Hearts That Survive (5 page)

M
arcella opened Lydia's sitting room door after John's knock, and he stepped into the lion's den. Craven and Lydia stood facing each other, he with a heated face and she with a determined one.

The air became thick with silence, and Marcella's eyes doubled in size with her obvious concern.

Lydia stepped toward John. "Have you spoken with the captain?"

"I've sent a note by the steward, requesting a conversation with the captain." Since a quick glance revealed that Craven neither sneered nor balked, that had been the proper procedure. However, the man's expression reminded John again that he likely wished it had been John he had flipped over the ship railing rather than his cigarette.

But John felt it time that Craven stepped away from his role of Lydia's guardian, protector, advisor, and wishful fiancé. All these roles were John's responsibility, and he intended to fill them.

Strange, what had happened as a result of his weakness was giving him newfound courage. He was no longer oppressed by whether Craven, Cyril Beaumont, or anyone else thought him worthy. His thoughts were on Lydia and their child.

With God in their hearts and lives, they need not cower before anyone's disapproval. Their love would see them through. To deny that would be an ultimate transgression.

John felt confident as his thought blocked any negative ones from Craven. "I bumped into the novelist, Henry Stanton-Jones. He has invited us—" he made a quick motion with his finger at Lydia and back to himself, despite pointing being considered undignified, and did not look at Craven, "to visit with him and his family in the reception room before lunch."

"How delightful," Lydia said. "I've read his books and my parents were acquainted with the Stanton-Joneses, but I've never formally met them."

Lydia's shining blue eyes darkened with doubt. "Oh, I hope we hear something soon from the captain. My trunks will need to be brought up. I must find something suitable for the—" her glance moved to Craven as her chin lifted, "the wedding."

He scoffed, "Is that not getting the cart before the horse?"

Lydia's euphoria wasn't daunted. "Like John, I am a dreamer."

John wondered, if they were not expecting a child, could they resist Craven's displeasure? Having this secret, however, emboldened them. He would try to have a civil relationship with Craven. "Would you stand up with us, Craven? Be my best man?"

Craven's dark eyes were steel beneath raised eyebrows. "I would not displease nor dishonor Lydia's father by agreeing to something that would be expressly against his wishes and my better judgment."

"I understand. But you are invited."

John had often heard his father say,
Keep a stiff upper lip, ol' chap,
but it didn't apply here. Craven was wearing his quite well.

Craven turned without another word. Marcella had the door open by the time he reached it, and she closed it after him.

"Congratulations," Marcella said softly, her eyes dark as the dress she wore but the twinkle in them as bright as her white apron and cap. She put a finger on her lips as if keeping them mum.

Lydia laughed, apparently knowing her maid well. "You may tell, Marcella." She smiled and John nodded. He felt that made at least three on the ship who were pleased about a possible wedding.

"Go, John." Lydia pushed him from the room. "I must dress for lunch in anticipation of speaking with the distinguished captain, who just might be as excited about a wedding as we are."

"Impossible." John drew her to him for a tender touching of their lips. Although many people spoke as if servants couldn't hear, he mimed, "I love you."

"I love you too," she said aloud. "Now go."

He went, and within the half-hour rang her room. "The steward has delivered a message from a most important person aboard this ship." He laughed at his own words. "Perhaps in this case I should say
the
most important person, since he is the one in charge of this ship of dreams."

C
aroline
,
who apparently waited on the promenade deck for Lydia to appear, exclaimed, "I heard a juicy bit of gossip."

That's what Lydia had expected. The night they were in Southampton, Marcella had become friends with Caroline's maid, Bess. And Lydia had said Marcella could tell.

Lydia brought her hand up to the throat of her lace-trimmed dress, displaying her ring finger.

Caroline's delighted squeal pleased Lydia. Her eyes questioned. "John?"

Confused by the question, Lydia simply nodded.

Caroline grinned. "I wondered which one you would choose, your being pursued by two such eligible men."

Lydia wouldn't exactly call it "pursued." Craven suffocated her. John liberated her. "I love John."

The wistfulness in Caroline's reply of, "I know," took Lydia aback for a moment. But only a moment. Choices weren't always made according to one's heart. Many conformed to the expected, or what one's family had decided long ago, or what or who was acceptable. The wrong choice could result in the loss of position and favor.

Lydia wondered about Caroline's reason for marrying Sir William. She hoped they'd become good friends. Caroline seemed the kind in whom she could confide and trust.

"It's lovely." Her soft hazel eyes held warmth. Lydia had the impression Caroline wouldn't sneer even if she were wearing the carnival ring.

Soon John joined her, and William joined Caroline. They walked onto the deck that surrounded the ship, then down the staircase to the reception room.

"The band's ragtime was especially enjoyable last night," Caroline said. "Did you hear them?"

Lydia replied that she hadn't but looked forward to it. She thought of how differently her late evenings had been spent. That's when she'd been so troubled by what to do, what to say to John, how to tell him.

Amazing how one's anxiety could be dispelled in a short time. Her glance kept returning to the ring, glistening on her finger, and she felt her heart must surely be shining too.

Reaching the entrance, Lydia's gaze scanned the assembled passengers. She recognized Stanton-Jones from the picture on his book covers. He wasn't difficult to see, being half a head taller than most of the men. Lady Stanton-Jones looked like her photos in newspaper society pages.

John took the envelope from his pocket and said to a steward, "The captain said I might speak with him."

He ignored the envelope. "Mr. Ancell. This way please."

Caroline held up crossed fingers and the tilt of her head meant
Go with my good wishes.

Lydia and John followed the steward, who reported to the captain, "Mr. Ancell has arrived."

The captain excused himself from Lady Stanton-Jones and the friendly Mr. and Mrs. Straus. Lydia thought how grand if she and John would have a long life together and be obviously in love like that older couple.

John introduced her to the captain.

"Miss Beaumont. I've looked forward to meeting you. I'm sorry your father is ill and couldn't make this trip."

After a brief discussion of her father's health, Lydia told him what he likely already knew, and which was true of many travelers: "My father wouldn't cross any ocean without you at the helm of the ship."

His smile enhanced his handsome, white-bearded face. "Cyril and I have had many a good conversation." He looked at John. "I believe your note mentioned a personal matter."

"Yes, sir," John said. "Miss Beaumont and I are engaged to be married."

He appeared genuinely pleased. "Congratulations."

Seeing John's discomfort at how to ask, Lydia took over.

"Would you consider performing the marriage ceremony?"

His great white eyebrows rose, and his eyes twinkled from both the light of the chandeliers and his obvious pleasure. "You mean have a wedding on this maiden voyage of the
Titanic?"

"Exactly. Imagine the publicity," she said, as if there hadn't been a sufficient amount already.

His fingers touched his bearded chin. "Ah, decisions. But Cyril would never forgive me if I refused a request from his daughter."

She refrained from saying her father might never forgive him if he agreed to the request.

"How about this?" he mused. "There are some who would want to have a deciding vote on such an event taking place. I mean, unless it were to be small and private."

"I was thinking the grand staircase."

He didn't seem surprised. "Barring any unforeseen circumstance I will be honored to perform the ceremony, privately or including the—" he grinned and his eyes danced merrily, "the grand staircase."

He cautioned, "I don't make the plans, however, I just ensure they're carried out."

He waited until the bugler wandered farther down the deck, announcing lunch with the blasts of his trumpet, and then spoke again. "Shall we discuss this further at dinner?"

"Yes, thank you," Lydia said as John thanked him too.

Captain Smith glanced at the steward standing a few feet away appearing to be deaf, but his nod indicated that he had received the silent message from the captain about dinner and would comply.

J
ohn watched Captain Smith walk over to a group of passengers. He'd never personally met the managing director of the White Star Line, J. Bruce Ismay, or Thomas Andrews, the ship's builder, but he had seen their pictures in the newspapers and in the
Titanic's
advertisements.

He'd heard it mentioned that John Jacob Astor was the richest man on the ship. Lady Stanton-Jones engaged in conversation with Mrs. Astor, whom Lydia said was in the family way and in her teens; although Mr. Astor was forty.

Seeing Andrews glance his way, John quickly averted his eyes. He didn't want to think they might be as condescending about him or his toy trains as was Craven. However, he must remember that Craven had brought his designs to Cyril Beaumont. To think it had all started many years ago with a little train John's father had carved from a slab of wood, useless except for burning.

The room of people began to stir. After having visited with others, they began leaving the reception room. Stanton-Jones walked up to Captain Smith's group, spoke briefly, then he and his mother headed John's way. Lady Stanton-Jones spoke to Caroline and William, who had joined them. A stewardess brought S. J.'s children.

The Chadwicks and Lavinia, the name Lady Stanton-Jones insisted upon being called, had met on other occasions. John appreciated the informality but knew he'd never say "Lavinia" without prefacing her name with "Lady."

"Henry told me the exciting news," Lady Lavinia said after introductions were made. "Let me see that ring more closely."

Lydia offered her hand.

"I can hardly wait to hear all about it," Lady Lavinia said. "Nothing I like better than a good romance story."

"I want to hear it too," Phoebe said.

Henry laughed. "John and I have already commented on the novel plot possibilities."

"What isn't a novel idea to you?" Lady Lavinia said, with a fondness in her tone. As they entered the saloon, she said in invitation, "This is our table."

John had noticed that most of the passengers seemed to congregate at the same table and with the same set of friends at dinner, although not at lunch. As he and Lydia had done one day, many lunched in the sidewalk café.

"If you'll pardon me," William said, "I promised to lunch with Craven." Caroline smiled. He excused himself and headed for a table in a far corner where Craven and two other men were seated.

Stewards pulled out chairs for the ladies. Master Henry, looking bored, played with the silverware. He used a spoon to tap every object within reach. He was discreet about it. Phoebe glanced at him and then away as if that were an ordinary occurrence.

That reminded John of the writing of another Henry. Thoreau, to be exact.
If a man does not keep pace with his com panions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

He couldn't help being intrigued with the young boy's intensity in seeming to concentrate on the varying tones as he lightly tapped the objects with the spoon.

As if thinking about different drummers, Lady Lavinia began a discussion about her son's novels, particularly
Once Upon an English Country Garden,
and Lydia and Caroline joined in.

S. J. turned the conversation to John's poetry. John admitted he was not widely acclaimed outside his university and possibly London. "My recognition has come through my toy trains."

"The Ancell trains. Of course." S. J. showed interest. "I've looked at those. Undoubtedly, jolly ol' Saint Nick will make a delivery of one under our Christmas tree this year."

A clatter sounded as a spoon dropped onto little Henry's bread plate. His face became animated. "Is it Christmas?"

They all laughed while his father leaned over to speak past Phoebe. "Not yet, Son. First is your birthday." He looked around at the others. "Henry will be three the day we arrive in New York." He spoke loudly enough for his son to hear. "And there will be a present."

"A train?"

"No. Santa considers bringing trains for good boys at Christmastime."

Gentle laughter sounded, but Lady Lavinia said, "Henry is always a good boy."

Henry tightened his lips and continued playing with the silverware while Phoebe gazed from one person to another as they talked, as if every word were interesting.

John marveled at how different the conversation seemed. Lydia's engagement was the exciting news, of course. But to his surprise, those at the table discussed his toys as though they were as noteworthy as Cyril Beaumont's passenger trains.

As if that were not enough, a steward appeared and held out an envelope. "Mr. Ancell, sir. The captain requested I give you this."

John nodded, unable to catch his breath for a moment.

The captain's regrets would be easier to deliver in a note than face-to-face with Cyril Beaumont's daughter.

Or, he wondered, taking out a folded piece of fine quality paper . . .

Is it Christmas?