother's ring to her daughter, or to her son for the woman of his choice.

Welling up inside her were contrasting emotions: sadness at not being able to share this with her mother alongside excited anticipation of spending her lifetime with the man who touched her heart.

He took her fingers, brought them to his lips, and kissed them.

"May I?" He glanced at her stomach.

She nodded. Wet emotion spilled from her eyes and she could not suppress a small laugh of happiness as he gently touched where his child grew. He looked so wonderful kneeling before her and even reached out to the table and steadied himself.

She laughed. "John, you might want to get up now."

The color in his face deepened. "Oh." He rose from his kneeling position and pulled his chair over in front of her. "Of course, you will want to plan the wedding. Whatever you want, wherever you want. New York. England. France." John grinned. "But I have a thought."

"Uh-oh." She lifted her gaze to the ornate ceiling and back to him again. She would love to look at him forever.

"I know. I'm the dreamer."

"I love that about you."

"Well, what do you think about our getting married right here on the
Titanic?
Not wait any longer?"

"Would that be legal?"

"I'm sure it would be. I'll ask. I know captains and chaplains can perform ceremonies. So the captain should have legal papers on board. All licenses have to be signed and filed, but once a man and woman are pronounced husband and wife, the preacher says they're married." He stared at her with hopeful eyes.

When she didn't answer immediately, John began to reassure her. "We can later be married in a church and invite our friends. Your father can walk you down the aisle."

He shook his head and spoke apologetically. "I've never put great value on money, but since I've achieved some success, I know the possibilities that lie before me, and I have to admit I am impressed with what wealth can do. Seeing this ship in particular, I understand how one might get caught up in it, be dazzled by it."

This seemed so foreign to how John usually spoke. But his next words thrilled her. "I would love to see you, the most beautiful girl in the world, at the top of that grand staircase while becoming my wife."

"Oh, my." She saw it in her mind. If anyone overheard John's words, they might think he had become caught up in the opulence around him. She knew better. When they'd explored the impressive ship, many had spoken of, "What money can do."

John said, "It also shows what the creative mind can conceive and do, with God's permission." She'd never really thought of God as being so personal. He'd perhaps brought John to her for a reason.

For now, however, she put her hand on her chest to still her drumming heart.

Her breath came fast. "Married on the most glamorous ship in the world." She laughed lightly. "Now who's a dreamer?"

"No," he said. "I'm sure that can happen. I want you to have the best."

He returned her smile. "I'll talk to the captain and see what can be done. We'll invite—" He waved his hands to encompass the earth. "Everyone."

"Everyone," she repeated. He must know
everyone
meant those in first class.

"Ohhhh," she moaned. "I don't have a wedding dress."

"You're wearing a lovely white one right now."

"It's a morning dress."

He shrugged. "Morning. Night."

She sighed. "Men." She waved her hand and wiggled her ring finger. "Go, John. Find out what we can do."

He stood. He wanted to grab her and hold her and kiss those sweet lips. Soon they would be husband and wife. The thought was overwhelming.

The look in her eyes reflected the longing he felt. He lifted her hand, gave it a proper gentleman's kiss.

"I love you, Lydia."

"I love you, John." She raised her hands to his face and pressed her lips against his, and they shared a deep, meaningful kiss. In his mind, in the mind of God, the sin was no more. Theirs was now a new love, a pure love.

He moved away, and she clasped her hands on her lap.

"We will soon be a family," he said.

She nodded. Her eyes were moist. Or was he seeing her through the mist he felt in his own? With overwhelming love in his heart, he hastened from the room.

J
ohn thought he should tell Craven first. He'd get the negative out of the way so he could concentrate on the positive. He found him on the promenade deck sitting in a chair next to a gentleman Lydia had pointed out in Southampton. He was a steel tycoon with whom both the Beaumont Railroad and the White Star Line had done business.

Craven introduced them as A. T. Fortone of Fortone Steel and John Ancell of toy trains.

"Ah, yes." Fortone vigorously shook John's hand. "Actually, several of my grandchildren have been entertained for hours with your trains." He chuckled. "I admit I've had my turn at them."

After the brief exchange of polite conversation, John addressed Craven. "I don't mean to intrude or interrupt. But when you have a free moment, I'd like to speak with you."

"Of course," Craven said and rose. "Always business," he said to Fortone, who gave a knowing nod.

Craven walked with John a few feet away, to a secluded spot at the railing and held out a cigarette case. John shook his head. He'd never seen Craven with a cigarette, only a cigar.

"Is Lydia all right?" he asked, the cigarette held between his lips.

John both appreciated and resented Craven's first thought being of Lydia. "This isn't anything negative. Quite the contrary, in fact."

Craven took his lighter from his suit pocket, snapped it open, moved his thumb over the ragged wheel, then peered at John over the flame. He dragged on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke, which mingled with the aroma of fresh air and sea water. His raised eyebrows questioned John with a condescending tone,
Well?

John coughed lightly at the smoke in his throat. Or was it inhibition? He might as well come out with it. "Actually, Lydia and I are engaged to be married."

He was not unprepared for the momentary silence during which Craven's nostrils flared minutely, and despite the intensity of those steel-gray eyes, this was one time John didn't avoid the stare.

Craven's heavy drag on the cigarette turned the end into a smoldering red mass that burned along the white paper covering, leaving a black line and turning the tip to ash. Craven raised his chin and blew a ring of smoke that drifted out over the sea. Likely, he'd named it "John."

John breathed in the fresh sea air. "We want to marry here on the ship."

With a flick of his wrist, Craven tossed the cigarette into the ocean. He faced John squarely, with the stance, the gaze, and the aplomb of a man who accepted only his own opinions.

"That's ridiculous, John. It shows your immaturity," he scoffed. "Do you know what you're saying? A spur-of-the moment wedding? Lydia's wedding should be the social event of the season. With her friends present. And her father."

Arguing would serve no purpose. "Tell me this, Craven. What church aisle or even palace steps are more impressive than the grand staircase?"

Craven's inability to name one spurred John on. "You speak of friends. How could there be a more splendid event than the gathering of these first-class passengers on the greatest ship in the world? Where else would she be more acclaimed? What more could you want for Lydia?"

John knew. Craven's expression and eyes seemed to say
myself.

"You've made your point," Craven allowed. "But Lydia sees with you a kind of life that is different from the one to which she is accustomed. And this ship? I daresay even a woman older and more experienced than Lydia would be impressed with romantic thoughts of a wedding on this ship. Do you really think this is the time and place for deciding something that will affect your entire life? You haven't even known each other long."

"Long enough," John said.

"I'm older than you, John. Perhaps I could give you a little advice."

Yes, he could use some advice—where to find the captain.

"Lydia is somewhat sheltered. And she's impressionable."

Circumstances now ruled out whatever opinion, advice, or lack of blessing that might come from Craven or Lydia's father. But John would like their approval. "We love each other, Craven."

Craven scoffed, "I cannot imagine a man who wouldn't love her."

John understood the implication. Lydia was everything a man could desire. Aside from that, she was heiress to a vast fortune and would likely come into it at a young age, since she was an only child of her parents' middle-aged years.

"You know her father would be highly displeased to hear of your plans. Such a move could affect her entire future."

As much as John didn't like to admit it, he felt inhibited around men like Craven, who gave such a vivid impression that they owned the world that one could almost believe it.

Nevertheless, he said, "I wanted you to be one of the first to know."

"To be sure," Craven said stiffly.

The conversation—or was it a confrontation?—unnerved John. Just as he turned to try to stroll confidently along the deck, he almost tripped over a little boy, who sprinted away from a man shouting after him, "Henry." John caught hold of the railing and forced himself against it rather than fall over and crush the boy.

The man and John said, "Sorry," at the same time. The little boy had stopped and looked up at them as if he had no idea what might be their problem.

The man, whom John recognized, touched the boy's head. "You need to watch where you're going, son." He extended his hand to John. "Henry Stanton-Jones."

John shook his hand. "John Ancell. Pleased to meet you."

Henry introduced the boy as Henry George and the pretty young girl near him as Phoebe. An elegant middle-aged woman John had seen with them before walked up and was introduced as Lady Stanton-Jones, his mother. The gracious lady extended her gloved hand, and John bent his head and touched it with his lips.

"Come along, children, let's get to the dining room. Henry George, don't run ahead."

The woman and two children walked on. John wasn't sure what he should say. He'd never say to Cyril Beaumont,
I've ridden on your trains.
But he might as well plunge in. "Mr. Stanton-Jones, I've read your books. And I was particularly intrigued with
Once Upon an English Country Garden."

The author smiled. "Thank you. I appreciate that." He paused, as if weighing his thoughts. "I've seen you with Miss Beaumont and Mr. Dowd."

John wasn't surprised that he knew Lydia. And Craven, who was well known in the right circles, just as were Stanton- Jones and his mother. Elation swept through John at the thought this would be his first real announcement. The one to Craven had been an informing of intentions. "This morning," he said, "Lydia Beaumont and I decided we'd like to get married aboard this ship." He shrugged. "I need to track down the captain to ask if that's a possibility."

"What a marvelous idea." The author's eyes brightened. "A wedding on the
Titanic
would be a wonderful memory. The first wedding on the
Titanic
will be an event to interest the world."

John nodded. Maybe his idea wasn't so far-fetched. "If I can pull this off, you're invited. And your—" John knew the novelist noticed the catch in his breath before he quickly finished his sentence by saying, "your mother."

John felt terrible. He'd been caught up in his own good news and quite forgot that he had read that the novelist's wife had suffered a long illness before finally succumbing to it. He didn't know if Stanton-Jones had remarried, so he had no idea if he should offer condolences or congratulations.

Stanton-Jones began to walk along the deck, and John fell in step with him, hoping to redeem his
faux pas
of rattling on about his own good fortune. "Judging from your book, you're apparently a man of great faith."

Stanton-Jones glanced his way. He must have sensed the misery John was feeling. He smiled. "I came to faith through the worst struggle of my life. The
Once Upon
book is a tribute to my wife. It's based on our personal story."

"I'm so sorry. Please forgive me—"

"No, no." He stopped to look straight into John's eyes. "Writing about it was my healing. That, and the fact God forgave my years of ranting and questioning. I was angry and turned my back on him. But he wouldn't let me go and has blessed me tremendously."

John nodded, now remembering that the book's male character had had a similar experience.

"You see, the purpose of the book is to let readers know there is still life after death, on earth and in heaven."

John wondered if his own faith could be that strong. But he'd never experienced the kind of loss this man had faced.

"I refuse to live in grief," the novelist said. "I keep alive my wife's memory within myself and alive to our children." As if fearing John would again apologize, he added quickly. "But I fully expect to marry someday if I can fall in love again."

A brief pause ensued as if each must respect a moment of acknowledging the late wife of this famous novelist. Then Stanton-Jones continued the conversation, "If you can join us in the reception room before lunch, I'd like us to become better acquainted." His smile lit up his face, reminding John of an interview he'd read, proclaiming the novelist as most fortunate, being a stereotypical tall, dark, handsome man with alluring dimples.

John wasn't one to compare one man's looks with another, but Stanton-Jones made a striking appearance. John was most impressed, however, with his friendly manner.

"And too," Stanton-Jones leaned closer as if confessing a conspiracy, "perhaps we shall discuss this floating plot of a novel that might have a main character who marries on a ship of dreams. Believe me," he added, "James Abington, whom you may know is a fellow-passenger, has made it clear he is interested in publishing my books in America. I can almost see the wheels in his mind turning as fast as those propellers at the bottom of this ship."

"I dare say," John said and joined his good humor with a laugh.

"Sorry." Stanton-Jones sobered. "I'm monopolizing what should be a two-way conversation. It's just that I'm so overwhelmed with my surroundings and—"

John interrupted, "Not at all. I understand how all this grandeur whets the creative appetite."

Stanton-Jones stared for a moment, before realization struck his eyes. "You wouldn't be the poet, John Ancell?"

John nodded.

"You had a reading at the Library in London."

"You were there?"

"No, sorry. I was deep into research at the time. But I've read of you in the Art sections of newspapers. I confess, although I admire a poet's ability to capture so succinctly what takes me an entire book to say, I was never good at getting a clear grasp of poems without some instruction."

John appreciated his honesty and smiled. "Such sentiments are not uncommon."

"But I'd love to hear how a poet's mind works. You must already have numerous possible themes about something on this ship."

"To be sure." John thought of the poem he was writing to Lydia. "And thank you for the invitation. I would like to join you in the reception room."

"Bring Miss Beaumont, of course." As he turned to walk away, he said, "By the way, I'm known informally as S. J." He paused. "Ah, there's a steward. Perhaps he can assist you in locating the captain."

That was handy. Within a short while John's emotions had gone from the extreme elation of becoming an engaged man to the distress of having to abide Craven's disapproval and finally to an easy camaraderie with S. J. He'd not thought through how to reach the captain.

The man in charge of this floating city wouldn't be sitting around awaiting his presence. "A moment, please." He lifted a finger.

The steward stopped. "How may I assist you, sir?"

He asked how he might speak with the captain. "There's no problem," John hastened to say. "Just a request to speak with him about a personal matter."

"You might write a note," the steward said. "Then it will be passed along to the master-at-arms who will ensure it gets to the captain."

"Yes. Of course."

"Anything else, sir?"

"No. That's quite all. Thank you."

Embarrassment wafted through John. The steward would know he wasn't accustomed to the protocol of first-class.

Then he felt discomfiture for having such a thought. He was of no more worth than the steward or anyone else. How easily one might fall into the trap of illusion. In the sight of God, all men are equal.

He knew that, of course. But as he'd reveled in the opulence and luxury surrounding him, and the reported worth of first-class passengers on this ship described in newspapers as
The Millionaire's Special,
the words of the poet, Alfred Lord Tennyson, came to mind.

Equal-born? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.

Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat.