Hearts That Survive (7 page)

T
he air on the exposed promenade deck felt decidedly colder, and Lydia shivered beneath her fur. However, her heart was warmed by excitement, anticipation, and the women being so eager to make this the grandest event ever. It had clearly sparked the romantic imagination of the women.

She finally had a moment to let John know about the plans made during teatime. He nodded. "I believe I've been congratulated by half the people on the ship. And I suppose this means I need to find a best man."

"At least we know that man isn't Craven," she said as they descended the staircase.

"Don't be so hard on him, Lydia. I can't blame him for wanting you."

She looked into his beloved face. "John, he cares for me. He thinks the world of me. He finds me lovely. He enjoys my company. He—"

"I get the point."

"Get this one too," she said. "I admire and respect him. And find him attractive. But," she said, dispelling the mock grimace on his face. "I love you."

"You know I love you."

She nodded, feeling a tightness in her throat and a warmth in her heart. "I know."

"We should go in," John said. They entered the reception room, where Caroline and William greeted them.

"Did you find out about printing invitations?" Caroline asked.

"It turns out," John said, "there's a printing room here on the ship with a printer and an assistant. As soon as we get official approval, the presses can print invitations as easily as they print daily embossed menus for the restaurants."

The bugle sounded, and they were escorted into the À la Carte. While they were being seated at their assigned places, Lydia realized anew that this room was even more elegant than the dining saloon. The crystal chandeliers reflected the sparkle of the ladies' jewels making them shine and seem to dance. The French fawn panels on the walls were a perfect companion to the rose-colored carpet. Little pink silk shades covered softly glowing lights on the tables. Silk curtains graced the large bay windows.

Lydia was seated beside John, and next to him at the end of the table was Craven, looking stiffly distinguished. On her left were Caroline, William, Henry, and Conrad Daley, the American owner of several newspapers. Mr. Ismay was across from Craven. Captain Smith sat directly across from John. Lydia thought that might be a good sign. On the captain's right were Molly, Harriett, S. J., Lady Lavinia, Madeleine Astor, and John Astor.

Everyone at the table seemed to be holding their breath as they waited for the words of the captain, who wore a smug expression. He gave a brief blessing, "Thank you, Lord, for the bounty, for it is in Thy name we pray, amen."

Following the "amen's" around the table, they placed their orders from the À la Carte menu.

"Now," the captain said, "I believe there has been some mention of a wedding aboard ship."

Molly poked him with her elbow. "What everybody wants to know, Ed, is are you going to do this or do I have Ismay fire you, and take over this operation myself?"

"Why, Mrs. Brown," he turned his head toward her with a dignified look on his face but a playfulness in his tone, "surely you know my passengers' wishes are my command."

Ismay lifted his glass. "I believe we'll go with Captain Smith on this one."

"This is an occasion," Daley said from down the table. "A front-page article, to be sure. With pictures."

His glance started the photographers snapping and flashing.

Men chorused, "Hear, Hear." Women made sounds of agreement. They all toasted with their glasses of wine. Passengers at other tables turned to observe the joviality.

Lydia thought of her father's photos of him sitting at the captain's table. Daley had said a picture would be delivered the following day, along with a copy of the menu and a note of thanks from the captain.

That was possible because on the
Titanic
there were several photographers.

"There will be chapel in the morning," Captain Smith reminded them. "But I will be able to perform the ceremony following dinner tomorrow evening. Just inform me of your plans."

Lydia felt overwhelmed. "Oh, this is too wonderful. You're all invited, of course. The whole room. The whole ship." She looked at John.

He laughed. "Whatever you want."

She wanted him as her husband. That would have been enough. But this would be wonderful for the passengers, and the kind of publicity that would be good for all the businesspeople involved. Perhaps her father would be pleased with news that would be worldwide. She dared not look past John at Craven. She could imagine the tolerant expression on his face. She knew about his lingering gazes, reminding her of his saying she and John were impulsive, young, and foolish.

She wished he could read her thought:
And just what in the world is wrong with that?

Lydia saw Madeleine discreetly put her hand to her mouth, turn to her husband, and whisper. Mr. Astor nodded, picked up his glass, and announced, "The reception will be my and Madeleine's gift to the bride and groom, one befitting the first couple to be married aboard the ship of dreams." He lifted his glass higher. "Invite the entire first class, if you wish."

The "hear, hears" sounded again, the toast made, and the wine sipped.

The captain raised his hand for attention. "We must give time for diners to finish a leisurely dinner, and allow the staff time for setting up the reception."

He knew a reception given by the Astors would be no small affair.

Glasses were lifted again in agreement. "Settled," the captain said. "A wedding at 10:00 p.m."

"I have something to say," Harriett began and everyone quieted. She looked directly at Lydia. "You didn't bring your wedding dress, is that correct?"

Lydia controlled the urge to bristle. "I do have suitable gowns and—"

"Oh,
chère,
you misunderstand. There's no question of your wardrobe."

Lydia should hope not. After all, she was Cyril Beaumont's daughter.

"What I've been thinking is, I have trunks full of wedding dresses. They have never been shown anywhere. New York will be their debut."

Aware that her jaw had dropped, Lydia closed her mouth, took a deep breath, and tried to speak. Harriett Sylverson was the most famous dress designer in the world. "But wouldn't that take away from your showing?"

"Oh, Lydia. There is no place for a fashion parade to compare with the grand staircase nor a couture salon floor more exquisite than these polished teak decks, or rooms more luxurious." She paused, wearing a sly smile. "You appear to be about the size of the model I've chosen to wear the wedding dress."

She shrugged as if no problem existed. "If something needs attention, my staff can handle it. No one ever sees my final creation other than the model who wears it. But where would I find a more distinguished group gathered in one place to view my creations? Surely," she continued, "you would not deny me this privilege. The wedding dress, of course, is the showstopper. I would be honored if you would wear the dress."

Lydia could hardly breathe. She was accustomed to the best, but being on this ship was outdoing it all. She was on the greatest ship ever built, might wear the most famous gown the world would know to this point, and marry the most wonderful man in the universe. Of course, she knew Harriett would gain more publicity and a more worthy audience here than at several showings in New York, but that didn't take away from her and John's wedding.

They would all benefit for their own particular reasons.

Molly spoke up. "Think you could suffer through all that, hon?"

Lydia picked up her glass. "I believe I could."

They all lifted their glasses.

Dinner began to be served.

"Tomorrow evening," the designer said. "Then you lovely young people can honeymoon aboard the
Titanic.
Oh, what stories you will have to tell." She glanced at the newspaperman. "And you."

"Sounds like it's settled," the captain said.

"Hear, hear," said the men.

Molly laughed. "We haven't finished by any means, but only just begun."

This time the women echoed, "Hear, hear."

"Perhaps we should dine," William said, "then retreat to the smoking room and allow these ladies to plan all they want."

That cue to change the subject led to mention of the temperature seeming colder. "I've heard mention of icebergs," Daley said. "Any chance of our getting into something like that?"

"Perhaps." The captain spoke confidently. "If any icebergs are spotted, the ship will simply take appropriate action."

"I've crossed many times," Lady Lavinia said. "But I'm not fond of deep water."

"Are you finding everything to your liking?" the captain asked.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Being on the
Titanic
is more like walking on land than any ship on which I've sailed."

The conversation turned to men's topics: the world being on the threshold of prosperity, autos, flying machines, faster transportation.

"Speaking of fast," Ismay said, "as you know, White Star has always outshined the Cunard Line in luxury. Now, with this ship, we can outrace them in speed."

The men were clearly impressed. Later, as most of them left the table to retire to the smoking room, John laid his hand on Lydia's shoulder.

She looked up at him. "I miss you."

He leaned closer, and she longed to be in his embrace. His tender words indicated he felt the same. "Soon, we'll have a lifetime."

"I know we don't need all this—"

"No, we don't," he said softly. "But it's the best. And I want that for you."

She reached up and put her hand over his. "I have that, in you."

Lost in his gaze, with his face so close to hers, the whole world seemed perfect. Nothing could mar this moment, until she heard a familiar voice say, "Pardon me," She felt John stiffen, as did she.

John turned and faced Craven, who said, "Might I have a word with you?"

"Certainly," John replied.

"In private."

Now what?
Lydia wondered. John glanced at her, gave her a tender look, stopped to speak briefly with S. J., and walked out of the room with Craven.

I
f you don't mind my speaking personally," John said when he joined S. J. in the library, where they had agreed to meet after dinner.

"I consider us friends, John." His cheeks dimpled. "And judging from dinner conversation, along with my mother's comments this afternoon, my children will be involved in your wedding."

John sat in the armchair near his new friend. "S. J., I fully intended to ask if you would be my best man."

S. J. must have judged by his face that something had changed. "But?"

"That's what Craven wanted. You see, when Lydia and I became engaged I asked him. He was furious, said it was against his and her father's best judgment."

"But he changed his mind?"

John nodded. "He has reconsidered. And his going along with this will help me and Lydia remain in her father's good graces. He's willing—" John couldn't help his sarcastic tone, "willing to suffer through being the best man if I'm still so inclined."

"And are you?"

John's fingers toyed with the soft material covering the chair arm. "I am and I'm not. Since he's realized Lydia and I are really serious about each other, his attitude has been contrary to what I'd consider the attitude of a man wanting the best for a woman he loves, even if it isn't him. If I believed Lydia loved Craven, I would want her to be with him. Mind you, it would break my heart."

S. J.'s demeanor was serious. "I might understand him better than you."

"What do you mean?"

"Craven had everything to gain until you came into the picture. Now he has everything to lose."

John scoffed, "I'm not taking anything from him. Lydia chose me."

"There's more at stake. When her name is talked about in
our—"
his face dimpled, "our circles, she's spoken of as the Beaumont Railroad heiress. Who is John Ancell when he becomes the husband of the heiress?"

"Are you talking down to me, S. J.?"

"Not at all. I'll share this with you. I've proved myself as a novelist, but I might never have had my first book published were it not for my mother's name and my father's background. This is the world we live in."

"I don't care about that."

"I believe you. That's one thing I admire about you. But you see, once you become Cyril Beaumont's son-in-law, he will ensure your status is elevated."

John was doubtful. "He says I have ingenious ideas. But I know when he says 'toy maker,' he means a nobody."

"You're right. But with the publicity you'll get from this wedding, Cyril Beaumont will hold his lapels, throw back his shoulders, and proudly proclaim you as his son-in-law. Then you're like Molly, accepted among the
nouveau riche."

John laughed. "I rather think he'd disinherit her and disown me."

"And how would that make him look, after the romantic wedding of the century?"

John got his point. "I do believe you think like a novelist."

S. J. nodded and a sadness crossed his face. "Yes. And like a man who married the most wonderful woman in the world who was considered beneath his station."

John hadn't known that part. He remembered the novel. It had had an impact on him. He felt regret for S. J.'s loss, but returned to the subject at hand.

"Perhaps I will be accepted publicly, but as I've been reminded many times, my trains are just toys."

S. J. nodded. "Can't you imagine that Ismay's and Andrews's first ships were little wooden boats with a paper sail, perhaps in a rain puddle? Incidentally, my first novel was written when I was five years old, and it consisted of three lines.
Once upon a time there was a boy. He didn't like his tutor. He shot him."

S. J. laughed. "Been eliminating my characters ever since. And the public loves it."

John knew that was true, considering his wide acclaim.

"Getting back to the toys," S. J. said, "If Cyril Beaumont and Craven Dowd weren't aware of what can come of toys, you wouldn't be near their company, nor I daresay, eating at the captain's table."

John scoffed, "I'd be in steerage, perhaps."

"Mmm, maybe second class. For your information, I've been down to—" He glanced around and said "second class" as if saying a dirty word. John knew he was kidding, and yet they were both aware even second class was a dirty word to some of the more elite.

"Seriously, John. There are quite a few writers and artists down there. I doubt you'd have time to join me there since you'll be honeymooning for the rest of the trip."

"Perhaps in New York."

"That's possible," S. J. replied. "Negotiations have already taken place over the wireless between Abington and my London publisher. However," he said congenially, "let's get together in New York if at all possible. Perhaps with some of the writers on the ship. Incidentally, many second-class passengers would be first class on another ship, such as the
Mauretania
or the
Olympic."

That was interesting. "I didn't know that. But I haven't crossed before and didn't pay my own passage."

S. J. showed no surprise. He likely assumed Beaumont would have done that. "You must really be a genius."

"No," John said. "Just a dreamer."

"And sometimes," S. J. replied, "dreams come true."

Sometimes,
crossed John's mind. A short while ago at dinner remarks were made about the wonders of the ship never ceasing to amaze even those accustomed to the world's best. He thought it was Daley who quipped, "This is almost too good to be true."

But it was true. John had found his dream wife. S. J. had lost his. He had her forever in a book, but that wouldn't keep him warm at night, wouldn't both hasten and still the beat of his heart.

Now, without questioning, John would savor the reality of love and happiness with the one who would make him complete, on this ship of dreams.