Hearts That Survive (15 page)

H
enry wanted to sleep with his sister. He wanted to hold the package in bed, but there wasn't room.

"We can put it on the table, and you can watch it," Phoebe said. "Hold my teddy bear."

He lay on his side with eyes wide until he could keep them open no longer. He clutched the teddy bear while Phoebe kept her arms around him and soothed him in the night when he awakened screaming for her.

Caroline knew his little ears had heard it all. His little heart beat with as much fear as a grownup's. She could not grasp the immensity of what had happened. How could a child's tender mind even know what to ask?

Finally the children slept, and so did Caroline. But they were all awake before breakfast was announced. She and Bess dressed the children in clothes other passengers had given them.

Caroline saved Lydia and Craven a seat in the dining room. When Craven ushered her in, she noticed how delicate and young Lydia looked. Last night—was it only last night?—she had been gorgeous. Now, she wore the brown dress, no makeup, and her hair stuck out in unruly curls. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful creature in that natural state that Caroline had ever seen.

No wonder Craven hovered nearby. Caroline noticed Lydia's turning from him several times. At least Lydia had someone to . . . resent.

She wouldn't ask for her ring. Lydia might feel she was giving up another part of John if she removed it.

Children were much easier to approach than adults. Many spoke to Phoebe and Henry. Even Lydia joined in, "What's in your box, Henry?"

"My birthday."

"When's your birthday?"

He put the box on his lap. "Tomorrow."

"Today," Phoebe corrected. "Grandmother planned for us to have a party in the French restaurant."

Glad to get her mind onto something cheerful, Caroline assured Henry he would have a party. Right after breakfast she spotted the captain, who delighted in the idea of their making up a small cake. He even had a little toy put on top.

Word was passed around, and in the afternoon they gathered in the dining saloon for the party. Five
Carpathia
children sat at the table with Henry and Phoebe.

Molly led in singing "Happy Birthday." Then the children ate cake and drank cocoa, but kept eyeing the package. Finally Henry tore the paper away and exclaimed, "Oooooh."

Phoebe held up the box for others to see. "He had one like this but lost most of the parts."

"Those are great for children," a man said.

"And their dads," another said, and a discussion followed about the Meccano construction toys.

Henry joined in eagerly, "I can make a frog. With biiiiiig eyes."

Soon the children became occupied, taking turns making funny animals and shapes, even laughing.

Caroline noticed Craven looking at the bulletin board and walked toward him. He had taken over for the first-class passengers. He relayed messages from the captain, gave messages to stewards, and was consulted about sending wires to families and friends. He took control, made decisions, and gave information.

She stood beside him, looking at the list, and thanked him.

"Could I be of assistance to you, Caroline? I'll be glad to handle any matters for you, personal or financial."

She had no reason to resent Craven Dowd. "I would appreciate that. I'll write down the information for you."

He nodded.

"I'm sure," she said, "Mr. Beaumont will be proud of how you're taking care of his daughter."

"As I am the president of her father's company, she is among my responsibilities." He said that in a formal, businesslike tone. But she thought a little grin hovered about his mouth before he bade her a good day.

Watching him walk away, she thought of his dignified manner of acting and speaking. Not only did he have a commanding, controlling way about him, which was very much needed in this situation, but he was one incredibly good looking man.

M
uch of the time, Armand stood alongside throngs of others on the dock, watching in horror what was taking place. To return to the safety of their homes except when absolutely necessary seemed a sacrilege.

He and the pastor had stayed in Armand's home above his offices. One or the other would get up in the night to listen to radio reports and read any wires coming through.

They spent the days with other people as they all became united in disbelief, horror, uncertainty, hope, despair, waiting.

The passenger list reported not only the names of survivors but their class. The
Titanic
had carried more third- than first- and second-class passengers; these were making their way to America, considered the greatest nation, the land of opportunity.

Many working on the docks and in other jobs available to immigrants had been expecting relatives and friends from many countries. Reportedly, therein lay the greatest number of victims.

The
Titanic
had carried some of the richest men and women in the world. Those considered most important. But the survivor list didn't include the names of the most prosperous, prestigious, and successful. They were out there beneath the sea or floating on the water like chunks of ice.

"If this could happen to the world's most technologically advanced ship," those standing around said, the wires said, the radios said, "then where is mankind's hope?"

There was mention that God went down with the ship. He was dead.

Armand scoffed inwardly.

The only way God was dead was when his son died on that cross. But he rose again so man could have life.

Then he reprimanded himself. Hadn't he, himself, asked at times, where was God?

But right now, the world was trying to find someone or something to blame, and God was closest. He was right down there in their hearts, even if they didn't know it.

On Wednesday Armand went down to the dock and saw a doctor friend standing there with the pastor.

"What's all that?" Armand asked.

"Embalming fluid," the doctor replied.

The pastor expelled a deep breath. "They've asked for tons of ice, more than one hundred coffins, canvas bags, weights for burial at sea, and," his voice lowered further, "supplies for embalming."

Armand felt as sick as the pastor looked.

He hated being helpless, unsure, ill at ease. If there was anything he could do, even though he knew there were times you couldn't do anything to ease another's pain. Just do something.

He watched in awe at the cargo being loaded. When two men boarded together, the doctor said, "That's the minister and the mortician."

There was only one other time when Armand had felt totally helpless. With the Lord's help he'd been able to get past it, even though he still struggled when the memory and the feelings threatened to overwhelm him again.

A lot of people needed to know that someone else knew and understood loss and grief. He was one of those. Strange, his own loss was little compared with all this; at the same time, he felt his loss even more keenly, as if it were happening all over again.

Just when he thought he couldn't feel worse, Jarvis hurried up to them. "I thought you'd want to know."

Armand really didn't want to know.

But Jarvis was trying to be efficient, even if his eyes had doubled in size during the past days. Perhaps it was true of them all. "The Mayflower Curling Rink is being turned into a morgue."

He gestured toward Agricola Street, a few blocks from the dockyard.

Armand couldn't find it within himself to say thank you for the information.

He and the horrified throng on the dock watched the
Mackay-Bennett
sail out from the harbor into the miasma of an ice-laden sea.

There weren't any passengers, or survivors, coming to Halifax.

Just bodies.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

John Donne,
Meditation XVII

L
ydia didn't try to keep track of the time or the day. The important thing was getting to New York. Craven relayed her options of where to stay. He had friends in New York. Executives of Beaumont had wired assurance that they were welcome to stay in their homes or guesthouses.

She would feel even colder staying with people she didn't know. "I'll go to a hotel. Or where Caroline goes."

"Caroline will stay in the hotel until she knows what will happen with Phoebe and Henry," Craven said. "Lady Stanton- Jones had made contact with distant relatives she planned to visit while in America."

"Oh, the children and Caroline have become so close. I know she would take very good care of them."

"Not if the relatives want the children," Craven said. "The Stanton-Jones attorney is on this. Someone will control the Stanton-Jones's assets, and the children's trust."

Lydia hurt for her friend. "Caroline will be devastated."

"Blood and money speak louder than love."

Later that day, Craven said that suites were reserved for them at the Waldorf Astoria.

The closer they came to New York, the more Craven stuck to her like glue, reporting everything from another survivor marked off the list to Caroline's finances being wired to New York to when and what to eat. Perhaps that was his way of making her face reality. But she had all the reality she wanted. She wanted John. She cradled their child deep under the blanket at night to keep it warm. But her heart remained cold.

He said they'd soon be in New York, so she stood at the railing, wanting to see that first sight of land. She vowed never to set foot off land again.

"We'll be bombarded with photographers and reporters, asking questions."

She flashed him her best exasperated glance. "I won't answer any questions. Out there on the
Virginian,
or in a lifeboat, is my husband," she ground out.

"You mean your fairy tale."

She stared. Oh, she could kill him. For the first time since the nightmare began, it wasn't herself she wanted to drown. It was Craven. She had an idea. With an energy that surprised her, she headed down the deck. She would get her face and hair made up for the pictures. The brown dress would be suitable for what she had in mind.

She would tell the reporters—the world—about her marriage. Just because Craven thought he knew everything didn't make it so. John would be there waiting. He would confirm their marriage. Yes, she was a married woman.

Later that afternoon she saw the Statue of Liberty and something else. A boat was coming their way. They were being met. By loved ones?

Then she saw it was a press boat. Reporters and photographers yelling, asking questions, offering money to any who would jump off the ship and swim to them.

They wanted a story.

Revulsion welled up inside. She thought she couldn't stand it. Like others, they moved from the railing, but not before she saw thousands upon thousands of people gathered as if the passengers, the so-called survivors, were pigeons in a park and the spectators were luring them with crumbs.

She was not . . . hungry.

The waiting seemed interminable. She just wanted to put her feet on solid ground.

Finally, the
Carpathia
arrived at Pier 54. Announcements were made that assistance awaited them. The Council of Jewish Women, the Traveler's Aid Society, Women's Relief Organization, churches. There was clothing and transportation to shelters.

Lydia knew all this didn't apply to her. She had Craven.

He held her arm and shielded her from reporters and photographers screaming for pictures and a story. In all that throng, John did not appear.

Several cars and a few limousines lined the road. The drivers stood with signs. "Beaumont vehicles will be assisting some passengers," Craven said. He and a driver outside a limousine recognized each other.

She and Craven climbed into a limousine. Caroline, Bess, and the children into another. The drivers chauffeured them to the Waldorf Astoria, where they were expected, and they were escorted to their rooms.

"You and Bess have adjoining rooms," he said to Caroline when the elevator reached her floor. Lydia and Craven rode up to another floor where they shared a two-bedroom suite.

She removed her fur and tossed it over a chair in the living room while he called room service. Chefs would prepare meals as long as the new arrivals wanted them. Craven asked what she wanted.

Shrugging, she said, "A sandwich."

He ordered chicken sandwiches and wine. "Be back in a moment." He walked from the living room, through her bedroom, and into the adjoining room. She thought it a good time to find her own bathroom.

He was in the living room looking out the window when she returned. She sat on the couch and looked around. It didn't matter that the room would normally seem perfectly wonderful and elegant, as had the bedroom and bathroom.

Her gaze fell upon her hands, which clapsed each other on her lap. She untwined them and pinched a fold of the brown dress.

"I have nothing but the fur, the Bible, and my evening bag, and—"

He turned. "Stop it, Lydia." He walked over to her. "All you lost can be replaced."

She refused to honor that statement with even a glance.

"Get a good night's sleep and go shopping in the morning."

"Shopping?" she squeaked. "I have no money. I don't even have a decent dress to wear. This one needs to be cleaned."

Clearly exasperated, he said, "Don't you even know who you are?"

Fortunately, the tap on the door halted the scream she felt rise in her throat. She used to know who she was. But now, feeling faint, she raised her hand to her forehead.

"Open the wine," Craven ordered, and the employee complied. He poured a little for Craven to taste. "I'm sure it's fine. More."

The waiter poured more, and Craven handed it to Lydia.

She sipped. Yes. She needed . . . something.

The next thing she knew, the waiter was gone, and a small table with the sandwich was in front of her. "Eat," Craven said. "You're pale. Sometimes it takes a while to adjust after being on the water for a while."

She began to feel better after eating and drinking a little. He settled across from her and ate. After a moment he said, "In the morning I'll have cash for you and a Beaumont card. Caroline's finances will take a little longer, but she may use the charge card. If anyone balks, they may call the Beaumont offices and the person calling will be fired."

Lydia managed a small laugh, even though she knew this could easily happen. "I doubt Caroline will leave the children."

"Whatever you two want to do. The wives of Beaumont board members and friends are eager to be of assistance. They can provide anything. From homes to children watching."

For an instant she felt grateful for all Craven was doing. But she shook away the thought. She wasn't completely helpless. Beaumont executives would have contacted her and personally offered their assistance. But he should be doing this. He worked for her father. Someday, if he was lucky, he might work for her. "Thank you," she said.

He finished his sandwich. After a sip of wine he said, "One more important thing. Do not talk to anyone. I will do the talking to reporters for you."

She set down her glass, shaking her head. "What are they wanting?"

"Every little morsel available."

She chewed the last morsel of her sandwich.

"This is the biggest story ever. They're not going to let it go even if they have to make things up. No," he said pointedly. "Not a word." He took a sip of wine, set his glass down, and waited until she looked at him. "Your name is already out there. Among the 675 survivors. And in New York, Beaumont is right up there close to Astor."

He had to say the word, of course. The word "survivor" brings to mind the opposite.

Victim.

"I'm all right now. You can leave."

"You have a little color now." He looked closely at her face. "If you need anything—"

"I'm fine."

He stood and reached for the bottle.

"Get your own," she said.

He looked down at her with that faint turn of his lips as if he were thinking of a grin. "Maybe a little wine will help you sleep. Good night."

She didn't need him to explain that. She watched him walk through her bedroom, heard a door open, then close. She called the front desk and asked about cleaning service. Almost immediately, a woman came to get her dress.

She went to the bedroom and changed into the nightdress and then returned to the door and handed over the brown dress.

The woman's lips trembled. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," Lydia said quickly, and the woman turned just as quickly.

She closed the door, and forgoing the glass, took the bottle into the bedroom.

After she got into bed, she sat for a while. His words
Don't you even know who you are
came to mind. To him she was Cyril Beaumont's daughter, heir to a fortune.

But that's who she used to be. Now she was a married woman. She would claim it. Shout it. Her life and John's child were something to live for, not to be ashamed of. And so what if her father disowned her.

She could not keep her father alive by obeying his every wish or preventing a scandal.

She was more than his daughter.

She was John's wife.

With that resolve, she reached for the bottle and lifted it to her mouth. Empty.

The light switch was her next chore.

That done, darkness enveloped her, as if it hadn't already. Her hand moved over the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Only her eyes were full.

Her heart was empty.